Weather's turnin' cold in Chicago. Yes, sir, it is. Makes some men want to drop out, disappear, curl up with a good book and sink away into Blankettown.
Not this man, though. This man's got a bone to pick. A score to settle. This man was born more fighter than coward, more devil than angel, more lounge singer than elementary school librarian.
This man went for a walk.
Wound up in a place called "Satan's Cackle Shack." Don't know what the hell that's all about. But it was hot. Hot as Hades. Empty, too, 'cept for a cacklin' skeleton. So I wandered in. Took the mic. Started tellin' jokes. Soon, a few other lost souls found their way through the half-door. Lent me their ears. Skeleton kept right on cacklin'. Soon enough, people did, too. Lifted my spirits, I'll tell you that much.
Think I'll stay a while. A man could get used to a place like this.
You stop in, too, all right?
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