I am in Chicago now.

Chick-ah-go mang. Joe helped me around the el lines. I met Anan and then went to sleep.

Hanging out with Joe means lots of repeated jokes. And usually they're drawn from the strangest shit. Here's my example: he tells me he has two jokes from the movie Silence of the Lambs, that old minefield of comedy, that he likes to repeat. Apparently he and Sarah McCormick developed these at Brian's wedding. 1. Dr. Lecter. Dr. Lecter. Dr. Lecter. and 2. Buffalo Bill (that's Monk's Ted Levine) mock-screaming at the woman in the well. Except she's really screaming, and he sounds like a fat Mike Blocksidge.

Now I have nothing to do all day. Joe's at work, Anan's at work, the Stortis are driving up from Normal later, Beard and Aaron (and Stew?) haven't arrived. That leaves...Mikey. Mikey.

I'm going to write a noir story about Mikey right now.

The smell was awful. Like the bastard didn't know how to clean a plate, let alone an apartment. It wasn't much of an apartment, either. More like a home for ugly stuffed animals.
So what was I doing there? The usual. Some idiot gambles over his head, thinks he can lay low for a while. Thinks he can disappear. You can't lay low from me. You can't disappear from me.
"You can't disappear from me," I called out. No answer. The place reeked, pizza boxes piled in the corner. You couldn't see the floor. I felt bad for the schmuck. But he owed Sad Tony money, and Sad Tony was gonna collect. Me? I'm just the messenger. Bag. They call me Beardo, BJ if ya nasty. Nasty like this guy's apartment. I wanted to get the hell out of there. Dude didn't seem to be home.
I was just leaving a little note in the kitchen when I heard the noise. I'd already smashed a couple windows and figured it was ringing in my ears when I heard it again. A tiny, gay whisper: "Bomb down."
"Is that you, singer man?" I reached for my piece, made especially for me by a GUNSMITH.
Before I can blink, the bum is on top of me. There's this huge flash like he threw the sun at me, then he's standing there, pointing some kind of big bazooka my way. I barely had time to get scared. Cat was on me like he'd practiced it for years.
"You son of a--"
He pursed his lips. For a second I thought I was getting offed by Marilyn Monroe. As he pulled the trigger he nodded a little. "Headshot."