From Vermin Street: Life in These Walls...
I sat there on my usual stool, dippin' the bill with the good friend known by many names, from hooch to booze to my own nickname, Al. If you want to get specific, he was Bourbon, the other Mr. B. Another close friend of mine, George the bartender, ensured the fuel’s prompt delivery down my throat any time I asked for it. This was my nightly routine – you might say it’s dreary, boring, monotonous, but between the cloudy darkness of the Soaked Fur Tavern and Saxophone Larry’s struggles with the blues, you’d be surprised the kinds of places Al can take your mind when you’ve had a hard-ass day.
And when you’re me, you have a lot of hard-ass days.
The name’s Cornelius Danger Blackrat. Like Al, rodents, insects and just about any other species in these walls all have different names for me; anything ranging from Mr. B to C.D. to B, including other, viler names I’m unfortunately well aware of. But nonetheless, all the words and letters lead to the same figure: the perpetual itch the criminals can’t scratch, the flea that lingers after the rest of the party has left. I’m a Private Eye, y’see, and a damn good one at that.
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