Honoring Ned Hogan, Great Criminal

Today, we're honoring one of the great criminals of the past, Ned Hogan. When pictured here peeling potatoes at the end of 1922, he had been in jail in Milwaukee a record 117 times.*

Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward writing in honor of our fine brother in crime, Mr. Ned Hogan, 76 years old in the picture, and a native of Milwaukee.

As you will see in this brief tribute, Ned was so often drunk that he couldn't handle his affairs and needed a place to flop. That may not sound like great crime, but we honor it, because it is likely that Ned tied up the system enough -- taking the time of jailers, judges, and the cops -- that other criminals had freer rein.

The Milwaukee Sentinel of Dec. 24, 1922, (easily found on Google) profiled Ned, calling him a bum, derelict, and prohibition fighter. In addition, they said he was a vague and shadowy character.

In earlier times, he worked at the circus grounds in Milwaukee, and also did any odd jobs that would bring him a dollar. But the paper said the nearest thing to a regular occupation he ever had was unloading coal boats. Ned was what they called a dock walloper. It sounds like honest work, but we're very glad he left it, or we wouldn't be honoring him today. Since we don't care about dock walloping.

Alfred O. Wilmot, court reporter at the time, who knew Ned when he, Alfred, was a kid, remembers that Ned was all right when he was sober. The newspaper paraphrases Alfred: "Unless he was waylaid down in the lumber yards and got a pony of beer, he took his savings home to his old mother. He is not a thief. With all his arrests, he has never committed a real crime."

It was after Ned stole a tire that Alfred said, "Except for his lack of culture, Ned was a gentleman. I have heard him give a fellow a lecture for insulting a woman on the street. He was never brought in on a charge of anything but vagrancy until this last time. And this larceny charge was just a ruse of Ned's. He didn't want to steal. He had no use for the automobile tire that he walked off from a garage up near Eighth and Wells street. He only took it so as to furnish an excuse to get arrested. He went right down to the Rescue Mission with it and sat there until the police came."

Ned greeted the officer by saying, "Well, it took me two hours to get arrested this time." At first he had tried to get arrested by taking some bandana handkerchiefs from a dry goods store. There were even hanging out of his pockets in the store. But that plan failed, so he resorted to taking the tire.

Of course all the old cops knew Ned. When he wanted to be taken in, they accommodated him. Younger cops weren't so nice, saying, "Get about your business. You haven't done anything for me to take you in." To which Ned would retort, "You better take me in. If you don't I'll do something so you will have to pinch me." Ned's oldest friend on the force, Ed Baivier, chuckled, "He would, too. He has been known to pick up a brick and heave it through a window when the patrolman was stubborn."

Milwaukee's Judge Page said, "Ned is an old figure around here. He is getting old now, must be nearly 70. He manages, by sleeping on park benches, to get along in the summer, but when cold weather comes he needs a more comfortable place. As sure as the thermometer drops we can expect to see Ned in the bull pen next morning. As you know, it was pretty chilly the night before his last arrest a few weeks ago."

Roy E. Briggs, assistant superintendent of the Rescue Mission, said of him, "His mind is so run down from drink that he is 'rum dumb' as one of our men puts it. He has lost control of his power to think, but retained enough mind to know it. He wants to go right but can't quite reason out the way if left to himself. So he voluntarily puts himself where someone will make him do what he should."

So there you have it! We proudly honor Mr. Ned Hogan, one of the great criminals of the past. To summarize, he got drunk a lot, broke windows, and stole a few bandana handkerchiefs and a tire.

Was Tony A Well-Rounded Character?

A couple of you -- the vocal minority, always the ones hardest to satisfy -- have written in, saying you didn't feel Tony was a well-rounded character. Meaning that, according to you, what I said about him was very generalized and one dimensional.

My first instinct is to say, "This is what I have to worry about?" But then I think back, and in my defense, I said he was a son of a bitch*, and that's exactly what I meant. I mean, really, what more can I say? Like the rest of us, he lived, he did stuff, he died. Whether he had brown hair, red hair, or no hair, or a particular slope to his nose, or chiseled features, or a worried brow, or even a last name, it doesn't make any difference.

Of course they'd say he was Mr. Big, and must have been an interesting character because of that alone, so they're naturally curious. Couldn't I flesh him out a bit more? And I agree, to a limited extent. I didn't really say much about him, except his name was Tony, that he called me to his office, he gave me oversight of the prostitution operations, he had complete control over things, he had a large guard contingency, and a couple of other details, perhaps, and that he apparently reached several climaxes in the course of an average day.  

By that, I didn't mean to imply that living on the floor above a brothel means a guy is necessarily oversexed, but Tony was Tony, meaning he was known occasionally to have a good time. The climaxes were his outlet. I'm not judging. If he had a target on the ceiling, that's his business. Anyway, if living one floor above a brothel means you're oversexed, what about me? I live on the same floor. And I'm pretty chaste. But for some reason people aren't writing in asking more details about me. Maybe because I am so chaste. So now I know what's on your dirty little mind!

Actually, most of the reason I didn't say more about Tony's life is that this is real life. It's all true. I'm not darning a literary creation here -- satin and lace and frilly, flowery prose to satisfy women and fops -- no, this is documentary fact. Of course, I suppose it could be spruced up and spit-shined a bit, to make it fancier. But who cares? I've always been a man's man, preferring to let facts speak for themselves. I can't get bogged down in details like what color a man's hair is, his profile, his interests, and relationships. Tony was a son of a bitch in life, he's a son of a bitch in death, and it's not like he ever wanted to know about you, so why do you care about him?

Okay, to satisfy your idle curiosity: Tony was not just a son of a bitch, he was also scum of the earth.

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*I looked through the archives and it turns out I didn't say Tony was a son of a bitch.

Flaming Wreckage -- Tony's Dead

Well, I said I was going to kill Tony -- Mr. Big of the Organization -- and I did! So now that makes me, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, the new Mr. Big.

Here's how the whole thing went down:

Tony was ensconced in his office, as expected. I put my gun together and went up to his floor. The eight divisions, the gauntlet of guards, lined the hall -- The Shivs, The Battalion, The Hangmen, The Pulverizers, The Psychos, The Mincemeaters, The Republicans, and The Ethnic Slurs. I knew my way was well-greased, thanks to all the ducats and material goods distributed.

I passed through, walking very confidently, then I started noticing a bunch of grins. But were they good grins or bad grins? Were they with me or against me? I felt a trickle of sweat on my forehead as I realized I might be walking into a trap. What if I got to Tony's office just as these bulls closed in on me, to kill me, and perhaps abuse my body? By now I had no choice but to keep going. To turn back meant I was dead anyway.

Finally, I got to Tony's door, knowing this was the moment of truth. And it turned out I was worried about nothing. The last couple of guards kicked in the door and motioned me in. I pulled up the gun, and was ready to blow Tony's head off without a smile or a word, certainly without mercy. Then I saw what they were grinning about, Tony's bullet-ridden body was in a heap in the middle of the room. The guards themselves, in a gesture of loyalty to me, had killed him themselves. I felt a little pissed off to be deprived of the pleasure, but what am I going to say?

Seriously, this wasn't anything like what I pictured. I was hoping, you know, maybe Tony and I would struggle and the gun would go off. Then he would flee to the window, having planned his escape in a situation like this. Out the window he would go, closely followed by me, and up the fire escape to the top of the building. Then a helicopter comes down, and Tony's grabbing at the landing gear, without a second to spare, and they lift off, me shooting like a madman.

He might easily escape were the pilot to whip the machine around and take evasive action. But I'm relentless, knowing if he escaped, I'd be finished. So there I am, aiming carefully, with time for only one last killer shot. The bullet goes through Tony's head and also pierces the copter's fuel supply -- the equivalent of the machine's lifeblood. The whole thing bursts into flames, Tony's on fire, and everything explodes and crashes to the ground, debris spreading over the courthouse lawn, with pieces later found as far away as the next county.

To have him simply heaped there in the room, thanks to the guards, seemed very anticlimactic. And I wanted to give them the biggest ass-chewing they'd ever had. But all I could do was offer them my thanks, a smile, and a few high fives. The lummoxes meant well. And being the new Mr. Big means taking caution where caution is due, which is not to say I won't throw it to the wind tomorrow. So my decision was to celebrate Tony's demise as the guards' gift to me.

But here's the rub. I'm thinking, If they'd do this to Tony, they'd do it to me. So we're not through here! But, again, I must leave that for later. For now, I need to keep a low profile. With the helicopter debris and so much destruction, and Tony's bullet-ridden body blown all over the courthouse lawn -- it's all very conspicuous -- the police investigation will have a lot of urgency. At the very least, there will be the appearance of all due diligence. The sons of bitches will be loaded for bear!

Tomorrow I Kill Tony

All kidding aside, tomorrow's a big day. It's the culmination of a lifelong dream, ever since I adopted the life of a criminal at the beginning of February, to take out Mr. Big and take his place. Tomorrow, I kill Tony!

I've been preparing for it, having a hand in everything, not just the prostitution operations of which I am the head. If someone wants to know the latest scut on what's going down, I'm the go-to guy. And that's the way I like it. Tony, as powerful as he is, likes to delegate. Then he sits around his suite, and, I don't know what he does for sure, but I definitely imagine there's multiple climaxes a day. Well, how about one more? The climax of a career and a life...

My preparations have also entailed currying favor on a huge scale with Tony's unparalleled guard. Tony has one entire floor of the hotel for himself alone and his guard, eight divisions of men. To get down the hallway is no easy task, lined as it is with these guys. The Shivs, The Battalion, The Hangmen, The Pulverizers, The Psychos, The Mincemeaters, The Republicans, and The Ethnic Slurs. There's probably not a lot to say about them. They're just a bunch of extremely bad ass dudes.

But as bad ass as they are, there's one thing that puts them all in a great mood, and that's largesse, or to put it in English, material booty. Anything you can give them, if they think it's valuable and matches up with their interests, they like it. So I've been distributing some very nice things, and letting each one know how much I appreciate their service to the Organization. And in return they have taken a liking to me.

And that's mainly it. Ducats and stuff. Tons of it, given repeatedly, with no let-up, is all it takes to buy these guys' loyalty. Money, drinks, hookers, iPods, gift baskets assembled around themes (101 Dalmations, NCAA basketball, antique cars, edible underwear, etc.), boxes of grapefruit from Harlingen, TX, gift cards for 1-800-FLOWERS, styrofoam coolers full of Omaha Steaks, overnighters at Hooters, free Kindles (without "special offers"), and, probably most popular, complete bound sets of the U.S. commemorative quarters series.

They know what's coming, complete and total hell for Tony. And I'm simply going to walk down the hall and do it. They're cool with it because they're cool with me. So there you are. Somebody's gonna die!

The Backwoods Men Are Coming!

This is going to be great for business! The Backwoods Men are coming! Every forward-looking, red blooded American male worth his salt will be up and ready for anything, making my life easier and more prosperous. Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward here, crime boss in charge of the Organization's prostitution operations.

It's always been my theory that the best vice thrives best when under the grip of the vise, some seemingly insurmountable challenge to its existence. When a man thinks he might take a knife in the back for his instinctual prerogatives, that's when he goes at it at peak performance. It's an instinct going back to the ancients, with a battleaxe tearing down a man's tent. He felt compelled to leave something behind before death.

But let's look forward, not backwoods. The backwoods view is the view of the instinct-slayers, a furry, boneheaded, religious tribe from the country, dumb as a post, but very self-righteous. A few of their womenfolk came to town and found good careers, and now they want them back. Back to the woods they must go, according to these chuckle heads. It's always that way with these guys, always backwoods, never forward!

And it's not like their women are even suffering that much. It's not backbreaking work. There's many different positions and preferences. And there's good pay and good tips, three square meals a day, their own room, and counseling if they need it. I don't know, they get to read in their off hours, and they can watch all the TV they want. The only thing they might ever complain about is having to stay up late.

But like I said, I'm all for the Backwoods Men! Let 'em come! Bring 'em on! Make my day! We'll do our best to fend them off, most of them. Realizing, as I do, that if a few of them get through and make something of a mess, a limited mess to our place, it'll be great for business. I mean, who wouldn't want to see one of these guys running through the hall? It'd be something to talk about for a month, the extreme danger you felt. Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest! And if some guy gets killed -- wow, that's wild! They'll all say, "At least it wasn't me!"

My advice would be, The Backwoods Men are coming? Run forward, men! Don't look backwoods at all, look ahead! Remember Lot's wife. As the Good Book teacheth, "He who stumbleth backwoods in the dark walketh not forward in the light."

However, as much as I know the Backwoods Men will be good for business, let me stress, I do not support them in any way. They're ridiculous. What kind of man would be against other guys having a good time? They'd have to be backwoods. There's definitely something backwoods about that kind of thinking. They'd gladly take society backwoods, with all the progress we've made. I might be mean about it and say, maybe they don't know how to be forward with a woman. Forward just ain't their direction! They're just big wooly-looking backwoods bullies!

Anyway, when they get here, we'll see what we're dealing with. And if one of these backwoods, self-righteous wrath-makers could be trusted with a key to the backdoor, at least temporarily. I wouldn't mind seeing him do his thing a little bit, then changing the lock when he goes back to the woods.

Right now, every forward-looking man's nerves are on edge -- the threat is real, and I'm loving it! For our traffic, we're going boldly, ever confidently into the future. In no way will we allow ourselves to go backwoods, never, not at all!

I Am Not Going Soft

Friends, I get your mail, full of proud suggestions. You think you know more about it than me! I'm not saying it pisses me off too much, but just a warning: Watch your back... Anyway, a few of you -- the vocal few -- have expressed a hand-wringing concern that I'm going soft. You're saying my crime escapades don't really match up with the stuff that typically marks crime at this level, i.e., organizational crime. To which I say, Screw you!

The truth is, my blog is gaining some attention around town with the last few honest underlings at the police department, so sometimes I have to cool it. I'm cagey, not soft! Sometimes it's important to keep a lower profile to stymie the bozos. But I'm also scheming to destroy them so I can freely flaunt my so-called evil, which I actually believe, since I'm doing it, is virtue.

I'm not going soft. Stay tuned if you think that. You're going to see Ming the Merciless. People are going to die, people are going to be deprived of property, and people are going to suffer petty mischief. And speaking for the mischief-makers, it's not going to be pretty, that is, from people's point of view. From mine, of course, it will be a thing of beauty.

Also, you're concerned about the short term, instant kicks. But I'm looking way ahead. I've learned a lesson from history. If you want to be truly honored as a criminal, you have to go all out, pull out all the stops, then, and yes it might take 100 years, they'll revere your memory. Bullet holes that you've shot in buildings, they'll preserve, even giving tours to see them, and if they ever paint the place, they'll paint around them.

They may say they hate criminals today, but eventually, if you were bad enough, and cagey, they'll have days named after you, like Bonnie and Clyde Days, Al Capone Days, Jesse James Days, etc. I hope to be so bad that they not only have Machine Gun Ricky Wayward Days, but, thanks to my reflected glory, days for my less distinguished associates, Big Brute Days (the first guy ever to force me in love), Rutledge Week, in honor of the guy I blackmailed twice and who subsequently died in an actual blackmail operation, and Tony Day (one day's good enough for him), in honor of my boss, at least at the present moment.

But those tributes of the future, when today's bad news becomes folklore, won't happen without the present moment, and what I do right now. Therefore, onward and upward! Greater bigger and worse crimes lie ahead!  (I did an awesome, though low-level, crime the other day that's had me chuckling ever since. You know the stop sign and other little orange sashes the school crossing ladies use? We found the shed where they keep them and raided it! Tossed all their stuff off a bridge and the last I saw of it it was floating away. Probably sunk by now, waterlogged! LOL! This is virtuous because kids ought to know how to cross the road on their own. If chickens can manage it...)
  
I have schemes in mind not just for society but for the Organization. One, and please don't tell anyone, I'm planning a move on Tony. Seriously, I may as well confess, the chances of anyone ever celebrating Tony Day are not good, because he's not long for this world... I've already said too much.

Getting back to my everyday life, of course I'm still in the market for ways to promote prostitution more effectively. I want it lift it out of the mud in the eyes of folks. I don't want it to have a wholesome amusement park nature, of course, because that would completely destroy the charm of sneaking around. But the more actual danger we can build in, the more attractive I believe it will be. So look for good stuff on that front. Just to pique your interest, how about johns being killed in flagrante delicto?

I love the idea of keeping their nerves on edge. They still come in with the same lust, but it'll be magically heightened with the thought that they might be actually killed. I can see myself doing a cursory investigation -- just enough to assure them things are back to normal. Then I'll get everyone excited about it as the danger is renewed, then wave it off again, then another eruption, then it's calmed down. That'll be great for business. Probably the key moment, the moment of greatest danger, will come just as I announce the building has rock solid security, everyone is safe, and they can go on their way. Delicious!

So, in conclusion, just a note to all the haters, you can rest easy, or put a sock in it. I've got my own criminal operations well in hand. I won't be listening to a word you say. Time for you to take a break. Of course I could invite you up to the hotel -- come on over! I'm so soft, nothing could ever happen to you!

Tae Kwon Do

Tae kwon do, a deer, a female deer.
Tae kwon re, a drop of golden sun.
Tae kwon mi, a name I call myself.
Tae kwon fa, a long long way to run.
Tae kwon so, a needle pulling thread
Tae kwon la, a note to follow so.
Tae kwon ti, a drink with jam and bread.
That will bring us back to tae kwon do.

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.

He Paid For Companionship

REALITY:

Clint married Maude back when Maude was a cool name. He did his best over the years, always faithful, and accepting what she offered, leading to child #1, #2, #3, and #4. The children all survived.

She had her good qualities, being completely in tune with his past. They had the same memories and pretty much the same interests. To all appearances, they were the perfect couple.

But his eye wandered, although thankfully it was just his eye, not any other body part. At one point he was tempted, arguing that sex was the same as shaking hands, only with different body parts.

Eventually, he and Maude, in their 80s, died, remarkably only three hours apart, showing their complete soul harmony. They died and the newspaper wrote it up like this: "Clint and Maude died together, basically a double-ring funeral."


ALT REALITY:

Right when it came time to marry Maude, he left her at the altar. He'd had a premonition of what was to come, life as a grind with just one woman.

How much more adventurous it'd be to pay for companionship. They're always up for it and seemingly more than willing. He wakes up, sees a receipt on the pillow, which goes into his book of memory.

Years of this -- a different woman every time, although once in a while he'd cycle around to the same one -- kept him pretty well satisfied. And his wallet lean as new, in certain respects.

Then came a time, in his mid-30s, when he noticed some of the well-known symptoms, what they whisper about venereal disease. Obviously, somewhere there was a clinker in the mix, which had made her way into his bed and trusting arms. Or could there have been two with a cross-pollination thing gone bad? Sex has its moments...

Clint died, and the newspaper noted that he had paid for companionship over the years, and now he had paid for it indeed, dying alone, leaving behind a number of unlived years (he was 55, so we're talking around 30 years).

The undertaker sent his brother the final receipt.

Blackmailed One Last Time

This is a shocker, let me catch my breath... Rutledge is dead. Shot in the back. Bled to death. They dumped him in front of the hotel. Someone noticed his body. All hell broke loose.

Let me say, I'm very upset by Rutledge's death. Say what you will about guilt complexes being bad, I can't help thinking I'm somehow -- at least remotely -- responsible. Before you pat my back and poo poo my thoughts of responsibility, please hear me out. I'm the one who blackmailed him two times as a joke. Of course he wouldn't fall for it a third time.

The terrible thing is: The third time wasn't me, and it wasn't a joke. But he thought it was, so he responded by dismissing their demands, resulting in the present catastrophe, a bullet in his back, the consequent loss of blood, which was entirely necessary for his ability to live.

How do I know all this? Of course I couldn't know it. But it came to me as soon as I saw Rutledge's dead body, that he had to be the victim of foul play. Could it be suicide? No, a man shooting himself in the back and dumping himself outside a hotel is extremely rare. I had to find out what happened, and I wanted to know right away.

It is in a moment of crisis like this that I'm at my best. I've always been that way, and it's something of a source of pride. Once as a boy I lost my homework -- it was a very windy day, and there went my papers out of my hand and across a muddy field! The average first grader would've panicked and figured all was lost, and just take the failing grade. But I leaped into action, going over the barbed wire fence in one bound, like a seasoned track and fielder. And through sheer will, I bounded through the mud, brambles, and over a creek raging out of its banks. I dove on the homework, wrestling it free of the wind's grasp. Long story short, I managed to get a C instead of an F.

But enough about me. I saw Rutledge's body and once again dove into action, telling everyone in my path to get the hell out of my way. I called in my best boys, the ones with connections in all the town's gangs. I have to tell you, I was so flustered -- running strictly on will, two parts will and one part adrenalin -- that I wouldn't take "I can't" for an answer. "Find out what happened to Rutledge! Get back to me within the hour or you'll join him on the sidewalk!"

My demands were met, but they had to give it their all. A couple of guys came back injured, broken arms, black eyes, and one guy was shot in the leg, giving him a painful limp, even painful to look at. But they had the answers.

I winced when the story came out, just as I feared. They tried to blackmail him, but after having been blackmailed twice as a joke, there was no way he'd accept it as the real deal. Rutledge laughed in their face, ignoring every threat and scoffing at the idea of paying a single cent. He reportedly was looking for me behind the curtain, opening closets, trunks, and, not finding me, speaking loudly to the dark corners of the room where he figured I'd be watching on video camera.

And it really hurt when he was proclaiming loudly that this was "the last straw" and that he'd kill me with his bare hands when he caught me. There'd be no more laughs at his expense. He was "finished, through, done, sayonara, arrivaderci, adios, goodbye Ricky Wayward, may you rot in hell!" The gang that had him had two thoughts: 1) He was certifiably insane; or, 2) In some other way, not clearly known, he was "dissing" them, and bloodthirsty gangs don't care for that.

They'd tied Rutledge's hands with a rope and had him hanging from the rafters and there he was spinning. Surely this would bring him to his senses that it was no joke! But no, he shouted out defiance of me as he spun. "There's no way you're going to fool me again, Wayward!"

They dropped him back to earth and took him for a little ride. They hung him off the side of a bridge, so far down that his head was going in and out of the river. Up and down, back and forth. But would he give in? No, he used what power he had left to curse me, "Give it your best, Wayward, you bastard! I'll never give in!"

Finally, they took him to a cheap motel, sat him in a chair, and turned on Jerry Springer. With this greatest torture, he was muttering something like, "All right, Wayward, you win," when some strength, undoubtedly unknown to him before, brought him to his senses, and he refused, saying, "Wayward, you can't break me!"

In short, the gang saw they'd never get anything out of this crazy man, who, from their point of view, had no respect for the whole blackmailing process. Of course they didn't know about the recent blackmail jokes. All they knew is they were getting nowhere fast, and the longer it went on, the worse it would be. Leaving them no choice but to kill him.

The last part of the story went like this: "Wayward!," he cried out, "your guns don't scare me. You say it's a joke, you bastard, but this time the joke's on you!" With that, they shot him. A witness told my boys, "I heard the crack of the gun just before Rutledge slumped." And the rest you know, they dumped him out front.

Later, I went through the hotel and was able to collect almost $100 for his widow, who doubtless deserves so much more. But life is sometimes unfair, like that time my homework blew away. The mud that day was treacherous, but somehow, through indefatigable will, I got it back, and received for my labors a not half bad grade, a B+, I believe it was.

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CREDIT: The cartoon panel is from the strip "Vic Flint" by Jay Heavilin, March 24, 1957.

We're The Playthings Of Destiny

Being a crime boss is quite an adventure!

In my role as head of the Organization's prostitution operation, I have all kinds of duties, some routine and some just out of the blue. I have to be ready for anything. Because sometimes the human drama can be almost too much...

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. There's a lot of fun in it. And I have all kinds of leeway in the Organization. Think about it: Who else gets to engineer a diamond heist, blackmail a guy twice, and smooth the ruffled feathers of a whole team of Associates (our word for hookers), all in the same week?

Really, you never know when your next challenge will be. But I'm ready! My secret is simple: Overall clean living and daily meditation. I do my best to maintain the utmost harmony, focusing my mind, body, and spirit. I'd be a wreck without it.

So there you have it, I'm bearing my soul, laying it all on the line. Hope you're impressed.

And I'm definitely going to keep at it, because keeping a full team of Associates happy and content is not always the easiest thing in the world. Maybe you'll hear them griping, "When you said 'modeling' I had other ideas about what you meant." Or, "If this is 'massage therapy,' it's a lot different from what they taught us in class." Sometimes you can mollify them with some fresh flowers for their table, but it might just take a heart to heart talk. Which I'm always happy to do, especially if I think they'll go for it.

One of our Associates, Lorelei, came to me, all hangdog about her life, and very moody. I had her sit on the couch. Of course I did what you're supposed to do, presented her a few flowers, but she just waved them off. No, she was going to need something more, this sensitive girl from North Dakota, or Arizona, or somewhere. She'd obviously had too much time on her hands, time wasted thinking, and stewing about it. To hear her tell it, this wasn't the life she'd hoped for.

Well, what could I do ... but commiserate.  It is, after all, one of the very best techniques in human relationships, to affirm the other person through identification. And naturally it is more compelling if you have, or can quickly construct on the fly a plausible back-story. As for myself, I'm from a genuine blue collar family. Those who came before me had a tough time in the Depression. There's a history of military service with my grandpa and uncles, all before I was born. And I personally have a disability, a game toe, causing a pronounced limp most noticeable during my annual visit with federal authorities, who have to validate such things.

Lorelei told me some of her disappointments, which caused me to glance down at my foot. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said tenderly, "Does it really hurt so very much?" I held back a tear and said with all the braveness I could muster, "No, I've got a few months till the next evaluation." But still, had it not been for this migrating bone in my big toe, who knows what I might have achieved? With a good toe, and a little bit of height, I could've played for the NBA!

Our talk hit an awkward silent patch, so I pulled out my ace: "Lorelei, you and I both feel like we're the playthings of destiny. Perhaps we haven't achieved everything we hoped for, but we're happy, because we've accepted the challenges of our lives, and are even now in the process of overcoming them. I wasn't always a crime boss. I had to work at it over the last month. And you weren't always a--- an Associate here. But somehow you saw exactly what your options were, so here you are, and I'd say better for it! I'm proud of you." Such poetry, I felt tears in my eyes, natural ones, not spritzed from a bottle.

I patted Lorelei on the back and told her anytime she needed to talk, of course I would check my schedule and we might be able to squeeze in an appointment. Until then, keep a stiff upper lip, don't take any wooden nickles, and remember, them's the breaks.

Bad News -- You're Being Blackmailed Again

It was a terrifying experience for Rutledge to be blackmailed by me. So he was greatly relieved to find out it was just me fulfilling his self-confessed fetish. He claimed that was exactly what he wanted!

I'd pretty much forgotten about it and moved on, when Rutledge came into my office saying he wanted me to do the same thing to one of the other guys, Granger. I said, "Yeah, Granger would shit his pants, even though he also said he'd like the danger of being blackmailed." Granger's wife is totally suspicious that he spends his check on booze, hookers, and gambling. So far, though, what she doesn't know hasn't hurt her...

I rubbed my hands and said, "Yesssss! Our Mr. Granger is in for it ... big time!" Rutledge and I laughed and slapped high fives. But I warned him not to say anything under any circumstances, no matter what. He crossed his heart and said "hope to die." I put a bead on his heart and said, "Don't worry, you will." With that, his smile disappeared, till I said, "Cheer up, Granger's gonna get it!"

The joke here, though, wouldn't be on Granger. Rutledge was going to get it again! So Rutledge leaves and Granger comes out of the bathroom, and I said, "You heard everything?" He nodded. We began making our plans. Then I scratched out a note and told him to deliver it, pronto!

A few minutes later, I placed a call to Rutledge. When he picked up, he heard heavy breathing on the line. Then an unfamiliar voice, my voice again disguised. "Rutledge, I understand you're a regular over at the hotel, with everything that implies." He tried to deny it. He might have been suspicious, so I referred to myself in the third person to deflect it: "And I understand you're working with that shithead, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward, whose guts I hate with a purple passion, a hatred beyond words. I'd love to see Wayward take a long walk off a short pier." He clearly didn't like where this conversation was going! His breath was heavy and I could feel the moisture of his perspiration through the line, nearly short-circuiting the connection.

My demand once again was for money, this time $5,000. Or I would go to his wife with all the disgusting lowdown, plus, the police would hear some "very interesting" news of his involvement in a recent diamond heist, among other jobs. Rutledge knew he was nailed, and this time it could be no joke. The resignation in his voice was heartbreaking as he asked where to make the drop. I referred to a particular garbage can at a playground on the east side of town. He said he knew it well. I said that wasn't where he would make the drop, but where he would find his instructions for the next step.

I said "my boys" were watching the garbage can, "so don't be late," and I gave this final warning: "If you double-cross us in any way, if you contact Wayward, my order on you is shoot to kill." I finished the call with only about 10 seconds of maniacal laughter, not wanting to use all my minutes this early in the month.

OK, some time passed, giving me and Granger time to wonder what the hell was going on. I remembered the note in the garbage can word for word: "Rutledge, we hope you enjoyed our little fun. How's the fetish going? -- Wayward and Granger."

About two hours passed -- you'd expect the bastard back sooner! -- when Rutledge came busting into my apartment. He was well-lubed, obviously having stopped by a drinking hole for liquid courage, to do--- to do what he felt he must! Which was to kill me. Thankfully, the booze made him so unsteady, he merely shot four or five shots into my walls and ceiling.

Granger sneaked behind him and knocked the gun down, after which we laughed our asses off. It took a while, but soon drunk Rutledge was also able to laugh, and the three of us left that particular subject arm in arm, singing the old song about "15 men on a dead man's chest."

Rutledge had the 5 grand on him still. I peeled off $100 and sent him down the hall with one of our more patient hookers.

Is Christmas Always On Sunday?

I'm glad the paper answered this important question today, because there's probably lots of us who've been wondering the same thing, without having the courage or drive to write in.

I can truthfully confess, I've celebrated many Christmases, all of them in the past, without now remembering the day of the week they were on. But if I'm to be completely honest, I have to say I don't think they were always on Sunday.

Unlike the questioner, I was already more or less aware that Christmas is always on Dec. 25. More or less? I can actually be more definitive than that: I am very sure Dec. 25 is always Christmas Day! But, still, it's nice to see it in print, and to know it wasn't just a figment of my imagination.

So, thank you, newspaper! You've done us all a great service. If it weren't for the help, who knows, the questioner might have had to look at a calendar! Or googled multiple calendars for multiple years, which would make it a lot more complicated. And obviously not every calendar says when Christmas is, like little calendars. Plus, sometimes it's tough to know if the calendar is showing Sunday or Saturday, since sometimes they just say S M T W T F S (my emphasis).

I hate to gripe about the "Sound Off" column today. But if I could complain just a little, what's the big gap of white space for? If they had that much room, they could have elucidated with a few more details. Like how to reconcile the odd fact that Easter is always on Sunday.

Here's why I think that is: The church gives payoffs to calendar publishers to make it happen. Why the publishers aren't open to payoffs at Christmas is anyone's guess. You'd think they'd be more open, so they could afford more Christmas gifts. But you'll have to ask them.

Maybe "Sound Off" can get to the bottom of it! I'll write in! Why do calendar publishers accept crooked payoffs from the church to reserve Sunday for Easter, but when it comes to Christmas they turn and say "Bug off!"?

Good News -- You're Being Blackmailed

We all know what blackmail is. You've had a little bit of fun, then, wham, someone blackmails you. Then it's time to pay. Of course you're all nervous when the call comes. "What?" you tremble, knowing if you pay, that won't be the end of it. The guy gives his instructions, you're in terror, but you can't realistically do anything but pay.

Some of our regulars were at the hotel this afternoon, not for the hookers, but just sitting in the lounge having coffee. In my place as the head of the Organization's prostitution operation, I have a bank of TVs to keep track of people's comings and goings, no pun intended. I saw among them a couple of the ones who said one of their fetishes was wanting "the danger" of being blackmailed.

Of course I like to make people happy. That's the business I'm in. So I thought I'd play around with this one guy, a guy named Rutledge. He's the kind of guy who would probably scare easily. And who knows how happy that might make him!

I dialed his number and watched as he answered the phone. "Mr. Rutledge," I said calmly, disguising my voice, "don't hang up..." He goes, "Who is this? What do you want?"

"What-do-I-want?" I repeated, adding a menacing chuckle. "You tell me ... You've been a very bad boy. I've been watching you." He sounded like he was getting sick. "What's this all about?" I just chuckled again, like a cat with a mouse, then said, "You know what it's about, you being a very bad boy."

In the give and take, definitely fevered at his end, I finally described the monetary payment I would need "to keep my big yap shut" and where he should make the drop. Of course I added a few snarling remarks about "What a terrible pity" it'd be for his wife to find out, especially considering all the child support he'd be liable for, with eight kids. "That'd wipe me out," he complained, to which I only replied, "I know."

He wanted to meet me face to face. It was a confused conversation because in there somewhere he started thinking maybe it was me. "Is this you, Ricky? Is this what we were just talking about?" I expressed that I didn't know anyone named Ricky. Probably more unbelievably, in spite of Ricky Ricardo and Ricky Nelson being famous Rickys, I said I'd never even heard the name before. Before he could interrupt, I cleared my throat.

"Mr. Rutledge,"  I said, "The plain truth is, I know where you go, and I know what you do there. And if you don't do exactly as I tell you, I will be sharing some very interesting facts with your lovely wife..."

"OK, dammit to hell," he blustered, "what do you want?" I explained a complicated procedure that he must perform. He should put $300 in small unmarked bills in a package, come to the hotel, catch a taxi to a particular corner, walk to a mailbox, take another taxi from there to where he started from, walk to a fire hydrant, catch a taxi back to the same particular corner, clap three times, and catch a taxi back to where he started. Then he would re-enter to the hotel and say to the receptionis, "Give this package to Mr. X when he arrives."

"That's all, then you can go back home ... to your loving wife and kids ... or carry on as you've been doing."

I could see in the monitor he was sweating a rainforest. But he was relieved, it appeared, that it was only $300. Could he be so fortunate? I brought him back to earth with a dispiriting promise, "I'll talk to you again ... next week!"

UPDATE: Rutledge did exactly as I commanded. Later, I called him up to my office and gave him back his money. He was pleasantly surprised and said, "Don't ever do that again!" and was totally relieved. I was laughing my ass off and asked how he liked it, since it was his fetish. He laughed, too, and said, "Not as much!"