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...

Far from home, smelling foul, and in an unfamiliar bar, detective Vic Musket sat perched atop a large bar stool.  It was not often that he made it to bars, and much preferred drinking out in public where he could make lewd gestures at passing women.  "Give me three shots of the house whisky." Vic barked, loud enough to get the attention of the half a dozen or so truckers that sat around him.  They were all stereotypical fat, unshaven rednecks in overalls and foam hats with oil advertisements and such on them.  It was clear that the sign outside offering $5 showers didn't stir up much business here.

"You got it, fella.  Three bucks."  The bartender said.  Vic thought of asking why the shots were so cheap, but decided not to look this gift horse in the mouth.  After one swig he knew the answer.  This whisky was piss.  

"I needed that.  Got my car wrecked up the highway a bit, now I have no way to get down to Dallas to see my daughter get married."  Vic laid that bait out to see if anyone was going that way.  In his limited hitchhiking experience a trucker is usually willing to give a ride to anyone headed their direction.  Helps to keep sane when the roads start to turn into endless straight lines out west. 

"Yer car was wrecked up, my ass!  You that queer boy they locked up last night.  I saw you come in when they was lettin' me out the drunk tank."  The biggest redneck of the bunch chimed in, clearly looking for trouble.

Vic turned to look at the meaty bastard through the smoky bar air.  "Must have been somebody else, Susan.  I just drove in this morning, and hit a deer at about 60 miles an hour.  Bambi messed up my car real good.  You must have me mistaken for someone else."

"No, sir!  That was you all right.  Cops couldn't stop makin' jokes about what you had planned for that rubber wiener you were carryin'.  You a queer boy fer sure!"  The brute stood up for emphasis and walked over to the bar, making it clear he was at least a half foot taller than Vic.

"Look, friend,"  Vic changed his tone "I don't want trouble.  I just need to find a ride to Texas."

"Well I'll be goddamned if I am gonna let some sissy faggot into my rig!  In fact, yer lucky I don't chain you to the trailer and drag you down to Texas!  I tell you what, sissy boy, I'll give you a ride all the way down to Dallas if you can beat little old me in a friendly arm wrasslin' contest."  The man sat down at the nearest chair with his elbow firmly planted on the table.  For emphasis he turned his cap around to the back.

Vic looked the much larger man straight in the eyes, removed his jacket and took a seat opposite him.  He slowly rolled up the sleeve of his right arm exposing the paleness beneath, and breathed deeply.  His left hand plucked the lit cigarette out from his lips and snuffed it out in the empty ashtray between them, and grabbed a hold of the man's massive hand.  "Ready."  Vic said.

SLAM!  Vic lost almost before the contest even began, his hand crashing painfully onto the table.  "Ha!  I ain't never gonna lose to no queery city boy!  Get out of here, sissy!  I ain't givin' you no ride!" Came the man's immediate victory cry.  

Vic didn't respond, and didn't get up to leave with his tail between his legs like everyone expected.  He just reached into his pocket for another cigarette, lit it and sat back.  Calmly, he replied "Aww, c'mon Susan.  Can't I get a ride?  I'll suck yer dick!"

The man turned and charged Vic like a wounded animal, clearly incensed at the nerve of this stranger who lost at arm wrasslin' and

still

was talking shit.  Vic quickly flicked the lit cigarette at the beast and hit him dead in the face, raining fiery embers all around and leaving him disoriented.

"Fuck!" Cried the large man as he crashed through a wooden table and fell face-first into the floor.  Vic calmly stood up and walked over the downed man, dropping a heavy boot into the back of his head.  All four limbs tensed up and the man started immediately snoring, relieving everyone that he was still alive after the brutal stomp.  

CLACK, CLACK!  The familiar noise of a pump action shotgun being readied came from behind Vic.  The bartender glared at him from over the barrel.  "Get out of here, mister.  Before I do something we both regret."

That was all the invitation he needed.  He downed his last shot and grabbed his jacket before storming out the double doors.  "Great" he thought. "I guess I had better start walking." 

"Hey, mister!  Hey!"  A woman came running put of the bar after him.  At least he thought it was a woman, although she looked akin to the meaty bastards inside.  "I'm headed down through Dallas!  I can give you a ride!"

Vic smiled.  Things were finally looking up.

To be continued...

There is little else in this world as depressing as trying to sleep in a jail cell surrounded by obese drunkards and wife beaters.  Vic had already been abruptly awakened by the presence of an unfamiliar hand rummaging inside the front of his pants.  The hairy man barked assurances that he was just looking for a pack of cigarettes, but Vic knew it wasn't so.  This pair of pants didn't have pockets.  The exhausted detective accepted the man's excuse, and just wanted to get back to sleep and wait out his short stay until the next morning when the courts could process his citation and bail.

"What are you here for?" The hairy man asked, quite casually for a serial molester of sleeping men.  "I don't want to talk about it.  I'm going to sleep.  Please don't fondle my genitals."  Vic replied.  He had no desire to explain the situation to a stranger, particularly after getting the third degree from the police.

Six hours ago Vic Musket was pulled over on a lonely Alabama highway while staggering drunk.  Lucky for him the officer had no suspicion about his intoxication, since a practiced drunk rarely slurs his speech, and an unwashed drunk smells like ass, not booze.  But mid conversation the cop glanced in the back seat of the car and spotted a thirteen-inch black rubber cock.  And apparently in the state of Alabama sex toys are illegal contraband.  Vic tried explaining that the cock belonged to a pimp named Swisha, and Vic had absent-mindedly forgotten to clean out the car after purchasing it, but that seemed to have made matters worse.

Vic awakened to an empty cell, which was a welcome sight.  The same officer that had arrested him was now explaining that his bail was suspended by the judge earlier that morning, and he was being released.  But he was going to have to pay the $300 towing and storage on his car before his trip would continue.  And he had to sign an agreement that he would pay his fine for possession of illicit goods within 90 days or he would have to return to Alabama for court.  The fools accepted Vic at his word, and he explained that it might be a day or so until he could get the money wired to him so he could get his car out of impound.  In reality, Vic was nearly out of money, and pretty much knew that he would never see that car again.

"Can I at least get the dildo back?" Vic was pushing his luck with the redneck cop.  "Son, yer lucky to be going anywhere.  Thirty years ago we would have made you into a quiet windchime hanging from the nearest oak tree." The cop replied with a stern tone.  Some people just don't appreciate good humor anymore.

Vic collected his belongings and thumbed through his remaining cash.  Forty bucks.  That wasn't going to get him very far, definitely not all the way to Texas considering he had to get some drinking done.  The detective became suddenly aware that he looked alien in this town.  Everyone was dressed well and clearly bathed regularly, and here was Vic Musket wreaking of piss and body odor, and piss was winning the battle.  He was going to have to fit in a little better if he wanted to hitchhike his way out of this town.

As if answering his thoughts, Vic looked across the street and noticed a truck stop down the road a way.  Truckers were not discerning people, and he might be able to make an arrangement with one of them in the bar next to the hand-painted sign that read "Truckers welcome!  Rig parking out back, showers $5"  Hopefully that arrangement wouldn't involve wearing a wig and crying afterwards, but he wasn't ruling anything out as he walked into the bar.

To be continued...

Pull his pants down and drive a mason drill up his ass, winding his guts up like so much spaghetti on a fat kid's fork.  That's what Vic Musket was planning on doing to whoever carved up that poor hooker and set him up.  Vic's eyes stung from the rising cigarette smoke, but he didn't even blink.  His eyes only broke from the road to stare up at the roof of the car as he pulled heavily from his leather-wrapped flask.  Some men think drinking and driving is dangerous.  To detective Vic Musket those men were cowards.

He was barreling down the highway at a speed he didn't care to keep track of.  He was having enough trouble staying in his lane as it was, closing one eye from time to time to reduce his lane options by half.  Vic didn't have the time to buy a car the normal way, or even to have his license renewed, so he bought the '97 Toyota sight unseen from a pimp named Swisha.  He was assured the beat up vehicle would make the trip to Texas just fine, but the only people who trust pimps are hoes, and Vic hadn't turned a trick in years.  

Then he saw it.  Red and blue lights in the rear view mirror.  Vic was hoping his week old body odor could cover up the whiskey, but he was now kicking himself for not shaking down the car before hitting the road.  There was no telling what kind of depraved rubbish was long forgotten in this car.  He pulled over, wishing the police car would continue past without incident.  No such luck.

The cop car pulled onto the shoulder behind him and waited for what seemed like an eternity.  A grossly overweight white cop stepped out of his cruiser, with the relieved shocks lifting the car back up to it's unburdened height.  

"Roll down the window" The cop asked politely.  "I can't.  This car is a piece of shit" Vic said as he opened the door.  He caught sight of the policeman's hand as it crept towards his gun holster.

"Where you headed in such a hurry, sir?"

"Texas.  How close am I?"  Vic asked sincerely.

"Shit, son.  This is Alabama!  You look like you got lost, boy!"  The cop leaned in and quickly reeled back in disgust.  "Good God, man.  You smell like a stray dog.  Step out of the car and we can talk in the fresh air."

Vic complied.  He knew better than to cause trouble while staggering drunk on the side of an unfamiliar highway.

"I'm just trying to make it to my brother's funeral.  I heard he died yesterday and I have been driving ever since.  Maybe I lost track of my speed back there..."  Vic lied through his teeth as the cop peered into the back seat of his newly acquired vehicle.

Suddenly the cop drew his weapon and stepped back.  "Get on the ground!  You are under arrest!"

*So much for talking my way out of this* Vic thought as he quickly dropped face down on the pavement.  Hopefully whatever the cop saw in the backseat could be easily explained...

To be continued...

Vic dabbed at his bleeding throat with an old pair of his underwear, making a rare attempt to appear presentable for his upcoming meeting with uncharacteristically esteemed company. He wasn't even drunk. He had downed only enough booze to curb his shaking, and if he hadn't slashed his throat into ribbons while shaving with broken glass he would look almost respectable. There was a big payday coming for him soon, and although every ounce of his being was celebrating the coming excess of women and liquor, there was a place in his mind that thought this was his only chance. What if instead of checking out a fine hotel room for a few months he rented an apartment? What if he kicked the booze habit and bought a suit and a reasonable car? Vic was forty two years old now, but still young enough to have a family of his own someday. And for the first time in his life Vic questioned himself, uncomfortable with the realization that he had outlived his expectations. Maybe he could be normal...

But first he will have to secure his payment by presenting the evidence to his client. Vic grabbed a thick hardbound bible, a small thumb drive, and a filthy folder bursting with torn paper of varying sizes. He then headed out of the Taco Bell bathroom, past a heavyset female employee that had been waiting for him to leave. Vic figured she was the new girl since everyone that works here fears bathroom duty on Wednesdays, when he bathes. But who knows? Maybe this was the last time he will ever wash his balls in a sink. Vic felt confident, well groomed and handsome enough to get a whore on credit.

He stepped out into the familiar street and walked the few blocks to his bus bench. It felt somehow colder and less comfortable than ever, like he didn't belong anymore. After a few minutes Vic noticed a Cadillac making repeated passes, like it was looking for someone. Vic stepped out to the curb and waved the car over, leaning in to speak to the driver.

"Are you lost, stranger?" Vic asked. "I'm not sure, I was told I could find a particular detective around here, but I can't seem to find anyone matching his description..." Vic was smiling. Maybe he still cleans up well. "I'm your man. Name's Vic. I believe you will be escorting me to a meeting of sorts." The man looked surprised. "Mr. Musket, please join me. My name is Mr. Thomas. Mr. Alto is eager to speak with you." That was the first time Vic had heard his client's last name. He had apparently been using an alias in their previous conversations. That made him nervous.

After a rather uneventful drive Vic was led up a flight of stairs to a waiting elevator at a large business complex. In a few short moments he entered a beautiful executive office with a sprawling view of the city, and a solemn looking man with a huge gray mustache sitting at the desk. "Please excuse my bluntness, Mr. Musket, but I am about to pay you a great deal of money for something my security team failed to handle, and I am eager to put or business dealings behind me. Now please convince me I haven't wasted my money." Vic suddenly found himself empathizing with the Cangiani family goons he greased a while ago. This guy was an asshole. "Sure thing, Mr. Alto. Did you want to discuss how I brought you daughter's rapist to justice, or should I skip the details and go over my expenses?" Vic was playing with fire, but he knew he had this bastard by the balls.

"I can appreciate your sarcasm, Mr. Musket, but I assure you that the financial consequences of my daughter's attack were the least of my worries. I love my daughter very much, and it kills me that her innocence was stolen." Vic couldn't help but flash back to the image of his daughter savaging Benny, making him cry. Hopefully Mr. Alto was willing to pay good money to keep his pristine image of his daughter, although at this point Vic wouldn't mind crushing this asshole's world.

Vic tossed the heavy bible on the desk between them. "I believe this is what you are looking for. The proof of justice can be found in psalm 106: 3 Blessed are they who maintain justice, who constantly do what is right."

"I am impressed Mr. Musket. I did not think you to be a man of faith." Mr. Alto stated as he began to thumb through the book. "I'm not." Vic responded. "I was very 'close' with a priest at my Catholic school. Until he went to prison, anyway."

The rich man looked up momentarily, clearly disgusted. "That certainly is unfortunate, Mr. Musket. But I'm sure you can separate the evil of one man from that of the chur... JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!" Alto threw the bible forward, letting it tumble to the floor beside a thin strip of dried leather Vic had been using as a bookmark. An uncircumcised bookmark. "Goddamn it, Musket. I wanted proof he had been punished, but I didn't want his SEVERED COCK!"

"I wanted to make sure you were satisfied, considering you were paying me $60K for this." Vic picked up the scattered items and placed them back on the desk. "You could've warned me, I'm an old man you know! And how am I supposed to know it belongs to THE guy, huh? You could have cut that off anyone."

Vic had prepared for his client's doubts. He cut off Benny's lunch, but he let him go. He figured Benny wasn't a threat without his weapon, and he could turn the cock over for proof, but he made him sign a full confession (prior to the castration, of course). Vic pulled out the filthy portfolio and handed it over. "Here's all the evidence I have that I got your man. Now pay me."

After reviewing the documents Mr. Alto seemed both sick and satisfied. He tossed an envelope on the table, where Vic immediately snatched it up. "You've done your dirty work, Mr. Musket. Now leave my life forever. Mr. Thomas will deliver you wherever you wish to go."

"There's one final detail, Mr. Alto. I have more information, and I think it's worth double." Vic pulled a small thumb drive from his pocket and held it up between them. "You are a fool, Mr. Musket. You have shown your cards already. I want nothing else from you. Be gone, sir." The rich old man was losing his patience.

"I am not offering to show you the content of this drive. I am offering to make it disappear forever. I assure you, you don't want to see it." Vic's smile was growing. "Fuck off, you vagrant. I paid you per our arrangement. I didn't become rich by giving away my money." The old man stood up and gestured toward the door, rather rudely.

"Suit yourself. I'll just leave this here..." Vic placed the drive on Mr. Alto's desk. "Mr. Thomas, we are going shopping.". Vic new the old codger wouldn't be able to resist his curiosity for long.

Hours later Vic stood in a brand new suit, arms full of bags from the finest stores in the city. He felt transformed, lifted from his lowly street status and given another chance. He had the means to make a start. "Fuck it." Vic thought. Someone had to keep these poor whores in business. Vic tore the silk tie from around his neck and threw it into the gutter. He would never change, and he accepted it. His only regret is not being present to see the look on Mr. Alto's face when he reviewed the video on the thumb drive. He had it queued up to start with the pristine virgin daughter using a strap on to aggressively violate a sobbing Puerto Rican.

Hobo Justice never tasted so sweet.

The End