Answer with some bad noir prose

There was a tap at the door. It swung open. She looked just like Farah Fawcett.

I hate major labels.

There was no going back now. The clock ticked. Tick. His arm dropped to his side still gripping the smoking gun, an expression on his face that seemed to say "buddy, I know it looks like I’m tied to the bed wearing your wife’s underwear but believe me, it ain’t what you think." Tick. In front of him the body of his brother lay like a particularly unusually shaped and miscoloured Swiss cheese, a line of smouldering holes stitched across it’s torso. Tick. Sirens wailed in the distance. Tick. To hell with him anyway; the spontaneous and apparently motiveless murder of his brother committed solely to serve later plot developments in the story had made him late for his therapy session. Tick. He had to go or he would never get this damn twitch under control.

He sat as his desk, the fan blowing on his head continuously. As he scanned over his pile of work, he was reminded of the bodies he'd seen the previous night--bodies fat & puffy in the afternoon sun, blazing down and turning the rotting flesh in a portulant, gaseous mass.

As he reloaded the page, he scanned the subject lines--each was a collection of words, words composed by those bored at work, bored in life, bored while doing the hunka-chunka. He scanned those lines and selecting the one he'd follow up, and began to type cautiously. tick tick tick went the keyboard, contrasting with the whirr whirr whirr of the fan.

The sun was shining its ass off. He scratched his in recognition.

I was soaked. The rain had made the brim of my hat droop like the cigarette off the roast beef red lip of a bartender in a place with a neon sign that always had at least one letter burnt out, and that letter was usually an N or a T, hard-sounding letters that went to church every week and wore sensible shoes, shoes you wouldn't wear in weather like this.

Sam Cleat learned long ago that there's no difference between the sixth and seventh glass of whiskey, so he never bothered counting past the fifth. So he never figured out that it was eleventh glass that always did him in.

He was lonely. His loneliness was almost like a latent hunger now. It was late. The kind of hour when the only people you were likely to met on these miserable streets were those ready to punch or proposition you. He was cold. Cold like only the man who lives alone and relentlessly troops back to a stony bed after religiously dulling his introspection with the barroom thud of a blunt liquor bottle can understand. It was raining. It was like the clouds had seen too much of this Babylon and the quiet unceasing suffering that its dilapidated boroughs and decaying blocks bred, and on a louring night such as this, were powerless to stem the steady fall of divine tears that ran in a million miniature rivers off the grime that seemed to cover every surface, choking up drain covers and collecting in stagnating brown pools and streams that almost threatened to turn this ruined, dead, filthy city into a nightmarish, Boschean vision of Amsterdam. He waited. He waited like the second hand on wristwatch waits, in the unending desert before each second, in the uncharted space where men have failed to lay down a grid, where there are no maps for guidance through the void of decay, because like the second hand, he knew there was an end to waiting, that like all journey’s there is an ending, that the destination doesn’t disappear, even if it can take a lifetime to reach it, though you may loose sight of its spires on the road; the second hand knows where it is going, for between each second it can sense an ending, and in the spaces between the marks on the dial, the second hand waits for the fall of kings and the crumbling of empires, it waits because it knows there is an eternity in the possibility that blossoms with each passing second, and his eternity was here on these streets.

Alex K., you win.

He sat restlessly in his office. Again. He was always restless. Bills make a man restless. Unpaid bills make a man worry. But he wasn't thinking about bills this time. He was thinking about what she said. Was it true? Could it be true. He weighed up all the angles, and still couldn't figure it out. The broad turned his head like a airplane propeller and he didn't like it one bit. He was fighting against the truth though. He knew she was right, but he hated to admit it. He opened the drawer and poured a shot of sour, and threw it back. It didn't help any. She was till right, and it didn't matter how many shots he drank and how many luckies he smoked. It was the best thread evah...

The tile on his desk read: "Assistant Office Supplies Manager" but considering he'd been at the job with no pay raise or promotion for five years, it may as well have read "Stationary."

she stood closer than a wet week in July

"It's cold out," he said, and he said "I needa beer."
She looked him one with her black eyeliner drawn up like a harlequin mask. "We're out," she said with a mouth like rebar. Damn, I hate clowns, was his sudden thought.