My name is Zachary Nixon Johnson. I am the last private detective on earth. I’ll get to the whys and wherefores of that a little later and, as you’ll see, it’s not exactly one hundred percent true, but it sounds good and hopefully I’ve at least got your attention now.

The year is 2057 and, after a handful of species-altering upheavals, earth-shattering, cataclysms, history-changing extraterrestrial contacts, and pop-culture disasters, the world is now a pretty safe place. I won’t bore you with the judicial, economic and anthropological minutiae of the New New World Order, but suffice to say that the sun still rises in the east, the human race is still around to notice it, and we still pull down the window shades, roll over in bed and sleep until noon whenever possible.

Of course, the world’s not perfect. People still run the shades-of-gray gamut of good to evil. There are still cops and robbers, saints and sinners, voters and politicians. And every once in a while, some crazy thing happens that threatens society, all of humanity, or the entire space-time continuum.

And for some reason, it always happens on my watch.

I guess that’s as good a place as any to start this story.