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:
But the deeper I looked into Wurst, the stranger it got. client wurst
When I asked Wurst why he did it, he replied: “Because pâté is not sausage. And anything that is not sausage must be pure, or it threatens the sanctity of the tube.” But last week, I got a postcard
Client Name: WURST Codename: The Sausage King of Chicago Status: Active, low-profile, unpredictable It started with a delivery address that was just a string of GPS coordinates in the old meatpacking district of Chicago. The contact method: a burner phone wrapped in butcher paper left in a 24-hour laundromat. My instructions were simple: Observe. Do not engage. Report everything, including smells. When I asked Wurst why he did it,
Wurst gave me one more job last spring: tail a man known only as “The Bratislava Butcher” who was supposedly smuggling illegal pâté de foie gras across state lines. I followed a冷链 truck from Milwaukee to Gary, Indiana. At a rest stop, the driver opened the back and found not foie gras, but three dozen live geese wearing tiny life jackets. Wurst had tipped off the USDA an hour earlier. The Butcher was arrested. The geese went to a sanctuary.
