The night is hot and sticky, like a freshly baked cinnamon bun filled with smog and noise and crime; a lot of crime. And although that particular cinnamon bun may sound pretty nasty, it's exactly the kind of cinnamon bun I've been lookin' for.

I'm Damien King, wandering private eye and detective for hire. I've traveled all over the place fighting crime and righting wrongs no matter where they spring up. Ever hear about that kitten smuggling ring in Cedar City? Probably not, but I totally broke it up. How about the Cherry Pie gang? Sure, it may have looked like they were all 90 year old grandmas who were just baking pies, but I swear they were up to no good and I had to stop them. But those cases were nothing compared to what I was about to go up against here in West Pines.

I'd hear talk around the city about a guy who was goin' around and orderin' ice cream without payin' for it. Now, I'm a pretty peaceful guy most of the time, but hearin' about a guy who was getting delicious ice cream and not payin' for it really churned my butter.

I decided to start my search by skulking around the bad neighborhoods and grilling my usual contacts for information. As I walked by Starbucks%u2122 after Starbucks%u2122, I couldn't help but feel sickened by my surroundings; this area was in terrible shape. Every street corner had two or three hippies standing on it passing out flyers for some peace rally or anti-animal torture candlelight vigil, it was disgusting. There was a unique and terrible mix of smells in the air, ranging from the signature overabundance of choking body spray coming from the Hollister stores to the sickeningly sweet scent of Bath and Body Works stores. As a whole, the neighborhood was enough to melt the skin off even the toughest gumshoe; which was lucky for me since I'm tougher than the toughest gumshoe.

After journeying though the horror of suburban clothing stores and coffee shops, I arrived at the residence of Clarence Yerlinger, my first and most reliable contact. Clarence and I had been friends from the time I rescued his sister from the Cootie Boys back in third grade, something that no other 8-year old but me could have ever done.

I knocked on Clarence's door using our signature secret knock that consisted of several beats from Another One Bites the Dust, our shared favorite song. When he didn't knock the door after I had been beating on it for well over 20 minutes, I began to grow suspicious. Remembering that Clarence kept a spare key in the bushes by his front door, I slowly opened the door and entered my friend's home. Once I was inside, I could tell that something was wrong right off the bat. All of the furniture in Clarence's house was all either on fire or turned completely over, something that I hadn't seen in his home since we were in college together. After turning the house completely upside-down for almost 5 minutes, I decided that I needed to take a break and fix myself some tea like the classy sophisticate that I was. As I opened the kitchen cupboard where Clarence kept his teabags, I saw something terrible. It was Clarence's head; just his head. And out of Clarence's lifeless eyes dripped something that looked like.... ice cream. I got some of it on my finger and tasted it; it was rum raisin, that ice-cream stealing prick had gotten to him.

I'll get you, you bastard.