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Disclaimer: Offensive? Possibly. Sweary and violent? Nope. Brilliant? I'd like to think so, but it needs work.

Rain pounded on the already weather-beaten sidewalk outside a squat, ugly, brick building. The windows stared across the street as the rain blattered against the filmy panes, and glanced toward a yellow cab that rattled down the road. The back door of the cab opened and a black umbrella emerged, opening to deflect the blattering raindrops. Mrs. Marilyn followed the umbrella, patting her tight, blonde curls like she was stepping onto a red carpet instead of a cracked sidewalk.

The building nearly jumped as Mrs. Marilyn’s gloved hand touched the dented knob of its front door, surprised that a woman so pale would enter a building so dark. The windows gossiped, but Mrs. Marilyn had no time for rumors today. The inside of the house was not much better than the outside. The only light came from a single uncovered bulb, but it would not last; it flickered undecidedly, as if it could not decide whether to burn out or keep going. The light bulb thought about it, then burned out selfishly, not caring that there was a pretty lady in need of its light to climb the stairs.

The bulb threw the room into darkness, but Mrs. Marilyn ignored its rudeness. A crack of light shone from the top of the stairs, probably the slit under the door. Mrs. Marilyn started up the stairs, grabbing the wooden banister. She removed her hand, pulled a white handkerchief out of her purse, wiped the grime from her glove with disgust, and grabbed the banister again, her kerchief under her hand. How anyone could work in these filthy conditions was beyond her.

The stairs groaned in protest as Mrs. Marilyn mounted each step. The rickety handrail wobbled in its sockets and threatened to splinter and break if Mrs. Marilyn dared grasp it with any more force. She reached the final step and examined the strange, lighter-colored area on the door where it looked as though a plaque must have been. The plaque could not have been gone long, since the space behind it left nothing on Mrs. Marilyn‘s glove as she brushed it. She started to put away her handkerchief as she reached for the knob, but thought better of it and opened the door with the cloth.

In the darkness the crack of light under the door had seemed brighter, the room was gloomy and the rain-battered windows were depressing. “Hello?” Mrs. Marilyn called out, her voice like a bell, albeit a disgusted-sounding bell as would never be suitable for any tower.

“Hello!” shouted a slightly desperate voice from her left. The man was seated behind a wooden desk with a small desk lamp on it. His blue eyes sparkled and a smile occupied most of his pudgy face. His hair was short and brown: a buzz cut that had started to grow out again. “I am Dax Doverspike, P.I.,” he said, getting up to shake Mrs. Marilyn’s hand. “It’s French. Dax is a French name, you see,” he explained to the disbelieving look on Mrs. Marilyn’s face. “Now, how may I help you?” he asked eagerly.
“I have . . . lost something rather . . . important to me,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “And normal law enforcement officers will not help me.”
“Oh? And why’s that, Ms. --”
“Mrs. Marilyn.”
“Right, Mrs. Marilyn. Now, why would our fine law enforcement officers not look for this item? Is it stolen?”
“Yes, but not by me,” she answered in an offended tone.
“Then why wouldn’t the officers of our fine city,” here Dax gestured out the window, “help a lovely lady such as yourself?” he asked, his smile becoming more annoying all the while. Mrs. Marilyn just gave him a hard stare. True, she was extraordinarily lovely; her curls were perfect, her skin soft, and white as porcelain. Her eyes were sea green and her lips ruby red. She wore a creamy white dress that showed her curves and a crimson scarf was wrapped around her neck. Elegant white gloves graced her delicate fingers and a small, fashionable purse hung by her side. Mrs. Marilyn knew all this, and didn’t need some fat detective in a filthy, decaying building without enough light to show her full beauty to tell her so!

An awkward silence crept up from the edges of the room as Mrs. Marilyn’s eyes burned into Dax.
“Let’s talk price,” Mrs. Marilyn suddenly suggested. Dax perked up.
“Oh, yes, let’s!” he complied, rubbing his hands together. “Now, may I just say that if my prices seem a little steep, it’s merely because I must feed myself, so to speak. I’ve already had to sell the plaque on my door as scrap.” He sighed. “It was such a nice piece of work, too.”
“I’ll pay you five times what you normally charge,” Mrs. Marilyn said seriously. Dax was dumbfounded. He blinked at her and moved his mouth, but nothing came out. Mrs. Marilyn just stood there and fingered something in her purse nervously.
“Of -- Of course!” Dax agreed, finding his voice. “But I will have to know what I’m looking for, ma’am. When was the last time you saw this -- thing?”
“A few nights ago. I put it in my dresser, but someone broke into my house. I didn’t tell the police for a reason, Mr. Doverspike.”
“Dax, if you will. Er, who do you think broke into your house, Mrs. Marilyn?” Dax asked. Mrs. Marilyn’s face grew angry.

“Who do you think it was?” she nearly screamed at him. “Who else would break into my house, rifle through my things, and steal my--” Mrs. Marilyn stopped and calmed herself. “Do you know the story of Little Red Riding Hood?” she suddenly asked. “There’s a nice little girl in her riding hood going about her business, trying to help her grandmother, but a big, black wolf eats her grandmother. The little girl finds out, and the hunter shoots the big, black wolf. After that, the little girl grows up, and she hunts down the big, black wolves, too. Do you understand what I’m getting at, Dax? Do you know what I do to big, black wolves?” she snarled, teeth bared, leaning forward toward Dax’s face. “I think I’m done here,” she said, standing up straight and heading towards the door.

“But -- Wait!” Dax pleaded, but she had already slammed the door behind her, her heels clicking in the dark staircase. Dax swore, but something caught his eye. There on the floor near the door was the thing Mrs. Marilyn had been fingering in her purse. It was a photograph. It was mostly dark and blurry, but a figure was just visible in the foreground. The figure was dressed in all white, unquestionably female with an elegant, curvy body. However, on the figure’s head, instead of tight, blonde curls, there was a white executioner’s mask.

I'd like some suggestions on how to make this better, eg. better foreshadowing, generally the beginning half. Besides that, feel free to tell me if you don't understand the ending, since only about half the people who read it do and I wonder if I should make it clearer.

Ooo... Interesting. I like it. 3nodding My main complaint is in the formatting, not the actual writing. I mostly have trouble with how you space your dialouge.



Thankfully, you didn't put it all on the same line, but its still a bit of an eyesore. Many people will simply skim over what looks like a large paragraph. Actually, I almost did, but luckily I caught myself before doing so. Its a lot easier to read if you make a new paragraph for each new line of dialouge.



Also, the first paragraph seemed a bit choppy. I would consider rewording it slightly to make it flow better.

That's about all the advice I can ofer for the time being. Hope it helped.