Princess: Princess...Pees like a Princess – P.I. That's what the shingle in front of my office says. If you're trying to make a living as a detective , all you can do is sit on your own luck and wait for someone else's to change...and deep in the heart of Edwardsville, that happens quicker than lager turns to piss. In this shanty town, if you had to eat morals, you'd be bone rattle starved in two days. It was about 6:30 on a Wednesday night, and it was cold enough to freeze the balls of a brass monkey. Icy drafts whistled through the cracks around the windows, and the gritty stench of burning crude oil filled my room. There was a sharp rap on the door, and it swung open. A curvy dame flowed into my office and sat down in the chair in front of my desk, crossing her graceful legs. Her hair was the color of the tip of the flame over the refineries across town, and she looked me straight in the eye.
Nurse: Are you Mr. Princess?
Princess: Depends on who's askin.
Nurse: I'm asking. My name's Nurse Hashshit.
(Shakes his hand)
Princess (mumbles): Nurse, huh? Suddenly I don't feel so good.
Nurse: Let's get down to brass tacks, Mr. Princess. I want to you to do me a favor. I need you to retrieve something—something very dear to me. I'm prepared to offer you compensation.
Princess: You need a redcap.
Nurse: I need a gumshoe. I need you, Mr. Princess. A cooler of beer has recently gone missing from my estate—good beer, shitty beer, but it was my beer and a lot of it, and I want it back. Will you take the case? You're looking for a young gang of miscreant females. They call themselves the Harriettes.
(Dramatic Musical Interlude)
Princess: The Harriettes. I had heard of this ragtag band of gang molls and knew this would be no walk in the park. I soon found myself in an alley nestled between ominously stained industrial warehouses with the enchanting Ms. Hashshit. I spotted an empty wine bottle resting on the asphalt and knew that could mean only one thing. ViperSnatch. She was back. I glanced around nervously, looking for those steely baby blues. A big-wig in the Harriettes, she was as beautiful and dangerous as a closet full of tigers. This is where I would find them. I spotted her sipping daintily from a second bottle amongst a motley crew of indigents and ruffians, Janes, Harriettes, and drugstore cowboys circled around a tall man with a voice as smooth as liver in a pail of glycerine. I collared a sassily-coiffed Bama Mate.
Princess: Who are you working for these days?
Bama: Jeez mister, easy on the moichendise.
Princess: You heard me. I want answers. I'm looking for the big fish. Don't play dumb with me. WHERE'S THE BEER?
Bama: Ask her yourself. (gestures to a coyly smiling brunette)
Dewey Sexual System--the deceptively sweet-looking mob boss of the Harriettes...she was a bearcat, allright.
Princess: The jig is up, Dewey! Hand over the beer!
Dewey: Mehhhh...see...you've got me all wrong, see? CHEESE IT! IT'S THE FEDS!
Suddenly, Dewey darted away, followed by her loyal Harriette flunkies. A foot chase ensued, and I fell in with the rival gang, the Hashers, sprinting along the pavement in hot pursuit of the dames, hoping that this would lead us to the filched booze.
Meta Arsehole: Don't take any wooden nickels, boys! These tomatoes are no Mrs. Grundies!
Gspot pushed Halley's Comet down onto the pavement and swiped his flashlight, but the lamp was as useless as tits on a boar hog, and she was soon overtaken. Just Lauren, a loose cannon, got into a cat fight with What the F*ck is Your Name and Just Lara, two of her own, battling for the affection of Lock Nut Monster, so they got a wiggle on and headed for the hills. We ran for blocks and blocks. Just as the Hashers and I began to gain some ground, gang enforcers Keyless Entry and Strap On Strap Off tackled some of the tough guys in front, Hollateral Damage and Whiney B*tch. They were down for the count, but we continued on until we finally dogged the panting Harriettes into a smoky backyard speakeasy. Just Andria's Juice Joint. The ground was scattered with dead soldiers and cigarette butts.
Dewey: Welcome, fellas.
Dewey sauntered over and handed me a beer. I glanced at Nurse Hashshit, who was engaged in conversation with several of the gang molls, drinking a beer herself.
Dewey: Let's call this one even, whadaya say?
I nodded assent and joined in the bull session with Mama's AssPorn, 2 F*ck Canuck, and Just Doug. Pretty soon, we hoofed it back to the start of the chase where there was more beer. Twenty-five time repeat offender I Cunt Hear You was bound and gagged by CliffBangHer.
Just Amber: Did she win!?
Casualties from the raucous chase were honored. After hours of boozing, carousing, singing, peeing from lamp posts, and other general debauchery, we staggered over to another lousy gin joint for some grub and further liquid refreshment. Burning Asshole recognized our lovely waitress.
BA: Say...aren't you the broad that dated Ricky's Crabshack?
AnyCock'llDo: Yeah...but it was only once and it was 19 years ago.
It was at this point in the evening where things get fuzzy...and when I say fuzzy, I mean we got canned, corked, tanked, primed, scrooched, jazzed, zozzled, plastered, owled, embalmed, lit, potted, ossified, fried to the hat. But that's a story for another time. All in all, it was just another pavement pounding, hard-boiled-50's-detective-crime-solving, gorgeous-virgined, shitty trail.
Plot My (mehhhh...see?) G-Spot