Liverpool Detective Agency: Tek on Me

It's been a year. The empty bottles of Dunphy's I've meticulously collected and haphazardly arranged around my desk act like hashmarks that I could use to count the days if not for the wilted desk calendar confirming just how long its been since I'd heard that phone ring - since I'd heard his voice. I'd always found him to be a minor annoyance - who really wants to be called 'Q' anyway? And there isn't even a 'Q' in his name! Ugh. But now, with my case load light, wallet empty and Los Angeles atrophying under the lack of any moisture (whiskey or otherwise), I could use someone...I could use a friend.

As if on cue, the phone rings.

"Q?!'ve you been?!" I stammer

"I'm not 'Q,'" an accented voice states. I've heard this voice before, but I can't place it.

"Who are you and what have you done with Ian?" I growl.

"I haven't done anything with him, but if he's to survive, I need your help. Meet me back at The Mathematician's house."

The Mathematician's house? What is that? A club? Suddenly, I remember - Joe Harry.


Joe Harry looks a little more gaunt than I remember - a little less filled out.

"Not been sleeping well, Joe?" I ask.

"No...I've been stuck on this level of Battlefront and I can't quite unravel why," He says. "But that's neither here nor there - I won't be here much longer and I need to get you this information: a rival faction has taken Ian and won't let him go unless Christian Benteke is sold."

"What? Seriously, I think I'm getting to old for this. What can I do?"

"Well, since simple math isn't something their interested in, I think you'll have to figure out a way to convince them that Benteke is worth keeping around by other means."

"Son of a...can't I just link them to whoscored?" Now, I'm positive I'm too old for this shit.


"Fine. Where can I find them"

"Try the abandoned warehouse at 5 LiverpoolKop Ln. I here they're hiding him amongst the cobwebs there."

"That's a real address? Really? I feel like this part of Liverpool is kind of fake. Oh, well. Thanks for the tip, Joe," I say shaking his much less muscular arms. "You've been a good friend to me. Hope we meet again."

"Oh! If you like you can add me on the PS Netw-"

"No time for that right now, buddy but I'll see ya kthxbye!"

I have to get a move on - these bandits have my friend.


To call this warehouse a "cesspool" would be do it favors - it's an old toxic waste site that's somehow turned into a gathering place for the most extreme and angsty of the Liverpool fanbase. You can tell the members of this tribe by their affinity for tagging Nickleback lyrics on their turf. Shudders. I steel myself and hope Ian has managed to avoid listening to this stuff before I enter through the rusted door.

Tip toeing around what looks to be old file cabinets, I hear voices towards the opposite end of the warehouse. I walk to the voices and come upon what looks like a group meeting. Some guy named Tony looks to be the ring leader. Ian is tied to a chair in the middle of the floor. He looks so helpless and's just Ian.

"... and that's why we have to make sure that Benteke is gone," Tony says to a rapturous assortment of grunts and odd bodily noises that I think are affirming.

"But...but...I've already told you that whoscored shows he's been at least producing if at a rate that's below what we'd hope f-..." Ian says before being cut off.

"But that's not the point, I don't like him. Or FSG. And it'll take more than a victory lap after draws to win my fandom back, amirite?" Tony looks out for approval but I think his subjects - and I, TBF - are kinda confused at this point.

"Well, Christian is a nice bloke and he does talk to me about my motorcycles..."

"Shut up! I'm tired of you droning on about Café Racers of Instagram! Look, if we don't get satisfaction, we'll take other things you care about, savvy?"

"Ok. But I don't have any say in personnel outside of making the contracts!"

This is all getting a bit tedious and as my interest wanes I finally realize what it is my eyes have been fixated on: a lever leading to what looks like a crate of...old Nokia 5110s?! What the hell?! Distracted by the letters "...TLO..." inscribed on its side, I've just noticed that the crate is positioned right above Tony and his gang.

Walking over quietly, I see now that the lever is inscribed with LIFTLOW which is really confusing but this entire scene already has my brain melted, so I shrug and pull, watching the crate come down on Tony in the middle of another "...and in my day..." rant. Well, I guess in his day, he could make a phone call on his Nokia 5110, amirite? Oh fuck, this bad comedy thing is contagious.

I rush over to Ian who looks frightened but otherwise ok.

"AJ! Oh thank goodness...they were going to take my bike and..."

"Don't worry Q," I say loosening his restraints. "They won't be doing anything anymore. Let's get out of here."

"You called me Q..."

"They'll call us 'dead' if we don't get out of here," I say.

Q's got a weird look on his face.

"Too on the nose?" I ask.

"Just a little."

"Ok...well, let's get out of here."


Back in sunny - but freezing - Los Angeles, I find a stack of mail waiting me. Looks like I've got some more cases....and...a card?

From: Q

To: My BFF

Hey man...

Thanks for getting me out of that bind - you're, as the academy players say, lit af. (I don't know if I used that correctly, but Lone Star swears everything is lit af and I presume it's positive so you must be lit af.) Anyway, I trust you've arrived safe and sound. I've handed your name over to friends to help fill out your case load, but remember that we'll need you around. It already looks like there might be a rabble spreading rumors of Klopp being found out, which, I mean, unless they mean they've found him out to be lit af then I have no clue what they're on about, amirite?

Well, that's all. Thanks again for the rescue and stuff. Oh...we still on for our phone date tomorrow? I've got a ton to talk about...did you know that Joe Harry is on the PS Network? Anyway, until then.


Well, it looks like things are back to normal...for now. Where's my bourbon?

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