What do you do when walking-dead prostitutes are taking over the streets of the city? If you’re Nick Slick, you pop a used breath mint in your mouth and spring into some kind of action.
It all starts out innocently enough: After a seemingly lost night on the seedy side of town, our libidinous hero wakes up by an overstuffed Dumpster in a nameless back-alley behind a nameless watering hole of a bar, an equally gamey vintage working gal by his side. But when his trash-side companion is promptly snatched up by someone or something unknown, and right under his nose no less, private investigator Nick Slick is on the case, on it like a cop on a donut, despite his endlessly unending hangover-from-hell. Said “case,” however, promptly becomes messier than a fudgesicle in July, what with duplicitous docs and dirty cops and dirtier bad girls crawling out of the proverbial woodwork seemingly at every turn; that, and an increasingly voracious gaggle of walking-dead street girls who seem to want nothing more than to have our hapless P.I. for lunch. Some days, it seems, it just doesn’t pay to raise yourself up out of the garbage.