Once again, Decoder Ring Theater presents another page from the casebook of that Master of Mystery,

that's Sultan of Sleuthing, 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 detective, but you knew that.

Frankly, every person that I meet must surely know it as well,

because it's written on the door of my office,

and aside from work, I don't get out all that much anymore,

having finally found an excellent reason for staying in most evenings. But even when that excellent reason is working nights at the hospital, and I do step out on the town, I have to assume

that most people I encounter know or could guess. Frankly, I look the part. You know how some people

start to look like their pets?

Well, that goes double when it comes to people and their jobs.

Gradually, the thing that you do molds you and shapes you in its own image until you're more broken-down fedora than man.

Maybe it's the job itself that steals the will

and leaves a perpetual grimace behind as a scar.

Maybe it's the weight of expectation that applies the heat and pressure needed to create a hard-boiled diamond. Maybe it doesn't

matter. It's what I do, and that has made it what I am. And people know that. Or at least they

should. Here is a fairly comprehensive list of things I am not.

I am not a father confessor.

I am not the president of a lonely hearts club.

I am not a time traveler and I am not a fairy godmother.

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