Titus Pullo here; I am filing my first report from the Casa del Whackos. Mom got the story half right, I AM a redneck dog, born and raised in a trailer park in southwest Little Rock, a true “09er”, meaning from the zip code 72209. This area has been infamous for years as the home of rattle-canned pick-up trucks blaring “Freebird” from rattle-y Radio Shack cassette players, but recently been repopulated with the influx of Hispanic families.
What does this have to do with me? Well, while spending my days bored to tears trapped in my old single wide mobile home while my previous mom roasted her brain cells on the stove of daytime television, I spent some time on the interweb studying for first my GED, and then my PI license, as there are very few legitimate jobs in this part of the city. Sure, with my imposing prescence I could find gainful employment as a repo dog or bounty hunter, but to tell the truth, I just don’t have it in me to thrive off of the misfortunes of others.
So private investigator it was. One of my first clients was a family that had recently moved into the area from down south in search of their missing son, Bull Taco. His last known address was the place known as the Casa, but after a few pesos had made it south of the border, all communication had ceased. They had since sent another operative in to see what could be discovered, a family member who proved to be quite ineffective as a PI, as he likes to spend all of his time under the covers instead of undercover. A short time after entering the Casa, all correspondence from him had ceased as well.
So, they instead put me on retainer. As I’m a hardened dog of the streets and not easily swayed by bribes of ear rubbin’s and snacks, I would be more suitable to infiltrate the Casa and determine what had happened to Bull Taco and his stash of Sinaloa’s finest as well as why Marco Polo also had disappeared from the radar screen. Were they in cahoots, setting up their own cartel in central Arkansas?
As you know, that’s not the case. After burrowing my way into mom’s good graces, the other inmates told me the story of Bull Taco’s demise at the jaws of rival gang bangers. It seems that Bull had decided to turn from his life of crime and, as you know, certain nefarious types hate to see anyone rise above their circumstance. And course, there’s that whole issue of what information that Bull Taco might be willing to divulge in the case that a plea deal might need to be discussed with the DEA.
So. Bull turned from his previous identity as El Zurdo and ultimately paid with his life. Marco Polo had infiltrated the Casa, but instead of gathering information as he had been paid to do by la familia, he instead fallen prey to the siren song of soft covers and turned from a CI, confidential informant, to a PO, as in Pee On everthing. With both cases resolved, it was time to extricate myself from the Casa and prepare for my next case.
Or was it?
I must admit, life at the Casa suits me a good sight better than my existence back at Ye Olde Chateau de Trailer Park. I’ve developed a weird bond with the one they call Charlie Bravo, engaging in the very un-queenlike behaviour of bitey-mouth at a moment’s notice. Ajax and Claire tend to stay out of our way during these skirmishes, while Marco suffers from dain bramage as a result of oxygen deprivation from cramming himself under cover and between dad’s legs, so he is obviously not s threat.
I may have to stay here for a bit longer, you know, to report back to the family occasionaly. Or maybe, it’s to good of a gig to pass up, as it’s obvious that I’ve got mom all twitterpated and doing my bidding… I could get used to this.
We’ll have to see how this one works out.
Happy Charlie Bravo Day!