AN: First attempt at a Chicago fic. So sue me.

All characters sole property of Miramax pictures. Song is the property of the late Joe Strummer and the greatest punk band ever, the Clash.

Someone lights a cigarette
While riding in a car
Some ol' guy takes a swig
And passes back the jar

Pop.

Liz winced at the sound. And the second she got home too? One these days she was gonna get Bernie for it. "Would ya stop poppin' that gum?" Bernie just lay there like the good for nothin' slug he was, drinking his beer and poppin'.

This is what she came home for? All day, working in the factory for shit pay, that sexist pig of a boss harpin' at her for screwing up something? Just hearing that sound, just even thinking of Bernie poppin' made her blood boil.

Pop. "Bernie?" Nothing. Liz walked into their dingy living room, her eyes fixed on her husband's sprawled out frame on the couch. Pop. "Bernie, you pop that gum one more time-"

Finally noticing that she actually home, Bernie looked at her and said, "Whaddya gonna do, Liz?" Pop.

She really wanted to scream about her horrible day at work. Never helped anyway, so why did she even bother? Instead she strode calmly to the mantle.

"Liz. Liz, honey, what are you doin'?" Bernie found himself staring down the shotgun's barrel. "Liz?!"

She squeezed the trigger twice. Bernie's beer toppled over the couch.

"Told ya to stop poppin' it."

But where they were last night
No one can remember
Somebody got murdered
Goodbye, for keeps, forever
Somebody got murdered
Somebody's dead forever

Six wives.

He said that he was single. In Chicago, for sure. But the other ones? He sure wasn't single in Utah that's for sure.

Annie tipped the bottle into the whiskey glass. Oh, yes, Ezekiel was due home any second. Then he'd want his drink, and then dinner, and then probably a couple of quick bangs in the sack. Of course, that what he thought.

Six wives. She couldn't believe herself for falling for that son of bitch. She just felt that after she killed him, Annie planned on contacting every single one of them.

"Annie?"

Oh, good. The six-timing bastard was home. Annie walked out in the hallway. "Hello, darling," she said, before giving him a long, hard kiss. "Dinner's almost ready." She smiled, just in that perfect, innocent way.

"And…?" Ezekiel hung up his hat.

"It's on the table." She gave him another kiss.

"Thanks, hon."

From the kitchen, Annie could hear him take a nice long sip. Perfect. "You know," he said, "I could get used to this."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You know what, I've be-"

Annie came out the living room, where Ezekiel has hunched over the couch. "You've been what?" she asked, her voice cool as an ice cube. He looked up at her one last time and collapsed.

She knelt down next to him. "That was just a wedding gift. From all six of us."

And you're minding your own business
Carrying spare change
You wouldn't cosh a barber
You're hungry all the same

Squish.

June cut into the chicken leg. Damn good bird, too. Wilbur had better appreciate it, cause the thing came out of his pocket.

The door slammed. "June!" She sighed. Probably yet another bad day at the factory. She really didn't really want to put up with another evening his bitchin' and moanin' 'bout how much he hated his job, and how they were gonna get out into the country some day.

Yeah. Right.

June turned around to see Wilbur standing there, his eyes wild with anger. "You screwin' around on me?"

"What the hell you talkin' 'bout?"

"You been screwin' the milkman, ain'tcha?"

"Wilbur, outta of the dumbest things I've ever heard, that's the dumbest! I ain't been screwin' him!"

"Yeah, ya are! Every day, right after I leave. Admit it June!"

"Wilbur, I ain't been screwin' no milkman!"

He grabbed her arm. "You quit lyin' to me, ya hear?"

"Let go of me!" She struggled, trying to wrench her arm out of his grip. The knife that hand held buried itself in his side. Squish. "I ain't" squish "been screwin'" squish "no milkman!"

Wilbur fell to the floor. That bastard. Right now, June thought about just getting rid of that dummy she had married. She put the knife in his chest.

Squish.

I been very tempted
To grab it from the till
I been very hungry
But not enough to kill

"What've we got here?" Officer Harrison removed his fedora as he came into the squalid apartment.

"Homicide. Some Hunyack lopped off her husband's head." The photographer snapped another picture of the decapitated body.

"All right. Where is she?"

"Bedroom."

A blond woman sat on the bed crying. Noticing Harrison, she leapt up and started screaming in her language. God help him if understood half of it. "Calm down. I just want to ask you a question." No change. "Miss!" As far as he could tell, the only words the girl knew in English were "No kill! No kill!"

After a few hours he came back into the room. One of the younger officers was waiting for the verdict. "Whaddya want me to do with her?"

"I want you to take her down to Cook County, and release charges for Catalina Helinski for murder."


Somebody got murdered
His name cannot be found
A small stain on the pavement
They'll scrub it off the ground

All the press is probably staked out in the Cicero's lobby-too bad they ain't been lookin' up here. Velma carried the ice bucket under her arm. If they didn't stop fooling around, she and Veronica were going to be late for the show down at the Onyx. Maybe there was gonna be some big shots there.

Room 188. She fumbled for the key. "Goddammit, where'd I put it?" Charlie and Veronica were laughing about something in there. Least all they could do was wait for her to get back so she could join in the fun.

Finally finding the little gold key, Velma jammed it in the slot and turned it. "Ladies and gentlemen-" she said, before she noticed something. The bottle of booze they were killing had spilled out onto the floor, and didn't seem like her husband or sister even thought about finishing it.

"Oh, Charlie." Did Veronica- nah, she couldn't have.

Velma put down the ice bucket. "Charlie?" She looked back over her shoulder.

The last thing Velma Kelly remembered was seeing her husband and sister practicing a move from the final number, number 17. Spread eagle.

As the daily crown disperses
No one says that much
Somebody got murdered
And it' left me with a touch

Al Lipschitz…artistic genius indeed.

Mona paced around in their apartment. Al was on one of his nightly outings to "find himself"-in a rat's ass he did. Didn't she just hear from Bonnie Harold that she saw him down at the Onyx with someone else? And not just anyone else- no, the someone else happened to be a man. Boy, didn't that explain his other artistic souls that he met on these jaunts. Two months ago he mentioned someone Gladys. And then someone called Ruth. Then Rosemary.

And now this. She was gonna to break up with him the second he got home…

Which happened to be right then.

Al's face was flustered. "Geez, Mona, it's late. You should be asleep."

"Oh really? While you tramp around with your little man-whore?"

Al paused while unbuttoning his shirt. "What the hell are you talking about? I was talking to that guy Irving- y'know, one who has the friend with the gallery."

"Oh, I'm sure you were."

"Mona, babe, what's wrong?"

He did not just say that. "What's wrong? Other then the fact that you're tramping around with girls- excuse me, PEOPLE- and I'm not good enough for you."

"Mona, it's not you that there's problem. Its our, our-"

"What?" Now she really getting steamed.

"Our artistic differences. You just don't understand it."

He did not just say that. Mona grabbed him by his half-loose tie. "No, it ain't. There ain't no artistic differences." She tightened the tie around his neck.

She also didn't happen to know her own strength, because he was dead fifteen minutes later.


Somebody got murdered
Somebody's dead forever

Sounds like murder!
Those shouts!
Are they drunk down below?

"Roxanne! What the hell is goin' on?" Amos walked into his apartment.

"Look, you say that he was tryin' to burgle us, alright?"

He looked down at the guy half covered in a sheet. Could the day get any better? As far as Amos Hart was concerned, it wasn't. "What the hell happened here, Roxie?"

She stared at him. "Listen, just tell the cops that you found him tryin' to burgle us while I was asleep. You'd get off with self-defense."

What the hell was she talking about. "Who is this guy?"

Roxie opened her mouth to say it, but she couldn't speak. "I don't know." Yeah, I do. That lyin' bastard Fred Casely.


It's late, and my watch stopped
Some time ago

Sounds like murder!
Those screams!
Are they drunk down below?

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