Boris Brovsky is the name. Don't know me? How about Boris the Bagger. Ahh, I see you've heard of that. Most think I am a cold-blooded killer. I am. But that is not my only work. I investigate pests. The kind people don't want to talk about in public. The kind that cause embarrassment. They call me and I take care of the problem. I find the source and slice it out.
I'm not a pretty boy like Heward. Always strapping some junkie starlet on his arm, mugging for the camera. While he stands among the famous I work in the alleys, sewers and more recently the graveyard. I have no job beneath me, but there are some jobs I will not take. Even if I've run out of snuff and shotgun shells to feed my beautiful Ivanka, my lever action shotgun.
Heward asked me and two others to transport a body. It doesn't end there. Heward never tells you everything. He wants you to ask. He wants you to go to him for the information. Nothing feeds his ego more than asking. I don't ask. I let the turban wearing swami, Cresskin ask.
Cresskin and Diabolo seem okay. They dress in tuxedos and silk suits, but even in $100 suits they still look poor. I think it makes them look desperate. But they aren't afraid to get their hands dirty and I can respect that. I man without dirt on his hands is nothing but dame.
Anyway, Heward says ghouls are running about. Left that little part out he did. Even when we reached Barrow Island the Barrow Men seemed panicked. I asked Mr. Graves, "If I put holes in them, do they die?"
He chuckled. Guys like him who are knee deep in death all the time find things like this funny. "Of course. They're very much human except in their diet. Well...most of them."
Good enough for me. I tape my flashlight to Ivanka's barrel and say we go make some noise.