The Case of the Missing Existential Dread (and Also a Gerbil)

The city wept, as it always did when the plot demanded it, a greasy film of regret clinging to every brick. My office, a monument to unfulfilled potential and stale coffee, echoed with the silence of forgotten cases. I was Gumshoe McSniff, private eye, and my last big score was finding Mr. Henderson’s dentures – a case that involved significantly less femme fatale and significantly more dental adhesive than my promotional materials suggested.

Then she walked in. Or rather, flounced. A silhouette against the grimy glass, her trench coat – suspiciously pristine for this part of town – billowed dramatically. ‘Mr. McSniff?’ she purred, a sound that usually meant trouble, or a particularly persistent cat. ‘I am Felicity Flickerbottom, and I have a problem that requires… a professional touch.’ She leaned across my desk, her perfume a direct assault on my sinuses. ‘My… *partner*… has vanished. Without a trace. And I fear… foul play.’

I narrowed my eyes, a trick I’d perfected after years of squinting at blurry surveillance photos. ‘Describe this… partner.’

‘Oh, he’s small,’ she breathed, 'a bit skittish, but with such character! A charming little scoundrel, really. And quite hairy.’

I scribbled 'hairy' on my notepad. ‘Any distinguishing marks? A scar? A limp? A penchant for illegal poker?’

‘Well, he does have a small bald patch near his tail from that unfortunate incident with the miniature trampoline,’ she mused. ‘And he loves sunflower seeds. He’s called Nibbles.’

My cigarette, which I only lit for dramatic effect when clients were present, suddenly tasted like betrayal. ‘Nibbles?’

‘My gerbil, Mr. McSniff! He’s gone! I fear my estranged Aunt Mildred, who openly despises rodents and once threatened to replace all my bedding with pine shavings, has… abducted him.’ She shuddered.

Thus began 'The Case of the Missing Existential Dread (and Also a Gerbil).' My investigation led me to the usual haunts: the suspiciously well-lit alley behind the pet store, the dimly lit park bench where homeless pigeons congregated, and finally, a public library. Aunt Mildred, it turned out, was not a shadowy syndicate boss, but a sweet old woman who’d merely returned Nibbles to the pet store after he'd gnawed through Felicity’s antique lace doily. She thought he was a rat.

The grand confrontation happened amidst the hushed whispers of the Dewey Decimal system. Aunt Mildred, sipping Earl Grey, explained her reasoning. Felicity, aghast, clutched her trench coat. Nibbles, reunited, immediately attempted to burrow into my fedora.

I took my fee – a surprisingly generous sum, mostly because Felicity felt bad about the confusion – and watched the city continue to weep its greasy tears. Another case closed. Another mystery solved. The existential dread, however, remained exactly where I’d left it: firmly lodged between my fourth and fifth ribs, right next to the regret.