Death Is Double Parked!
The rain beat down on my battered fedora as I eyed my cup of java sitting on the dashboard, it's wafting steam and rich Columbian flavor mocking me like a schoolyard bully who knew I once carried a Care Bears lunchbox.
I was dying to take a sip, but for something so close, it couldn't be further away.
My name is Munger. I'm a detective. I've locked myself out of my car.
After several weeks on the case I was sure of a few things: A man was missing; A beautiful skirt wanted me to find him; and "The Simpsons" was a good show before it became all about Homer.
I had been up and down every seedy inch of this town looking for this guy, and every bag lady and two-bit hustler I talked to told me the same thing:
"Your fly is open."
A hard-boiled gumshoe like me doesn't have time to take his trousers to one of those fancy clothes cleaning and repair joints.
Times are hard, and haberdashers aint cheap.
My name is Munger. I'm a detective. Could you spare some change?
I got a tip that the guy I was looking for was in deep with a local bookie that didn't like being stiffed on a payment.
Most bookies would just break a leg if you couldn't pony up the scratch, but this goon would break your leg, have it set, let you heal then break it again but not have it set as well as before so your recovery would be uncomfortable and you would walk with a pronounced limp so he could easily catch you and break the leg again.
Not a nice guy.
I was staking out a rundown bakery that doubled as the bookie's hideout.
Maybe he could answer a few questions, and let me use his bathroom.
My kidneys were doing the samba as I loaded my trusty 45 and prepared to make my move.
I thought about the beautiful dame who got me mixed up in all this.
Maybe some day I could take her away from this sleazy city, far away to a quiet little town with clean air and a decent school system.
We'd play croquet on the lawn and wear cashmere for no particular reason other than that it feels good.
Our children would study calligraphy and wear uniforms without being asked.
Life would be neato.
Suddenly two huge hands yanked me out of my Datsun and threw me against a building, my pistol skidding away on the pavement. I was face to face with two of the largest thugs ever to work in the lucrative and ever expanding thug business.
"Da boss wants ta see ya Munger," one of them grunted.
The name is Munger. I'm a detective. I want my Mommy.