I was nursing a milk on the rocks when this dame entered my room bringing an air of uneasy to my otherwise simple environs. The waft from the door scattered the papers of my latest case along the floor like cockroaches hiding from the light. I didn't look up but I could see her shadow interrupt the carpet like a bad omen. She said nothing, and neither did I. This wasn’t about the papers, or the fact this broad didn’t knock, this was about power and I wasn't about to give it up. Taking a final pull from the tumbler I let the cold of the ice cubes soothe my lips from the summer heat. 100 degrees if it was 10, and about to get hotter. She coughed in that obnoxious way that presumes you should have been aware of the rules that say when she enters a room everyone should notice. Setting my glass down, she finally broke the intensity of the silence: “You are supposed to be cleaning your room, not organizing your comics.” She had won this round, but there will be more to come.