It’s Monk. John L. Monk to you, kids… Read his book, already!
I was coming home from a night out on the town with Carol Ervin and Lindy Moone. The limo pulled up to the curb outside my little corner of Boardwalk and Park Place where I fell unconscious every night, surrounded by the other top hats and thimbles. When I got out, there was someone there, standing under a light.
I figured it was another executive at Amazon, here to beg an extra week so they could cover my latest royalty check, but it was just some punk kid. A guttersnipe. A rapscallion. A cur. A scamp. A tramp. Just some nipper tyke nestling stumbling and trying to fly before the rats ate him. Yeah.
“Whaddaya want, kid?” I said to the little imp.
“Mr. Monk…words cannot express–” he began.
“Yes they can express, don’t tell me my business,” I said. “So you gonna tell me what you…
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