stimmyabby:

autie-stereotype-crime-noir story

 

stimmyabby:

i like clues because they make sense, unlike people, who have legs that go on for days. how can a leg go on for days? i don’t know. help

 

stimmyabby:

i got the call late at night: “there’s been a murder on the orient express.” i knew i had to take the case immediately, because that is a TRAIN

 

stimmyabby:

i have been told i am “gritty” and “hardboiled”, maybe because i eat so many eggs and crunch the bits of shell between my teeth

 

stimmyabby:

“he’s the killer!” i said. “wait, no he’s not. wait, all these people look the same, which one is which again?”

 

stimmyabby:

i’m a straight shooter who plays by my own rules, all 376 of them that I have in this annotated binder

 

stimmyabby:

i’m a lose cannon, in fact, i have been institutionalized for erratic behavior

 

stimmyabby:

my job as a detective is made harder by the fact that i am physically incapable of telling a lie or bluffing but made easier by the fact that i have no emotions about anything but trains. once a train was murdered, and i couldn’t stop crying

 

stimmyabby:

she had curves in all the right places. i like curves, because they make sense, unlike people

 

stimmyabby:

i like my liquor hard, and my social interactions harder

 

stimmyabby:

i’m the best detective around, but my fees are high, and i only take payment in trains

 

stimmyabby:

she had curves in all the right places. she was a graph i was making about trains. in the other room, my dad was crying because i wouldn’t make eye contact with him

 

stimmyabby:

“you will tell me what i want.” i said. “everyone tells me what i want. i’m tough as nails, and i’m not afraid to display aggressive behavior”

 

stimmyabby:

i got into this job because one time in fifth grade i asked my special teacher why people don’t like me, and she told me to be a detective and figure it out. i took that completely literally, and here we are today

 

stimmyabby:

maybe i should throw away all my detective memorabilia so that i can hug my dad for the first time

 

stimmyabby:

“i know you’re a detective,” my mom sniffled, “but sometimes i feel like the real detective, trying to figure out how to finally help you”

 

stimmyabby:

the only mystery i cannot solve is the mystery of why these nice ladies keep making me play with special blocks. i have literally no theories about why this is happening

 

stimmyabby:

“i didn’t solve the case, and i let a second train get murdered!” i cried. “i’m a bad detective!” “oh, honey, no,” my mom soothed, “you’re not a bad detective, you’re just special, and sometimes that means things are a little bit harder for you”

 

stimmyabby:

he handed me the pictures of the suspects. i crossed out their eyes so i could look at their faces.

 

stimmyabby:

i got the call late at night. “TEXT ME” i shouted into the phone

 

stimmyabby:

“there’s been a terrible murder.” “that makes 231,” i said, twirling my hair. i like numbers.

 

stimmyabby:

she had curves that went on for legs. i reminded myself to make eye contact, like my special teacher told me

 

stimmyabby:

“ain’t she a beauty?” i asked. my special teacher had been working with me on saying “isn’t.” “a genuine Horse .75. i got her 12 years and 37 days ago and she weighs exactly 14 ounces. i call her Melissa, after my special teacher. she’s almost as good as a train.”

 

stimmyabby:

i took out my bottle of whiskey, and started to read the label aloud

 

stimmyabby:

i’m a private eye. that means i think eyes should be private. why do people have to look at each other’s eyes all the time?

 

stimmyabby:

the ceiling fan moved slowly in my grimy office, slowly like someone about to give up on the world. i stared up, up, up at it, distracted from my obsessive cleaning. it had curves in all the right places

 

stimmyabby:

the whole world seemed black and white, like an old film, or my thinking

 

stimmyabby:

i took my gun out of the pocket of my trench coat, which i was wearing because of my sensory issues

 

stimmyabby:

with my gun smashed​ to pieces on the floor and the criminal’s gun pointed right at me, it seemed like just about the right time to elope

 

maybesimon:

this is the best thing in the world

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Tags:

#anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #autism #(it took me a while to understand that last one though) #(I think the joke is that the protagonist is using ”elope” to mean ”run away”) #(oblivious to the specifically marriage-related meaning it has in practice?)

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