Client Wurst High Quality -

“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.”

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

The moniker was his own. His emails (encrypted, always signed with a cartoon bratwurst wearing a monocle) ended with: “Remember: without casing, there is no sausage.” I assumed it was philosophy. I was wrong. client wurst

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

“The casing is breaking, friend. New enemies. New meats. Stay by the phone.” “You’ve been curious,” he said

So I’m waiting. Briefcase packed. Mustard in the fridge. And I still don’t know who—or what—Wurst really is. But I know one thing: when the Sausage King calls, you answer. Because if you don’t, you might end up ground into something you never wanted to be.

I’d been a private investigator for twelve years, but I’d never had a client like Wurst. But curiosity spoiled the sausage

When I asked Wurst why he did it, he replied: “Because pâté is not sausage. And anything that is not sausage must be pure, or it threatens the sanctity of the tube.”