A man sank into the psychiatrist's couch and said, "I have a
terrible problem, Doctor. I have a son at Harvard and another son at
Princeton; I've just gifted each of them with a new Ferrari; I've got
homes in Beverly Hills, Palm Beach, and a co-op in New York; and I've
got a thriving ranch in Venezuela. My wife is a gorgeous young actress
who considers my two mistresses to be her best friends."
The psychiatrist looked at the patient, confused. "Did I miss
something? It sounds to me like you have no problems at all."
"But, Doctor, I only make $175 a week."
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.