“Chicago, the windy city.” they call it.

I just think its cold as fuck…

I’m driving down I’m driving west on 290, toward the western side of downtown, to my office. I take a cigarette out of my pack on the passenger’s seat. Using the zippo lighter my father gave to me on his death bed, I light up. It’s 8:53 and my office is closed, but it’s a good place to be if you wanna get drunk and be alone.

This girl, Nancy, keeps calling me.

I met her in a bar a week, maybe 9 or 10 days, ago. Anyway, we hit it off, or so she thinks, and she wants to get something started. Married? I used to be married, but my wife left me; spent too much time away from her, and one night i came home smelling like cheat whiskey and soggy pussy… Some kinda sob story, huh?

Anyway that was 4 years ago, when i was 38.

I may not be a spring chicken, but I can hold my own and drink just about any joker under the table. Did I mention I can fuck any dame from here to Johannesburg and back? That’s why Nancy fell for me… that’s why my wife fell for me… I guess I just ain’t the kinda guy who can be with one broad forever.

Anyway, back to the story at hand. I’m nearing my office building, a place where i rent a room next to some jerk that teaches limbless children pottery, and on the other side is some bitch with a ruler obsession(seriously the bitch measures everything) and across the hall is some white collar teacher’s tutoring class for the freaks and rejects.

I’m room 36; 3rd door on the left on the 3rd floor. I park on the side of a nearly deserted street when I get there, and by now my cigarette is nearly burning my lips. I’ve been mulling over when my friend(if you can call him that) Johnny Figgs said earlier that day: “Dead guys don’t talk… and they sure don’t shoot… Watch your back Morty”

He told me this because I’ve been working on a case that involves some fucknuts hiring me to spy on his wife. As luck would have it she’s fucking some Italian guy who not only has an 8 inch dick, but is also smuggling loads of cocaine from somewhere outta state.

When i confronted the dame: “Why are you fuckin’ around with this shit weasle? You’re gonna get in a big mess of trouble?”

She told me: “He’s just a guy, When i met him I didn’t know he was into that junk.”
“Why are you fucking around anyway?” I asked her.
“My husband’s privates are about a 3rd the size of Vincent’s.”
“Well how big is Vinny?” I asked just outta sheer curiosity.
“8 and 1/2 inches.” she told me with a smug look, just before lighting her cigarette.

In retrospect I wonder what that girl would’a done if I told her i had a 10 and a half inch demon lurking in my trousers. Anyhow a few days after I got to talk to her Vinny, or one of his thugs, left a note for me: “Don’t mess around in our business, or you’ll find your self in a pine box.” it was scribbled in what looked like a kid’s handwriting.

I told Johnny about it, and when he asked what I was gonna do, I told him I was thinking about handing it off to the pros.