Elementary, My Dear Watson

I know yer all just cheesin' in those briefs for a resolution to the eternal conflict between Good and Evil, Me and Dave, so I'm feeding you the late-breaking, brand-spanking-fresh news as it comes to me. I just got another call for Dave. I put on the Skinhead Voice. "Hello?"

"Yeah... um... is Dave there?" This caller, unlike others, was nervous. There were other voices in the background, all male.

"Who is Dave? I don't know a Dave."

"You don't know Dave?" This astounded our nervous, perhaps drug-addled friend. (He sounded a bit baked, a lot like a good lasagne.)

"No. No Dave. Is he a drug dealer or something? I get calls for him all hours of the day, seven days a week."

My antagonist's seeker giggled. I should remind you here he is a boy. (Boi?) "Man, he's a drug dealer too? I thought he was just an, um, male escort."

So there you have it, folks. A male fucking escort is giving my phone number out to his clients, and every fucking lonely gay boy in Salt Lake City is calling me up. Why couldn't he be a straight male escort? I wouldn't mind calls from strange, lonely Mormon chicks. In fact, I'd take some slack from poor Dave's back. I'd be glad to help you out, Dave.