Gregson woke up.

He reached for a Corona, and took a swig. He fumbled for a cigarette.

What was it his doctor said?

Low energy behaviors were going to kill him?

Or was that the advice from a Buddhist monk he visited on the trail?

He couldn’t remember…

Gregson’s brain was pickled in alcohol—boredom and no action will do that to a private detective.

He slipped into his running shorts, and put on his shoes.

When he got outside, the clouds were floating by, and the gold leaves were falling.

He passed an old man with a Gilligan hat who was smiling. It seemed like everybody was happy to see him. Gregson was sweating—through a three-day beard.

When he got onto the trail, he set himself little goals.

I’m just going to run to the next bridge.

But when he got there, he kept on running. He chose a new goal.

I’m just going to run to that ugly pine tree.

But when he got there, he kept on running.

“The secret to fitness is lying to oneself,” he said—

but then, he changed his mind.

A hot blond, who was nearly 6 feet tall, ran past. Her pony-tail flipped in the breeze. She had nice hip-separation—beautiful black spandex, and a short-crop running top.

Gregson gained new motivation from his sex drive.

He shifted his private dick into high gear, and chased after the woman like a grizzly bear.

Eventually, the Fat PI ran out of fuel, and plummeted to earth.

He ate a Power Bar and watch two grandmas gossiping.

“Did she get away?” They laughed. “You need to lose weight.”

Gregson didn’t let them depress him. Ugly butterflies are sad.

He began to power-walk.

“Tortoise and the hair,” he said. “I’ll catch her.”

He passed the old ladies, and kept on going.

At a bend in the trail, where it dips into the valley, he saw the blond bombshell, exploded in the grass. Her organs were missing. There were ligature marks around her neck. Her blood was pumping into the dirt.

“Dead,” Gregson said.

The old ladies walked-up.

“Murderer!” They screamed.

“Hey, I found her this way.”

“We knew you were a pervert!”

“But I’m not a killer,” Gregson said.

“Murderer!”

Gregson took-off running.

He passed a couple of Ukrainian Mafia guys who were comparing their Mitsubishi Lancers on their cell phones.

Gregson’s intuition told him they had killed many people, but not for sexual gratification—just for unpaid gambling debts. Plus, their designer jeans were immaculate—no blood splatter marks.

He was really getting a workout. Then he slowed down, into a walk.

His suspect wore a sweater-vest, and was balding. He walked a chihuahua.

“Come Bruno—you can sniff the female later.”

Bruno wouldn’t obey.

“I told you to come, Bruno.”

Bruno ignored him.

“Get over here!”

The man yanked the rat-dog to his leg, and strangled him with love and hate.

Gregson noticed, what looked like red spray-paint on the man’s slacks.

“Excuse me, sir.”

He turned around. His Chihuahua growled at Gregson.

“What is it?”

“I’m arresting you.”

“On who’s authority?”

“Mine.”

The man pulled a gun from his fanny-pack. Gregson was too quick for him. He threw a haymaker, and cracked his skull.

The PI went through the fanny-pack. “Says here, that you work for a school district. Psychologist? And your name is Andrew?”

The psychologist passed out. His Chihuahua bit his face.

“None of that,” Gregson said. He swiped the little rat-dog away. It growled at him.

“Most of these psychologists are crazy,” Gregson said.

The End