My Name Shows Up In The Daily News

OK, Daily News, we get it: You hate crime! Which is a little hypocritical, because you don't have any qualms about playing it up with big garish headlines and profiting from it! Huh? Did I hit a nerve?

MURDER RING PROBE ON -- Oh, really? A few bozos get killed and they need to do a whole probe? Oh yeah! It's ON, their word. And they call it a "Murder Ring." LOL, that might be a bit overblown, but anything to sell newspapers, right, Daily News?

I might be a little sensitive, I realize it. I'm still fairly new at being a criminal, so I'm touchy. It's the first time I've ever seen my name in the paper in connection with a crime. But there it is, big as life:

Police are seeking the whereabouts of Machine Gun Ricky Wayward in connection with the murders, and other clues as to his background and identity.

It turns out there aren't any Waywards in the area. They must have checked around. "Have you ever heard of Machine Gun Ricky Wayward?" "No, I've never heard of him." They probably looked it up in the mugshot book, and of course I'm not in there. At this point, I'm probably safe. I doubt if the Tastee Freez had video surveillance, and probably the funeral homes were cool too.

To me, though, the most obvious thing in the world would be to Google me! Although, thank God, they'll probably never think of that. I mean, really, what's the chances I have a blog that I update virtually everyday? And a blog that I've had since 2008 at that, with my grandmother's picture and name, as well as my real name, always featured prominently? If they thought of that, they'd catch me in no time... Ouch! As for my recent whereabouts, which the "Police are seeking," the idiots, I've written right here that I'm staying in the hotel downtown, of which there's only one! LOL, the dumbasses will never catch me!

As for the Daily News, they're not helping matters. Who knows? Could someone there really be intrepid enough to Google me? That's definitely conceivable, now that I think of it. Getting warm, I'm starting to perspire a little. I guess my defense on the murders will have to be, It was all just bluster, I didn't really do it! Someone else hacked into my account and wrote all that! Everything I blogged about, it was for entertainment purposes only! Anyway, search me, you won't find the gun!

LAKE IS DRAGGED FOR GIRL -- I don't know one damned thing about it! And the less said, the better...

BARBECUE CAUSES DEATH -- This is one I do know about. The meat was fine when I put it on the grill. Hell, I was even eating it, picking at it, when it was almost done. All I know is, I had to go back to the kitchen to get a platter. And someone else might've gotten to it in that little bit of time. Whether someone spritzed poison on it, or whatever, I don't know. And it might've been meant for me, perish the thought! The next thing I know, the girl takes a few bites -- suddenly no one else was hungry -- and collapses. How she ended up in the lake, if indeed that's where they took her, I, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, have no clue...

I'm Now In Charge Of Prostitution

Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward here...

Time for an update. Remember the other day? Tony (Mr. Big of the Skidrow organization, the Skids) called me to the hotel and put me in charge of the organization's prostitution interests. Let me rephrase that: "Modeling agencies," "massage parlors," and "escort services." Need to be accurate.

I spent yesterday getting settled in. And guess what? I'm back in a nice bed every night, not spending it outside or with other snoring, farting guys in the various cellars of Skidrow. Because my office/personal space is provided by the organization, a suite at the same hotel. We have permanent occupancy of an entire floor. It's me and the rooms for the girls, with Tony on another floor. I wouldn't doubt it if the organization owned the whole place!

Being in charge doesn't mean I'm personally doing all the work. There's lots of other guys who take care of the grunt work. I haven't seen my job description in full, but I'm over them, to hire and fire, kill or rough up, and supervise as I see fit. I've got three body guards/assistants living together in the room across the hall, to back me up if we need to put the old squeeze on someone.

I'm coming into this job with high hopes. I want to be the best damned guy they've ever had, to bring in a ton more money than anyone ever has. I guess it's strange: Even though I'm now a criminal, prone to plenty of random mischief, I still have my normal sense of responsibility and striving. Honor among thieves. So all the money the organization is entitled to is going to make it to the powers that be. I won't be skimming off anything beyond whatever cut they give me. And if I catch any of these other cretins doing so, they're dead!

The place is already very busy, but I'm hoping to make it busier. I want to reach out to civic organizations, lodges, churches, the teachers association, and various conventions, to let them know how welcome they are, and how top notch the place is going to be run. That's one way to up the income. And when I get going, everything's going to be as clean as can be, and a man coming in will know he's going to get his money's worth, with discretion to boot. At this point, there's no plans for blackmailing any of our clientele. And from the sound of things, some of them are very bad boys indeed!

I have to keep reminding myself that rocks are no respecter of persons. Because there's some definite vanilla-looking guys coming in. Boring-looking twerps who'd probably blush to hold a girl's hand. But they're in here, walking respectfully down the hall, presumably shucking their pants and turning into amorous casanovas once the door's closed. Or maybe they're into something kinkier, some kind of humiliating role play. That'd be my guess. Just like mass murderers, it's always the quiet guy edging his yard. Which we don't usually think of as a psychological problem. It is, however, their meticulous attention to detail that shows they're storing up the worst wrath, then once they erupt, there's no one in their path they miss.

Then at the other extreme, of course, we have the party animals, coming in from drinking. Their yards probably look like crap. The edges growing wild. And they themselves are so wild they don't care who sees them. It might be for the best that so many people do see them. Because these idiots could get easily rolled and disappear. So it never hurts to have witnesses who remember your whereabouts.

As for me, right here is my whereabouts! And here I'll stay. I've got people saying, "Mr. Wayward, this! Mr. Wayward, that!" It's great!