Ah, time to test my brand new solar-powered giant pancake flinger. I hit the button on the intercom. "Hey, Hans, can you help me with new solar pancake flinger? I want to get this outside and give it a try"

I hear Hans' voice over the intercom sounding like he's in a tin can. "I dunno, it's really dark and overcast out there."

Puzzled I look over the dials of the weather controller. It's set to sunny. "How long has the weather controller been down?"

"Nothing wrong with it, something is overriding it in the city."

"Huh, you mean even though the weather controller has been set to sunny all week, it's been dark and overcast the whole time?"

"Exactly."

I make a mental note to myself to get out more often.

"Okay, Hans I think it's time to investigate."

There is a hesitation from Hans. "The whole production?"

"Yep."

"Okay." Replies Hans in a defeated tone.

I grab a trench coat and hat from the closet and head up to my office. The one that has the door with a frosted glass window.

It was late afternoon in the city of blood. Not that anyone could tell, the clouds were wrapped around the city like a tortilla around a Chipotle(tm) burrito. Business was bad, bad like a three year old with a box of matches and a bottle of kerosene. I was going to need a paycheck to walk through the door soon, or I'd have to pawn my last bottle of tequila. That's when she came.

She walked through the door like she owned the place. Her hair was long, black, and as sleek as a Japanese bullet train and she had legs that wouldn't quit like that bunny on the battery commercials only without the pink fur.

"Pink fur?" She asked.

Damn, I gotta stop saying that stuff out loud. "Forget it kitten, what's a dame like you doing in a place like this?"

"It says private investigator on that door. I need something investigated if you're the man for it."

"You have the green, you got a private eye, but I don't come cheap green eyes." I said.

“The eyes are blue”. She slapped a Benjamin Franklin down on the desk, like a dolphin slapping a fish when, aw crap I'm totally screwing the metaphor. I grabbed the bill like a dying man grabs a glass of water in the desert.

"What's the case, dollface?" Shit that rhymed. Private dicks avoid rhyming like a dying man in the desert avoids a tanning salon.

"It's the weather."

I had to figure out the weather, that meant I needed to find some info. Luckily, I knew that information lived on a barstool at a bar called Milo's Place.

I walked into Milo's Place and looked around. It was the same story as every other bar anyone's ever been in, filled with broken dreams and penguins. I wasn't here to take in the ambiance, I was here for information. Information's name is Eddie, or Eddie the Platypus from his days in the Australian mofia, but these days he could be found at the end of a bar trying to wash away the shattered debris of his life under a tsunami of Fosters.

I grabbed a stool and slid it next to Eddie like a wolf dragging its kill back to its den. Eddie took a sideway glace at me and grunted like a monkey, nah more like a warthog. He knew what I wanted.

I noticed that Eddie was nursing a wine cooler instead of his usual Fosters, empty bottles surrounded him like shards of glass around a broken mirror.

"What's with the cooler Eddie? I expected to find you trying to wash away the shattered debris of your life under a tsunami of Fosters(tm)." I asked.

Eddie didn't bother to look up. "Beer's illegal now id'nit mate?"

It was news to me, but I knew better than to act surprised. In my line of work acting surprised is like showing your hand at a poker game playing for kittens. I decided to get right to the point. "I need information."

Eddie took a long swig of his cooler and set it down hard. "Big surprise"

"It's about the weather." I said, getting right to point again.

Eddie looked at me for a minute, then turned back to his cooler. "You don't want to get into that."

"Yeah, and I didn't want to be a private eye working out of a shithole office where I drink two dollar tequila, but I got a job to do."

Eddie stared at the bar in front of him for a minute, then he shook his head before speaking. "Your skin mate. Mayor's the one behind it and he's got the police in his pocket."

I look over at Phred, who's wiping out beer mugs behind the bar, and say "Ya know, it's been pretty boring round these parts lately."

"Yep."

"Not that that's a bad thing."

"Yep."

Motes of dust filter through the air. The sun shines.

An unearthly howl is heard in the distance. Upstairs the maid screams. A door slams.

Suddenly a shot rings out!

(This twist in the plot will baffle the readers...)

Meanwhile, on a ranch in Montana, a boy was growing up.

And somewhere on an island in the South Pacific, dark drums began to beat. . .