Phil eyeballed the banana resting in his passenger seat.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. People said leaving the police force was a good choice. Said becoming a private investigator was the smart move. No more paperwork, no more chickenshit tickets, no more bureaucracy.
They were half right.
All his old problems were replaced by a host of new ones: unpredictable hours, unreliable pay, zero benefits.
Even worse, all his meals now come in a greasy paper bag. And he has an extra thirty-five pounds to prove it.
Phil peeled his banana and took a bite. Doctor’s orders.
The Weekday One Hundred 