Big Shot

I am the Big Shot
You heard me right the first time. Name of batchelor Johnny Cool.
Occupation: Big Shot. Occupation at the moment: just having fun.
What a party that was — the drinks were loaded and so were the dolls
I narrowed my eyes and poured a stiff Manhattan. Then I saw… Hotsie.
What a dame. A big, bountiful babe in the region of 48−23−38. One hell of a
region. She had the hottest lips since Hiroshima: I had to stand back for fear
of being burned. Whiskey wow wow. I breathed. She was dressed as before the bed.
In that kind of outfit she could get rolled at night… and I don’t mean on a
crap table
It’s kind of revealing, isn’t it? Revealing? It’s positively risqu — I like it.
She said: «You're a man with a thousand Gs, right?»
«A thousand what?» I quipped. «G-men, girls, guns, guts.»
«You're my type.»
«Wrong, baby» I slapped her hard. «I'm a `L' man: strictly liquor,
love and laughs.»
She stared over my shoulder: «Play it cool, Johnny.» Play it what? I flipped.
«Listen, I fought my way up from tough East Side New York. Lead-filled saps
and sub-machine guns, like this.»
She said: «Johnny, this is a deadly game, have a few laughs and go home.
«I shuddered. Normally I pack a rod in pyjamas — I carry nothing but scars
from Normandy beach. I said «Wrong, baby, you can’t fool me.» She spat
playfully. «I'm ahead of you, Johnny.» I studied the swell of her enormous
boobs and said: «Baby, you’re so far ahead it’s beautiful.»
«You, you are, you are eccentric, I like that.»
«Electric cheri, bounce off my rocket, tout comprende?» We spoke French
fluently. Our lips met again and again. «Yeah, yeah yeah» I slobbered.
Hotsie said: «You're slobbering all over the seat, kid.»
I went home late. Very late. What could I say to m