You're Off The Case Chicago Day!
They call you Chicago because you grew up in Chicago, Illinois. A clever bunch, they.
"Chicago," the sergeant said Friday a week ago. "I want you to quit worrying your pretty little head over whatever habits you think the Deputy Mayor might indulge. And don't you go flapping your soft pink lips about it to anyone. You're off the case Chicago."
The sergeant had always been a little too appreciative of what he called, "The Landscape of Startlingly Beautiful Physical Features You All Paint Whenever You Line Up In Formation For me." You suffered it without a peep because you respected his leadership. Until Friday a week ago.
"He's crooked," you said.
"Detective Chicago," said the sergeant. "Am I going to watch you pout? Don't get me wrong. Your pout rivals my own baby daughter's in the grand sport of heart-melting. But cut it out you naughty little tease. It won't make me change my mind. The Deputy Mayor is the Pope as far as you're concerned."
The Deputy Mayor is running an underground sex trade with illegal Chechen ladies. FACT! You just need to prove it. A few more days. That's why you're sitting in the unmarked, across the street from his private club. Its been a two day stakeout so far, and every time someone enters or exits that club, another piece is fitted into the puzzle.
The sergeant is about to pull up beside your car and ask, "What do you think you're doing here Chicago?" Shoot his face.
Happy You're Off The Case Chicago Day!
