==> Ace Dick: Wax poetic on the state of the city.
Chicagopolis. A hive of scum and villainy- literally, metaphorically, figuratively. The kitchens are as dirty and worn out as Pickle Inspector’s moonshine lab after Halloween Shenanigans, the streets littered with crime, and also dog shit. There ain’t a cop to be found in Chicagopolis. The bastards have all been driven outta town, bribed with hookers, or unceremoniously murdered by accident. Which also kinda comes under ‘driven outta town’ because no one wants to hang around reality when the Imaginary Realm is just around the corner. Reality is shit, and full of shit, and there’s not even good money in it. Imagination is whores, no rent, and a metric fuck-load of booze.
You know reality all too well, because it’s printed plain as day on the paper in front of you, Pickles, and the empty chair where Problem Sleuth is meant to be. A bill, totalling tens of thousands of dollars and threatening legal action. You think it’s a bit unfair, honestly. It’s not your fault that the thieves hid that poor old lady’s jewels inside a very volatile Mexican rip-off sauce factory. You didn’t start the fire.
But the thieves ran away, and you were covered in soot, and Problem Sleuth’s pulchritude was at an all time low because he smelt like piss and had at least one joint bent into a funny position. Which means now you have a bill from the sauce factory. And it has to be paid.
Pickles is wheezing a bit. You give him a gentle pat, which makes him wheeze harder, and pass out. You pat him again.
The door creaks open. Problem Sleuth walks in with his tits out and booty shorts on.
You tell him he can’t make ten thousand dollars working at a seedy underground strip club.
He tells you to shut the fuck up.
==> Ace Dick: Calmly explain the economic reality of your situation to your dear friend Problem Sleuth
You punch him in the stomach and tell him there aren’t enough punters in Chicagopolis to pay this bill, unless Problem Sleuth wants to use Gambit Schema lv. 99: Black Hole, Anal Rosebud. He winces. Pickles murmurs something that can’t be very important, but it sounds a bit like “oh nooooo”, if “oh nooooo” were the last dying words of a horrified teenage girl. Whatever. Pickles is sensitive.
Problem Sleuth gasps at your lewdity. He tells you that he is a gentleman , and that gentlemen don’t run around with prolapsed anuses to pay bills. They only get prolapsed anuses from a very special Papa Bear with a few million in his pocket and a shiny new car.
You go silent at that. Pickle Inspector makes another noise. This time it’s less teenage girl and more final note of desolation before the apocalypse. You say that the noise Pickles is making is what will happen to Sleuth’s ass if he decides that going full slut is the way to pay.
Pickle Inspector sobs, silently, a single beautiful tear running down his well worn face. He’s probably having some kind of internal battle; the rudeness of interrupting versus the subject matter. His poor brain has short circuited. He is no longer available to the party.
Not that it really matters, Pickles is too polite for quick money-making schemes. Or maybe he steals people’s wallets after he stares at them and they run away, uncomfortable. You don’t really know, or care. Being a detective is dirty work.
Problem Sleuth laughs and says that he’s not planning on becoming the amazing human pocket anytime soon. He says he has a plan. A plan that’s not even illegal.
You highly doubt that. The cops won’t come for you because they’re all useless, but the rich owner of the Mexican knock-off Sauce might. There’s eyes on you guys.
You tell him that.
He laughs again, and says that really, it isn’t illegal. It’s good, honest work at a show, and Problem Sleuth is being paid a very healthy sum to open Chicagopolis to new and exciting industries.
That sounds a lot like drugs.
==> Ace Dick: Tell your dear friend Problem Sleuth that just because a drug may not technically be legal, doesn’t mean that there couldn’t be trouble due to unregulated use and poor-faith testing.
You mean to say all of this in a sincere and pleasant tone. What you actually say is something like, ‘Why do all your plans involve gangland shit’ and ‘stop finding ways to get high and be naked.’
Problem Sleuth says he’s hurt, with his big eyes and pouty lips and strategically pulled down neckline. It is giving you strong fatherly urges, the ones where you loom over uncouth young men who want to ravish your beautiful daughter that you don’t have.
==> Ace Dick: Punch Problem Sleuth in the Snout to Establish Superiority and Strong Fatherly Urges.
You punch Problem Sleuth in the snout to establish superiority and strong fatherly urges. You tell him the dames like a man with a scar. He tells you to get fucked.
Fine, you say, what are you doing.
He says that he was being honest, he’s helping a friend break into the Chicagopolis market. Kitchenwares. Pots and Pans. Some place outside the country.
So drugs, you say.
No, he says, this is all legal. Cross his heart. He’s just appealing to a broad audience using his pulchritude and somewhat unsavoury matters to bring in a larger clientele. You ask him where he’s holding this kitchenware expo, which still sounds like an excuse to be high and naked.
He smiles. It’s a smile of blinding pearls and holy radiance, as much pulchritude as he can muster.
Which means you’re about to get into a lot of shit, because Sleuth only brings that out when he wants to be a problem.
You grumble and tell him to put a coat on, at least. And that he better explain on the way.
==> PS and AD: Arrive at Secret Site.
Clubs Deuce is standing in front of a swanky place that you’ve definitely never seen Problem Sleuth’s alarming large Weiner Schema, lv. 69, Wangus Fangus, in. There were no Halloween specials with an incredibly drunk Sleuth waving his Magnum at the crowd while Clubs played a terrible rendition of Sexy Boy, wearing some underpants that definitely weren’t his. There was no police chase, and Hearts Boxcars definitely didn’t send him any apology flowers in hospital with, “sorry we got you shot when you were trying to help us out, here are some cigars, a porn mag, and a cool knife.” It did not have blood on it.
Of course, none of that happened, and you only know the special place to park for a getaway because you’re observant as hell. You lift the boxes of ‘kitchenware’ with ease, as Sleuth pulls out whatever stupid shit he kept for advertising purposes, and Clubs yells appreciative things about your biceps. You’ve told him you’re married. This does nothing to stop him.
You all move inside, where it’s relatively well let. Clubs says the stage is all yours, Sleuth. For good measure, he tucks a few dollars into Sleuth’s booty shorts.
You ask why Sleuth is wearing booty shorts.
Sleuth says they’re his business booty shorts.
You ask why he wears them to strip, then?
Because they’re his business booty shorts, not his fun booty shorts, he says.
You roll your eyes. There are indeed many pots and pans inside the boxes, enough to restock the whole city. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe Sleuth did get a legitimate venture and just wants to use his titties to bring the rich and famous to Clubs’ Club.
==> Ace Dick: Watch Problem Sleuth go on stage and be a huge piece of shit
You’re just a little bit proud of your co-worker when he pops a few buttons off his shirt for the screaming crowd. There’s still a fucking pole up, and he grabs onto it with gusto, legs shot out and thighs bulging. You almost punch yourself in the snout to establish anger.
How he’s carrying a frying pan, you don’t know.
He calls out to the crowd and they holler.
Who wants the sexiest kitchenware this side of the ocean, he yells. Who wants to have a saucepan that you can not only use to cook your stinkin’ potatoes, you can shove it up your ass and perform the party pancake flip?!
You really wish you were with Pickles right now.
==> Check on Pickle Inspector
Pickle Inspector can’t come to the phone, he is too busy thinking about Problem Sleuth’s illegal titty magnet.
==> Ace Dick: Reluctantly watch Problem Sleuth sell pots and pans
He’s got some stamina, that’s for sure. Sleuth’s showing off the best features of the product, which means showing that they’re totally antibacterial just in case anyone wants to put them in places kitchenware doesn’t need to go. The one about the spoon was particularly enlightening, and by enlightening you mean you’re going to punch yourself in the eyeballs until it stops being enlightening. Sleuth just doesn’t stop. Clubs furious cheers and occasional threats to the audience don’t help either. There’s money flying on stage.
You almost want the police to show up.
But there is no God that regards you fondly enough to do anything more than watch. This is a punishment. A punishment for pissing in Sleuth’s office all these years.
He asks the crowd if they want to see Black Hole, Anal Rosebud. You throw up in your mouth and also over the pans.
Fuck this. Sleuth can get home with his mobster boyfriend or whatever. You’ve seen Sleuth’s dick already. You don’t need to see his rite of passage.
And jesus, you definitely don’t need to work on your imagination anymore. Pickles better have some booze when you get back.
==> Ace Dick: Fall asleep in your office after a very special time with Ms Moonshine
Sleuth walks in at 10AM, covered in money, and stinking of suspicious fluids. He dumps a cheque on the table, grinning wildly, and says that he’s going to take a shower.
You ask if he needs one of those water bulbs from the pharmacy. Sleuth laughs and says that plenty of curious clients wanted to check out the merchandise. You ask him if you should change his name to ‘Prostitute Sleuth’. He tells you to fuck off or he’ll tell his supplier you ruined the pans.
All the while, Pickles hasn’t stopped groaning. You pat him again.
Just another day at the office.