I am the Big Shot.
You heard me right the first time, name of bachelor, 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... Hotsy.
What a dame, a big bountiful babe, in the region of 48-23-38. One [bad word] of a region.
She had the hottest lips since Hiroshima. I had to stand back for fear of being burned.
“Whisky-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 [bad word] table.

“It’s kind of revealing, isn’t it?”
“Revealing? It’s positively risqué. I like it.”
She said, “You’re the man of a thousand G’s, right?”
“thousand what?”, I quipped.
“Why, G-man, girls, guns, guts... You’re my type.”
“Wrong, baby!”, I slapped her hard. “I’m an 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 socks 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 [bad word] and said,
“Baby, you’re so far ahead it’s beautiful!”

“You, you are, you’re eccentric. I like that.”
“Electric, Cherie, bug off my rocket, [bad word] ” We spoke French fluently. Our lips met again and again. “Yeah yeah yeah,” I slobbered. Hotsy said, “You’re slobbering all over the seat, kid.” I went home, late. Very late.
What could I say to my wife? “Darling, I’ve been beaten up again”? Let’s face it, she’s credulous as [bad word] 
punk stopped me on the street. He said, "You got a light, mac?” I said, “No, but I’ve got a dark brown overcoat.”