Once again, Decoder Ring Theater presents another page from the casebook of that Master of Mystery, that's Sultan of Sleothing, Martin Bracknell's immortal detective, Black Jack Justice, starring Christopher Mott as Jack and Andrea Lyons as Trixie Dixon Girl Detective.

The name's Justice.

Jack, Justice.

I'm a private eye.

But you knew that.

There are things in this life for which no amount of detached irony, mild shell shock,

or repeated blows to the back of the head can properly prepare one.

Events from the checkered career of even the most well-meaning private detective that are so entirely

beyond the pale that the best thing to do with them is to type them up in triplicate,

lock them in the bottom of your filing cabinet, and burn the office down and get drunk.

We are no strangers to tripping this special brand of Light Fantastic together, you and I,

but there are some cases that give even yours truly pause, as if this will finally be the one that

pushes willing suspension of disbelief a bridge too far, and makes the once adoring masses suspect

that all of these ribald little tales of adventure might be nothing more than a

fever dream of an overly repressed schoolmarm with multiple personalities. That is my first problem with

relating to you the events of what began on the gray and grim afternoon in that gray and grimest of

months. My second problem, of course, is that I may have built it up a bit too much, and perhaps

I ought to just tell you about the time that we found Mrs. Delacey's cat sneakers for her instead.

My third problem is that, upon review of the Delacey case file, I seem to have just revealed all

of the salient details in the course of that brief introduction, which brings me back to the subject

of my original brief.

My fourth problem is that I appear to have lost whatever momentum I had built up during my opening

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