Case Study

Savannah Jerome Branson

I am a modern detective serial protagonist living a double life. A part time strip club jazz singer handling your most sensitive cases. Solving crime with the power of mediocre sex appeal and violent outbursts. The camera pans up to a sweltering sun; I’m vampiric, it smolders my eyes to cinders. Malicious halo encircling me, drenching me with sweat, blinding me. I assault the Coney Island ice cream man and pick up a half melted snow cone before I leave. I’m boiling, bursting, brimstone. I’m so hot and untouchable. My partner, she’s got a problem with me. She lives to be my inverse. She’s sexy like a stretched white canvas is sexy. There’s a five minute cut of us arguing about my methods, there’s tension in the air in my pants. She’s different ‘cause she doesn’t wanna fuck me. We’re gonna get married in season three. During late night empty library studies I find a threat from my many enemies: clipped wings. I’m half bird on my dad’s side, must be where I get my cockiness. The camera replays a clip of me punching a mirror, making sure to get my shattered reflection in the shot. My psychiatrist keeps clips of feathered cactus in her office. Feathered wings don’t grow back in soil. She thinks that I’ve hit challenger deep, submerged in my own angst at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. The vents down here are boiling, bursting, brimstone. Maybe I’m too hot. Maybe this is hell.