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A Too Hard Boiled Day

I wake up at lunch time with a hangover the size of an enormous hangover. My head feels swollen and my hands shake. Yesterday my head shook and my hands were so swollen I could hardly slip my index through the coffee mug handle. What next?

I go to the bathroom and watch my face in the mirror and I don’t like what I see. Fucking cheap Chinese-made mirrors.

I go to my office. The place is a mess since my secretary left the day she found out that shorthand was not giving me a hand job inside the closet. Stupid bitch!

I open the filing cabinet drawer marked Ba-Bb and I produce a bottle of Apple Liquor. What the hell! This should be in Aa-Ar. I wonder where the bourbon is. I pour myself a glass anyway and I stare through the dusty window to the steamy city. A big fat fruit ready for the taking. Somewhere in the asphalt jungle there is a bullet with my name engraved on it. But I don’t care since bullets can’t read.

I turn around and catch a glimpse of a voluptuous female silhouette on my door’s glass. I take mental note to tell the cleaning woman later. Somebody stuck that stupid silhouette there after Pearl Harbor and she always forgets to get rid of it. Dirty cunt!

I spend the evening there, staring at the calendar on the wall and wondering how long I will have to wait for Christmas. Not a single call in all evening. What did you expect? You haven’t paid the phone bill in twenty seven years, something like this was bound to happen.

I leave but I realize I am not drunk enough to take a taxi and head for Barney’s. The place is packed but Barney is not there mainly because nobody under that name ever worked there. I don’t care. Anyway this is not a bar but a laundromat. I realize am talking to the dryer and drinking soap.

I got Barney’s place the second time around. It’s packed there too and Barney isn’t there either, which explains my mistake. I peer through the thick smoke looking for a free seat.

There is blonde so hot in a stool near the corner that the seat padding is about to catch fire and the support is melting away. She is pretty and seems pretty stupid too. I introduce myself and tell her there is man outside giving away free samples of eyelashes. Fool. Before she has crossed the door I am sitting on her warm seat ordering a double but I get only half of it. My bad.

The place is closing down and a man who looks like Barney asks me kindly to leave while rolling a baseball bat over the counter. Then I realize that he is Barney and order one more drink on the house. He knocks me unconscious with his bat as usual. Fucking old Irish bastard!

I wake up on puddle of mud and vomit in a dirty alley with my pockets emptied. But the pockets are still there. Last Thursday I woke up in alley just like this and some motherfucker had snatched my pockets with everything I had and ripped my raincoat in the process. At least this time they left the pockets. Some luck at last. Maybe this is the beginning of a lucky streak.

I get on a cab and pretend I don’t know what money is when the time comes to pay the fare. I got away very well this time. I persuade the cabbie of my honesty by pushing the cab’s ashtray down his throat. Poor bastard. He tries to make some nasty remarks about my mother’s sexuality but only manages to produce some cigarette butts.

I get home and head straight to bed when I notice something odd: somebody’s feet touching mine under the sheets. I dart to the bedside table and reach for my 38. caliber but grab instead some false teeth and great havoc ensues. I don’t live there. A senior couple does. Mr. and Mrs. Kocinsky. And nine cats. End of my lucky streak. Shit.

I go home. Two cops make sure I got to the right place this time. A couple of young roosters from Grand Central that think they know what is all about. They are clueless little sonofabitches but they carry two big sticks so I keep my opinion to myself and laugh everyone of their jokes until they tell me that they are not joking. They help me into bed but none of them wants to read me a story and they leave. Fucking pigs!

I wonder if may be wasting my life as snoop. I should have entered my father business and become a vacuum cleaner salesman. Easy and clean. Or at least it was until the day he got himself suctioned in a freak accident. But it beats being a detective. Fuck!

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