Jim Blow 2

There was a loud thud at the door. He couldn't get through my secure, reinforced, steel bunker door. Could he? I released my pigeons through a secret panel in the ceiling, hoping they'd make it to my editors. How had this intruder found out so quickly of my latest chronicle? My arctic home wasn't safe, that much was certain.

My breath appeared before my eyes as I released chilly air from my lungs. Maybe a secluded arctic house wasn't my best idea. What's the murder rate on the beach front?

Snapping back to the problem at hand, I noticed that the steel door was folding. Of course! The hinges were frozen, that would allow--

The door snapped off, disconnecting from the icy walls on either side. I hurried across the room, readjusting my hat. Beneath my writing desk was a secret access panel. With all the haste I could muster, I dove to the ground, sliding like a penguin across the ice toward my desk. Dropping down into the access beneath my desk, I couldn't help but peer back up at my intruder. Swallowing, I blinked a few times. I couldn't believe my eyes. How was he here?

"Jim Blow!" the man in the green plaid sportscoat called, stepping over the evidence of his breaking and entering.

I'd recognize that brown tie anywhere. How had he escaped!?

"You know!" the man continued, drawing closer to my escape route, "I could hang myself in all the irony I've seen. You really are a clever man, Jim."

Yupp, I'd seen enough. Closing the hatch tightly above me, I ran down the dark tunnel toward my--

Oh. That's right, I forgot to finish this getaway tunnel.

With a deep breath, I scribbled a note into the snow bank nearest me. An icy slide appeared before me. Having more fun that I probably ought to have been having, I jumped down the slide, listening to the loud screams behind me. Next time I wrote a book, I'd have to be more careful about letting people like that slip through the pages. Perhaps if I could just get my hands on some paper and a quill, I could write some tragic ending to the mistake this character had been.

Dismemberment might do my attacker justice.

And in my defense, I hadn't meant to create him. Too bad the IOS had tried to kill me, instead of just dealing with this...accident. Maybe they'd let me back into their guild after my latest discoveries! Detective Layton had been right about the Contingency Squad! Must say, I'd been surprised when he starting looking into this most recent development. Who'd've thought the government would try--

All in good time, I was getting ahead of myself. We didn't know anything yet. For now I needed to focus on escaping, and then contact my editors--

Crap. My messenger pigeons wouldn't know where to find me. That's unfortunate.

Escape first, learn more about "Project BioCoded" later.

Hmm, maybe I should've written in the snow that the slide ended somewhere useful...or ended at all.

Jim Blow 1

I sat, deathly ill, in my arctic home. Owning my attention was a blue file in very poor condition. There were wrinkles and tears in the folder, and the bottom right hand corner had been badly burned. Locking my doors via remote control, I switched on a desk lamp and forced its light onto my work. With a deep breath--and another quick check over my shoulder--I peeled the file open. The detective working this case before me, may he rest in peace, had found very little regarding project BioCoded. I owed it to Detective L. to finish the work he'd begun.

Releasing a stream of hot air out from between my lips, I watched it freeze in the cold air around me. My mind wasn't on the cold, though I wore a large furry coat, obviously too big for my slender frame. I tipped my stetson ripely downward, running my fingers along the grooves and tears in the front of the aged brown hat. Readjusting my specks, I drew an icy breath inward, pouring over the single sheet of paper in the file. Nothing was solidified in the file; only guesses and whispers of rumors.

There was a loud knock at the door. Either the pizza delivery guy had changed his mind about their delivery radius policy, or I was about to be attacked.

Reaching for my quill, I breathed hurriedly on my freezing ink. As the intruder entered my home--neglecting to wipe his feet on my snowy welcome rug--I penned a letter to my editors and friends. The man here to kill me for this file wouldn't make it through my bunker door, and into my arctic home. Probably.

Dear Editors, I wrote desperately, forgetting to dot my i's and cross my t's. Or at least I would've forgotten, had auto correct not chastised me.

It should be important to note that there is no excuse for poor grammar or gross illiteracy. Even when moments from death, one should be careful to mind their spelling and maintain manageable motion over the number of exclamation points punctuating their final words.

****

I remained motionless in my arctic home, waiting for my attacker to come. He never made it past the doors, as I'd predicted. Leaning back over the file, I discovered a small stain on the bottom right corner. But was this a stain? Or a clue! I felt the piece of paper. It was a thicker material; something like card stock. With a light touch--and several hundred attempts--I was able to peel the paper in two. I retrieved fingerprint dust from one of my secret hiding places behind a picture frame. Hoping I wasn't wrong, I spread the dust evenly over the botom paper. The dust revealed exactly what had been on the top paper, but also a word that the top page had hidden from me.

Dystopia?

I read it again. This was Detective L.'s handwriting. My first lead! But I didn't know a whole lot about dystopian works. I had a friend who did, though. In contacting him, I'd be putting him at risk, but the situation was dire.

I messaged Zakar, an expert in dystopian works. With a deep inhale, I encoded our conversation. Was it just my paranoia that created noises on the other side of my steel door?

Zakar, I wrote hurriedly--or at least as hurriedly as I could in the code I was using. The Huckleberry is not safe!! BC is compromised. I am fleeing my ~AC for a more secure location. Dispose of my pez dispensers, and eat at least five hundred thumbtacks.

INDEBTED,