Client Wurst ((exclusive)) -

I’d been a private investigator for twelve years, but I’d never had a client like Wurst.

“You’ve been curious,” he said. His voice was soft, like someone who’d swallowed gravel and then honey. “That’s fine. But curiosity spoiled the sausage. Stop looking into me, or the next casing you find yourself in won’t be made of hog intestine.” client wurst

The first time I tracked him, I nearly lost him in a crowd at Maxwell Street Market. He was average height, forgettable face, dressed in a faded Cubs hoodie. What made him stand out was what he carried: a vintage leather briefcase with a thermometer sticking out of the side. He walked like a man who knew every pressure plate and security camera within a mile. I’d been a private investigator for twelve years,

I laughed. Then I found a note tucked under my windshield wiper that night. It read: “You use Folgers crystals. You pretend to like IPAs. Your mother thinks you’re a real estate agent.” “That’s fine

Wurst wasn’t a criminal, exactly. He was a saboteur of culinary reputations .

His first case for me: “Find out who’s putting sawdust in the artisanal bratwurst at Schmidt’s Old World Meats.” Three weeks of dumpster-diving behind gourmet delis, tracing spice shipments, and interviewing disgruntled butchers. The culprit was Schmidt’s own nephew, cutting costs. Wurst paid me in cash, plus a jar of his homemade mustard that made my eyes water and my soul ascend.

He paid me in uncut amethysts that time. I haven’t heard from him since.