My name’s Raymond Zephyr, I’m a freelance investigator. That means I hang my shingle outside of a basement office that were it not for the four walls would be no more than a hole in the ground. An office is just a place to keep paperwork and accept deliveries and since I don’t believe in filing and never get packages I spend most of my office hours upstairs in The King in Yellow Café. It may be a dive bar, but it’s literally and figuratively a step up from my office below.
The Machine makes all of my appointments. It’s a juddering, clanking antiquity that was billed as a mechanical replacement for a flesh and blood secretary. The thing is more than capable of doing its job but the constant hum and subtle clacking of gears combined with an eerie metallic countenance proved to be too unsettling for the general populace. I find it to be convenient since The Machine tends to scare away all but the most sincerely desperate. Time is precious and I can’t spend it chasing lost puppies and nonexistent ghosts.
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