How did Mike Hammer live - in a penthouse with a GOLF BAG stashed in the corner next to a big screen cathode ray tube TV and a snazzy fireplace? Nah, he'd knock back a bottle of rye and twenty unfiltered Camels on the couch or floor of his fly-specked office or in the stink of a lousy downtown LA flop house, wiping the dried red crust and oil smeared mud off his face, that's how. Spillane wrote trash paperbacks, for sure, but how do you make it worse? Give some desperate scheming producer a blank check because he thinks any Film Noir titled crap will sell at the box office, add some over-the-hill hot tomatoes and just generally screw-up the story-line by some retard, drugged out screen writer, that's how!