Alright, so let me get this straight, says Mr. Sphinx.

My boss has on a fuzzy, violent bathrobe, a pair of matching slippers, and nothing else.

If you saw him, you might think that he just rolled on a bed to deal with us, but this

was what he always wears.

Anyone who worked for him knows catching a glimpse of those wrinkled old man globes hanging

between his legs is just a hazard of the job.

So he's a homicidal maniac, that's a hazard too.

Untied up in an office so gaudy, it looks like the interior decorator shoved the live grenade

up Princess Ass and called it a day.

Bound to a chair on the other side of the Mahogany conference table between us is my friend

Ty.

He hacks and snorts, conjuring as much flamm as he can from the back of his throat, then

spits a wad directly at my face.

We're not on the best of terms at the moment.

The Lougey catches my chin and troubles down my shirt.

He grimaces at me through a pair of hateful eyes.

One of them is black and swollen, he's been roughed up pretty good.

They both have.

I wonder which one of us looks worse.

We're in the basement of Sphinx's underground casino.

I've only been down to this level a couple of times, but it always makes me uneasy.

Usually I'm upstairs working as a car dealer.

...