I woke up tied to a chair in a dark room. I was pretty sure my nose was busted, again, it was never good for much else. No broken arms, legs or ribs though, so what kind of trouble was I in? I figured if I kept quiet I stood a chance of getting free and escaping, but then I sneezed. A door opened and light flooded in, temporarily blinding me. The husky silhouette of a man stood in the doorway. "Jim Belushi?" I asked. The chuckle that answered was strangely high-pitched. And then I remembered the case I was working on involved a high-profile, powerful celebrity, the likes of which I'd never dealt with before.
"Carrot Top wants you brought to his office." I remember tangling with this body guard before, that's probably what got me here, I couldn't be sure. But I was sure of one thing, whiskey and burritos is a bad mix if you plan on being tied up all night, and nowhere near a bathroom. Squeaky grabbed me, chair and all, and dragged me out into the hall. Posters from Carrot Top's Vegas shows lined the walls, as well as movie posters with Top's face superimposed over the leading men.
Top's office was equally absurd. It was like a child's bedroom; ridiculous, colorful props littered the floor. Fast food wrappers, dirty underwear, semen stains all over the walls. "You mad man! Why!? Why would you wear that see-through shirt and those tight pants?" I asked.
"You think you're funny?" he asked. "This is funny." He pulled out a gun with a mirror on it. "So you can see yourself get shot!" he laughed. And then he shot me.
It all started a week ago, when these two beautiful showgirls walked into my office. One of them had a bad case of herpes, but that's another story. According to them, Carrot Top broke into their dressing room in the wee hours of the morning and stole all their thongs. He then went on to hit every thong in town. "Is he wearing them or making soup?" I asked. I knew what I'd be doing with those panties.
This was bad news, Vegas without thongs is like a hooker with no vagina. I went down to the wholesale clothing district to talk to Sal Silvio, the Vegas clothes king. Sal was as queer as a mega-church preacher, but he's a good guy. "I need the story on all the thongs, Sal."
"And I need a good stiff Zima to wrap my lips around. Care for a drink, Genie?"
"Scotch and ice, preferably non-stiff, just in case it means something different than what I think it means."
"It does!" he shouted at maximum gay. He told me the story of Carrot Top's newest project: a sports car covered in thongs for picking up sluts in.
"I fucking hate Carrot Top!" I said.
"Me too," Sal said. "He's got a gorgeous body, but he's total butter face."
I figured I'd go by the Carrot Top compound and see what's what. That's when I met Squeaky. Now here I am tied up and shot. I'd been hoping this was some kind of Vegas prank show fucking with me, but no such luck.
After a good ten minutes of struggling I finally wriggled my hands free and discovered they'd not found the .22 I had taped to my back. I stood up and plugged Squeaky and pistol-whipped Carrot Top two good times. He's too high profile to kill, at least for now. Then I took a cab to the hospital. I hope a get a sucker.
