A story built one article at a time/The Appearance of Wolverhampton

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Chicago ain't pretty this time of year. Well, it ain't pretty any time of year, but right 'bout now is the worst. It was another cold, windy evening. I was taking a pull of my vodka in my office when the bastards kicked down my door. Startled, I pulled out my revolver, intending to remind my landlord to knock before he breaks in, but instead I came face to face with a couple of coppers. 
"Don't shoot!" one pig shouted, "I have a case for you!" Now, mind you, I run a pretty little low-key operation. It's not every day the fuzz knocks down my door and asks for help. And I don't have a reputation for being completely above board, if you know what I mean. So there I was, John Johnson, eye for hire, face to face with some blues who want my help for once. Once we got past all the boring legalese that reminded my why I didn't become a cop myself, they explained that their mark, a certain Cacatone Aracuan, petty thief, had run off on bail and they thought he had taken evidence of a criminal empire with him. Well, I smelled a juicy deal. I took the case, knowing that if this didn't pan out I would still be off scot-free for once.
I hopped into my '98 Prius and buzzed off. The cop said that the Aracuan had been seen in the Tropica Bar on Van Buren just that afternoon. I waltzed in like nobody's business and was greeted by a ginger barkeep who introduced her beautiful self as Wolverhampton Walbro.
The dame was just the sort of woman I used to bang practically every night (except for the odd name). I got wet just thinking about pinning that broad to the bed... Focus, John! So I asked that dashing young woman if she had seen anyone matching the Aracuan's description.
Maybe. Want to come to my place and we can talk about it?
Well, that got my three inches practically bursting with excitement. Crack the case and get laid? Don't mind if I do.
Her house was a dismal affair, a couple hundred square feet at the end of an alleyway. But it had a bed and a woman, so it felt like home. I squeezed my five-foot-two frame through the door and sat down on the bed. Well, the dame pulled down her pants, removed her hair to reveal a bald head and revealed why she had brought me here. He had a penis! And by the looks of it, he was going to rape me!
I was livid! (but still a little wet).Well, I pulled out my gun and cocked it. But the dickhead was faster. He pulled out some ungodly rope and tied me up. I was helpless to resist as the motherfucker pulled down my pants and ravaged me in the ass with my own condom. I prayed to the god that doesn't exist that he would stop, and finally, after what felt like hours, he came. Then I felt a needle enter my arm and, when I woke up, I was on a park bench in fresh clothes. I even had my trusty gun in my pocket. And, of course, the bastard left a clue in my pocket with it.
The clue pointed me to an address in Toronto with a time. I called my new fuzz buddy who told me I'd have a Mounty meet me there in case WolverWalbro returned. I hopped into my car and prepared for the 8 hour drive to Toronto.
And there he was: Cacatone Aracuan. The shithead looked like the fucking Hamburglar, all dressed up in black and white and pacing around the park. The man actually was holding bags with dollar signs on them. I mentally wondered why the police needed me to help find someone as obvious as him. Well, I apprehended him and took him to my hotel room, gun drawn the whole time, where I subjected him to mild questioning and he revealed his cache of evidence. We got him and the evidence back to Chicago, and I got back to nursing my bottle of vodka.
Category:My sojourn
Category:One article at a time