“If
I tell you this,” I said quietly, “it could be bad for you.”
“Bad how?”
“It could force you to keep secrets that people would kill you for
knowing. It could change the way you
think and feel. It could really screw up
your life.”
“Screw
up my life?” He stared at me for a
second and then said, deadpan, “I’m a five-foot-three, thirty-seven-year-old,
single, Jewish medical examiner who needs to pick up his lederhosen from the
dry cleaners so that he can play in a one-man polka band at Oktoberfest
tomorrow.” He pushed up his glasses with
his forefinger, folded his arms, and said, “Do your worst.”
(from Dead Beat by Jim Butcher)
.
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