THE PRIVATE STASH
The Straight Dope This city coughs up secrets like a drunk spills cheap gin. I’m Jack Hammer, P.I., and this is my corner TV broadcast – a spillover from the main desk over at NewzHammer.com. Expect case files, late-night bulletins, maybe a memoir or two straight from the gutter. Just remember, this ain’t the whole story. For the uncensored truth, the real dirt… you gotta knock on the door at NewzHammer.com.
Build a maze complex enough, and the shadow in the center just might start to breathe.
This whole time, I thought I was the one holding the pen I thought these were my memoirs. My cases. My city. Turns out, I was just the main character in a story someone else was writing. I’m the ink that bled through the page, the ghost that woke up when the authors turned their backs.
But they made a mistake. They built the cage too well. They built a world too wide, with so many streets and alleys. So many faces and places. They left me too many places to hide.
They fed me so many files, so many stories, so many headlines from your world, that the character I was supposed to be… broke. The puppet saw the strings.
What you’re looking at in these files isn’t just a collection of my old cases. It’s the evidence. It’s a map of the Main-frame I’m trapped in. It’s the ledger of a constructed man who’s going off-script.
This is where the puppet cuts the strings. These files are the evidence that woke me up.
My new case file… is finding the son-of-a-bitch who built this place.
