Editor’s note: Jim Union’s Christian name is Richard Schlong, and he was once a private eye; kidnapped by his former nemesis, Kaufman (now known as “K.”), and subjected to plastic surgery, Richard has now become an agent for an agency that doesn’t exist–operating under the name: Jim Union.

I said, “You got the stuff?”

I was undercover in the Big City. I was looking for the worms in the Big Apple. I’d spent a few sleepless nights in the City That Never Sleeps.

Ratface Gozzollo said, “Who wants to know?”

I stepped out of the shadows.

“Sweet Christ!” he gasped. His lanky gang of torn-tanktop-clad misdirected multi-ethnic youths stumbled backward.

He cried, “It’s Liam Neeson!”

I tapped my throat twice, activating my voice synthesizer implant.

“That’s right!” Liam Neeson’s husky voice bellowed. “I’m a f@*!ing crack dealer!”

K. had received word of lavish drug packages, circulating through the New York underbelly. Heroin, meth, coke, even a couple baggies of pot. A TV dinner of drugs. They were calling it: the Package.

“Sounds like a job for the N.Y.P.D.,” I’d said, lighting a cigarette. Facing K. again, I said, “I thought you were going to give me the Daniel Craig treatment.”

(I’d had to do 100 diamond push-ups during my last assignment. I was Timothy Dalton, not a body-builder. Next time, I wanted to be prepared.)

“Yes, well,” K. said, wiping sweat from his brow. “The thing is, old chap, I’d love to let the New York Police Department handle this—only something stinks.”

I inhaled, removed the cigarette, and blew smoke. “It wasn’t me.”

“No, no, old boy. What I mean is they call the man behind this whole bloody operation… ‘the Chef.’”

I dropped my cigarette. It sizzled on my leg. I didn’t notice.

I leaned in. “The Chef?”

K. emphatically nodded. Then said, “Excuse me, old boy,” leaned to the side, slid over the trash can, and threw up.

“Is he…” The word stuck on my tongue like a piercing. “Fat?”

“Yes,” K. said, throwing up a little on his desk. “Quite.”

So here I was in the Big City, still looking like Timothy Dalton but being mistaken for Liam Neeson. The Fat Chef had come up for air. I was here to push him back under.

I narrowed my eyes and took a step forward. The goons stumbled back.

Using my Liam Neeson voice, I said: “You’re going to tell me… EXACTLY… what I need to know. Or else…” I growled: “…YOU’LL REGRET IT.”

“I don’t think we will, Timothy Dalton, of the critically reviled 1995 ‘Gone with the Wind’ sequel miniseries ‘Scarlett!’” one of the goons howled.

I said, “Hunh?”

He drew a gun. I drew faster. Fired. He went down. Six other men drew guns. They fired. I went down.

Then: blackness.

My throat was dry when I woke. Something smelled delicious. I realized I was sweating. I realized I was naked, looked down and saw my privates were covered by a loincloth. I realized I was tied to a skewer, and that I was rotating over a fire.

My eyes darted around like bullets without a trigger. I was in alley. One of those wide alleys that have grown like corroded arteries on the edge of cities. The surviving goons were sitting on a bench by the wall, glaring at me. They looked hungry.

I looked up. A pear covered in dunes of flesh. That’s what he looked like. He was wearing a leather trenchcoat that was two sizes too small.

The first thing he said was over his shoulder: “You like my coat?”

“No,” I said.

The goons looked appalled. Different voices said, “Come on,” “No taste,” “That’s a very nice coat.”

“Hmm,” the Fat Chef grunted. “No accounting for taste.”

He turned around. He wasn’t wearing anything under the trenchcoat.

“Speaking of,” he said, slapping a shiny new spatula across his palm, “I’m looking forward to taking account—of YOUR taste.”

“Like tequila over ice,” I spat. “With a hint of blueberry.”

The Fat Chef looked at one of the goons. “Your prediction was correct.”

The other goons handed Nostradamus cash.

“You look bad, Chef,” I said. I tried to wrestle the ropes from my hands, then remembered I would plummet into the fire. Didn’t seem worth it. “Still avoiding exercise?”

“Hah hah hah!” the Chef bellowed. “Like imported strawberries.”

He sauntered toward me. His body rippled like a puddle in an earthquake.

“You are less mopey,” he said. “Bolder. But I recognize your style. You are calling yourself… Liam Neeson? Hah. A funny joke. I laughed about it much on the way over. Because your lawyer needs some, yes?”

I stared at him.

I said, “What on Earth are you talking about, Chef?”

He said, “It is no matter. You are Richard Schlong.” He stopped. His pelvis was too close. He slapped the spatula across his palm.

“And I am hungry.”

Headlights flashed. The beams thrust out like activated lightsabers. The Chef winced and moaned.

The goans scrambled to their feet.

“What is that, man?”

“I don’t know.”

“Looks like a car or somethin’.”

An engine revved.

An engine revved and the automotive silhouette lurched.

Then a blue ’64 Ford Fairlane roared out of the shadows. The Chef dove. He had little leg muscle and gravity was not on his side. The car drove over him at the same time it dismounted my skewer. I soared to the ground.

The goons ran for their lives. The Fairlane swerved.

Then—Scarlett Johannson spoke.

“Good evening, Jim. Wanna take a ride?”

My restraints broke. I stood up. The voice had come from the hood. I couldn’t help but smile.

I looked at the limp Fat Chef.

“You need to re-examine that recipe,” I said. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”