Deck left the Kinko's with oil stain on his right hand where he had pimp-slapped the kid on his way out the door. He'd also gifted the youngster with a USB plug-in where it hurt him the worst.

The more Deck thought about all of this, the cloudier the picture became in his mind. One thing was as clear as that puntured kid's face would be in about 15 years, however:

Kim Li was not the innocent little kid with a shy grin on his face. No, Kim Li was a John Hinckley wannabe murderer who had offed some damn big names in order to impress Ute Lemper. He had done all of this to get the attention of some drag queen that no one on earth even knew existed? What was up with that? Hell, at least Hinckley had his eye on Jodie Foster when he almost shot his own balls off trying to hit the Gipper.

The CD told the story of how Johnny Versace had bought the farm. Kim Li whacked him while wearing nothing but a leopard skin g-string, a blonde Fabio wig and a dangling condom.

Sonny Bono? Kim Li had skied past him and sprayed a whole bottle of Cher's Unihibited perfume right in his beady little eyes, as Kim sang the chorus of "I Got You, Babe." Sonny hit the tree within seconds, and Kim Li seemed happy to report that you could still smell the stench of that slut's product on that ski trail even today. Several dead rabbits could show you the way to the tree, if you cared to find it.

John Denver? Kim had sought poetic justice here and used a high-powered slingshot to nail him with a huge rock from a mountain high while poofy boy was in mid-air in his little homemade plane.

John Kennedy, Jr.? There were four people in that plane before it nose dived. Kim went out the back, D.B. Cooper-style, with a signed photo from the other three. It read, "Great having you with us tonit. . .ARGGGHHH!"

And more than that, it was a family tradition. Deck hadn't bothered to read all the way back, but in the earlier stuff it was Kim Li's dad who'd done the wet work. Deck half expected to find the answer to half the FBI's unsolved files on that one shiny gold CD. But did he dare look?

The CD was some kind of underworld advertisement for an exclusive, and expensive, hit service. The diaries were Kim Li's more personal adventures -- he'd been born to a life of broads, booze and celebrity blowjobs from the look of things. Satan's blue balls! Deck wished he'd gotten some of that action.

The only reason Deck could think that Kim Li had pawned this thing onto him was that the federales were about to be on him like Divine Brown on Hugh Grant's stiff upper lip. Some big job must have gone wrong, very wrong, and Kim Li was shedding heat like the radiator of his Chevy Nova on a summer day.

Yes, Deck thought, as he put out two of the three Luckies he was smoking at once, this little bastard had played him for a patsy. Nobody does that to Deck Coffield; not at least without ponying up some serious guidas.

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