Vic was six hours into his investigation of the dead irish boxer when he visited Dead Dave. Dave got his name from the hundreds of death threats made against him over the years, mostly due to his profession. He was a full-time rat. Not the type that talked to get himself out of trouble, but the kind that stuck his nose into everyones business so he would have info to sell. If you were shady, Dave knew all about you.

"I need info on a boxer's woman. The dead irishman, Feeney." Vic said without wasting breath on pleasantries.

"Mona?" Dave said. "Did she step in shit, Vic? Nice lady, that one. Too good for Feeney."

"Just tell me everything you know about her. It's business, Dave." Vic was already going through the man's cupboards, making himself at home and looking for booze.

Dead Dave knew this gal for years. The way he was speaking, he might even have a thing for her. Apparently she was beautiful, from a good family with a schoolteacher mom that died when she was a kid, and a father who was a chemist with an industrial company nearby. She went to school, paid her taxes, and on Saturdays was usually beaten bloody by her bastard boxer boyfriend. Dave was too weak to stand up to him about it, and Feeney just joked that she saved him gym fees by letting him "work out" on her. Nice guy. Nice enough for this girl to want him dead, Vic thought. He scratched down her address and paid Dave half of what he was asking, since he was out of whiskey.

Vic punched the wooden door to the Feeney home with shaking hands. When Mona answered she was still in a bathrobe despite it being nearly six pm.

"Go away, whoever you are. I am grieving." She said, swinging the door closed and turning before realizing the unwanted guest had his foot in the door.

"You are gonna want to talk with me lady" Vic said, "I know you killed Jack, and I need to know the details." She gasped at the accusation, but didn't deny it as Vic stepped though the doorway and began rifling through her kitchen.

"I don't know who told you I hurt Jack, but they're damn liars!" Mona said through forced sobs. "I loved him. And he died in the ring, for God's sake!"

Vic found a half empty bottle of bourbon and a coffee mug, sat down at the kitchen table and poured to the brim. "Nobody told me anything, miss" Vic said without taking his eyes off the cup as it rose to his lips. "But if I had a daughter who was getting the shit kicked out of her on a regular basis, I would want to kill the man responsible. And if that man was as tough a sonovabitch as Jack was, I would probably shoot the bastard. Unless I had access to thousands of lethal poisons and had the education to use them, that is." He swallowed the contents of the mug in one gulp and placed it back on the table to be filled again. He had her full attention, and she reached for the bottle to fill his cup for him.

Being a man of low moral character, Vic Musket enjoyed betting on the occasional prizefight, and the more lopsided the victory, the better. But he rarely had the kind of scratch that would get him into betting on the casino bouts, leaving the weekend drifter matches as his venue. There you could fix a match by buying the loser a few drinks beforehand, unless of course he was irish. Booze was like spinach was to popeye for the micks, and that hard lesson cost him seventy bucks one time. But dry out a hard drunk and he couldn't drive a car, let alone win a fight. So when the papers reported about the in ring death of boxing legend "Green" Jack Feeney as related to a seizure from alcohol withdrawal, everything seemed to add up. Until the mob came knocking at Vic's car door.

The rapping at the window interrupted a pleasant dream about sodomizing a young filipino prostitute, and left Vic wondering if his wet clothes were due to sleeping in a car at noon during a heatwave or the combination of pissing himself and a wet dream. He gathered his senses and noticed a greaseball guido in a suit trying none too hard to disguise his mob connections standing outside. He gathered himself and followed the man into a nearby alleyway that served as Vic's office to either discuss business or get stabbed. Truth be told, Vic would accept either.

"We need you to look into Feeney's death last Saturday, Vic" the man said with a disgusted look on his face, possibly from the stench of the makeshift alleyway latrine. "One of my guys had a deal with him to throw the fight, and we think somebody fucked with our play and took him out."

"But if he was supposed to throw the fight anyways, what was the fix? He lost, didn't he?" Vic asked with a confused look.

"Whatchoo talkin about, Vic? If a guy fuckin dies in the ring it's a no contest. And we lost out on over 50 grand here! Somebody was messing around. We know Feeney wasn't fighting dry. He was shitfaced two nights before the fight at one of our clubs!"

Apparently the rules in sanctioned matches are a bit different than in the drifter bouts. In those fights a win by death paid out double. The guido didn't like being questioned, and was poking his finger in Vic's chest hard. He might be the first guy to get away with that, too.

"Alright, but what's in it for me? There are whores around here that rely on my business."

The man shook his head in disbelief at Vic's statement. "You tryin to be cute, Musket? You owe us over ten grand in bar bills at our clubs! You think we're paying for this job? Consider it a favor that we let you work it off instead of dropping you in a river somewhere!" The guy had a point.

"Alright, alright. I will get to the bottom of this, you know I will. Just clear the debt and open my tab back up in the club and we're square." Vic said as he pushed the man's finger away from his sternum. "Just tell me this, what did the autopsy say?"

"That's whats so fucking fishy. There was no autopsy. Feeney's broad said he was off the booze for a full week, and when they tested his blood he was clean, so the bitch had him cremated."

Well, at least there was somewhere to start. Vic pulled a half-full flask of whiskey from a sopping wet pocket and took a drink. The boxer's wife must have known he was still drinking, so her lies made her a prime suspect. Getting on the wagon certainly could kill a drunk like Feeney, Vic knew that from the way he felt after a long nap, let alone the week of sobriety his wife was claiming. But a hasty cremation was suspicious. Vic knew many dead irishmen, and right now his body should be sitting in a box on a bar somewhere having songs sung over it, not in a fucking jar.

Vic parted ways with the greaseball and headed off to one of his contacts to learn more about this shifty broad.

Excuses are like assholes. Everybody's got one. But when it comes to powerful men lying about sex, their excuses are giant, bloody prolapses that they drag around like bulbous vestigial tails. And when such powerful men want their name cleared they pay men like Vic Musket. A private detective with ethics as questionable as his choice of street whores.

Senator Jim Gallant of the garden state of New Jersey was facing serious allegations of illicit sex with some high-end escort, the kind of scandal that has been overcome by countless politicians and would seem to pose no threat beyond the cost of a skillful PR representative and an embarrassing news interview or two. But there had to be more to it, considering the serious look on the face of the staffer sitting across the table from him.

"Before we begin, detective Musket, I want your assurance that anything we discuss with you will not leave this room. We are willing to pay you quite handsomely for your discretion..." the well-dressed man looked shocked when Vic interrupted him.

"I won't tell about your dirty secrets if you don't tell about the mess I am about to make in that executive bathroom, mister." Vic Musket stood up and began marching toward the slightly ajar door at the back of the conference room.

"But detective, I will have to show you to another restroom, that toilet is out of order." the man said with a slightly panicked look on his face.

"No problem. I can use the sink." was the unwelcome response, Vic not even slowing his stride.

The man darted in front of him before he could touch the doorknob. "Excuse me, sir, but I will have to insist! I cannot allow you to defecate in the Senator's bathroom sink!"

"Do I look like the kind of animal that would shit in a sink?" Vic asked, leaning in to make a point. "It's 10:30 in the morning, and I haven't thrown up all the whiskey from last night. I haven't eaten in two days, so I assure you there won't be any plumbing problems. Now step aside!"

The sweet stench of booze was all the evidence the man needed to apologize and step aside. And after a few minutes of loud retching with the door wide open, Vic returned to the table. "Like I was saying, we can pay you handsomely for any information that might clear the Senator's good name in this matter. $20,000 if the evidence is good enough to make the problem go away."

The figure had Vic's full attention. "Give me the details" he said, "and get the money ready. I don't take checks."

The well-dressed man ran through a powerpoint presentation that explained everything. The Senator was accused of patronizing an escort service, and the glorified prostitute didn't have the good sense to keep with the age-old tradition of amnesia concerning her clientele. She was threatening to come forward with a story of receiving three full hours of cunnilingus from Gallant's famous silver tongue just three days ago, and wanted a sizable portion of the Senator's upcoming campaign fund or else she was talking. The voters wouldn't find this so unpalatable, pun intended, except for one fact. The escort was a hermaphrodite. The thought of a political candidate going down on a whore was one thing, but they wouldn't be able to shake the image of him wearing a flaccid penis on his face like groucho glasses in time to vote for him. Not even in Jersey.

"Do you have a picture of the whore?" The man called for a secretary to bring in a laptop, and upon delivery brought up an old mugshot of the culprit. A grin widened across Vic's face.  "Can I meet with the Senator? Is he here?" Vic asked.

The man was perplexed and it showed on his face. "Detective, the Senator is a very busy man, and I am not..." but he was cut off for the second time by a voice from the doorway.

"I am here, Musket. Whatever I can do to clear my name, just ask." The tall, gray haired Senator seemed sincere. And cleanly shaven.

"Well I have only one question for you. Do you shave with a blade or an electric razor?" Vic asked.

The two men in suits shared a confused glance. "A blade, every morning. It's the only way to maintain a clean appearance now, with the high definition cameras, and such." Said the Senator.

Vic stood up. "Then I know you are innocent. Pay me and I will be on my way."

"Not so fast, detective. We need irrefutable proof to keep this woman from speaking up. You aren't getting a dime until our lawyers are satisfied there is no further political threat here." The well dressed man remained unconvinced.

"It's quite simple," Vic began "the good Senator is clean shaven, not a blemish on his face, the picture of trustworthy modern American politics. He shaves with a razor daily, a clean shave that leaves his facial pores open and exposed, yet he bears no sores on his lips. Get that 'woman' tested, sir. 'She' has a bad case of herpes, and any man freshly shaven with a blade would look like we went down on a wasp's nest after pleasuring her."

"But I don't understand," the Senator muttered, "how can you tell she has herpes from the picture on the laptop?"

"Simple." Vic replied, taking a flask out of his inside pocket. "Because I gave them to her six weeks ago." By the time the lawyers had contacted the woman and explained the new developments, she recanted her story and Vic's briefcase full of cash was prepared. Plenty of money afford any number of exotic escorts, even one born with the kind of tackle that gave men like him plenty of options.



The End.

Bert came flying past the elevators and turned the corner just in time to see Vic smashing a full bottle of whiskey over the head of a much larger man, dropping him in the process. The lawyer was under a table, cowering in the face of the violent display. The fight wasn't over, but three men laid on the floor now with two others still looking to go home wearing at least some of Vic's blood. Bert darted past the men and grabbed the lawyer by the shirt, dragging him out of danger.

"What the fuck happened?" Bert screamed through the commotion.

"I don't know! Vic ordered a whole bottle and we started matching drinks, then I turned my back for six seconds and some guy started shouting at Vic about his wife. I didn't even have time to get out of the way before the guy threw a bar stool at us. I think I have a goddamn concussion!" The lawyer was nursing a visible bump on the side of his head.

Bert heard enough. He wasn't about to let Vic face another bar fight alone, not after he spent so many years regretting the last one. He charged back around the corner and tackled the first person he saw that wasn't wearing a filthy overcoat, and toppled to the ground with the man underneath him. A heavy boot came swinging past his face into the head of the man he took down and Bert felt him go limp underneath. He looked up to see a grimy hand extended toward him, and as he reached out to it Vic lifted him easily onto his feet.

"I'll be damned. Twenty years can do wonders to a man, eh Bert?" Vic was laughing despite his nose being clearly broken and laying flat against his face. "Where's the lawyer? He should probably settle the bill so we can get the fuck out of here."

"You sonovabitch! You pulled your cock out in front of my wife!" A man on the ground was mumbling through a broken jaw, only one side moving while the other dangled disobediently near his collarbone.

"Hey asshole, she ASKED to see it. Not my fault she was curious to see what a real man looked like. Maybe if you..." Vic's comeback was cut short by the fat, stubby hands of the mexican lawyer, who wasted no time yanking Vic out through the lobby and into the elevator.

"Jesus Christ, Vic. How the hell am I supposed to believe you didn't kill that whore after what I just witnessed?" The lawyer spat at him. Vic opened his mouth to speak, but held back a response as he realized how solid his logic was. "Now we had better talk quick, because that bottle is on my room tab, an it is only a matter of time before the cops come knocking on my door. Now here is what you are going to do, and it's non-negotiable. You will take a flight back to the city tonight and turn yourself into the police..."

"Like fuck I will." Vic interrupted. "What the hell good are you? I could have done that a week ago and saved us both a lot of time."

The elevator doors opened and the lawyer led the two men down the hall. "Shut up, Musket! You won't be in there for even three hours. I have spoken to the DA in your district and he will set your bail at $250k, which will be promptly paid by your good friend Bertram here." Bert swallowed audibly. "No worries. You will get your money back. I just need to buy us some time to mount a defense case. By the looks of it, this shit isn't going to be easy.

The lawyer opened up a door and revealed a beautiful suite, much nicer than the penthouse Vic was renting back in the city. After pulling some papers out of a dresser drawer the lawyer looked back to see Vic opening a fresh bottle of cognac.

"What? My last bottle got broke..." Vic said sheepishly.

"Take these. Two business-class tickets back to the city, leaving in... four hours. I suggest you get the fuck out of here, before you end up costing your friend even more bail money." The lawyer smartly gave the tickets to Bert. "And they won't let you on the plane if you are staggering drunk."

Vic guzzled down several mouthfulls, setting the bottle back on the liquor cabinet. "Fine. Then let's go."

The lawyer picked up the phone. "Take the service elevator. I will send someone up from the front desk, I will just tell them you are a famous client of mine that wants to avoid being recognized. That way you can avoid marching through the crime scene downstairs in the bar."

Vic was impressed. Maybe if he had a guy like this on his side ALL the time he wouldn't get into nearly as much shit as he did. But then again, some of his fondest memories end in blood being spilled...

To be continued...

The executive elevator was crowded by the presence of two near strangers on a mission. Vic Musket had one friend in the world right now, and he was standing next to him as they descended to a subterranean parking garage. Bertram deactivated an alarm from his pocket and a pair of BMW headlights flashed in response, catching Vic's eye.

"God damn. That's a nice car." He said.

"I know. That's why I hope you wont be offended when I make you sit on a blanket. You're filthy, Vic. And that is leather." Bert was quite sincere.

"No problem, Bert." Vic waited until the precious interior was sufficiently protected, then sat down in the passenger seat slamming the door quite hard. Before Bert could protest Vic had already lit a cigarette.

They were headed to meet a lawyer in a hotel room a few miles away. The men were following instructions given from the DA, who was under serious pressure to solve the horrible murder Vic was accused of. Vic remained suspicious of the DA, but was convinced Bert was an ally. He just hoped his pull could get him out of this, or at least keep the case open if he had to do some time. After a short drive the men arrived at a tall building that was covered in glass windows and surrounded by scrambling tourists and convention-goers.

"They said he would be waiting in the lobby. I sure hope this doesn't take long. I have to take a shit like you wouldn't believe." Bert said rather dryly, surprising Vic. He seemed like he had about as much personality as the suit he was wearing, but maybe Vic had him all wrong...

The two men walked into the hotel lobby and were immediately approached by a smiling, obese mexican in a tee shirt and shorts. "I take it you are Vic Musket. They told me you couldn't be missed." The man said, drawing an aggressive stare from Vic. He didn't like someone having an edge on him, and said nothing in response. "Follow me, guys. I have a room on the sixth floor." The man started off to the elevator.

"Before we head up, do you mind if I use the restroom?" Bert asked. He appeared to be sweating.

"Of course. I think it is down the hallway, on the other side of the bar." The lawyer gestured, and Bert was off without a word at a pace that indicated he was desperate. "By the looks of it he might be awhile. Care for a drink, Mr. Musket? I'm buying..."

"Well if you twist my arm..." Vic grinned.

Bert was befouling a bathroom stall in a very loud way, and had been for the better part of a half hour, when he heard a loud crash and some shouting. The words replayed in his head... "down the hallway, on the other side of the BAR" He sprung to his feet and burst out of the stall door, still buttoning his fine trousers and slightly shitting himself in the process. He just hoped Vic was fighting strangers, and not the lawyer.

To be continued...

 Two men sat at opposite sides of a large oak desk, the smoke of dozens of cigarettes swirling around them.  Vic Musket gave every detail of his unfortunate situation, explaining how he was blowing the small fortune he was paid from his last case at an upscale hotel.  It had been week after week of drugs, sex, booze, visionquesting, and sodomy that led up to him waking to find a dead prostitute in the bathroom.  Vic had never harmed women in his life, and although he was blackout drunk he was sure he was innocent.  Besides, he didn't have a drop of blood on him.

Bertram, Vic's only comrade in this dangerous time, had sent two requests for the DA back in the city to call him on a secured line.  The phone sat silently between them, a jack-in-the-box that was waiting to pop and reveal Vic's destiny.  The men were Killing time with the kind of awkward conversation that occurs when old acquaintances reunite.

"Are you married, Vic?  Got any kids?" Bert asked, dividing the last of the scotch in their glasses.

"No, no.  Never married, or had kids.  Got three abortions under my belt, though.  How about you?"

Bert winced at Vic's callous response.  "You won't believe it, but I married my college sweetheart about six months after our 'incident'.  I have told her about you a million times, and about how you saved my life from a knife-wielding maniac.  I may have lied a little and said I was mugged instead of pissing off a street pimp, but to me you are a hero all the same."  Bert leaned in closer, making eye contact.  "Seriously, Vic.  I have never been the same since that night, and I haven't wasted my second chance.  And I will do everything in my power to repay you..."  His eyes were welling up.

"Stop."  Vic interrupted. "Why the fuck is it taking so long for this guy to call you back?"

"This is a secure line, Vic.  He can't just call me from his cell phone.  He needs to get to a secure line himself.  But he will call.  Guaranteed.  Just give him some time."  Bert looked excited, like he had been waiting for years for the chance to repay him.  "You know, I have a son and two daughters these days.  My son is a freshman in highschool now.  I named him Victor, just to remind me of the kindness you showed me that..."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"  Vic said angrily.  "Jesus Christ, man.  I met you for a total of about three hours a couple of decades ago and you name your kid after me?  Well I have news for you... you named your kid after a degenerate fuckup.  Didn't you ask yourself why I never had any kids?  Why there isn't a little Vic running around here right now?  It's because the world doesn't need another booze-guzzling, whore-mongering, killer-for-hire.  My bloodline ends with me, no more Muskets.  And here you come along, telling me how great a guy I am, and you have a fucking son keeping my name alive?  Just do what you can to save my ass here, and I will be grateful for that.  But hearing that you named your kid after me makes me want to put a gun in my mouth!"

The phone rings.

To be continued...

 If it was the receptionist's job to make visitors feel welcome then she was failing miserably.  Vic Musket stood in the center of the room as the nervous woman cleared her throat to catch his attention.

"Mr. Stokely will see you now.  Please follow me to his office." She said, then began winding her way expertly through the labyrinth of glass walls and hallways to a set of tall oak doors.  It took all of her strength to wedge them open.  Clearly this building wasn't disabled-friendly.

Bert's figure cut a shadow that was considerably larger than Vic remembered from twenty years ago.  He gripped a double scotch in one hand and held the bottle outstretched in the other.  "Vic Musket.  I believe I owe you a drink."

"That's kinda why I'm here..." Vic paused to pull deeply from the bottle, stopping his host mid-stride as he was retrieving a second glass.  Bert realized he would never get the $500 bottle of scotch back.  "I really got my testicles tangled back in the city, and I could really use the help of someone with political connections.  As you mentioned... you owe me a favor or two..."  Vic pulled open his shirt to reveal a pink scar in the center of his chest, seemingly right over his heart, leading Bert to assume that perhaps he didn't have one.

"Well, the DA out there is my kid's godfather.  Anything you ask, consider it done."  Bert replied with the utmost confidence while sipping his scotch.  "What's the damage Musket?  Did you kill a whore, or something?"

"No.  But all the evidence says that I did."

"Jesus, Vic!"  The businessman said, dribbling scotch onto his silk tie.  "Are you fucking kidding me?  I'm not sure I can pull hard enough to get you out of a rape-murder!"

"I didn't fucking murder anyone, dammit!  And the sex was completely consensual.  Paid for, but consensual.  I'm being framed by someone powerful, so I need my most powerful ally.  Can you help me here?"

Bert was pacing back and forth now, knowing perfectly well how big of a shitstorm he was walking into if he decided to help Vic out.  He knew that this kind of shitstorm always gets in your mouth, but if you throw enough money at it you can at least avoid the hepatitis.  "I'm in.  But let's be clear... when this is done I never want to see you again."

A big smile came across Vic's face.  Once again the piss from the sky was turning into rain.  If there was really a God up above then he must be evil to look after a sinner like him.

To be continued...

 Vic Musket stood in the shadow of the Renaissance Tower in downtown Dallas.  He was awkwardly dropped off by a big rig in the middle of the morning traffic rush at the heart of the city, and was now faced with the task of tracking down a powerful businessman that once vowed his life to a filthy teenage alcoholic.  A teenage alcoholic that grew into a middle-aged alcoholic and now stood accused of a murder he didn't commit.  But even with this weighing in on him the only desire in his mind was to wash his face, and as soon as he reached the gutter he eagerly splashed the putrid water onto his chin and scrub away with his jacket sleeve.  Visions of the lady trucker's legs parting replayed in his mind, reminiscent of someone pulling open a hot grilled cheese sandwich.  Only less tasty.

Satisfied that his beard smelled more like the putrid water and less like trucker snatch, Vic marched over to the massive tower and entered into the lobby.  This wasn't going to be easy.  Vic knew the man's name was Bertram Stokely, but was positive that the man himself would recognize him only by sight, not by name.  And he was going to have a hard time explaining their relation to the likes of a receptionist.

Twenty years prior the two men met here in Dallas.  Bert was a slacker college student away from home for the first time in his life, and Vic Musket was a 17 year old hustler and gambler that called the streets home.  They both happened to be in a seedy bar in the wrong part of town, Bert was there pursuing a prostitute, and Vic practically lived in the men's room at the time.

Over the course of the night Vic watched the college kid get more and more aggressive with the whore they called "Candy", but was really named "Mildred" as he progressed to increasing stages of drunkenness.  The two were dancing in a way that looked like it required contraception when suddenly Candy started shouting.

"You motherfucker!  You just jizzed all over my favorite stockings!  That's gonna cost you." She started pulling visibly stained nylons from her ample legs while the embarrassed Bert sheepishly looked on.

It turned out he was trying to lose his virginity, and couldn't control himself.  Now he had Candy AND Sweet Teddy the pimp demanding he pay double the going rate for the pop and the cleanup. They kinda had a point, and Bert would have gladly paid.  But when he announced that he only brought $43.76 to cover drinks, a few games of pool, and a lay...  Sweet Teddy pulled a knife.

These days Vic Musket would have sat and gladly watched as Sweet Teddy gutted the rich kid in front of him.  But twenty years ago Vic still had some humanity left in him, and quickly rose to the helpless boy's aid.  Drunkenly stumbling between the two men, Vic grabbed Bert by the collar and managed to drag him out of the front door onto the sidewalk.  Once Vic looked around and saw that Sweet Teddy hadn't followed them outside he looked and was surprised to see that Bert appeared to be unharmed.  Unharmed but appearing to be in shock, staring at Vic's chest.  Vic traced his gaze to the area just below his collar bone, which now had a large switchblade handle sticking out of it.  As Vic slumped to the ground Bert snapped out of his daze, and proclaimed that he would go to get help, and frantically thanked him for saving his life.  As Vic passed out he felt Bert stuff something into his pocket.  He said something, but it was lost to Vic's fading consciousness.

After awakening in a hospital room the next day, Vic was told about how they had received an emergency call from an anonymous young man that saved his life, and he required a blood transfusion.  Vic raised hell until they gave him his stuff back, and angrily checked himself out of the hospital against the urgings of hospital staff, and before the police arrived.  When he stuffed his hand into the pocket he pulled out a card.  A student ID with the name "Bertram Stokely" on it.

Twenty years later Vic stood in front of the receptionist at the head office of a multi million dollar corporation and held out that very ID card.  "Take this to Mr. Stokely and tell him an old friend is here to meet with him." Vic said it forcefully enough to draw no complaints from the 19 year old temp behind the desk.  She ushered off to deliver the message without uttering a response.  Vic waited.

To be continued...

 Vic Musket sat shotgun in the dank cab of a decrepit semi truck with a burly woman that smelled like wet cheese and menses.  She had asked him several times to quit smoking except during weigh stations, but the only ground he gave was to crack the window a little.  Only a little.  The air was too fresh here and Vic's body seemed to reject it violently, much more so than the thick alleyway smog he was so used to.  The detective took one last dramatic pull from his cigarette and flicked it out the cracked window with total disregard for the wildfire-prone countryside.  His driver uttered an audible sigh of relief, a passive-aggressive complaint about her increasingly unwanted company's smoking which triggered an immediate response in the form of another cigarette, even though Vic didn't want one.

A sign screamed past the passenger window that informed Vic they had just passed the state line from Mississippi to Louisiana, meaning he would soon meet with his contact in Dallas and make progress in clearing his name of murder.  "Thanks for the lift... Miss" Vic realized he had forgotten her name.  "and I'm sorry I can't pay you.  But if you give me your mailing address I will certainly..."

"Don't worry your little head about it, mister.  You can pay me back another way."  The beastly woman interrupted.  Vic had a sinking feeling in his gut.  He was hoping to make it out of this ride without taking his pants off.  The ice now awkwardly broken, the woman pulled into a nearby rest stop and came to a halt, eager to extract payment.

"Alright.  It's only fair." Vic began "But I hope you have a dildo in here, because I don't see an erection in my near future."

The lady trucker smiled.  "No worries, darlin!  I'm just going to climb into my sleeper and let you polish every centimeter of my backside.  It should take about an hour or two so you may want to go use the restroom first, cause once you get started, you ain't stopping 'till yer done."

"I'm good.  Lets get this over with."  Vic said with his game face on.  The woman climbed clumsily into the attached sleeper and peeled the sweatpants off her ample form.  The musk wafted up immediately, steaming up the windows despite the hot weather.  Considering the hygiene he had witnessed over the past 9 hours he had quite an unpleasant job ahead.  Gritting his teeth he grabbed a discarded ketchup packet, a secret weapon to sweeten the salty body odor flavor, and climbed into pole position. 

"Oh, and grab those!  We're going to need them."  The lady trucker gestured at a package of gauze and wadding.  "I burst a hemorrhoid two days ago and she's a bleeder!"

Vic didn't miss a beat in getting eyebrow-deep in her humid nethers.  A lesser man would not be able to control his disgust, or might try to negotiate alternative payment.  But not Vic Musket.  His mouth had been filthier places.  And besides, he kind of liked the taste.  In fact, under different circumstances he might have PAID for this privilege, so the joke was on HER. 

To be continued...

A wrinkled eyelid opens to expose a bloodshot eye to the morning sun, an unpleasant stimulus to an around-the-clock alcoholic. Detective Vic Musket shook his head a few times before noticing that he was nude from the waist down and covered in vomit, but he put aside his curiosity about the previous night's events. In his experience any night that he blacks out is a night he didn't want to remember. It's kind of like Vegas: what happens in drunken stupor

stays

in drunken stupor. And since he collected on his last case he had many such nights, but instead of an alley and cheap vodka he had an expensive hotel room and all the 12 year scotch he could drink.

Then a faint memory of last night played through his head like some debauchery-filled zapruder film. There was a whore last night. A good one. Suddenly Vic shot to his feet and looked around the destroyed hotel room, certain she had robbed him and left in the wee hours of the morning. It wouldn't be the first time. Vic started tossing the room, looking for a tattered briefcase that held ten thousand dollars and an eleven inch black dildo (for obvious reasons). All he found were four condom wrappers, a pair of soiled women's underwear, and a greased bowling pin, but nothing out of the ordinary. Vic pulled on the panties, which were hardly up to the job of containing Vic's sore genitalia. One testicle dangled out of either side of the g-string, but he took no action to correct it and resigned himself to taking a shit and a shower. He always thought better after evacuating his colon of feces and whatever foreign objects that made their way up there last night.

When he opened the bathroom door Vic was pleasantly surprised to see his briefcase on the counter and wasted no time in prying it open. The ten thousand dollars stared back at him, but no dildo. That was a mystery he wasn't sure he wanted to solve. Secure that he hadn't been robbed Vic decided the whore must have hit the bricks once it was clear he was going to remain unconscious for the immediate future. Relieved, Vic sat on the toilet to start what was likely to be an hour long bowel movement. Then he noticed the shower curtain was drawn... He pulled the curtain back and immediately released a wet splatter into the toilet. The whore was in the bath tub with a sea of red around her, clearly dead. "I'm fucked". Vic thought.

After gathering all his belongings and scrubbing the room for fingerprints Vic hung the "do not disturb" sign from the doorknob, then hastily headed down the elevator and politely paid for another night in cash. "Thank you, Mr. Tipton. We are thrilled to extend your stay." Vic was happy he had the foresight to give a fake name, but truth be told anyone that befouled as many hotel rooms as he did quickly adopted an alias. There were two things on his mind. One, there was no way he killed the prostitute. Vic considered that profession to be more prestigious and altruistic than any legitimate occupation, and some of his best friends worked in the sex industry. Second, there was a killer out there that wanted desperately to frame Vic for murder. Vic didn't pretend that he made no enemies over the last twenty years of depraved detective work, but most of his enemies were of the filth-covered back alley meth addict variety, not the type to organize a conspiracy.

But now the detective had very few options, but he knew which he would take. There was a very important man that owed Vic Musket a favor, and what better time to call it in? But first he would have to turn the ten g's in the briefcase into a decent car to make his way down to Texas...

To be continued...