Super Criminals & This Virus

Virus

Part 12 of 30

This virus -- are you with me so far? -- is not just happening, OK? That’s a big statement, and probably one I'll get a lot of flak over. I understand that. And I can deal. But I’m just concerned about those out there -- a lot of people -- who won’t deal with it if we don’t take it completely seriously. So I’ll put it out there again, it’s not just happening.

Is it a huge conspiracy? I don’t believe it's that huge. It’s just like this, that in particular localities there are agents -- it’s tough to prove because a lot of these shady characters stay in the shade. But it makes complete sense how these agents are acting. Doing their dirty work (1), then slinking back into the shadows to look out from the shadows and behold the evil fruit of their doings.

And you see how effective their plans are, at least in the short-run. Because we will get them. This is something f I can see it, our leaders can see it, and they'll shut down the whole thing.

So we are indeed looking at local agents and national agents and probably global agents at their filthy task, whoever they might be in the particular places. It's a lot easier to see in local situations because the networks on the larger scale, while like the local in many ways, have a lot more ways of disappearing, and shifting blame.

And I haven’t merely been sitting here writing this, OK? I’ve been out, particularly at night, listening at doors in alleys, exchanging certain goods for certain information. Then filtering it through the software in my massive VIC-20 brain. It takes a lot of doing, but I've got all the time in the world (to do good).

So far, then, I’ve narrowed the local scene down to four agents, perhaps one of whom is the biggest threat, while taking into account that if they're in cahoots they’re even more powerful. I’m going to sketch them out with the helpful apparatus of four aces, and we’ll be going the typical left to right in the all important list of their identities and motives. First, we have the town drunk, Skidrow Sal. There’s nothing that’s not observed by Sal. Sal sees the weak links in every scene and gets his booze by reporting to Mr. or Ms. Big.

Second, there’s furniture store owner Martin Van Bureau. Who's really the point man on information, very useful in the ‘hood. It seems that Bureau has run up quite an electronics bill for eavesdropping equipment; he shut down the last few electronic stores in the area. If you’ve said anything about anything, or have bought furniture in the last few weeks, Bureau has you pegged.

Third, we can't leave out the owner of the Third Reich Bar, Alois Himmler, aka “Big Al,” who started out a WWII re-enactor but is now head of the local Nazi protectors. Not only is there a lot in it for him, the virus, the virus is this ace’s ace in the hole.

And lastly, we can't leave out Baby Face Walter and his child bride Lucinda. Baby Face isn’t just a baby in the face, but baby all over, wiry, slippery, able to show up unnoticed, always keeping his crying down lest he be caught. With Lucinda satisfying him continually, his mind is completely free of carnality, making him a super computer of information.

So there we have it. Sal and Bureau have their necessary role in this cabal, but it’s Himmler, virtually bottle-fed by Baby, who’s the number one purveyor of the virus. I’d say bring the pillars and walls down around Himmler and we’ll finally catch a break, spelling the last days for his viral reign of terror.

The Final Verdict in Forensics

 Part 15 of 31

They Found Another Body

In these days of anonymity — most of us going by fake names, carrying false ID, never answering our phones — it’s good to know somewhere in society it matters who we are.

Of course it doesn’t usually matter. I blend in, there’s nothing especially extraordinary about me, positive or negative. I got two legs and the usual number of everything else. I’m not hobbling along with one leg which would make me special. If I try really hard I can present myself as a responsible individual, saluting the flag, picking up litter and carrying it to the garbage, etc. Because I'm in the Big City I've learned as well as anyone to step demurely over dead bodies. Then there's my wild side. I take a devil-may-care attitude as well, which lets people know, That guy’s nobody.

But just let yourself be a victim — in a moment of weakness, you’ve gotten comfortable and some guy’s on you with a lead pipe — and next thing your wallet’s gone and your body’s floating in the river. You were nobody before, but that's when society springs into action. Where’d this guy come from? Who is he? What happened to him? The sirens are going off, every police car in town is swerving around corners, the blue and red lights flashing. They get to the river and they’re scouring the surface with flood lights. "That over there, that's either a stump or him!" You’re somebody!

Pulled in with a hook, they look for signs of life. Are you breathing? Is there any twitching, any babbling? If the answer is no, no, no, they call in the coroner, who takes one look and pronounces you dead. He pushes his hat back with his gun, wipes his brow, and says, "It's getting hot out here, Danny." The sergeant nods. The only sign of life they might find is if they tap your knee with a rubber mallet, your reflexes still work. Which is the same as being dead, but it once was a functioning joint.

Then at the morgue they turn on the apparatus that hums and clicks in one last effort scanning for life. It’s a great invention, holding out hope if possible, or taking away all hope and doubt. Whatever the cause of death, it's confirmed. If drowned, it seals the deal, giving the utmost assurance that the verdict is true, you are no more. It’s terrible to die, I’ve heard, but it can be worse for the survivors. The sergeant gets home, cleans his hands meticulously and even takes a shower. He's playing with the kids, oblivious to his somber exterior. He thinks, "They deserve their innocence."

Now it’s up to the Missing Sersons' department to call around. What calls has Missing Persons received? If none, the investigation takes a whole different path, discovering what they haven’t known to this point. They scope out the final verdict, who you were and what steps (1-2-3) led to this tragic point in your life. Another day, another dollar.

She's Cute ... He's Handsome ... Stop! Don't Do It!

This is just the kind of argument you want to get into ...

You caught her fair and square, bald-faced, lying, red-handed, in the act, in flagrante delicto, as it were. You had her right where you wanted, names, dates, suspicious comings and goings. This would be your big chance to be rid of her, no questions asked. No one could blame you.

Then -- you should have known -- as sure as the sun doth rise, she has the names and dates, and suspicious comings and goings of you as well. A little tit for tat, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, or vice versa. You tried to avoid that infernal lipstick! Proving to yourself once and for all, there's no fool like an old fool!

It's the same old story, times two. You're out and about, you catch an eye, an eye catches you, then there's a smile and an exciting closeness. It's a crowded room, pretty dark, you can duck through this curtain and out this door, the back door, and find a booth somewhere. No one's looking, you think. In this whole big world, surely you can duck scrutiny for a paltry hour; you've been around, you see people, they're out of sight in a flash.

But there's always some little thing. Someone crossing the street the opposite way, catching a glance, noticing something out of place, a slightly different person on your arm. But they don't say anything, don't greet you, and maybe turn their head to look the other way. Saving their kind attentions for later, the gossip mill.

She, however, was very discrete, coming up with one excuse after another for her absences. Doctor appointments, visiting a sick friend, Christmas shopping in July, having her dress mended. But you started thinking, Something's going on. And decided to call in a private detective for answers.

He tailed her, but good. She wasn't so secure she didn't look behind her and around. But she kept right on going, not noticing him. Then the assignation, a dark stairwell, a key to the door. Their meeting went well, such as it was. The detective was back with the details within the hour. Now to confront her! And be done with it!

She was ready, though, the evidence she has against you bringing out an added brazenness. This is why she had no shame!

Fortunately, friends, the above scenario is fictional. The very sad people in the illustration, just actors, helped me make a point. The point being, if you haven't yet crossed that line -- and there has to be a few of you who've thus far held back -- there's still hope for your relationship. You may seriously think you've lost the fire as a couple, but it's very likely that's just a deception. Because whatever it was a long time ago, the mutual attraction that brought you together, isn't dead. Much more likely, you've simply set it aside, by neglect, or from a lack of imagination. The old fire's still there, present somewhere, just waiting to be rekindled.

I've had friends who've crossed that line, and I've kept their confidence, only because they're my friends. But I know they're miserable. Had they only come to me before it happened -- this goes for male and female -- I would've told them, "Don't do it!" In my favor I would've brought out the old truth, "The grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence." I would've then lead them through a few questions -- delving into their thinking -- before emptying a pitcher of iced water in their lap. They'd have come up cussing me, obviously, but when they got hold of themselves, they'd have thanked me.

It's too late for them now, many of them, but that doesn't mean it's too late for you. Let's say you're getting ready to go right now. But somehow (Who knows how it happens, but thank God it does!) you found your way to this blog -- a very popular blog, yes, but still obscure enough that you basically need divine guidance to find it -- and you're reading this post, and it's hitting you like a ton of bricks. You're saying to yourself: "Yes, yes ... just the word I needed, as within the hour -- or maybe even sooner -- I was planning to throw it all away with some hot little floozy [or tall, dark, handsome paramour with a pencil-thin mustache, smoking a Swisher's Sweet, very sexy.]"

It's fantastic news to me to know now that I had some little part in changing your plans. And that you've decided to take another look at your mate, your partner over all these years. She ain't so bad, is she? He's still pretty cool, isn't he? You look up, you look at each other, there's a meaningful look, a glance, and a sly smile.

Forget everything else! Take your pill and fill the tubs in the backyard! Maybe you can make it before sundown!

My Report on Playground Turtles

I recently had the opportunity to be part of an interesting study, which an exhaustive review of city parks files showed had not been previously done, at least as far back as the records go, to 1875. And as far as I'm concerned, the findings, for the most part, were positive, with the future remaining bright for playground turtles.

When the subject came up of studying the particular turtle in the photo, in order to discern its favorability with its target audience, children, I simply asked, "Who doesn't like playground turtles?" Could there really be someone? Since I've always thought they were pretty cool.

Then I went quickly through my memories over the years and recalled, in some instances vaguely, that negative things can and have happened. Kids getting stuck underneath, mothers become frantic, feel faint, etc., dreadful stuff no one wants to see. Still, we all have to accept some degree of risk in whatever we do. You could lose a finger or toe on almost anything. Have you noticed the effects of gravity on children who fall off tall slides? There's a huge risk of moderate bruising. So in the end, my overall take on playground turtles was positive.

This particular study came about when a friend of mine, who happens to work for the city, said to me that she never sees kids play on this turtle, and that maybe it should be taken out. Even though I'm only seldom at that particular park, leaving plenty of opportunities for kids to be there playing on it unseen, I had to admit that I hadn't seen any either. So maybe a study would be good.

Fortunately, there's an app for that! You enter the type of playground equipment, the sort of study you want to do, and set up the various apparatus needed for the task, as the app directs, and you're all set. It requires cameras, various sensors, and an electric eye system, depending on what your study needs. And all this stuff has to be set up so as not to catch the attention of the thieving general public, who would quickly make off with it.

We did it all, the whole thing. The electric eye -- we put in four electric eyes -- making a perimeter around the turtle. Whenever someone would pass through, presumably a child, the rest of the apparatus would go into action. The sensors on and under the turtle would register such minutiae as the intensity and spirit of the child's play, and detect various other useful information, body temperature, blood pressure, glucose levels, perspiration, etc.

The idea, then, was that that information would give a more reliable reading on the child's true favorability toward the turtle than we would get merely relying on video evidence. Plus, who knows, there could be some use for it in the future, like combining the medical care industry and playground turtles, making children more health-conscious through life.

The statistics, literally uploaded from our computer system buried there, revealed that there is an average of 8.25 kids at the turtle a day, give or take a quarter child. The most common activities are kicking the head, scampering and sliding over the back, lying with their face on its head and looking out, and, of course, crawling under it.

One boy -- we looked at the video a dozen times! -- came to the park with a body-sized suction cup on his back, like a turtle himself, crawled under the turtle, and stuck himself to the underside of the shell. We had some interesting footage of a very frantic mother. Finally, the boy, who had remained silent for a good 20 minutes, apparently as a prank, fell to the ground with a thud that resounded through the park. Mom saw him and was very angry, but happy. However -- and this is where everything went slightly sour -- in the fierce escalation of emotions, she had a heart attack, and died. After a minute, the boy was outside the perimeter and the camera went black.

But back to the study. As for the various body temperatures, blood pressure, and so forth, of the children, they were all in the normal range, no anomalies from what one would expect. On hot days, they were warmer; on cooler days, cooler. Everything seemed normal and actually quite predictable. This part of the study turned out to be an enormous waste of money, but I reasoned that it's better to know you know nothing than to regret not doing the tests and not knowing that you don't know anything.

In conclusion, playground turtles are a valuable item in any park. They definitely should remain in place. And where there isn't one, we recommend that park officials get one ASAP. We further recommend that the undersides be filled in, or maybe more reasonable, that the surface underneath be pocked in such a way as to resist the adherence of larger suction cups.

If These Walls Could Talk

IMAGINARY STORY--

I was sitting in my hotel suite/office, staring at the wallpaper. Have you ever done this? I used to do it when I was a kid. I was always perplexed how wallpaper designers could match up the patterns so well. It was mesmerizing.

Being mesmerizing, it's easy to get lost in a reverie. That also happened when I was a kid. My mind would go almost blank very easily. As an adult, it's harder to do it now, to really concentrate, like what you aim for in meditation. I've had various theories as to why that is, mostly involving being old and not a child, being burdened with more responsibilities, having a brain differently developed, etc. But now I suddenly realize, it's because we just don't have as much wallpaper now. We need more wallpaper!

I like a good wall. Who doesn't? Although you never know what's going on behind it. Since I turned to a life of crime, I've been more and more paranoid about walls. Because how am I supposed to know-- the feds, the state police, the local authorities, or just a lone dick, might be back there. I have the place swept everyday with a bug sweeper, but the bug sweeper might be sweeping with the enemy.

And God knows I'm guilty of enough crimes! It'd be an insult if they weren't at least trying to listen in. Right now, sure, all I really am is the head of the Organization's prostitution operations, but that doesn't mean I don't poke my nose into everything else I get a whiff of. I lead the big diamond heist, I tried to corrupt professional wrestling, I killed the Ciggie outside of Tastee Freez, and the kid crapped on the police chief's desk at my instigation. Not a bad month's work!

I stare at the wall. The whole reverie thing kicks in. My eyes cross and I see the pattern of the wallpaper merge, a piece from over there with the identical piece over there. It's playing tricks with my eyes, my mind wanders. I start thinking, "If these walls could talk," as the old saying goes, "what might they be saying?" I might be out on a job and an investigator drops in. I come in and catch him, and I have no idea how long they've been chatting. One of my pictures is crooked, indicating something.

Next thing I know, someone higher up shows up with a warrant, and I'm very twitchy, looking guilty as hell, but really more afraid of what the wall might say. "I was standing right here when Machine Gun Ricky Wayward was blackmailing Rutledge!" The thought's crazy, but in my reverie I'm thinking, "I'll kill you, and I'll kill this entire room if you open your damned mouth!" Finally, they do get me, but there's no witnesses, at least none in the flesh. And yet, the prosecutor brings in a surprise witness, a chunk of my wall, swearing to tell the whole truth. The whole truth! That'd sink me!

I realize what I must do. I must get construction workers in here and take out that damned wall and put in a new one, one that's soundproof. When that's done, only then can I plot and plan and do whatever the hell I want, and nobody will be the wiser.

And -- I'll be able to idle away the hours with my guitar and harmonica, knowing no one can hear me. Because I'm so bad it's embarrassing.

RICKY'S FINAL WORD: I'm really glad the foregoing -- what you read, and will probably re-read -- is an imaginary story. It would be an obvious bastard, not just to me but the entire world, if our walls could actually talk. I really didn't want to get into my own sex life, but other than my crimes, of course that's the first thing I think of. And if the walls could talk! Whoa, Nelly, bar the gate! They'd be describing things best left even out of the imagination. A mental group grope, perhaps, I'm not saying what all it'd be, except it wouldn't be a description I'd be proud of. Struttin' my stuff, such as it is.