Dick slid the tape into the VCR. His smooth finger sought out the plastic 'play' panel and he pressed it.
An imaged flickered onto the TV screen. Camcorder footage of a brightly painted living room. Music playing in the background. Discordant piano music. A woman whispering about advertisements and everlasting pleasure. The camera rotated to aim at the face of a blonde haired young man of about 20 years old.

Dick took a sip of his coffee and made a face. It tasted weird man. He set it aside.

The young man in the video was smiling but it was weird, it seemed forced or something. Dick got the impression of profound anguish flickering just behind his eyes.
The camera zoomed out slowly to reveal a voluptuous woman huddled over the man's lap. She was administering a steady, efficient blow job. What I mean is she seemed to be performing the act out of a sense of duty as opposed to any kind of tenderness or affection. She was nude except for an ill fitting white t-shirt which highlighted her tanned skin and jet black hair. Her head bobbed to and fro like a metronome.

Dick paused the tape and turned to the young woman standing by his side.
"Do you realise that I'll be confiscating this tape as evidence?"
The woman, tall, slim, dark-skinned, remained silent.
"Well? Say something..."
The woman looked exhausted. Her cheeks were puffy, her eyes washed out. She remained mute.
Dick backhanded her twice, hard. Her eyes began to tear up and Dick immediately regretted his violence. His exasperation evaporated and he became tender and sympathetic. He cradled the woman in his arms, murmured into her ear, kissed her hair. He could feel her taut body against his. He realised he was becoming aroused and pulled himself away from her, breathing heavily.

A sweltering heatwave had descended on the city. As Dick drove bak to the office he observed other motorists driven berserk by the heat. He saw pedestrians lolling on benches with listless, animal eyes. He noticed black dogs panting in the shade.

Someone had left a weathered paperback novel on his desk. It was entitled The Metaphysical Bukkake.
Am I supposed to regard this as a piece of evidence? Dick mused, turning the novel over in his hands, running his finger up its cracked spine.

He was called into the chief's office.
"Dickie baby, what you got for me, son?" the chief demanded.
"Not much," Dick confessed. The chief nodded sympathetically and bit the end off his cigar.
"I'm piecing this shit together gradually," Dick continued. "I've got-"
The chief waved his hand dismissively. "The truth is, Dick, I don't really care. But I have to pretend an interest, you understand?"
Dick nodded. he felt annoyed but also slightly relieved.

Dick sat at his desk for a while, skimming through The Metaphysical Bukkake, feeling forlorn. The novel seemed to be a montage of completely surreal gibberish. He scanned the cover and the sleeve for author information but such information was absent.
"Who the fuck wrote this shite?!" he suddenly screamed, pounding his fists on the desk.
"I did," a female voice whispered. Dick spun round in his chair and came face to face with a young woman wearing a green corduroy beret, grey sweater and black jeans. She had a coy, intelligent face which Dick gazed at for a moment before telling her to have a seat.
"Coffee?" he inquired. The woman nodded. Dick went and fetched two plastic cups of coffee and set them down on the desk. The woman tentatively sipped the hot beverage.
"So you're a writer?" Dick asked genially. The woman nodded. "Have you written any other books?" he continued. She shook her head no. Dick took a slug of his coffee. "What is this novel about?" he asked.
The woman was silent for a long moment. "Different...um..." She seemed to be mildly flustered.
"What I mean to ask is, how is it pertinent to the case I'm working? Why did you bring it here?"
The woman smiled cryptically.
Sunlight gleamed through the brown venetian shades.