That dirty rat Renard Breen's gone too far this time! That guy's gotten on my last nerve; I'm offering a reward of fifty Gs to the first guy (or dame, I ain't picky) who shoots the miserable louse. Or you can bring him to me and I'll have the pleasure myself.
What did he do, you ask? Well, first the creep magically changes all the hooch in my best speakeasy into old dishwater mixed with iodine. I wouldn't mind so much if it'd been the joint down in the working class part of town; the customers there ain't the kind likely to notice the difference, if you get me. But that dirty, double-crossing rat picked my classiest joint! The customers there ain't the sort accustomed to bad recipes; I lost more dough last night than I lost the last time the bulls pulled a raid and shut me down for week.
And if that don't slay you, listen to the other gup that Breen pulled: He unfixed all the fixed races I had going at the track. Imagine my touts, building up for a real sweet set-up, only to have all the wrong horses come in first! I lost over a hundred Gs! That &$^#$ Breen!
If you so much as see that piker, get in touch with me or one of the boys. If you catch him or shoot him, that's fifty Gs for you. And that's on the level; I ain't just flapping my gums.
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