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Detective/Bondage
Shots fired.
 
 I sniffed, curiously
 and the clue was
 the still smoldering inky guns of
 Ed Westwick, holding
 your iPhone hostage. Case cracked.
 
 You shoveled, laboring
 and struck titanium when
 the still-warm carcasses of
 Maggie, Mo, Dustfinger, and Farid
 glazed gazed up with jelly splattered mugshots.
 
 (Donut break...)
 
 She squinted, hunching
 and magnified our prints as
 we spun loops of
 pool-whirl sucked into her
 storm-eye, two pupils long after class ended. A match in the database.

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