It is 1955. It is the year of the Eisenhower administration, the Cold War, and the Space Race. You are currently a detective working in Manhattan, trying to uncover case after case. Suddenly, just as you are typing away at the keyboard on your typerights, I immediately approach you, draping myself against the door, moaning in fatigue.

Honey-poo? I ask, my voice a gravelly thick Italian New Yorker accent with a sultry drip.

Can I ask ya somethin'?