"The name's Pachowlski. Karl Pachowlski, PI. The PI doesn't stand for private investigator - it's the number PI. So don't screw with me - I can knock you out with maths and science before your lawyer can say Yahtzee. I meet a lot of dames in this line of work. You could say I was a ladies man. You could say it, but it'd be a lie. I haven't made love to a dame since Princess Di died. Sweet Jesus, every time I see a woman, I just think of the Queen of Hearts and well up inside. And another thing, don't get me started about the taxes. Jeez, I wouldn't mind paying taxes, but it all goes to the Government. Gone are the days when the Mafia and the Church took their cut. And ladies? Sweet manna from heaven! I haven't made love to a dame since Mother Theresa died. Every time I get close to a gal I think of all her charity work in Calcutta and I just break down.

Chicago is a swell town. Not too many pheasants, not too many icebergs, just right for a tough-guy like me. When I was a kid my pop used to tell me: "pop!". That's how he got his name. His real name was Denise - go figure.

So anyways, I was sleeping in this dumpster when I spot Hank. Hank Polanker was a bigshot back in Mill Hill, when the optometrist trade was at it's peak in the fifties. He could fix your eyes faster than you could say Yahtzee! I used to sleep with his wife Janice before she joined the Foreign Legion. Hot Damn! She was a sweet piece of pie. I haven't made love to a dame since Peggy Lee died. Every time I get naked with a lady I think of old Peggy singing the "Alleycat Song" and my libido goes to Siam. It ain't easy being Mr Pachowlski, I can tell you that in an hour.

So anyways, me and Hank get chatting about the old times, and he tells me that Bisto Jenkins is in town. Now me and Bisto go way back. We used to run cattle out of Tescos in the forties. Back then Hendon was more than just a police training centre and I was quite a hit with the girls of North West London. Of course nowdays it's different. I haven't made love to a woman since Florence Nightingale died. Sweet Crawford! Nobody could hold a candle to Florence - she was made of wax and would get terrified.

So anyways, Bisto Jenkins was a big fat mobster. He blamed it on his glands, but he didn't get the nickname Buffalo Wings by sewing wings onto buffalos. Back in Capetown in the twenties me and Bisto used to be hermaphrodites, but transgender dysmorphia fell out of fashion and we ended up as small-time crooks. We were very small-time. We'd only work Sundays, robbing churches and erroneous synagogues. We made an honest living, but robbery was never for me, it played havoc with my sciatica.

So anyways, it turns out Bisto is now married to my ex-wife Martha and is living in the flat above me. Turns out he's been living there for twenty-five years and married the ex-missus back in the seventies with Ray Parlour was running Whitehall. So, me and Bisto hit the town and quicker than you can say Yahtzee, there are dames all over him, begging for some kind of carnal resolution.

Don't talk to me about women...