Burk, Ten-foot High Private-Eye

I

Business was slow.

This wasn’t really a concern for Burk, who saw anything other than slow business as an unexpected and sometimes unwanted surprise. Instead he sat gnawing at whatever it was he had stepped on earlier (It was too dark to tell, slow business meant no candles)

If there had been candles they would have illuminated the squalor in which Burk lived under one of Altdorf’s bridges and lapping the waters edge. His shack; a hasty construction of bricks, mud and other unidentifiable but smelly materials seemed to be in a perpetual state of collapse, as each day it seemed to be teetering in a new direction. The floor inside was dominated by a large fire pit ringed with old bones and various knick-knacks as a tribute to the Great Maw, from the roof dangled rotting meat, sharp utensils and things whose origins and purposes were lost to those who dared enter: A withered hand with the fingers all broken, a shard of green rock that looked like it had once been a beautifully carved totem, and a jar of reeking jelly with the word “Yack” scrawled onto a piece of parchment. In every shadowy corner, knot-hole and piece of cracked plaster there were sounds of small things scurrying, squeaking, fighting, and dying, and it was in this same dank hole that Burk would be hired for a most hazardous endeavour.

There came a timid knock on the sheet of bark that counted as a door, it really didn’t matter how timid the knock was as the house still shuddered as if it were an earthquake (Indeed on occasions where Burk forgot himself and slammed the door the entire structure had a tendency to leap a few feet in the air before settling down) and Burk’s small but oddly keen eyes settled on the noises source with a cocktail of curiosity and disgruntlement sloshing in their dark centres. Rising slowly from the pile of rags and skins that made for his bed Burk casually brushed the shreds of his evening snack off his barrel-chest, knocking something that bore a passing resemblance to a dogs paw bouncing towards the fire pit whose flames gave an unexpected lick. Burk reached out a frying pan sized hand and pushed open the door...

The quivering Thinling (sorry, client) shaking beneath the light of a waning lantern looked like one of the gentle waves washing on the bank of Burks house could carry him off. His face, pale and greasy, was framed by a pair of thick eye brows above a pair of glancing anxious eyes and below that a wafer thin moustache whose curled ends only seemed to aggravate the mans narrow, hawk-like nose a pair of red lip pursed and clenched rapidly as a long tongue flitted out and licked them at what seemed a mile a minute. He was all-in-all a specimen that only a handful of years ago (They were big hands mind you) Burk would have had no second thoughts over devouring, but business was slow.
Burk was about to make his customary welcoming speech when the gent finally focussed his eyes on something apparently lurking under Burks prodigious gut and let a strangled cry escape his red lips, in utter mountain-born reflex Burks fist closed and raised to crush the problem underfoot, err fist, when he realised at last the cause of the gents distress; the vibrant Empire was a far cry from the bleak and frozen Mountains of Mourn and Burk sometimes found his otherwise functional breeches somewhat stifling, electing to discard them on warmer evenings. With what he hoped seemed a reassuring smile (Though somewhere in translation to the gents mind it morphed into a Move-And-You’re-A-Meal! snarl) Burk hurriedly shut the door and set about rescuing his breeches from a pair of ambitious rats whose dreams were summarily crushed, literally. For safety’s sake he also slipped on his Gut Plate with his hand guns still loaded in their holsters and the trench coat and hat he had copied from the uniform of a Witch Hunter who had passed through town (and Burks intestines) some years before.

Rushing back to the door Burk was relieved to find the quivering Man still standing right where he left him, and moving his eyes to some far off point he let loose his spiel
“Welcome to the House of Burk, ten-foot high Private-Eye. Investigator into all things odd and, err, bad”
Burk dropped his gaze back to his potential client, who returned it with a stare of confusion and rising dread. With his impressive intuitive powers Burk sensed neither of these feelings and ushered the man bodily into his sanctum with a very, very, firm hand; closing the door behind him.

II

Leaving the man shaking and flinching away at some of hanging trinkets that dangled above his greased head Burk settled himself back down onto his rags, idly munching at the dogs paw that had eluded him earlier.
“Now, Mr?”
Wrenched from his horrified rapture the man answered hesitantly
“Err, Glick”
“Not today, Mr?”
The Ogre’s answer had completely thrown Mr Glick off, so he answered with his only thought
“What?”
“What!” Burk exclaimed happily, jotting it down on a torn scroll using a charred stick.
“Now, What”
Glick was still at a loss.
“What what?”
“No, I’m Burk. Investi- wait, What.”
“Pardon?”
“Have I already said this?”
“Said what?”
“No not that, the other thing”
“What other thing?”
Burk blinked slowly, Thinlings talked too fast.
“Whatotherthing is your name?”
What’s, sorry, Glick’s temper finally boiled over his timidity
“No listen, my name is Glick! Not What! Glick!”
Burk shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“What glick? I didn’t mention a glick. Though if you’re offering I’ll have one”
Feeling utterly defeated Glick collapsed against a wall. This was a mistake as immediately the wall itself attempted to collapse onto nothing, leaving Glick standing very straight and very shaky. Looking back at the now very bemused Ogre he asked wearily.
“What do you think a glick is?”
Burk’s large brow furrowed as if this was a very delicate question to answer, slowly he said, as if talking to a child.
“Glick’s is…them things where you…put stuff in and blow…makes smoke?”
Slowly the lighted dawned on my Glick and with a sigh of relief he said
“Those are pipes, not glicks”
“Oh” Said Burk “Then what’s a glick?”
“Nothing! I mean, me. I’m a Glick, I’m Hermann Glick!”
“Oh” Said Burk again slowly. For some moments they stayed there, silent; each utterly confounded by the other. Finally Burk realised that the confusing Thinling standing next to his pouch of enchanted sand from the Southlands was a client, so with clearing of his throat that Glick felt in his shoes Burk put forward the typical Investigator into all things- no not that again! Question…
“So, what brings you here… Glick?”
The scrawny Mans startled eyes suddenly looked like they were filled by some weak but bright flame, and leaning forward with his darting tongue once more on its inspection he answered in a conspirital whisper
“Master Burk, I need you to solve, a murder!”

III

The entire room smelt wonderful!

If Mr Glick would have only told him he was one half of Glick & Gefar’s Pastries things would have been much simpler, however until they had nearly reached the gates of the magical factory Glick had remained curiously tight-lipped about the whole thing, and now they marched through the factories inner bowels; past huge roaring ovens manned by blackened and weary bakers, row upon row of old women endlessly kneaded unceasing lines of dough and men with shaking hands and crooked backs from years of monotonous labour tirelessly iced cakes with decorations. The buns, the bread, the workers; everything smelt so delicious! Burk’s gut was roaring like a hungry beast (which was appropriate, seeing as it was one) and it took a strong part of his will to quietly chant the mantra he had picked up from a cranky old butcher who was beating his apprentice “You have to earn your food!”

Mr Glick finally stopped at the bottom of a set of winding stairs and with his eyes diverted pointed Burk’s gaze at a strange marking on the floor, after a few seconds of staring Burk cottoned on to the idea that it was a chalk outline, except it looked like-
“Sugar” Said Mr Glick as if he had read Burk’s mind (No doubt it would have been easy, like a pop-up book)  “We used what we had at hand and removed the body to the embalmers, we do need to be aware of hygiene in this establishment”
“Why is the head part missing?” Burk enquired casually.
“Oh no doubt some of the rats took a fancy to it” Replied Glick, just as casually.
Burk gave a grunt of understanding and reached inside one of the dozen or so pockets of his trench coat. After some feeling around his thick fingers landed on their prize and pulled out a small drawstring bag that looked no end like it was filled with large marbles. With surprising gentleness Burk opened the bag and plucked out a strange yellow sphere: It was soft and squishy to the touch and seemed covered in a film of translucent mucus, in its centre was a slit like a serpents eye which, no matter which way the ball turned, always seemed to be glaring straight at whoever looked at it. Quite alarmed Mr Glick hurried behind one of the cooling trestles, knocking a loaf of bread to the floor and scattering the beetles that had been nesting on it. Burk however seemed perfectly at ease with the strange orb and with little ceremony other than another earth shaking clearing of his throat he popped it into his mouth, where it seemed to glow for an instant before his strong jaws shut like a pair of prison gates.

Meanwhile Mr Glick had regressed back to that point of bewildered horror he had been in when two first met, and stammering heavily he asked
“Wh-what exa-xe-actly was th-that?”
Burk continued chewing with a look of fierce concentration on his face before speaking from the corner of his mouth
“Daemon’s eye, fresh killed last year.”
Glick’s eyes dropped to the still bulging bag that now hung loosely from Burk’s right hand.
“Killed many have you?”
Now Burk gave a quick, questioning glance at his client’s drawn pale face and tried to calm his fears
“Don’t worry,” He said with a little shake of the bag “It was only one.”

Glick’s only possible reply to this was a weak “Oh” and they both fell into silence, with only Burks chewing and the unceasing clatter of the bakery to break it. Suddenly Burk stopped chewing, and with a distinctly sour look spat his efforts into his large granite-coloured hand; it was a disgusting mush of grey saliva and flecks of yellow, and yes there was even a piece of pupil surviving, and even after all it had been through it still managed to glare at both witnesses with a weakened but still present malice. Burk stood for a few moments licking his chops with that sour look still on his face before giving a shudder which made the tables nearby shake with the force of it, then seemingly fine again he stepped to the edge of the victims sugary outline and with a (Very!) deep breath slapped the half-eaten mess right onto the middle of his forehead. Suddenly the Ogre became very still . . .

I don't think criticism is necessary. This story was very well-written and also very funny. Great work!

Yep good read. More please.

Apologies if I kept you waiting, i did warn I don't truly know how this story will progress. If you are a fan of Abbot and Costello sketches; prepare to be disgusted, if not; prepare to be bored!

Hello, me again with another slice of Burk's (Very slowly) ongoing mission. I as is likely you get fed up of me just say so and I shall drop this story like an Ironguts breeches after eating some bad Tileans