you come to at your desk. Your client-and-or-interloper is, rudely but rapidly, losing fluids on the floor. It looks like you're in some deep shit.
Pulling a bottle out of your trenchcoat, you take a long, deep swig of maple syrup, grab your hat, and grab your key.
The badge won't do anything for you anymore; you leave your private investigator credentials behind and become the privately investigated.
