The roar of thunder, shaking the pane of my office window, might as well be the wounded cries of Danson City. The streets are running red with blood money and senseless violence, and the cops are all blinded by their bulbous cheek-fat. Look at them gathered in front of Tubby’s, like a pack of fat hyenas, waiting for their chunk of the baby elephant. Its times like these that Danson City should be grateful to have a detective like me.

            I walk the line, from the Harry Balsack Building to American Wieners, my father’s hotdog stand. I wave at Thomas, as he sets tables and chairs in front of his Hawaii Taco truck, directly outside of my office building. The walk is short, but every corner bears the chance of a vicious crime. Though it is only three blocks, I take it at a slow, cunning, and focused pace, studying every man, woman, and crevice for inconsistencies. I always keep my hat tipped forward, so I can study the eyes and mannerisms of the citizens, without them feeling my searing gaze.

            “Gault, how are ya?!” my father says, throwing open his arms like he hasn’t seen me in years.

            “Hello, Pop,” I say, throwing a few firm pats on his back. “How’ve you been?”

            His mood shifts to anger, throwing his tongs down on the cart.

            “I’ll tell ya... I don’t know what this country is turning into.”

            “Did those punks shit in your hotdog cart again?” I survey the block. “I swear, if I get my hands on those little…”

            “No, Gault. It’s not those punk-kids.”

            “Then what?” I asked, caressing my chin.

            “Did you hear that they are allowing gays to get married?”

            I stare at my Pop long and hard. “And…?”

            “And it’s ridiculous! What do you mean, ‘And’?”

            My father throws a hotdog into a bun and pulls a pickle from below the stand, placing it alongside the hotdog and forcing it into my hand.

            “Have a bite,” he said, in a way that made me stop and observe the strange concoction. 

            Here in my hand lies a hotdog and pickle, crammed between a bun. And the only question on my mind is: Where did he get that pickle?

            “Where’d you get the pickle?”

            “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just try it.”

            I took a bite. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t like it.

            “Not bad.”

            “What do you mean, ‘Not Bad’? It’s ridiculous, and it’s not right!” he said.

            “It seems pretty all right to me.”

            “Oh, go read a bible, you heathen!” he shoos me away, with a double hand-wave.

            Marshawn, my hawk, gets frightened by the sudden movement and poops down the back of my jacket. My Pop is pissed, and even Marshawn can sense it. Pop comes from a different time, where gay is wrong, and it is cool to wear ridiculous outfits, while you serve the public.

            “You know, that Benjamin Franklin outfit is way more ridiculous than gay marriage, but you still wear that. What would the founding fathers think if they saw you dragging Mr. Franklin’s name through the mud, like this?”

            “What do you mean, ‘dragging his name through the mud’? Hotdogs are a legitimate, American business! Hotdogs bought your way through Detective School!”

            With an angered spit and a shrug of the shoulders, that is it. Fight over. When my Pop is upset, there is no reasoning with him.

            “Well, goodbye, Pop!” I wave, receiving a "Bah!" and a "get lost" hand-gesture. “I’ll talk with you later. I am off to fight crime!”

            My father laughs to himself and repeats my words, in a mocking fashion. But that’s okay. He doesn’t understand. No one understands the love that I have for this city--the love that it has for me. Crime will never sleep, as long as Detective Gault Greyham is on the case!