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Sam Woodstock Rides Again

Your name is Sam Woodstock and you are so in the know it hurts. You know everything about what you should know about what you shouldn't know. You know who's really in charge, who's bad and who's good, and their secret names. You know that Kennedy wasn't really assassinated and that he shares a Manhattan condo with Sammy Davis Jr. You know what's real and what's not in conspiracy theory, pseudoscience, and esoteric study.
Your know-how goes beyond knowledge and into actual doing: Auras, ESP, chakras, magick (with a 'K' Man!)...It's all real and you know how to get shit done with 'em. Like that time you had to track down that perp back when you still wore a badge: Man you saw his bad aura from a mile away and put a whammy on him-Hoodoo style.
You know that Illuminatus, Invisibles, VALIS and similar tomes of lore are fact disguised as fiction. Man, the Secret Chiefs couldn't keep them down so the only way to fight 'em was to put it all in the fiction section. Man you had lunch with Hagbard Celine and you swear that a pink beam of light hit you square in the eyes and told you call David Bowie.
With all of your conspiracy know how you'd think you'd head a world wide cabal, seek global domination, or at least be in a position of power and authority. But naw man, you like to help people. You solve mysterys. Groovy mysteries.

It's been a while since you've had a mystery to solve and it's become a litle boring around your office (you rented a room, put a desk and a chair in there along with a bunch of file cabinets. The file cabinets are empty.) without any cases coming in. Just like you willed it a knock comes at the door.