This one's going to be fucking short because I got a murder investigation to deal with...

If any cops are reading this, you better listen closely, because I'm only going to say this once...

So, put down the fucking bear claws and pay attention.

Word on the street is that you think I offed Ronnie "The Weasel" McGill.

Well, let me make one thing perfectly fucking clear: I didn't kill the bastard.

Sure, he was my pimp and I hated his fucking guts, but that doesn't mean I bashed his skull in with a tire iron, buried the tire iron in a shallow grave out back behind the dumpsters, realized I was being filmed by a security camera, broke into the security office to destroy the footage, only to find out that the night watchman, Billy Bob, had already seen the video, so I had to tie him up, dress him in a latex gimp suit, and lock him in the trunk of a 1987 Ford LTD that I then had to hotwire and drive into a quarry, where I then had to set the car on fire to destroy the evidence, but not before I remembered that the trunk was lined with asbestos so I had to fish Billy Bob out, shoot him in the head, and then weigh his body down with cinderblocks and toss him into the quarry too, and then I had to hitch a ride back to the truck stop with a one-armed drifter named Skeeter, who I then had to kill because he started asking too many questions, and then I had to bury his body next to the tire iron, and then I had to burn my clothes and take a three-hour shower to wash the blood and stench of death off my body.

Just because I hated him and wanted him dead doesn't mean I actually killed him.

For those of you who don't know, Ronnie was the scum that floated to the top of the Glory Hole Circuit.

He was a real piece of shit, always taking more than his cut and treating me like I was just another hole to be filled.

We had our differences, sure, but I'm not the type to go around murdering people.

No, sir, not me.

It's the same mix-up that I got into with that hitchhiker back in '92, the one with the lazy eye and the "I ♥ Hanson" tattoo.

I definitely didn't pick him up on the side of the highway, drive him to a secluded rest stop, and then strangle him with my bare hands because he wouldn't stop singing "MMMBop" off-key.

And I certainly didn't stuff his body into a 55-gallon drum, fill it with quicklime, and then roll it into a ravine in the middle of nowhere.

And even if I had done that (which I didn't), it's not like I would've gone back to that ravine a week later to check on the body, only to find a bunch of drunk teenagers using the drum as a makeshift piñata.

And it's not like I would've had to chase those teenagers through the woods, pick them off one by one with a crossbow, and then bury their bodies in shallow graves that I then covered with a layer of pine needles and squirrel carcasses to throw off the scent from the cadaver dogs.

And it's definitely not like one of those teenagers would've turned out to be the mayor's nephew, which would've meant I had to break into City Hall in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a Richard Nixon mask and a pair of fishnet stockings, to steal the coroner's report and replace it with a forged one that said the kid died of autoerotic asphyxiation while jerking off to a picture of ALF...

MY POINT IS... You're sniffing up the wrong ass crack.

The night Ronnie got his brains scrambled, I was taking care of a very important client.

I was in my favorite stall, the one with the leaky toilet and the hole that's just the right height, doing what I do best.

And if you don't believe me, just check the fucking security cameras.

I'm sure you'll get an eyeful.

Your pal,

Clay