Epilogue - Assignment Miami BeachCAKE!Biff and Dirk both reclined on beach towels on the sun-soaked Miami resort. Sweating glasses of pina coladas rested next to their heads and a boom box blared out some sassy Carlos Santana song that sounded exactly fucking like every other goddamn Carlos Santana song. Some pop-band-of-the-minute tried to pipe in over his dull and remarkably non-ethnic guitar solo.
"Man, this is some good chocolate cake," said Dirk in between bites of chocolate cake.
"Dirk, you shouldn't eat that, it's Chief McMacmillan's retirement cake." Biff tried to warn Dirk but it was too late, the big-chinned detective had already eaten five pieces.
Just then the chief came over the nearest dune arm-in-arm with one of the nineteen street hookers the trio had brought along to celebrate cracking the case. As the chief and the hooker approached his face fell when he spied the half-eaten retirement cake.
"DIiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirk ARM STRONG!" Screamed the chief with rage. "What the pussyfied assburger shitfuck do you think you're doing eating my retirement cake?!"
Dirk struggled to justify himself but was interrupted by the chief.
"I am going to jump-kick that goddamn fuckbusting cake out of your gut and eat it!"
"Oh chief," cooed the hooker soothingly, "if you let it go we can go back to the hotel room and you can look at my tits some more while you jerk off and finger your own ass."
Everyone burst out laughing at her sassy remark.
"I know one hooker who is going to be dissolving in my bathtub during this vacation!" Guffawed Chief McMacmillan as he high-fived Biff and Dirk.
Libations and hookers were shared over another job well done.
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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