“Unfortunately, let us say regrettably, Miss Tricksie, your erm ‘Uncle’s’ accident involved substantial damage, let us say irrecoverable damage, to his, um, upper regions, such that positive identification would be, let us say, dubious, ipso facto impossible, but as the only surviving relative, it is imperative, let us say essential, that you confirm the authenticity of, um, his essense, his, let us say his essential being, thereby standing to inherit certain assets, and fortunately there remains, if you’ll pardon the expression, an avenue of identification which—”

“Yes, yes, it’s him. I’m sure of it.”

“Of course you are, Miss Tricksie, but our clients stipulate that, given your relationship with your uncle, that you—”

“It’s him. I swear it.”

“Of course you do, Miss Tricksie, but as I said, our clients insist that you—”

“Why?”

“You know what they say about the proof of the pudding.”

Pimps would be wise to keep Tabs
On a whore who, when she’s drunk, blabs
To male clients with erections
About her criminal connections,
Lest her clients end up on morgue slabs.

Poem by Ashley
Illustration by Mat