She was a three-eyed, dome-headed beauty from the planet Bolgan and I knew she was trouble. When she walked into my office that day I was sitting with one foot up on the scratched desk top, one resting on the upturned waste-paper basket, and the third tapping gently on the floor to the sounds of the Ramones - an ancient old time punk band from the planet Earth.
The bright red glow from the two Zogian suns outside the window of my office shone through the window, causing my visitor to narrow all her eyes and squint at me in that slightly accusatory way that the Bolgans have. At that moment, the famous old adage, 'Never get involved with a three-eyed, dome-headed Bolgan beauty' passed fleetingly through my brain. I wish it had stopped for a while, pulled up a brain cell, and rested its weary feet. They say hindsight's a wonderful thing. At least, they do on the planet Mirmar where they have eyes in the backs of their pointy little heads.
Anyway, when she walked into my office I was taking a pull on the bottle of Grogon juice that I keep there to while away time on the slack days. Unfortunately, this year has been 842 slack days long. You'd think as the only PI on the planet Zog, I would be inundated with work. But no. When they sent me down to Earth to live among the pasty faced ignorant humans for a while to pick my future career path, I should have remembered that there's no crime on Zog, and focused instead on nuclear physics. In popular Earth culture classes, when all my fellow Zogians were sniggering uncontrollably over episodes of Star Trek, I was devouring the works of Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Agatha Christie and Dorothy L Sayers. I took up smoking, learned how to knit, insisted on being called Lord Peter, and bought a fedora. I should have bought two, since I have 2 heads, but, hey, I'm killing time by knitting myself another one from baby blue wool.
"Aratsafar Zabalagorian?" said the beauty. "Private Investigator?"
"Thatsh me shweetheart." I said through several almost immobile lips, with the slight lisp I'd cultivated (did I mention culture classes also included Humphrey Bogart films?)
I took another swig of Grogon juice and winced as it burned its fiery way down my throats. "But this stuff," I waved the glass at her, "is almost as much of a mouthful as my name. So I've changed it. My name I mean."
On my return from planet Earth, battered and well-thumbed paperbacks in hand (well, they would have been well-thumbed if I'd had thumbs, but, of course, being a Zogian, I don't), I'd decided to change my name - call myself something more in keeping with my heroic ideal of the rumpled PI with an eye for the dames, a cynical swagger, and a trusty .38 special.
"So?" she said. "What do I call you?"
"The name's Marple. But you can call me Miss."