BUTTERFINGER® Bar Insurance

I was sitting in my third floor office idly reading my name on the glass door; semaJ cirtaP. She walked in, asking for my assistance. She was a classy looking dame with a great set of gams and a head full of blond hair. I told her I would take the case and asked her when was the last time she had seen her Butterfinger. "Last night, under my pillow." "And when you woke up?" "My Butterfinger was gone," she sniffed. Hmm, I thought. An inside job. "It's going to be costly," I told her. "How much," she asked. "100 Butterfinger bars." After a moment she agreed. I'm on the case.