... at the crazy caption comics cluedunnit ...
The gentleman detectives were taking the life-drawing to heart, using
tables and chairs to get the right angle on their leading man, a stoical
redhead with a goatee and a fine line in pipe-chomping snarls. The
hard-boiled cops were seeing just how tight they could pull the plot
strands they'd drawn, picking out recurring elements from sparse clues,
wild theories and peverse supposition. The private dicks were running a
nice line in diorama, setting up their poses in context, scrambling to
borrow extra wigs and props, checking the appropriateness of lamppost,
doorway, table, before committing their vision to paper.
Three stories in full flow is an awesome sight, but I'm not here to gape. I'm here for when things start to go wrong; as they always do.
The private dicks were scattered across the room,
their story pulling in one too many different directions. The
hard-boiled cops were hell-for-leather after the final panel, not
stopping to savour the process or consider their options. The gentleman
detectives were worried the other teams were having more fun, and
consequently complaining about props and story elements. I pull the
first lot together, slow the second down, and give the third more toys.
I don't leave them until I'm sure they're all moving forward and
following what they understand to be the rules.
When they're there, I'm gone. They need their freedom, I need a drink. It works out OK.