Ratings

Science

The Maltese Influenza: A True Flu Noir

Call me Immunity. My friends call me “Private I,” because that’s what I do—I’m a private investigator, a detective, a shamus. I track down criminals and make sure they don’t get away with any funny business. Take this one case. Now I know there are a whole lot of bad girls in the city, but this one floozy—let’s call her “Flu” for short—she was a real piece of work. I wasn’t prepared for Flu the first time we met. I ran into her at what I like to call my “second office,” a half-legal seedy little nightclub joint down by the docks. She was leaning on the piano, pretending to sing the blues. One look at her figure and long blonde hair and you knew she hadn’t been hired for her singing voice. We got acquainted. Matters got real friendly; I was too distracted to notice the three tough guys sitting in the corner. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the gutter, no wallet, high fever, a pounding headache and a throat that feels like I’ve been gargling broken glass. Damn Flu.