"If the man is watching you, who is watching the man?"
Quolo, tend your garden. He's definitely out of his depth today. Tasked with finding "investigators" to look into all his future bosses, quolo learned a few things about an industry heretofore unbeknownst to him - the place where retired Feds and bad cops make a living - sanctioned spying.
The Bondlike cloak and dagger honeymoon over after 15 minutes, you gotta wonder who you are really talking to when you always seem to get the President on the first try. Still, quolo goes along blindly with knowledge-sounding questions, just enough, he figures, so they don't know he'd rather be tossing off to gonzo porn or reading Foucault For Beginners.
Elsewhere in quolo's mind, sex drought. Has it really been 4 months? This can't be good for sperm. He flashed back to this past Friday, as he tells it, ass was a mere two-foot putt. And a dandy piece, or so he declaims, some somewhat self-deluded Florida blond with a generous set of cans and just enough waist for taste. Apparently, she was more interested in fucking a persona-dominated slag who thought he was a greaser from another era than our hero, but all certainty was cut short by voicemail.
As quolo left, 5 yards in front of KindOfFloridaTan, checking his voicemail, Mike died of cancer. Cursed Mike. Never a day in the sun Mike. "Fuck this bitch," he thought, "I gotta get drunk." He literally brushed her aside and went to the right, C-cups be damned!
$750-$2500 per person investigated. That's quite a range. It's not quolo's money...or is it. 3 months behind in pay, wait a minute, it is his money. $750 for the domestics, that's cheaper than the other place. It'll do. Quolo has no idea what he's recommending the purchase of, but 1 hour is enough time to spend on talking to the not-quite-retired-yet-still-armed, and there is still an hour left to waste in more stylish fashion.
What have you done in the last ten years? For most of us, there's something, taxes, criminal charges, being a general asshole, to keep you from being quite right to be the man. The man ain't so bad. Somebody's gotta be the man, and most people quolo wants to get hammered with don't want the burden. And there's always this blue collar, not quite right element out there, and nobody quite knows what they know. Even if you ask.
Quolo, tend your garden. He's definitely out of his depth today. Tasked with finding "investigators" to look into all his future bosses, quolo learned a few things about an industry heretofore unbeknownst to him - the place where retired Feds and bad cops make a living - sanctioned spying.
The Bondlike cloak and dagger honeymoon over after 15 minutes, you gotta wonder who you are really talking to when you always seem to get the President on the first try. Still, quolo goes along blindly with knowledge-sounding questions, just enough, he figures, so they don't know he'd rather be tossing off to gonzo porn or reading Foucault For Beginners.
Elsewhere in quolo's mind, sex drought. Has it really been 4 months? This can't be good for sperm. He flashed back to this past Friday, as he tells it, ass was a mere two-foot putt. And a dandy piece, or so he declaims, some somewhat self-deluded Florida blond with a generous set of cans and just enough waist for taste. Apparently, she was more interested in fucking a persona-dominated slag who thought he was a greaser from another era than our hero, but all certainty was cut short by voicemail.
As quolo left, 5 yards in front of KindOfFloridaTan, checking his voicemail, Mike died of cancer. Cursed Mike. Never a day in the sun Mike. "Fuck this bitch," he thought, "I gotta get drunk." He literally brushed her aside and went to the right, C-cups be damned!
$750-$2500 per person investigated. That's quite a range. It's not quolo's money...or is it. 3 months behind in pay, wait a minute, it is his money. $750 for the domestics, that's cheaper than the other place. It'll do. Quolo has no idea what he's recommending the purchase of, but 1 hour is enough time to spend on talking to the not-quite-retired-yet-still-armed, and there is still an hour left to waste in more stylish fashion.
What have you done in the last ten years? For most of us, there's something, taxes, criminal charges, being a general asshole, to keep you from being quite right to be the man. The man ain't so bad. Somebody's gotta be the man, and most people quolo wants to get hammered with don't want the burden. And there's always this blue collar, not quite right element out there, and nobody quite knows what they know. Even if you ask.