Pimp Chimp.

I swear. You’d think I’d seen it all, right? Think I’d seen the worst they can come up with.

It's a family business, apparently.

Then I find out that the biggest pimp in the city has his mother helping him run the business. Sick.

“Shoulda stuck with what you knew, Harry,” I say, while calling for backup, “shouldn’ta gotten mixed up in bank robbery.”

He mutters something about how he’d get me if he could get out of this damn hole. Which I thought was hilarious. I just can’t take threats from a monkey in a electric purple hat with leopard band seriously. Especially one waist-deep in mud.

Hold up, says the old bag, who for all I could see could just as easily be a dude in a wig, Ah gots sumthin to say to yew.

“Are you gonna say it in that voice? Cause if so, lady, I might just have to book you for assaulting an officer.”

If we got 100 bill wit the face of Grant, 200 wit Franklin, 400 wit Jackson, and then there’s Hamilton on 500, then how much money we got here, huh?

Whatsa matta witchoo, lady? You the bridgekeeper or sumthin? Max guffaws, openly ogling the cash.

“Gee, I dunno,” I say over him, “Enough to get you two twenty years each?”

I wuz thinkin more enough to grease the wallet of a too-slick-for-his-own-good fox sos he’ll put down the phone easy like, she grunts, still doing that ridiculous traffic-cop ‘STOP’ pose.

“Here’s a better answer: Enough so that a fox can grease his own wallet off the top and the boys in evidence either won’t notice or won’t care.” They finally pick up on the other end. “Yeah, dispatch? Yeah, Shirley, it’s me. You’ll never guess who I just picked up. Nope… his momma.”

I’m gonna kill you, copper! mutters Harry.

Shaddup! hisses the old bag.

Yes momma.

The Final Word.

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