I guess this is supposed to be like those old detective flicks from the black & white days, except it leaves out everything that makes those movies rock, like hot chicks, hard-boiled dudes, people saying cool shit, and not blowing total cock. A guy is pissed because his gal is doing the horizontal Hale-Bopp with "another fella who isn't me", so he hires a private dick (heh) whose entire office consists of a desk, one file folder, an ashtray, a bottle of whiskey, and a Maltese McGuffin. Now that's hard core. Instead of paying the dick though, the main guy kills him for no discernable reason! Maybe he forgot his checkbook, and wasting the sucker was less embarrassing than admitting that every single one of his credit cards is over the limit. Later there's a bank robbery (which they don't show), the main guy poisons his wife (who's ten times hotter than the rogue piece of ass he's balling on the side; I think this cat's a little unclear on the concept), and in the end everybody gets shot. Don't worry about following the "story" though, because almost nothing that happens has anything to do with anything else that happens. This type of movie can get away with that if the main guy is two-fisted enough and everybody's on the ball with the cynical repartee, but everybody in this flick sounds like they're reading the Little Golden Book version of The Dain Curse, and the only possible time this main guy's been "two-fisted" is when they were both shoved up his ass. Seriously, he looks like a mattress salesman. Why a mattress salesman? I'm not really sure, but trust me, when you see him the first thing you'll think is "mattress salesman". What a complete disaster. This movie sucks.