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No, you shouldn't be surprised to see me here.  I know you didn't want to get me involved, but it's my fight, too.

Over the last several weeks I could tell something was up.  Your sudden chain-smoking, not diluting your vodka, and all those phone calls from "Mr. Simpson".  Last week, I picked up the other extension.  I had to know; I didn't care how dangerous it was.

When you slipped away last night while I was helping Mom clean up the dishes, I knew that whatever was going to happen would happen that night.  But I know these streets, too.  I made some excuse about going to the library and ran out along Portugal Street.  God knows what she though I was really going to do.

But no, it was down Portugal and then down Ellwood to the square.

You shouldn't have taken me along before when you dropped that package off behind Frawley's. Sure enough, there was your truck behind the saloon, while you and your buddies were in there having a cold one.  Unlocking the door -- You forgot I had a key to the back, didn't you?   I had to know!

Those wooden crates told me what I needed to know.   I wanted to go inside the saloon, make sure you knew I knew and that I wanted to be a part of it.  But then I heard someone come out the saloon's back door!  I rolled the door shut, quick.

You were all three sheets to the wind; you thought you'd forgotten to lock the back!  When the truck pulled away, there was no going back for me.

Ok, you know me, there was no going back the moment I begged off having to do the dishes.  A first I thought it was going to be a short ride, but after several hours I had to lay down on to of a crate and go to sleep.

I awoke to the sight of Mr. Simpson's trained monkey here pointing a MAC-10 in my face and saying "OK Kid, you'se in deep shit."

So now, here we are.  Now, Mr. Simpson's going to have to decide whether to plug me or let me join.

And tell the trained monkey that if he's going to keep poking that barrel in my back, he should scratch higher.

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