Client Wurst ((link)) Direct

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. client wurst

I stopped digging.

The next day, Wurst called me. He never called. Always email. So I’m waiting

He paid me in uncut amethysts that time. I haven’t heard from him since. And I still don’t know who—or what—Wurst really is

The first time I tracked him, I nearly lost him in a crowd at Maxwell Street Market. He was average height, forgettable face, dressed in a faded Cubs hoodie. What made him stand out was what he carried: a vintage leather briefcase with a thermometer sticking out of the side. He walked like a man who knew every pressure plate and security camera within a mile.