Resting my Springfield 1911 down on the desk, I crack open my stick box and grab an Alec Bradley American Classic Robusto. A lot like Marge "Hot Lips" O'Hanahan at the Mayor's office. Short. Spicy. To the point. The stems on that dame make my contact lenses pop out and go looking for water. Within seconds I'm lost in a vision of redheads and smoke as a Nicaraguan Fog spills across my rolltop.

I really should close the case of her missing Pomeranian. She comes into my office every Friday looking for updates. "I'm close", I spit dryly, "my boys at the club are close to flushing the perp into the open." It's hard not to notice how her tears glide down her ample cleavage. "You'll call me when you catch the jerk?" she quivers. "Yeah, doll. I keeps my promises to a lady."

The fog is getting thicker inside and out. As she swings around to leave as I tip my hat. Sweet kid.

Alone with my smokes, I ponder...I really should buy more dog food. That little cretin'll be hungry by the time I get home.
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Nice!
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