Bowling noir

The web contains pages on every conceivable subject, as well as most inconceivable subjects. Case in point:

A fedora-bedecked man stands in the shadows, staring out at the city lights. A match flares under his Lucky Strike. For a quick, chiaroscuric moment, we see his face: eyes haunted by recent murder, upper lip quivering with psychosexual conflict. He blows out the match. A backlit puff of smoke curls up from his silhouette --- a not-too-subtle brimstonic portent of the damnation that is his fate, beckoning to him like a dark-eyed siren lounging in a cheap cocktail dress on the rocky shore of lust. The man turns up his collar. Touches the warm gun in his overcoat. And steps out to face the night, his bowling bag clutched firmly in his fist.

His bowling bag?

That's right. Because this isn't just any film noir. This is that sub- of sub-genres, the rarest of the rare, the hardest of the boiled: bowling noir. Or, as the French might say: bowling noir.

What's that? You've never heard of bowling noir?

Remember, this stuff doesn't just grow like mold. Someone had to sit down at a keyboard, think, and type those words.