In what we eventually decided to call The Case of the Hollow Client, we didn't realize she was hollow at first when we took the case. Granted, I think that innate sexism that I've tried so hard to banish from my own thoughts reared its ugly purple head when she walked into the room and said, "I don't care if she seems funny or off-kilter or a little bit not-there, take a look at that body! Especially that bit. Those, too. And did you see the--oh, crap, she's looking at us." And so I was too busy trying to cover my own reaction, since one never wants to be quite the sexist pig that one's ex-wife told one one is, and I never noticed that she didn’t have the reaction to my reaction that a normal reactionary person would have. If you follow my drift. So I have only myself to blame for some of the weirdness and the sadness that we ended up in later. Of course, I also only have myself to blame for the parts of the thing that were incomparably grand and worth every penny that she'd promised to pay me and didn't.


Inspiration: Sherlock, "The Sign of the Three" - so don't use that case name!
Story potential: High.
Notes: I rather like the idea of an extremely self-aware protagonist who is, in fact, very sexist in his first impulses and very good at not actually acting that way. Most of the time. Could do the same gig with something else, I guess, but it might be a bit much to make him sexist AND racist AND etc.

Love is rotten to the core, and that's what makes it so good. It's the poisoned apple you willingly sink your teeth into, knowing it will mess up everything in your life and end so many of your good resolutions. At least that's the way it sometimes is for me. Doesn't end well, but there's that apple all shiny and glossy right in front of you--how can you not take a bite? When the dame in the red dress walked into my office, I knew two things. I knew she was rotten to the core, and I knew I was about to take a big ole bite of her poison. I guess I'm just lucky that it ended up being my happily ever after, and not my death, although we weren't sure there for a while.

Inspiration: "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love" - Van Halen
Story Potential: Medium
Notes: I like the character and the voice, but the story's nothing new.

It was a tough case, and that's why they brought in the guy who'd seen it all. At least, that was what I figured at the time. Turns out there was more to it--a lot more--but what did I know? I was fresh, a rookie on the squad, and I'd only heard them talk of Frankie Shapel in hushed whispers in connection to cases I knew I didn't want to be on. Hell, just hearing the rumors was enough, sometimes, to make me lose my appetite. Funny thing, that. You'd think that Frankie would be skinny, unable to eat after seeing all that horror, but he was a guy really liked his food. It didn't make any difference what he'd just seen. He could have the shakes--I saw it once, but only once--.

Inspiration: This noir picture: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hwproductions/3361726003/
Story Potential: High. High-ish. Medium?
Notes: There's nothing unique in this snippet, but the genre has a lot of appeal, and the characters just kind of came to life.

It was an inside job. They knew it was an inside job. But they refused to even tell him what the "inside" was. And they *still* expected his to solve the damned thing! He stared at the pair sitting across the desk from him. They smiled blandly back at him, though their eyes were worried. "The pay will be very generous--" the tall one ventured. "I'm sure it will be. What I'm not sure of is how the hell you expect me to investigate anything when you won't even tell me what, who, or how I'm investigating anything!" They exchanged glances, and then the short one said tentatively, "We understand that you're very good." "Good, I am. A miracle-worker, not so much." Except for--

Inspiration: @cvalenti talking about secret societies and @wishiwasyou saying it was an inside job on Twitter.
Story Potential: High.
Notes: Of course, as an initiate he'd only have access to the lower-level secrets. Hrm. This would require some noodling to work out.

The paint peeled from the wall. Every time that she stood for too long in the alley, she would start to work at it with her long red fingernails, flicking away a small patch. She spent a long time waiting in the alley, and so it became that a quite large portion of the paint was shed by her fingernails. At first, she thought that the bricks underneath were merely discolored, but as she flicked away a piece here and a piece there, she saw that there was a pattern and design underlying it all. It was beautiful, too, something that she did not realize until one patch as large as her palm was revealed. It became her obsession. She would go to the alley even when she had no business being there, and she would pick-pick-pick--

Inspiration: 2046.
Story Potential: Medium.
Notes: She's not a prostitute, though it's likely something very shady that brings her to the alley. And this would be a very noir, urban decay sort of story.