Bernard Yogi, Private Investigator
The office was cramped and dusty, unremarkable except for the small statue of Ganesha fashioned out of burnt matchsticks that rested amongst the double-smoked butts in the overflowing pewter ashtray. To be certain, Bernard M Yogi’s vauge vision of himself as eminent spiritual master had yet to be fully realized…
His apparent love for cheeseburgers, beer, and protracted periods of slouching left his belly shapeless and sagging - not a round merry gut - but rather something that resembled a deflated balloon or an understuffed beanbag chair; his commitment to the realization of unbound universal love was tenuous at best - he could be waylaid by the smallest distraction - a dirty sock in the corner of the room or a wrinkle on a pretty girls forehead could send him into a spiral of depression and self-loathing that could last for days, sometimes weeks; and his moments of insight were spontaneous and fleeting, like little bird poops on his shoulder.
In other words, he was just the man for the job….
