A father gave his teen-age daughter an untrained pedigreed pup for
her birthday. An hour later, when wandered through the house, he found her
looking at a puddle in the center of the kitchen. "My pup," she murmured
sadly, "runneth over."
Yeah, that's me, Tracer Bullet. I've got eight slugs in me. One's lead,
the rest bourbon. The drink packs a wallop, and I pack a revolver. I'm
a private eye.