The Workover, continued.

The fabric of an expensive suit is designed to show off your assets. My asset is eleven inches long and thick as a wrist. I wear boxers and it moves around in there quite a bit. The "show " must have been pretty good as I jogged in a hurried quickstep across the street. I was on my way to a meeting with my lawyer, a young brash fellow Italian American named Vittorio Renata. He had kept an eye on my "assets" for five years now. Married with two young children, a lovely wife. Still, like most men, hets or gays, he could not resist a stolen glance at my "package" as I settled into a fine leather chair opposite him. I grabbed it lightly to settle it into the "left" compartment of my pants. I am such a fucking tease.
"Well, Michael, we have a little problem with the FTC. They are watching you closely these days since you very suddenly sold your shares of Calais Corporated last week right before they crashed. You may get away with it and you may not."

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