This is a R18 story and there will be mature themes, albeit not in episode 1, so proceed with caution.
Shackleford: Tied to the bottom
Episode 1: The Pilot
Rusty slouched in his cramped office apartment, staring at the peeling white sticker on his door—Hale PI—a mocking relic of the grand investigation firm he’d dreamed of building.
Months ago, he’d walked away from the force, fed up with the rot. Most of them were useless, and the ones worth a damn were filthier than the gutters of Shackleford. He’d had enough of being a black line in a corrupt ledger. Rusty wanted to fight for the little guys—the ones whose sons vanished into the city’s shadows, the ones cheated out of their inheritance—not prop up a system that thrived on despair.
That was the pitch he’d sold himself, but the reality was bleaker than a Shackleford dawn. This city had a way of shackling you tight, grinding you down until you ended up face-down in a ditch—or a pauper’s grave if you were lucky enough to have connections. Shackleford didn’t care. It locked you in its grip and never let go, a festering hellhole where hope came to die.
The building door creaked open below, but Rusty didn’t even twitch. It was never for him. He rummaged through his desk drawer, hunting for a bottle of whiskey—there had to be one somewhere. He found it! Empty—dry as his luck. He reached for his pack of cigarettes. Last one. Of fucking course. He flicked his lighter, the flame casting jagged shadows on the cracked walls, and took a long, bitter drag, the smoke curling like a ghost of his fading dreams.
“Mr. Hale?” a voice quavered. Rusty looked up to see a nervous man hovering in the doorway, his cheap suit soaked with sweat.
“Yeah,” Rusty grunted, slumping back into his chair, the creak of wood loud in the silence.
“My name is, er—I don’t think you… er—I need you to find a dangerous man and get back some information he has on me. It’s gotta stay buried—can’t let those pic-, er, pictures reach anyone...”
“Look, I don’t need the sob story,” Rusty cut him off, smirking darkly, his voice rough as sandpaper. “Just tell me who and where I can find ‘em.” He didn’t mind the shadows on this one. Some cases were better left half-lit.
“Marlowe…”
“Leo Marlowe?” Rusty’s eyes narrowed, “Why the fuck did you get tangled up with him?” Leo—a name that burned like cheap whiskey—was a dealer straight out of Shackleford’s underbelly, a venomous snake in velvet. Rusty had had his fair number of run-ins with Leo. Another dance with him wouldn’t hurt—or so he told himself.
“He promised, I er… Look, are you doing it or not?” The man dropped a thin envelope of dollar bills on Rusty’s desk with a soft thwack. Rusty snatched it up, counting briefly, “Twelve bucks—that’s it? That’s what it’s worth for those pictures to return to you?”
The man stayed silent.
Rusty’s eyes leveled on him, hard as steel, a cold edge in his gaze. He sighed, “That seems cheap for keeping your dirty little secrets secure, is all I’m sayin’.”
“I’ll give you triple that if you finish the job.”
The man’s desperation was a stench worse than the docks at low tide. Rusty felt that familiar itch in his gut—he couldn’t turn this one down, had to help this sorry bastard. “Fine. Swing by The Rusty Nail tomorrow night—I’ll leave your pictures with Mick, the owner. Don’t worry, he’s solid as a rock—trustworthy.”
The man tipped his hat, hands trembling, and slunk away into the shadows.
Rusty glanced at the map of Shackleford pinned to his wall, the city staring back like a spider’s web, its streets veins of betrayal and despair.
Leo… usually skulked around 36th Street. That open tenement was a likely haunt. Bet he’s holed up there.
_SOOTHING JAZZ INTERLUDE_
A short subway ride later, Rusty stood across the street from the crumbling building, the cool sea breeze whipping his dusty blond hair into his eyes, stinging with salt and regret. He reached into his trench coat pocket for his pack of cigarettes, pulled it out just as he remembered —empty. “Fuck,” he spat, the word swallowed by the wind.
He leaned against the brick wall, bracing against the chill, the damp seeping through his coat. This was gonna be so much longer without a smoke.
At least an hour crawled by, the city’s cold heartbeat echoing in his bones, before Rusty spotted Marlowe—he was unmistakable. The perfectly tousled black hair, his sharp jawline like a blade, the velvet blazer jacket and silk shirt unbuttoned to show off his chest, that damn serpent pendant. Yeah—subtlety wasn’t Leo’s forte.
Rusty tugged up his trench coat collar high, hiding most of his own features as he watched Leo stroll by, a predator in a city of prey.
Leo headed to a rusted back door and knocked three times. It creaked open, the sound sharp against the night. He scanned the street, his gray eyes catching Rusty’s hiding spot but sliding over him—oblivious.
Once the door snapped shut with a metallic snap, Rusty slunk closer. A Centurion 620 lock—child’s play. He pulled out his credit card—at least it was good for something—slipped it into the gap, and the door clicked open with a soft click. He slipped in, the darkness swallowing him whole.
He was in a long corridor that stretched ahead, with flickering fluorescents buzzing like dying wasps, casting jagged shadows that danced on the peeling walls. Voices echoed somewhere up ahead, low and dangerous.
Rusty tiptoed down the corridor, boots silent on the grimy tiles, to where a light spilled from an open door. He peeked around—empty…
That’s when he felt the icy presence of someone behind him.
Before he could react, a dull thunk exploded against his skull. He felt his body crumple, and that was it.
_SOOTHING JAZZ INTERLUDE_
As Rusty clawed his way back to consciousness, the familiar throb in his head pulsed like a bad hangover. Fuck—knocked out again. He blinked his eyes trying to focus, the throbbing subsided just enough as his predicament became clear.
He was seated on a rusted metal chair in the center of a dank basement room, the air heavy with damp and despair. Cardboard boxes were stacked around him like tombstones in a maze of shadows. His ankles were lashed to the chair’s front legs with coarse hemp rope, the fibers biting into his skin. His thighs were spread apart and tied to the chair arms, leaving him exposed, raw. His chest was wrapped to the chair back with about twelve loops of rope—twelve lousy loops for twelve lousy bucks—pinning him like a moth to a board. Finally, he realized his wrists were yanked behind the chair back and tied together, the hemp rope chewing into his wrists like a hungry dog.
His first instinct was to squirm—test for any slack, he rolled his wrists, flexed his chest—the ropes didn’t budge, the hemp scratching at his skin raw and bloody.
“Rusty, Rusty, Rusty…” Leo Marlowe purred, stepping closer from the shadows, his voice a velvet blade, “I clocked you the minute I crossed the street. That blonde mop of yours—it’s a dead giveaway you know.” Leo straightened his jacket, “The force is actually doing some of its best work since you left—and by best work, I mean they stay in their lane while we get to run amok in the city.”
Rusty tugged at the ropes around his wrists again—still no give. He’d have to talk his way out of this one—again. “Leo,” he rasped, his voice gravelly, “I see you’ve been demoted to thug. Doesn’t suit you—I always believed you were cut from a higher cloth.”
Leo’s calm, pretty face twisted into a scowl, “No! There isn’t anyone else here—if the thugs were here, I’d leave you to them.” The scowl softened into a dangerous smile, “But you’re lucky—you’ve earned a private session with me.” Leo pushed his thick black hair back, the motion slow, deliberate, his gray eyes glinting like steel.
He leaned in close, placing a hand on Rusty’s shoulder, his touch warm but heavy with threat. “You know, I hate that I need to do this. Another day, another place—we could be something, you and I.” Leo’s soft, manicured fingers gripped Rusty’s chin, tilting his head up, “You’re too pretty to burn, Hale.”
Silence stretched taut between them, a spark flickering in their locked gazes—Rusty couldn’t deny it was there.
He caught a whiff of the deep lilac cologne, choking on its intensity—then his nose caught another scent, sharper, acrid: gasoline...
Rusty broke eye contact with Leo and spotted the canisters of gasoline—six of them, scattered like a death sentence, some tipped over, empty. Gasoline stains spread across the floor like a spiderweb, pooling around him, the air thick with fumes.
“Adding fuel to my charm, Leo? You shouldn’t play with fire, boy.”
Leo smirked, dark and cold, “You don’t get it, do you? This time, it’s over—I’m gonna miss you, Hale. This ‘will they, won’t they’ tension we had—it’s been a thrill.”
“How about we turn that into ‘they will’ tonight, huh?” Rusty flashed his best grin, a lopsided grin, voice low, “For old times’ sake, Leo.” Behind his back, Rusty is frantically searching for any sign of give in his bindings, fingers clawing at the ropes. “I just need the pictures of the man you’re squeezing—and I’ll be out of your perfect hair.”
“Hah!” Leo spun around, dramatic as ever, his velvet jacket catching the dim light, “I knew it—here you are, on another job. Thought maybe, just maybe, you came for me? Too bad. This guy—your client—he’s some zoning pencil-pusher at city hall. With him in our pocket, we get new turf on the docks—a second headquarters. Business is booming—so, no, you can’t have the pictures.” Leo produced a few photos, flipped through them with a sneer, and tucked them back into his pocket. “Now, where were we? Right—you’re about to burn.”
Leo sauntered back to Rusty, bound to the chair, his hand brushing Rusty’s knee, then tracing up his exposed thigh, the ropes forcing his legs apart. He stopped just shy of Rusty’s crotch, a tantalizingly close, cruel tease. “Unless…” Leo whispered, his voice a velvet promise. Leo leaned in, his breath brushing Rusty's lips. Rusty closed his eyes, if it had to be tonight it was as good as any other night. He waited for the passion as he had felt once before–after all this wasn't his first tussle with Marlowe.
The kiss didn't arrive and Rusty swallowed hard, a flicker of heat stirring in his gut, but he kept his cool, “Perhaps, Marlowe—but I’d need a smoke first. Got a cigarette, old chap?”
Leo pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook—Rusty clocked the label: a Black Cat. The Black Cat Speakeasy—a lead.
The match flared to life, Leo lit a cigarette, taking a long drag, the seconds crawling by like hours—and then dropped the match. “Oops,” he purred, turning away. “You’re my burning desire, Hale—fitting your end will be in flames.” Leo spun on his heel and made a swift exit, the flames already creeping closer, hungry and relentless.
The flames licked closer, their heat searing Rusty’s boots, the air thick with the stench of gasoline and his own sweat. He writhed against the ropes, the coarse hemp tearing into his wrists, his chest heaving against the loops binding him to the chair. His hazel eyes, bloodshot and sharp, darted around the basement, searching for a way out—anything to cheat the inferno creeping toward him.
The fire caught a cardboard box to his left, flames roaring to life with a crackle that drowned out the buzz of Shackleford’s distant streets. Smoke curled upward, choking the dim light from the flickering bulb above, casting the room in a hellish orange glow. Rusty’s heart hammered—he wasn’t about to let Leo Marlowe turn him into a charred memory.
He scanned the room again, his gaze snagging on a rusted screw protruding from the chair’s armrest—a jagged little savior. He twisted his left wrist, gritting his teeth as the rope burned against his skin, and managed to hook the screw under the hemp. He sawed back and forth, the fibers fraying with agonizing slowness, the heat now blistering against his thighs.
“C’mon, you bastard,” Rusty growled under his breath, sweat dripping into his eyes. The rope on his wrist snapped with a soft twang, freeing his left hand. He shook off the loop, fingers trembling as he reached for the knots on his chest. The flames were inches from his boots now, the gasoline fumes making his head spin.
He clawed at the ropes binding his torso, unraveling the loops one by one, his movements frantic but precise. With a final tug, the chest ropes fell away, and Rusty leaned forward, using his free hand to untie the knots on his thighs. The fire roared closer, a wall of flame devouring the boxes behind him, the heat scorching his back through his trench coat.
Rusty freed his legs, the ropes around his ankles still tight, but he didn’t have time—He yanked the chair backward, dragging it across the concrete floor with a screech, away from the fire’s grasp. His right wrist was still tied to the chair back, the rope trailing behind him like a leash, but he was mobile—barely.
The flames hit a pool of gasoline near the center of the room, erupting with a whoosh that knocked Rusty against the wall, the chair clattering beside him, snapping and freeing the last of Rustys limbs. He coughed through the smoke, his lungs burning, and spotted a broken window high on the wall—a sliver of escape in the inferno.
Rusty gripped the remains of the chair, using it as a battering ram to smash the remaining glass, the shards raining down like Shackleford’s own bitter tears. He hoisted himself up, the rope on his wrist pulling taut, and kicked the chair away, snapping the last binding with a grunt of pain.
He scrambled through the window, rolling onto the alley outside, the cool night air a slap against his scorched skin.
He rolled to his feet, panting, his trench coat singed and streaked with soot, his wrists raw and bloody. The tenement behind him groaned as the fire consumed it, orange light flickering through the broken windows like a devil’s grin. Rusty spat into the puddle at his feet, the reflection of the flames dancing in the water, as he heard the fire truck sirens approaching.
“Burning desire, my ass,” he muttered, his voice a rasp. He patted his pocket—his lighter was still there, a small comfort in the wreckage of the night. The Black Cat speakeasy—that matchbook was a lead, the case wasn't over yet–but tomorrow is another day.
Rusty limped down the alley, the city’s cold embrace wrapping around him, and headed for The Rusty Nail. Mick would be there, pouring whiskey with that steady hand of his, ready to patch Rusty up—again.
_SOOTHING JAZZ INTERLUDE_
Rusty pushed through the creaky door of The Rusty Nail, the faded red neon sign buzzing above like a tired heartbeat. The bar was a dim sanctuary, the air thick with the scent of spilled whiskey and old wood, the jukebox crooning a mournful jazz tune in the corner. A few regulars hunched over their drinks, their faces shadowed, but Rusty’s eyes went straight to the bar counter where Mick Callahan stood, wiping a glass with a rag, his broad frame a steady anchor in Shackleford’s storm.
Mick looked up, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as he took in Rusty’s sorry state—singed trench coat, soot-streaked face, raw wrists dripping blood onto the floor. He set the glass down with a heavy thunk, shaking his head, his shaggy dark brown hair catching the dim yellow light.
“You look like you went ten rounds with a furnace, Hale,” Mick growled, his voice a low rumble, as he reached under the counter for a bottle of whiskey and a first-aid kit. He poured a generous shot into a chipped glass and slid it over, then grabbed a damp cloth to clean Rusty’s wrists.
Rusty slumped onto a barstool, wincing as the movement pulled at his burns, and downed the whiskey in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction from the ache in his bones. Mick’s calloused hands were firm but gentle as he dabbed at the rope burns, his brow furrowed with a mix of irritation and concern. “One of these days, you’re gonna limp in here in a body bag,” Mick muttered, wrapping gauze around Rusty’s wrists with practiced care. He glanced up, a smirk tugging at his bearded face, “Guess I’ll have to start charging you for the nursemaid gig—my hands ain’t just for pourin’ drinks, you know.”
Rusty managed a tired smirk, the whiskey warming his chest as Mick’s hands lingered a moment longer than necessary, steady and sure. “You’re a damn fool Hale!”
having so much fun with this... the tone seems to write itself once you get into it! 
we'll wait, read and see... there are ten episodes in Season 1... hopefully enough chances for @stimle to read about our gumshoe hero in peril!