When last we saw our friend Fat Freddie he had been dumped on the sidewalk in front of a Southside pool hall after having his brain fried by Big Daddy Malone's rendition of "The Big Rock Candy Mountain". After spending a couple of hours staring blankly into space while lying in a pile of garbage, he was found by a passing pair of Salvation Army Santa Clauses who somehow managed to get him to his feet and waddling toward the Army's Shelter where he was told he must eat thin potato soup or face dire consequences. I'll tell ya, It was simply heartbreaking to see the once mighty Miami Mob Musclechimp reduced to taking orders from reformed winos and hookers. After an hour or so of abuse during which Freddie was incapable of giving them as much as his name, he was deposited in a bunk in a dormitory room shared with about a dozen other smelly, snoring, farting reprobates of various species.

Now, the reader is probably asking himself (and I use the masculine term intentionally because women are generally far too intelligent to be reading this crap), "Is this the end? Is it all over for Fat Freddie? Will he ever remember who he is? And what about Tiny Tim? Will Bob Cratchett be able to afford his operation now that the Scrooge and Marley have blown all their profits buying shoes for orphans and have had to file for Chapter 13 bankruptcy protection?"

Nah! It ain't over 'til I say it's over and I say, "It ain't over." But, having a huge Chimp with a wiped out brain - a tabula rassa, if you will - opens up all kinds of possibilities, doesn't it? Gawd! What a cliche! The opportunities for contrivances on a level that would make James Fenimore Cooper cringe simply abound! But, enough of this! Back to the story!

When Fat Freddie awoke the next morning he was dragged into the mess hall where he was served a breakfast of the leftovers from last night's thin potato soup thinned down even further. As he sat at the mess hall table staring at the watery soup, a Capuchin at his right-hand side began to chatter and jabber about nothing in particular. (This was not at all unusual, a Capuchin's normal state of mind being about on a par with that of a human who has just snorted $500.00 worth of cocaine.)

"Hey, Buddy. Haven't seen you here before. You new in town? How they treatin' ya? You sure are a big guy. Ya need anything? I got connections. Man, you're huge. There's folks that'd pay good money t' have someone yer size aroun' justa scare people. I got friends. Yeah. Lissen, there's this private dick guy that throws some work my way every now an' then. Ya know. Us Capuchins are small an' can go places you chimps can't. Know what I mean? Takin' pitchers through third story windows and that kinda stuff. Decent guy. You'd like 'im. Chimp like you, only not so damned huge. Goes by th' name of Chongo."

At the mention of Chongo's name a very, very, teeny, tiny, itsy, bitsy bell rang way back in the deepest recesses of Fat Freddie's brain. The fog that had been completely covering his eyes became, maybe, two percent less dense and impenetrable and he spoke the first word he had spoken since being released from Big Daddy's shoeshine chair. "Chongo."



(Boy! Is this a great place to stop for Christmas break or what? The suspense! The excitement! The utter BS of it all! Gotta go wrap presents. Goin' outta town fer a few. Probably be back by Saturday. Merry or Happy Christmas depending on how you like to say it wherever you are.)