Deck had puked in several places in his life, but he couldn't remember every lying in it for so long before. "This fucking stinks," he thought and said, at the same time, with little rancid bubbles coming out of the side of his mouth. The words echoed in the trunk of that limo and in his bulging forehead for what seemed like eternity.

He'd just about passed out from the smell when the car made a quick 180 into what sounded like a gravel road. When the brakes came on and he was tossed into the spare tire, he heard the voices up front saying, "Yeah, this is it."

Deck barely had the presence of mind to stow the CD in the limo's other wheel well. He could only hope the smell of partially recycled JTS Brown in the trunk would keep the dagos from looking there.

Two large Italian greasers opened up the trunk and hauled him out, hitting his head on the bumper. He bit the ankle of the lesser of two evils. It didn't even register in the goomba brain of his target. They hauled him into an old warehouse and strapped him into a chair with several rounds of duct tape and barbed wire.

When the lights came on, he looked up to see a guy that looked like a weird version of Boomer Esiason breathing right in his face with the smell of garlic and death. "You 'da one what's got 'da CD with the boss's stuff on it, ain't 'ya?"

Deck raised his blistered head and murmured, "All I've got is a video of your momma and the mule, asswipe."

The goon just laughed at him and said, "Listen to me, you dick lick. You're walkin' outta here on stumps or you're not walkin' out at all. You ain't got no cards t' play. Now, my boss is in Federal Court right now, gettin' sent up for what they know. What they don't know is what you know. Now gimme that CD or tell me where it is, or you ain't gonna be smokin' notin' but the fire in hell, mothafucker."

Deck was crazy, but he wasn't stupid. He understood now that the game was at an end. His patron, Kim Li, had been caught doing the least of what was on that CD. If the Feds got their hands on the real dirt, he'd be frying like a convict in Dubya-land.

"Listen, ol' sport," he said, "that CD is safe with me. It's in the hands of my trusty assistant, a guy by the name of Sneaky Petey Wilson. Ring a bell?"

Murmurs went thru the gang of thugs. They knew Sneaky Pete alright. In fact, Petey had been the one who'd deflowered the virgin sister of the goomba that was about to kneecap Deck. And he'd done it while the goomba was looking right at the two of them together. He didn't see a thing, except the trickle of blood and Petey's sly grin. Damnedest thing he'd ever seen. So he was all ears while Deck spent the rest of his breath with this:

"I'll make damn sure that Petey keeps that to himself. IF you give me a plane ticket to the Bahamas and whatever I need to be comfortable there. I'm talking about money, you dumbass. Get that quizzical look off your face. Guitas? Samolians? What kind of fuckin' language does cash make sense to you in?"

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