Just another day like any other day in this city. The sun was hiding behind clouds threatening to open up and douse everyone, the city government was made up of hidden agenda jerkfaces, and... the school system was rife with bullying.

Big deal, right? There are real problems that should be focused on, right?

I used to think so. Let me relate what changed my perceptivities. That is so a word. Just because I made it up, doesn't make it not a word. It's just not one of those fancy dictionary words.

The rain, that one doesn't really bother me. I'm a detective-for-hire, a gumshoe, a private dick, a flatfoot, a sleuth, a snoop, a nose that knows, an op, a peeper, a flashjack, a prowl jobbie, a P.I., a shamus, a sherlock, ... and rain is kinda nice for the image. Me, standing on a corner, trenchcoat, rumpled tie, and fedora cocked down low over my forehead, rain dripping off whilst I lean unconcernedly on the lamppost. Adds to my Mystique. Adds a bit to my Nightcrawler, too, but that's another yarn. As for the government, hmph. Everyone who has ever run for any kind of politic office has a hidden agenda, even if it matches up with what they says is their public agenda. It goes with the territory.

It's the bullying what provides the backdrop for our little adventure, this time around.

Oh. I guess, I should introduce myself all proper like, for those who don't know me and mine already. Name's Peabody Aloysius Dirkenhammerwoodsteinovitch. I go by Al -- I mean, come on. My esteemed parentage admitted to being under the influence of extralegal substances when they was thinking of names for me. Coulda been worse. I coulda been a gal. My name woulda had to been Hortense Arthelda. Anywhat, I'm the P.I. what knows what he knows. That's my slogan, anyways.

I got me an assistant or apprentice, depending on how you decides to be looking at things. Adds a feminine touch to the office, smiles pretty at the potential clients, sharp as a tack even while sitting there all demure and unobtrusively noticing everything, very professional and wears a dress or skirt with heels most days.

His name's Sherman.

I was hired mistakenly by his uncle awhile back, who thought P.I. stood for Professional Impersonator, and come to find out, Sherman wasn't too keen on being part of the act, either. I signed on before I realized what his uncle wanted, really, and when I fulfilled my obligation, Sherman -- or Marlene, if you go by "Uncle Bella" -- asked if I had a job for him. He always wanted to be a private eye. Turns out, he likes looking and acting like a like a dame, but hates being on stage. Hey, he has the gams for it and is a whiz with the warpaint.

It's enough to make your schnoz gout blood, if you give it too much headspace.

So Sherman is sitting at his desk, his getaway sticks crossed all primly whilst he's sliding varnish onto the tips of his mitts, and my office door bangs open. I still gotta get that looked at. But there's a frail standing there this time, looks to be about dead on her pins.

"Come on in, Kitten, have a seat, tell us your troubles," kid couldn't have been more than in high school, and if the coat she was a rack for cost half a sawbuck, I'll eat my hat with a nice avocado glaze.

The relief on her face was there until the pain replaced it when she sat herself down and took a load off. She almost stood right back up, but I sat down opposite and knew that Sherman would be taking notes.

"Get us a coffee, Marlene, and a hot cocoa for Jane," I tossed over my shoulder at him.

"Shoah thing, Mistah Peabody."

His accent wasn't as... broad... as his uncle Bella's, but it could be there when he was annoyed. And he called me Mister Peabody instead of Al when I called him Marlene. Ah, I could handle it. Didn't want to confuse the pint-sized dame too awful much.

"M-muh muh-my name isn't Jane!" was the first thing out of the side dish.

"Sorry, doll, didn't think it was, just calling you that until I get your moniker out of you. Relax a minute or two, won't hurt you none. From your uniform, I'm guessing you go to Our Lady of Whatsit High School?"

"N-nuh nuh-not my uniform, neither. Got beaten up by girls at school and then they sewed me in," she spouts, turning slightly and I can see the stitches keeping her skirt and blouse hitched together so's they can't be taken off without hurting.

Sherman's back with the coffee and cocoa and sets them down before clicking back to his desk and fixing his lipstick before writing down what's been said.

"Sorry, Jane, that this has been done to you, but you have my word we'll stop this kind of thing from happening."

I'm thinking an easy case at last. Go in, get the Principal -- or Father or whatever you call the Priest what serves as Principal at a Catholic school -- to make it stop.

"So, can you tell me what happened so I can get things started?"

The little twist nods, and a tear slides down her cheek, and she says, "Ah-ah ah-all I wanted to do was go home. I didn't wanna buy their stuff in the baggies, I just wanted to go home."

Now my financial brain is kicking in, when I hear drugs is involved. I keep my face sympathetical and nod at her to get her to continue.

"Alright, Jane, so what'd they do?"

"I told you, my name isn't Jane!"

Oops. Don't make the client angry.

"Sorry about that, sweetheart, so what is your name?"

"Walter."