Epitasis (e-pit’-a-sis): The addition of a concluding sentence that merely emphasizes what has already been stated. A kind of amplification. [The opposite of anesis.]

I was on my way to Barty’s Ark, the wildest bar in the Tri-state area. That’s saying something—New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. Three states populated by crazy people. There’s a shooting every night at Barty’s and a couple of pole dancer kidnappings. These guys think that because these girls are totally naked they can take them. It’s biker gangs that do the kidnapping, especially the “Swamp Trompers” from Green Village, NJ, “Satan’s Dancers” from New York, NY and the “Conventions” from Philadelphia, PA. The girls are never harmed. They aren’t mistreated in any way. They come back to Barty’s wearing expensive designer clothes. I guess, what you should call what the gangs do “recreational abduction.” It gets Barty mad to be down at least three dancers every night. But what can he do? Especially since he’s not interested in losing his business, and committing “suicide.”

I have been hired by the “Tri-State Commission for the Study of Corruption, Crime, and Catastrophes.” I’ve been hanging out at “Barty’s” for two months running my undercover operation. I’m under cover as a 65-year-old lech. It’s easy for me to affect this identity because I am a 65-year-old lech. I didn’t want this assignment to ever end. Sitting on my spinning stool night after night, watching the nude dancers and befriending violent psychopaths, was nearly my idea of the perfect assignment. If only the bikers would go away. But they wouldn’t.

I grew my hair long and pulled it into a ponytail. I got a couple of fake tattoos. On my left shoulder I had Freddie Kruger with his hand-blades dripping blood. On my right shoulder I had a fake tattoo saying “1/6.” The tattoo is captioned “Let Freedom Ring.” My tattoos create a strong positive impression when I show them to the bikers. When they ask me what I do, I tell them I’m a mercenary & I’m home for a few weeks resting up before I go back to Ukraine. Works like a charm! I carry three concealed pistols: 1. One Glock on the shoulder, 2. Two Astra Cubs (one on each ankle). I also carry a 9” OTF switchblade, a box cutter, a blackjack, knuckles and an edge-sharpened credit card—buy you dinner? Slit your throat? Also, I had a load of cash—$200,000. It was almost to heavy to carry.

I won’t need any of this stuff—it’s a quiet assignment. Well, maybe I’ll need the money. A thirty-year-old dancer named “Spotify” has fallen in love with me. I told her I’m 45 and I love her too. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her. We haven’t been intimate yet. We’re waiting until we leave and start a life together. I haven’t seen my wife in 30 years. A divorce should be easy.

So, my assignment ended. Spotify and I took off in my Maserati for Morristown, NJ where her mother lives. She says she has to pick up some clothing and “belongings,” and say “Hi and Bye to her Mom. So, we finally get there. I have to pee really bad, so I run in the door fervently asking where the bathroom is. As I’m running past Spotify’s Mom, I realize that she’s my wife from 30 years ago, that Spotify’s my daughter, and that this is really insane. So, I peed, ran back out of the house, jumped in my Maserati, and drove away as fast as I could. “Just think?” I thought in terror as I hit 110 MPH. “Shit!” was all I could say.

I’ve started a new assignment. We’re looking at the son of a high profile, wealthy, public figure. It is alleged that he has a vast and illicit network of nefarious dealers in black market pink ballet slippers. That’s all I can say there. The second, tandem case, involves lumberjacks. They’ve been doing unfathomable and uncalled for things with their wood chips. I can’t talk any further about this.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu). Bracketed text added by Gorgias.

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