PRESSURING THE PROP COMIC

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.

THE THIEVING WHORE

I rolled over and noticed that the hooker was gone. "Shit!" I got up and checked the wallet on the night stand... empty! I had to laugh, I was planning on ripping her off before I passed out. Still, I had to find her. The ancient coin she stole was going to buy my retirement home in Jamaica. There's no way she could know how valuable it is, could she? 


I got dressed and walked over to the corner store for a pack of Camels and few dozen scratchers, all losers, except for one free ticket, also a loser. I decided to call my pimp-friend Ronnie, he knew every bitch in town, and all the hookers, too. 


"Hello?" Ronnie answered. 


"Ronnie! Ronnie Ron Ron!"


"Oh hell, Gene. Every time you call me I end up in jail or one of my girls goes missing."


"Hey, you every heard of Crystal Diamonddrawers?"


"She's old news, Gene. What are you in love or something?"


"Don't be an idiot. She robbed me this morning. I need to know where I can find her."


"She must be one of Harold's bitches, so go deal with him!" 


I hung up the phone. Harold... why did it have to be Harold?


I took a cab over to Ceaser's Palace and went up to the Presidential Suite. The guard outside Harold's suite patted me down, but he didn't find the Derringer I'd tucked between my ass cheeks. He let me in. Harold lay on the couch, all 400 lbs of him. I tried not to look at the boil on his neck, but it was almost the size of his head. He was excited to see me. He was always excited to see me. "Gene! My closest friend! Sit down and share a cake with me!" 


"No thanks on the cake. I work hard on this figure."


"Ha! You crack me up! Get this cake out of here, Fatty!" He threw the cake at his guard who then left to clean himself off. Leaving me alone with Harold. 


"I'm looking for Crystal Diamonddrawers," I told him. 


"Diamonddrawers... Diamonddrawers... you don't mean Crystal Copperpanties? When did she start calling herself Diamonddrawers?"


"Brown hair, blue eyes, double d's?"


"Yes, I fired her two months ago." Harold gave me her address and I left, wondering why I'd shoved a Derringer up my ass.


Her address was in a part of town I'd never seen, and the streets leading to it just kept getting uglier and uglier. When I finally found it, it was no bigger than a shack. I busted in and caught her packing her shit. "Shit!" she yelled out in surprise. She went for a gun but I froze her in place with my sweaty, stinky Derringer. I took her over my knee and started spanking her. "Bad whore! Bad whore!" I yelled. 


"Good lord, do you have an erection?" She asked. I smiled. Then I knocked her out, found my coin and took a crap in her hair. On my way home, I stopped by Ronnie's for a new hooker. 

A Drunk in the Rain

I was sitting at a bus stop waiting for it to stop raining so I could walk home without getting wet. My car got towed last week. Who knew you were supposed to pay registration fees every year? It made work hard, ever try to tail someone on a bus?

Anyway, a door behind me opened and a well dressed, incredibly drunk man came out and sat with me. He gave me a cigarette in exchange for helping him light up. He was damn near in tears about something, but he wouldn't say what. When he got up to leave, I figured I'd better tail him.

I tailed him for two blocks. He went into the Plaza. They have a restaurant there called 'Hash House A Go Go' that has a tractor for a logo. To my knowledge, it's the only place where tractors and hash (the food, not the drug) are teamed up with the words 'A Go Go.' It was owned by an ex football player named Jimmy Cowen. I did some snooping. It turned out the drunk guy was Jimmy's brother, who turned out to owe a bunch of money to a shark, a loan shark.

I owed Jimmy big time. He took a dive once, just short of the in zone, and cost his team the game. I made a big bet on the game, but instead of giving Jimmy his cut, I drove out to the Bunny Ranch and blew it all on hookers and hooker snacks.

As I watched from a corner booth, Jimmy kicked his moocher brother out of the restaurant, with only a few thousand in cash, to work out his debts on his own. I tailed him again, this time to Charlie's mobile casino. I figured this was my chance to make things right. I stopped him right before he walked into the casino and told him that Jimmy sent me. I took his four grand in cash and told him all his debts were wiped clean. He made some asshole joke, then we went our separate ways. I never heard from him or his brother again.

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.

The Bookie and Mrs. Banning

The heat was getting to me, so I opened a window. I knew it wouldn't be long before the fresh air proved she didn't much like me either. Damn the weather and damn this sweat. I don't normally sweat like the underside of a fat chick's titty, but today the mercury went up to 120. I think it was hotter than that in my office, but that's as high as the thermometer goes. I sat there, watching my sandwich get moldy when suddenly, the phone rang. "Hello," I said a little too excitedly.

"Mr. Monroe?" The voice was unfamiliar, a man, old I think. What could he want?

"Who's asking?"

"My name is Banning, Charles Banning. I hear you work discretely. I'd like to set up a meeting."

"When?"

"Tomorrow. Six AM. 818 Flamingo Blvd."

"You got it, Chief."

He hung up without saying goodbye, I find that rude, but it he's willing to pay, I'm there.

The next day I pulled up at 818 Flamingo Blvd. in my '86 Buick Skylark. The place was a run down house that looked perfect for the enterprising crystal meth cook. I slipped my 1911 Colt into my coat pocket and headed to the door. I knocked and counted to three. No answer. I pulled out the gun and hopped the fence into the back yard. The I heard the lock on the front door starting to jiggle. I scrambled back over the fence and landed in some bushes. Banning gave my a once over, then invited me in.

His story was like this: his wife had been kidnapped, but he couldn't go to the police because he was pretty sure she'd been taken by a bookie he owed money to. "How can you be so sure?" I asked questioningly. He showed me the ransom note. It said, "Charles, send the money you owe, or your wife dies. Sincerely, Gregory the Bookie."

"What do you need a detective for? The case is solved!"

"I'm into this guy for $300,000. I'll pay you $30,000 to get my wife back and erase my debt."

"Any ideas how I might do that?"

"He has a weakness. His son is addicted to pain pills. Exploit this however you want. Just don't get my wife killed in the process."

I told him I'd need $3,000 up front. He paid in cash.

I spent the rest of the day at the Rio playing blackjack. By the end of the day I owed the house $1,200. "Shit!" I said as I went to sleep that night, "I better find this asshole's wife."

I woke up at six PM. I splashed some water on my face. I think the thought occurred to me in my sleep, and it was just starting to sink in. A Bookie in Vegas? Either Banning was setting me up, or he was betting on horse cock-fights or something. I'd better ask around about this Gregory guy. I called Tommy the Tooth, he knows everything there is to know about Vegas, he even has a day job as a tour guide. Tommy the Tooth confirmed that Gregory the Bookie dealt in horse cock-fights. "Shit," I said, "I hate horse cock-fights."

I showed up at Greg's around midnight. Peeking in through the window, I saw Gregory and Mrs. Banning. The latter was tied to a chair. On the table was about $500,000 in cash. I thought for a moment, then I kicked the door open and shot the bookie in the chest. Then I pulled out my throwaway piece and shot Mrs. Banning. I made it look like they'd shot each other, took the cash and went home. "Mr. Banning can go fuck himself," I said. "That's what he gets for gambling."