Parents.

My childhood ended when I was three years old. My father told me to start acting like a man. My mother insisted on breast feeding me, then called me a pervert. A blatant homosexual with a penchant for physical and verbal abuse, and a drug-filled prostitute who forgot to charge. Those were the people who raised Jack Bullet. They were French-Candian poets. Even carnival people spat on them. They would blow smoke in my face so the curtains wouldn't smell. They tried to have me aborted...it didn't take. Even at three, I wished it had.

Introduction.

Hello, all. My name is Lou and I have recently had the displeasure of making a horrifying discovery. I have uncovered some random, handwritten, journal-esque entries from the infamous and self-loathing 1920s and 30s private investigator, Jack Bullet. These thoughts, found scrawled in ink, food, and bodily fluids, are short musings by a deeply disturbed man. Risking both physical illness and chronic depression, I will transcribe them here. Their content is both fascinating and highly unsettling. Please read at your own mental peril, and witness the disgusting calamity of Jack Bullet, Private Eye.