Originally published December 29, 1995 in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1154
“Are you Ðìçk Cosmic?”
I’d been studying the racing forms for tomorrow’s stakes at Belmont, trying to determine just which horse I was going to bet on—which was, in turn, going to guarantee that some other lucky saps were going to strike it rich.
I’d convinced myself that I was not only the crunchy cream center of my own little private detective universe, but that my various picks in different races were capable of determining just precisely who was going to lose (me) and who was going to be raking in yet another long shot at the trackside ticket windows (not me). Sure, I was dragging some poor saps down with me.
Then again, anyone who was dumb enough to bet on the same ponies I picked probably deserved whatever they had coming to them.
The kid who spoke was standing in the doorway of my dingy little detective concern—said office located in one of the seedier sections of Times Square. The block was filled with prostitutes, pornographers, and slimeballs. Unfortunately, Disney was pretty much buying out everything, so the neighborhood was in danger of going straight down the toilet.
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