Maybe “bent” is the more appropriate verb.

It’s not just Miller. The goddamn fire marshal is here too. Well, you were going to have to deal with her eventually, two birds, one stone. Miller is a skinny fuck a couple years younger than you with bad teeth and a scraggly mop of brown hair. Kinda looks like Matthew Lillard back when he did Scooby Doo, except vastly less attractive. Basically the guy looks like a weasel.

The fire marshal is another story. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to call her “hot”. She introduces herself as Melissa Lundberg as you pass her and Miller your business card (you’ve always kept a decent stock of cards on hand for your various identities, in this case you have five identifying you as “Marcus Woolshire III, Esq.: Attorney at Law”). She’s about 5’7”, athletically thin, early thirties, long, clearly dyed, black hair with a single blonde streak. While Miller is dressed in jeans and a flannel, Melissa wears a black suit ensemble with a pair of sensible flats. Your own blazer and pants combo falls into line with her outfit, and you can see her appreciative glance. Miller just looks intimidated. This might actually be fun.

“Mr. Woolshire-“ She begins, before you cut her off, forcing eye contact.

“Call me Marcus.”

“Marcus,” she colors slightly, “what can you tell us about what happened here?”

No way in hell they’re going to buy the truth. You’re trying to make a positive impression here, so talking about psychotic clowns isn’t going to cut it. “As Ms. Anderson explained it to me, she was returning to the house, having forgotten something before heading back to work. She witnessed a group of motorcycles driving away from the house and smoke was beginning to pour from a broken window. The previous night Ms. Anderson, who is an adult entertainer, had an altercation with a member of the Outlaws Motorcycle Club. She speculates that the house was firebombed in retaliation for her spurning the advances of the individual in question.” Two birds. One stone.

Miller seems to be swallowing this story like a Tri-Delt sorority sister with a cock. There was an incident a few years back at Black Bear Casino involving Outlaws and Hell’s Angels that’s still pretty fresh in local memory. Melissa seems a little more skeptical. “Is there anyone who can corroborate this story, Marcus?”

“Elwood Runningdeer, the security guard at Sugar Daddy’s in Scanlon. Ms. Anderson doesn’t have his contact info, so you’ll have to ask at the club. Ms. Anderson herself is understandably shaken up by this and will not be returning to work any time soon.”

Melissa nods, and looks over the smoldering ruins. It’s starting to snow. “Well, Marcus, if what you’ve told me checks out, I’m sure my team will find the evidence of it.”

Miller pipes up, “Obviously, if that’s the case then I see no reason for the policy not to pay out.”

You smile, allowing it to reach your eyes as you shake hands with Miller. With Melissa you maintain eye contact and hold her hand just a hair longer than might be proper, saying, “Don’t hesitate to call me if there’s any way I can help.”

With that you hop behind the wheel of the Lexus and head to the gas station right off I-35 and breathe a sigh of relief. Now to check on the other problem. You pull out your phone, which has managed to reboot, and are relieved to see the heart-plus icon of the Affection Multiplier. It’s got that blue dot in the corner that indicates a new update.

You click on it and are immediately greeted with a pop up:

A new patch has been applied to this application mostly for balancing purposes, and partially because we realize that we fucked up when we gave you that freaking perk. For disputes please see instruction manual (not included). By way of apology we’ve decided to allow you to retain the DOOMCOCK! perk.

Figures. Time to head home.