The moll seated in front of me had an angle. She knew it and I knew it. I didn’t know if she knew that I knew it, but she probably did. She seemed sharp, the sort of sharp that pierces lungs and various other organs.
My name is Maxwell Flint, man of hard letters, and I need my lungs.
“Where were we?” she asked.
“Well, Alice,” I said, owing to the fact that she claimed that “Alice” was her name. “You were about to unfurl upon me your improbable tale.”
She smiled. “My story is indeed improbable. Were it probable, we would not be speaking. Only something as improbable as this would require the aid of someone like you, Maxwell Flint.” She proceeded to spin a web of gossamer bullshit, so cripplingly ludicrous that I could not help but think that it had to be on the level, for no one would dream of daring to attempt pulling off a con this insane.
It is with a head hung low with shame that I report that I cannot, at this juncture, tell you the story that she told me. Certainly, as a hard man of letters, as a man who sweats journalism through his ink-soaked pores, I can smell the irony of keeping silent on the details of the very tale upon which this narrative hangs. All I can do is ask you to trust Maxwell Flint. I am reasonably certain that I know what I am doing.
After she finished selling me on her fish story, we went back to her apartment and had sex. I report this not with any particular pride, for, as I think I implied earlier, when this woman was a small child, God whapped her with the proverbial ugly stick. And it must be said that neither of our carnal performances were anything worth writing operas about. This was, to be frank, ugly rutting between ugly people. I record this moderately shameful encounter only out of dedication to the ideal of thorough accounting of all relevant events, as required by the ethical code of my chosen trade.