Humid as fuck. It was humid as fuck. “It’s like being at the bottom of the ocean out there.” Not really a fair comparison. Because: “No, it’d be cold at the bottom of the ocean. It’s more like being at the bottom of a swamp in Louisiana.” Nobody wanted to suffer the fat, flushed, mug’s hyperbole any more than they wanted to suffer the 200% humidity.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God. Shut the fuck up!!!!!!” Jazz-man swung his metal knucks at his accountant’s big, glistening, baldy forehead. Splat. Crack. Thud. “We’ll get a new books guy, don’t fucking worry about it.” Freshly squeezed vein juice ran red down the grout channels in the tiled floor.

A couple of vapours grabbed the twitcher by the leather loafers and grunted while pulling that mama hog weight out to the dumpster. A couple more bottom rungers bustled in with a grubby mop and an unreasonably soapy bucket of hot bubbles.

Scrub-a-dub-dub.

“Good riddance,” said Jazz-man, while pushing his Bret the Hitman Hart shades up his nose and flush to his blood-craving eye sockets. “Is that reporter bothering senile old Spitball gonna drop her story or what? I'm sick of fucking killing people."

Jazz-man really wasn't, but hey, it was a figure of speech.