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Rob Ford, P.I. and The Long Goodbye

Rob Ford, P.I., woke up in his office. He rubbed his eyes and blinked.

“What a strange dream,” he said out loud.

He looked around his office. Paint was peeling off at the top of the walls. A framed high school graduation photo of him was tilted a bit counterclockwise, and the glass over it was dusty.

Why this weird dream? Rob Ford thought to himself. The old Rob Ford, the dirty P.I. that Rob Ford had been, might have had a dream this weird.

The old Rob Ford had done things that he had been ashamed of, or almost ashamed of, or at least he’d claimed publicly he was ashamed of. Crack cocaine, public drunkenness, public urination, hanging out with suspected criminals, overweight. All things he was not proud of being made public. All things that had caused a bad dream more than once.

But now he was the new Rob Ford, P.I. He was working out to lose weight, and probably everything else would follow after that. Five days a week, working out. One hour to drive to the gym, fifteen minutes to find a parking space, two hours of exercise, then an hour and a half to shower and get home, if he was lucky. He didn’t have much time left for detecting lately, what with all the time being spent in arranging working out.

But this weird dream. Where he was some kind of clueless buffoon having misadventures across the city. That wasn’t him. Rob Ford, P.I., was a different sort of animal.

He got up from his desk, slipped his brass knuckles into his right jacket pocket, put his M1911 pistol in his shoulder holster, and perched his fedora on his head. It was time to meet some constituents, and then go home for some dinner.

“Oh shit!” he said, and rushed out the door. Today was the first day you could file to run for P.I. of Toronto for another four years. And Rob Ford, P.I., was never planning to say goodbye to this job.

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