Vice. It’s what this city was built on. Time was when the broken-tailed and the bow-legged could scavenge where they pleased; nowadays there’re shaven-buttocked bitches roaming courtyards, turning tricks in exchange for a mouthful of chow. All the while high rollers in handbags dangle bejewelled paws over titanium clasps, keeping a beady eye on their investments. It’s all about class, breeding, domination.
But hell, trouble’s what keeps a mutt like me in business. I find the runaways, meaning I’m out here seven nights a week, sniffing every crotch and scenting every lamppost just to scrounge a lick of information about old Mr Winkleman cos he owes some anxious pup one lousy bone, but hey, business is business. And I’ll tell you this friend: it aint hardly never that the Winkleman’s of this world have got smart enough to say adios and skip town. No. Because when you owe, and one way and another we all owe, then they’ve got you. And believe me, it’s a short leash.
So sure, I find whoever’s missing. And if that means they'll wind up stone cold and stinking out a skip, then so be it. At the rate we’re burning ourselves up, pretty soon, there aint gonna be nothing left. It’s been so long coming that I won’t even be sad. I’ll just sit me down by the old poplar tree and howl at the moon, and go right on howling till it howls back goodnight.
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