I Got a Proposition For You...

Psst…You there. Yeah, you…Can I talk to you about something? Where you from? Soho? St. Louis? Huh? Chicago? Oh, Jesus. I thought you looked like there was something wrong with you. Just kidding, my friend. Chicago is a great town. Great town. Boy, I could tell you some stories. 

But I won’t. I’m not here to tell stories, my friend. And I ain’t here to dance with you in the candlelight and sip champagne, either. No I am not. I’m here to get to the nitty gritty, the old brass tax, as they say. Are you passionate, my boy? Have you a spine? I ask you this, because I can already tell that you don’t look dumb. You don’t look like you just fell off of the turnip truck. I can tell that about you. I can just tell. But I cannot get a read on whether you can take the physical toll of what I am talking about.

Are you masculine enough? Or are you a Nancy? A Lola? A Sissypants? Are you? If you are, stop wasting my time right now. I don’t have time to get all muddled up in a deal with some Petunia who ain’t got the stones, you know? If you ain’t got the guts, there’s the door. This is my last shot, my friend, I have done it all, I’ve kissed the girls in France, I’ve run with the bulls in Spain, I’ve gotten drunk at the Vatican and given a cardinal a knee to the groin. This is the only thing I have left to do. And I need your help.

Are you in, or are you out?