Client Wurst |verified| May 2026

The next day, Wurst called me. He never called. Always email.

He paid me in uncut amethysts that time. I haven’t heard from him since. client wurst

“You’ve been curious,” he said. His voice was soft, like someone who’d swallowed gravel and then honey. “That’s fine. But curiosity spoiled the sausage. Stop looking into me, or the next casing you find yourself in won’t be made of hog intestine.” The next day, Wurst called me

But the deeper I looked into Wurst, the stranger it got. He paid me in uncut amethysts that time

The first time I tracked him, I nearly lost him in a crowd at Maxwell Street Market. He was average height, forgettable face, dressed in a faded Cubs hoodie. What made him stand out was what he carried: a vintage leather briefcase with a thermometer sticking out of the side. He walked like a man who knew every pressure plate and security camera within a mile.

But last week, I got a postcard. No return address. Just a photo of a sausage link on a grill, and on the back, handwritten:

The moniker was his own. His emails (encrypted, always signed with a cartoon bratwurst wearing a monocle) ended with: “Remember: without casing, there is no sausage.” I assumed it was philosophy. I was wrong.