Interior Detective's Office at the Top Ten's Tattletail Agency in Gun City.

The year is 2,245.

Or 2,245.

A grizzled old detective hits his jewel and kicks his size four men's vans up on his desk.

He's wearing a cheap felt fedora over a thrasher hoodie in Dickies.

His haggard face has seen better days, but better days are just around the corner.

Exailing his favorite techno slime babe flavor, come, the detective chews pensively on the string of his hoodie.

His monologue slips into the scene, a silky saxophone precedes it.

An air of mystery and intrigue blossoms.

He speaks.

She's just a V girl.

That's what I said to myself.

The moment I first laid eyes on that anemic mouse of a woman.

She's just a V-girl.

And V-girls aren't even real, like all V-folks, and that's with an X, of course.

If you can remove your calculus rift, the virtual reality chip shoved into everyone's penis when they turned 13 in Gun City. You'd see the truth that she's nothing but a bunch of ones and zeros, the two lowest numbers.

If you tried to kiss her or give her an old-fashioned spanking, you'd get nothing.

Worst of all, like all V girls, she doesn't have nothing, neither.

No chest, no ass.

She sounds like a baby and she dresses like a hot topic meth head.

Methinks, no thanks. She sounds like a baby and she dresses like a hot topic meth head. Meethinks, no thanks.

But god damn it, I couldn't help myself. Those games, like two pale twigs sticking out of a schoolgirl's

...