Who Unkilled Johnny Murder?
As I run through the French Quarter of New Orleans in the rain, chased by a dead man, I wonder where the hell my supposed long-lost half-brother the supposed pulp hero disappeared to with my gun.
Johnny Murder gains on me, of course, because I weigh almost three hundred pounds naked...which I am...and the next thing I know, I’m being tackled to the sidewalk by Mr. Dead Guy, who seems pretty alive to me.
I feel the barrel of his gun press against the back of my head, and I know I’m going to have to fight or die. I’ve got the bulk to throw this asshole off me...but can I do it before he plants a bullet in my brain?
“You figured it out,” says Johnny, breathing hard from his run. “Now here’s your reward, smart guy.”
I gather myself up to make one last move. I’ve got the body of a sumo; now’s the time to use it.
I’m not ready to be dead yet...though Johnny here didn’t let it keep him down. At least, that’s what Queen Elizabitch and most of the other members of the French Quarter Open Air Artists and Psychics Association thought when this whole mess started.
I’ll admit, when I first got the word about Johnny coming back, I thought it was a big rip of swamp gas. I never figured that a week later, I’d end up with the man himself poking a gun in the fat rolls on the back of my neck. Not quite the man himself, I should say.