Slimy Seamus

I have to admit that this was not a genre I was all too familiar with. I prefer less grit and more poision. I grew up on Agatha Christie, stop looking at me like that!

The last time I'd seen Seamus McGillicutty-- alive, that is-- he was hanging all over some red-headed dame-- a cheap, little floozy down at the speakeasy-- like a hungry dog on a gnarled up bone, reeking of gin, mothballs, and cigars and laughing like a hiccuping hyena and even then he looked a sight better-- smelled a bit better, too-- than he did now as I identified what little was left of his body after he'd been partially shoved through a wood chipper.