Martha and the Midget

Six PM on a Friday, Christmas Eve, eve. The only tourists in Vegas this time of year are the real degenerate low lives with no family. I hadn't had a case in weeks. I was just about to close up for the night, when in walked a midget in a plaid suit and a derby hat. The pure hilarity of him almost got the better of me, but I contained my laughter for the moment. I figured I could at least hear what he had to say first.

He said nothing. He shut the door and took off his hat. He waddled across my office like some kind of bipedal pig. He climbed up an empty chair like a child mounting a horse. He caught his breath and finally pulled out a Derringer and shot me in the stomach. "Merry Christmas, Monroe!" he said as he hopped off the chair. "Ow, my knees!" he said as he hit the ground. He limped out of my office.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. "Your call is important to us," a computer told me. As I lost consciousness, I couldn't help but wonder, 'Who was that midget?' And, 'Why did he shoot me?'

I didn't die or anything. I woke up in the hospital and started over mental list of who I owe money to and who owes me. But there was nothing out of the ordinary. Except maybe that catheter. "Nurse, where's my drink?" I said to the first person I saw. She handed me a cup of watered-down something. As soon as she was gone, I made my escape.

I had plenty of experience removing catheters from that time I went undercover at the V.A. I walked out into the hallway and who should I see, the midget, taking a handful of bills from my ex-wife, Martha. The midget saw me and ran. "I'll deal with you later!" I told Martha as I chased after the midget, my ass hanging out of my hospital gown.

The midget was slow, and I would have caught him if I hadn't ripped my stitches and started bleeding all over  the place. I got out of the hospital two days later. I never found the midget. The moral of the story? Don't ever get married. Or, Pay your alimony.