By Crag Dakkins
Yesterday morning Asscock had used his free time to get his annual mandatory physical. Taggert followed him to the clinic and sat in the waiting room while an Indian telemarketer assured Asscock several times that he had gone to medical school and was trained in medicine. Judging by the rhythm and pitch of his voice, he couldn’t have been here legally. Asscock regrettably subjected himself to the Hindoostani’s pokes, proddings, and prickings only because it was October and the months of the year were running out. He didn’t need to have Hockley on his case for a cunt-and-dry case of violating the National Health Care law on top of all the other shit he was on his case about.
The clinic visit was one of Asscock’s rare departures from his apartment. He mostly stayed at home these days, under threat of asskicking by his partner. Shitface had made it fistingly clear that Asscock wasn’t wanted around if Taggert was to be following him like a loyal puppy. Sitting in his apartment was boring, but Asscock knew better than to test Shitface’s rage capacity. He thought inviting Khandee over for a blowjob might relieve some of the boredom, but the prospect wasn’t appealing with that goon spying on him.
Detective Taggert spent most of his time rocking on a chair in the hall outside Asscock’s apartment, thumping against the wall in a regular pattern that Asscock found annoying at first but had grown accustomed to. The thumping had the positive effect of sending vibrations through the wall and gradually chipping the old, dry paint off the wall inside the apartment, the green paint giving way to the white underneath and producing more of that vintage look of a building suffering genuine wear and tear since the 1940s (In fact the building had been around since the 1980s). The spy had been instructed not to speak to Asscock, and he had abided by this, but he had no restrictions on speaking to others so he was constantly on his cell phone. Yesterday evening, during a long session of staring blankly at the wall, Asscock had eavesdropped on Taggert and gathered dialogue snippets indicating revelatory and spectacular occurrences of the day. From these snippets he had called Janine who connected him to Lieutenant Rollins, and Asscock told him to proceed as they were. Rollins seemed a bit confused, but Asscock stuck to his guns and even raised his voice a couple times, so as to not let on that he was completely out of the loop and had little to no idea what major events were unfolding. Asscock hated this Taggert situation and he was going to do whatever he could to maintain his authority. He hoped that today, newspaper day, he would be able to fill in the blanks and keep up to speed on developments for whenever he would finally get back to doing police work. It just so happened that he now held in his fat hands the very thing he needed to see if these events would be covered in the day’s newspaper: the day’s newspaper.
The Monitor was a weekly publication with a small staff and early deadlines, so it was questionable whether they would have gotten yesterday’s stories in today’s issue. Jesus be praised, however, this grand newspaper’s staff proved once again that they are the finest at what they do. Apparently they burned the midnight oil, because yesterday’s big story was right there on the front page, under the prominent headline, “More Disesters In As Many Days”. Asscock wasn’t a smart man, but even he could see a few things wrong with that headline. He was willing to accept a few proofreading errors in this journal because it was a low-budget Mom & Pop production with integrity, and it focused primarily on wholesomeness and the heroic deeds of man, not the sordid, pig-sty acts of Man most modern-day newspapers indulge in.
Asscock was sinking back into his couch to prepare for a relaxing read when he eyed a small word underneath the front page banner and shot forward for a closer look. “www.themonitornewspaper.news”.
No. Asscock would not accept that.
He closed his eyes and opened them again, tears splashing onto his cheeks in the process. He wasn’t crying. Lately, more water than usual had been pooling under his eyelids, that’s all. Closing his eyes might have gotten rid of some of the excess water but it sure as fuck wasn’t getting rid of Asscock’s disbelief.
Directly underneath the website address was the newspaper’s slogan: “The Modern Newspaper Actually Printed On Paper!”
This combination wasn’t a contradiction, exactly. The newspaper in Asscock’s fleshy hands WAS printed on paper, but the implication of the slogan had always been that The Monitor wanted nothing to do with the internet. It was upholding a higher standard than other newspapers, a standard that said the internet was a cesspool of human degradation and embarrassing acts of self-display, a place where poltroons could cite spurious evidence and sling their libelous words in the comfort of anonymity. The Monitor was supposed to hold objective journalism in a high regard – too high to let just any faceless coward vent their veiled frustrations about Mommy and Daddy onto their newspaper’s articles and writers. These were troubling times, indeed, if even The Monitor had succumbed to the internet’s egalitarian nonsense. Asscock thought he might have to be more critical of The Monitor if it started internetting itself out to everyone like the Whore of Babylon.
The fat detective sighed an especially audible sigh, his jowls fluttering about like a wing-ed pigeon. He had to forgo his laments of modern-day journalism in the interest of acquiring information. The Monitor, being the police-friendly newspaper that it was, was Asscock’s most reliable source about the happenings in the outside world. He sure as hell wasn’t going to use the TV or internet, not even if the Angel Gabriel came in through the window himself.
Asscock thought he might as well set his reading to music. He reached over and fatted his phonograph record player into the “On” position. Scott Joplin’s ragtime music poured out of it and Asscock settled his gargantuan ass deeper into his couch for a relaxing morning of music and newspaper reading. Joplin’s most famous song, “The Entertainer”, played first. Asscock imagined Joplin playing the song at a piano in a Western-style bar. Joplin wore a black suit designed for both gambling and gunplay and he had a Colt 45 holstered at his waist. On his face was a huge handlebar mustache, the kind real men used to have before it was co-opted by the San Francisco gays. Most noticeable in Asscock’s musical daydream was Joplin’s skin – white as the day is long and twice as wide, and as alabaster as the teeth of Zeus themselves. The pianist’s skin glistened with blazing gold luxuriant white, even with the meager supply of light coming into the dusty saloon. Asscock liked Scott Joplin’s late-19th/early-20th century tunes because they were lively, positive music from a time before the American music scene was stolen by the Blackrican-American and his mournful, slave-time reminiscences. Asscock had never seen a photo of Joplin, otherwise he might have changed his mind about some things.
The front page article was written by the editor, Edgar Crowley, a 60-year-old veteran of all three Gulf Wars, and possessor of a haircut indicative of self-discipline. He didn’t have a college diploma, but he did attend the School of Hard Knocks, earning his PhD in Pulling Himself Up By His Bootstraps. Asscock had met this hero before and told him he would be honored to shake his hand, to which Crowley graciously accepted with a handshake considerably more oomphful than the frilly-frally handshakes given by the typical “metrosexual” males of today. The whole experience brought a tear to Asscock’s eye, and this time it was not due to excess water, but to the confirmation of Asscock’s belief that there still were heroes left in this world.
More Desesters In As Many Days
By Edgar Crowley
Police raided the derelict Zanderbeer Chemical Corporation on 4th Street in North Town yesterday, October 20, following up on rumors of an obscure connection to recent terrorist activity in this community. Disaster struck almost immediately. One of the more astute minds on the force, Officer Herschel Schneiderman, was seriously injured when the basement floor he was standing on disintegrated into thousands of 20-sided dice, and then so too did the three basement floors after that, the sum total being four basement floors turning into 20-sided dice before Schneiderman plunged into the fifth basement storage unit. Most of the vats in this chemical warehouse / manufacturing facility are filled with expired nougat candy, but unfortunately for Schneiderman the lowest sub-basement was one of the few not filled with this gooey, pliant, non-skin-irritating and delicious treat. No, it contained thousands of gallons of a viscous, black liquid, more beast than man. Schneiderman was definitely not a “kid in a candy store” for this vat-falling-into; in fact, one might say it was the exact opposite situation since Schneiderman is adult, not a kid, and the thick syrup he fell into was a poison, candy’s evil twin. Schneiderman was like an adult in a poison store, sorry to say.
The lead detective on the scene, Keith Stokes, had the swiftness of mind, muscles of strength, and the agility of dexterity to pull the Jewish cop out of the slop before the poison could fatalize him…
Asscock chuckled at the name “Keith Stokes”. That was one of about ten different names Shitface gave to reporters. Like most officers on the force, Asscock was somewhat curious to know Shitface’s real name, but the matter was never all that pressing. It was a man’s actions that defined him, not his name.
Sensing the need for a quick response to an officer’s four-floor fall into an unidentified black ooze, Stokes grabbed the neckline of one of the nearby officer’s uniforms and tore off the whole shebang in one smooth motion. He then wrapped the uniform around one of his arms and moved like an experienced chimpanzee down into the hole, executing a drop-and-grab from each floor to the one below it on his way to the lowest level. Miraculously, the floors did not crumble further and we would not have to send our prayers out for an additional officer. On reaching the lowest floor, Stokes plunged his uniform-wrapped arm into the goop with the hope of freeing the Abrahamite, whose hobbies include mathematics and making cartoons, from the Black Menace. After tenaciously swirling his submerged arm for about twenty seconds, Stokes finally hit pay dirt, and he pulled Schneiderman out of his torment. By this time the other officers had disrobed and linked their uniforms together and sent the rope down the hole. Stokes put the incapacitated officer over his shoulder and climbed their way to freedom. As they say, though, freedom isn’t free, and Schneiderman’s Exodus from the poison cost him his skin tone. It is a small expense to pay when considering the deathly alternative of staying in the ooze.
The noxious fluid was a blackening agent, a chemical used to construct black objects out of non-black objects. This particular blackening agent also happened to be #1 on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, and, considering that it was hidden away in an abandoned building in a sub-basement without any noticeable access panels, Schneiderman’s fall, although it may come as no comfort to him, turned out to be quite serendipitous. For years now the FBI has been searching for the manufacturer of the integral component of Fool’s Coal, the sale of which virtually destroyed the U.S. economy in the buyout and rationing of carbon-emitting fuels following the Green Energy Act of 2022. FBI Director Lee Earningwood held a press conference on QNN later in the day and was optimistic that the discovery of the blackening agent would lead to the true identity and capture of Melvin Paste, the flimflam man in wealthy industrialist’s clothing who sold $1.2 trillion in blackened pumice rocks – advertised as coal from his vast, imaginary Alaskan mines – to the U.S. government before disappearing and becoming the most wanted criminal in the history of the world.
It comes as no surprise that as early as yesterday evening numerous black FBI vans could be spotted around this fair city. More G-Men are sure to follow. Although their intervention will likely irritate the great individuals who comprise our local police force and perhaps instill Orwellian fears in the rest of us, the sight of these black vans is a welcome change from the numerous hydraulic-bouncing, scarlet-lettered gangbanger vehicles that have become as routine as the setting of the sun. The gangbangers have now mostly restricted themselves to certain areas of Black Town. We must learn to take the good with the bad, like brave Detective Schneiderman, whose skin shade grows closer to the blackest Fool’s Coal every day but whose air fortunately still has lungs to breathe itself. Too many occurrences of late suggest the existence of subversive organizations aiming to destroy national security operating under our very noses. The blackening agent, it seems, was simply the last straw. The FBI could no longer look the other way.
But this is only half the story of what was found at the Zanderbeer building. The second bombshell to drop was the closet full of Avatar costumes found in an office on the top floor of the building. The number of confirmed dead from the October 17 terrorist actions of the Avatar killers and a man known only as “Deputy Grutch” (see police sketch on page 3A) stands so far at 48. If this recent finding leads to the mastermind(s) of what QNN calls the “Avaterrorism”, the relatives of the victims may find the justice they deserve.
Police Chief Dennis Hockley says we shouldn’t necessarily assume there is a connection between the Fool’s Coal scandal and the Avaterrorism. The Zanderbeer Chemical Corporation for years served as a storage and manufacturing facility for many varieties of companies. A full investigation into their records will be forthcoming, but for now we have this information.
Tapperton House commissioned Zanderbeer to manufacture and store their nougat ten years ago. At about that same time Tapperton House shifted its focus from candy manufacturing to focus exclusively on the production of Bom Diggity, an energy drink that has been hugely successful among the low-income bracket. Owner Hugh Tapperton has publicly stated that he is not related to either of these conspiracies and is willing to subject himself and his company to “painful scrutiny” in order to clear his name. FBI Director Earningwood, citing Tapperton’s record of philanthrophy, has said he does not suspect Tapperton’s involvement in any criminal activity.
Earningwood has not said the same for a man called “Nickasun”, a single-named Samoan chap whose name was the only name hand-written on a ledger found on a desk next to the closet where the Avatar costumes were found. A geologist by trade, Nickasun’s expertise in rock constitution makes him a prime suspect in the manufacture of a chemical that makes volcanic pumice resemble coal in almost all respects except the important one – energy production. Rocks R Us, the geoscience firm Nickasun currently works for, is being investigated. The whereabouts of Nickasun himself are unknown and he may be dead.
Rocks R Us CEO Gary O’Sullivan, a personal friend of Nickasun, says the Samoan shouldn’t be our highest priority. “Nickasun isn’t really the mastermind type,” O’Sullivan said. “Closer to a slavemind type. He may be involved, but someone else is pulling the strings. Not me, though.”
Chief Hockley agrees about Nickasun. “Look, I’ve been in the same room as the guy. I’ve talked to him,” Hockley said. “The guy isn’t winning any Pulitzers. He doesn’t know where he is half the time, and that’s after he’s been in the same place for several hours and has been repeatedly informed of his whereabouts. Nickasun is wanted for information he has about a group or person or event called Negrosun, which is responsible for some deaths in our community and may be connected to these other conspiracies. Nickasun was recently kidnapped by Deputy Grutch and is now presumed dead.” The Chief paused for a moment, his face a subtle shade of red, and then continued, “Mark my words, if…no, when we find Deputy Grutch’s body in the Zinc building rubble, we will give him a proper terrorist burial in salted earth.”
Asscock blinked more water out of his eyes. Reading long blocks of uninterrupted text, though satisfying in theory, was generally difficult for him, and this story was longer than the ones he was used to. He looked around the room for a change of pace. The green paint was chipping off his walls nicely. Outside his window pigeons walked on the rusty iron fire escape. Scott Joplin was still banging out tunes on his piano from a far-ago time, but soon his music had to compete with the1940s-style heater plinking away in that annoying, reassuring way it had. This was no bullshit heater. This was the kind that could actually supply heat, the kind that would burn your house down if you weren’t careful. It wasn’t like the delicate froo-froo heaters in homes today that break down all the damn time and don’t heat for shit. Asscock preferred to have a heater that would keep him on his toes. Complacency had destroyed America.
The front page of the Monitor directed Asscock to a story inside that would fill in more of the details of yesterday’s events. He opened the paper and braced himself for another block of text.
Six Dead in Ad Agency Explosion
By Edgar Crowley
The mysterious criminal underworld leader known only as “Mister X” or “[N-word] X” is wanted on the charge of terrorism for the explosion that rocked the New Frontiers ad agency yesterday, October 20, and killed six people. Implicating him in the crime is his traditional gang insignia, a black banana, spray-painted on the sidewalk in front of the British ad agency. Every previous crime in which such a tag was found resulted in the arrest of members of Mister X’s gang not long after, usual due to someone having video evidence in these modern times. Heretofore Mister X’s henchmen have restricted themselves to banana-stamping burglaries, robberies, muggings, and the occasional assault or murder of a rival Italian gang member. This is their first terrorist act, and Chief Hockley could barely conceal is displeasure. “I am not pleased,” he said.
It was supposed to be a routine stakeout and seige, but October 20 kept insisting upon being anything but a routine day (See front page article). Officers surrounded the New Frontiers ad agency building, tentative to make a move lest they accidentally incite terrorists or knock an unstable building to the ground. They hoped to assess the building’s structural integrity and stabilize any volatile situations therein with as few casualties as possible, and preferably none.
New Frontiers was the final point on map devised by the recently hospitalized officer, Herschel Schneiderman (see front page article), charting the locations of buildings that have been deteriorating into the five Platonic Solids. These are dice with four, six, eight, twelve and twenty sides; also known as the Dungeons & Dragons dice. Four of the locations form a square. These are Zanderbeer Chemical Corporation, Zinc Enterprises, Atwater Printworks and New Frontiers. The gentlemen’s club Club Blue Balls was the fifth point in the center. Atwater was the site of a murder scene, Zanderbeer was the home of a treasure trove of terrorists’ goods, Zinc was the site of the tragic terrorist attack, and Club Blue Balls collapsed on our brave men in blue [see last week's issue and the front page article of this issue for detailed accounts of these events]. Now the question was, what would New Frontiers have in store?
Brave Detective Dave Davunk would find out what was in store all right. He most assuredly would find an answer to that question. In the midst of circumstances suggesting the chain of command had become broken, Davunk, the thrice-honored recipient of The Monitor’s Award for Meritorious Service, forged unhesitatingly ahead into the ad agency to get the answer to the question posed at the end of the last paragraph. When he hit the revolving glass doors he perhaps expected it to disperse into a million tiny, 12-sided dice, the only remaining Platonic Solid, but what he received instead was the kind of suntan you get when you’re sitting on top of the sun. A bomb was detonated on the first floor of New Frontiers, vaporizing Davunk instantly, exploding his body into so many molecule-sized pellets to assure that he, like many fine officers before him, would not have an open casket at his funeral, or even bits of him to bury in a tiny plastic bag. Also killed in the blast were three other officers – Reggie Houseman, 28; Tommy Carlyle, 32; and Harry Simpson, 51 – and two staff members of the ad agency whose names have not been released. Twelve officers and five pedestrians were injured in the explosion. Nobody above the first floor of the New Frontiers building sustained injuries.
“Terrible tragedy,” said Lt. Michael Rollins, the Officer in Charge. “I told Davunk not to go in there, but what are you gonna do?”
All the floors above the first floor in the New Frontiers building were relatively undamaged. The second floor fell neatly into the footprint of the first floor, virtually stamping out the flames instantly but forcing a great whoosh of fire and air out into the streets. Five police surveillance vans and several cars were blown onto their sides from the fiery gust. Windows in all the buildings within a 200-foot radius shattered.
Of the officers killed in the explosion, Reggie Houseman’s was the most preventable and has already sparked debates about new legislation. Houseman was across the street smoking a cigarette at the time of the explosion. Officers next to New Frontiers were using a hibachi, which was reportedly authorized for use, when the explosion tore them and the hibachi to pieces and the metal grill portion was flung directly at Houseman’s head. If you’ve ever seen one of those sectional displays of the human body at science museums, you can imagine what his head looked like afterwards. You could see all the layers that stack together to make the human head. Members of Houseman’s family and bowling team are now pushing to get laws in place that would prohibit police use of hibachis and other recreational devices in situations above a certain threat-level.
In the confused car-alarm orchestra after the explosion, officers pushed their way out of their upturned vehicles and stumbled away from New Frontiers, preparing for worse to come. A UPS truck rolled up the street shortly after the blast. Lt. Rollins said he feared another Deputy Grutch incident, but with the post-blast confusion and all, he hadn’t any time to do anything about it. The UPS truck stopped in front of the building. The driver exited the vehicle and strolled up to the front door, “whistling like an oblivious fool”, according to Rollins, and then hesitated because when he reached to push the revolving doors, he noticed they weren’t there. An empty picture-window frame was in its place, and on the other side of it were men sitting around a table. They were stunned to stillness with their jaws hanging open, their bodies covered in dust and their hair mussed up, but otherwise they were well dressed like your usual ad men.
Officers tackled the UPS man and confiscated his package. They opened the box and found a cylindrical metal canister with a leather patch on one end depicting a dodecahedron (12-sided die). The sender’s signature on the box was an obvious forgery. Written in all-caps letters in a childish scrawl was the name “Sofia Tartaglia”. She is the proprietor of the local deli Sofia’s, an art patron, and was the head researcher of a controversial psychological study which has been condemned by the gay male community because it illegitimizes their attraction for each other. Tartaglia is currently in Brazil, but Chief Hockley said she has happily agreed to answer questions and help the police in any way she can when she gets back…
Assock’s reading was interrupted by a sharp stinging sensation in one of his neck folds. He thought maybe it was the shock of seeing that Sofia woman’s name in print. She had had quite an effect on him when he met her and he hoped he could be the one to interview her when she comes back. He felt another sting and put his hand to his neck. He pulled out a dart and examined the green, red and black fuzzy pattern on it and the red feathers at the end. Another dart stuck in his neck just then and Asscock decided he better look into the origin of these.
His window was open and a blackrican afro-dome was sharply contrasted with the bright sun behind it. The darkie was so dark that Asscock surmised that he wouldn’t be noticeable in a dark room except for the prominent whites of his eyes, floating there in a black void. The crouched blackrican shot a fourth dart into Asscock’s neck with his African-style blowgun. Asscock suddenly realized he couldn’t move his muscles.
When the blackrican stepped over the window sill and out of the glare of sunlight, Asscock recognized him at once.
“Eye Patch,” he tried to say, but his mouth just hung open and drool poured out.
Eye Patch sauntered over to Asscock with the bounce in his step and confident swing of his shoulders of a 1980s breakdancer. He had bandages on his neck, the side of his face, and underneath his leather jacket where he was shirtless. His fly style superceded these elements, however, and he looked the very picture of health.
“Ha ha, my nigga! Watchoo can’t move or sumfin’? Be lucky you still breeve! I’mma bout done playin’ games witch you fool-ass niggers.”
Eye Patch reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cloth sack and a black plastic skull about the size of an egg. He leaned toward Asscock and with his nimble fingers effortlessly extracted the wallet from Asscock’s pants pocket and tossed it inside the sack.
“All dis cop an’ robber shit coss me my brotha, yo. Taxi muthafucka take care uh dat. Don’ know if you feel me, yo, but it a pain in my heart like no other. No betta nigger walk dis earf dan him.”
Eye Patch paced around Asscock’s apartment, scoping the place out with his smooth-criminal eyes. Shelved prominently behind Assocock’s stupid kitchen table were commemorative 9/11 plates and a solid silver “Never Forget” medallion. “Sheeeeeit,” Eye Patch said, narrowing his eyes and giving Asscock a sardonic smile. “Wannabe hero like always, yeah my nigga? I ain’ fooled. I know who you are, lazy coward muthafuck, and I ain’t tryin’ ta hear dat.” Eye Patch swiped all the plates onto the linoleum floor. The ones that didn’t shatter, he stomped on to make it so. He put the silver medallion into his sack.
“’Neva fo-get’? Sheeit. Unlucky Cat die, but life go on, you know what I’m sayin’? Can’t live in da past like no jive nigger…Turn dat fool shit off!”
Eye Patch knocked the phonograph onto the floor. As you can imagine, it stopped playing as a result of this. A second later Assock’s grandfather clock met the ground in a terrific shattering of glass. Asscock helplessly watched these proceedings, wondering where the fuck Taggert was right now. 90% of the time he couldn’t see the use of having that ugly fuck following him around, but this was one of those rare moments when he could see the silver lining.
Eye Patch seemed to know what Asscock was thinking. “Yo babysitta ain’t gun be no help. Send yo prayas someways else, foo’. He leff. Gwyne ta put food in dat sorry-ass mouf uh his.”
Eye Patch took some overripe bananas from the kitchen counter and put them in the bag. Then he opened the fridge, found nothing of value to him, and used the length of his arm to sweep everything onto the floor. Most of these were condiments in glass jars (Asscock refused to buy things in plastic containers) so there were a lot more shattering sounds. A drawer full of genuine silverware was removed and emptied into the sack.
Asscock realized at this point that he couldn’t even move his eyes and his peripheral vision was disappearing. Eye Patch strutted out of Asscock’s narrow field of vision and then a commotion of noises came from the bathroom. It sounded like the medicine cabinet was being relieved of its contents in an indelicate fashion.
Eye Patch returned. “No Vicodin? No pills ta cure yo fat ass? Damn, you useless. Hard for me ta move dese di’betes meds an’ powder sugah. Whatchoo got powder sugah in medsin cabnet foh, anyway?! Day-um!”
Asscock wanted to give this black motherfucker a pancaking like he wouldn’t believe, but try as he might, his Will to Power, what little he had of it, was not returning. Eye Patch set the sack down but continued holding onto the skull. Asscock wondered what the hell he was going to do with that. Eye Patch closed the curtains and turned off the lights. He grabbed a wooden chair, one with an ornate wooden design and more structurally sound than modern polymer-based chairs of the froo froo variety, and set it in front of Asscock and sat down on it backwards, real casual-like. The blackop gazed at the deflated balloon that was Asscock and brought the skull up to Asscock’s eye level.
“Now to main item on agenda. Damage control.”
He flipped a switch and a red light started flickering rapidly in the skull’s eye sockets. In the dark room, the only things Asscock could see were the red light and the whites of Eye Patch’s eyes.
“You in highly siggestive way right now. Dat’s dee drugs, yo. Look in da light, nigga, as if you have a choice,” Eye Patch laughed.
Asscock’s watery eyes became fixed on the flickering light. Popular wisdom had it that you couldn’t be hypnotized against your will, but Asscock figured popular wisdom hadn’t accounted for African dart juice or the inability to move or close your eyes. Slowly Asscock felt his capacity for individual identity slip away, only to be replaced by ebonical thought patterns.
• “You was robbed in hurr. White boy did it. Not no nigger. You dasn’t remember what robber look like, but he wear red hood sweatshirt, Ambercromey or whatever the muthafuck. You was asleep and wake da fuck up jus’ before he go out yo window.”
• “You go back to sewer on hunch tamarrow. Order some foo’ less fat dan you go down there. Find me in room marked ‘Femaintenance’. I be tied, bruise, beaten. Take me to hospital.”
• “Other thing you find in sewer room be personal shit I stole from dead cab driver house. Also shit I stole from ‘nother cab driver, one of he friends I found. Arres’ dat sandy immigant muthafuck foh kidnap and torture me and foh cold-blood muthafuckin’ murder of my brotha. Some foo’ gots ta pay.”
• “Later you gwyne link my kidnap to Nigga X somehow. Push investigation. Bring dat nigger down hard. Do it yo damn self if you haff to.”
• “Could be Jenkins contradic yo story wiff one of he own. Or maybe not – he in a forgetting way sometime. If he do cause trouble, you mus’ silence him like you silence dat hobo. You think I don’ know ‘bout dat? I got eyes e’rywhere, nigger. Dey don’ call me Eye Patch foh no nothin’. Ain’t cuz I see too little, but cuz I see too much. I’m so blind wiff sight dat I need an Eye Patch. Ya feel me? You kill Jenkins if he be trouble.”
• “Stop lookin’ foh Nickson. He don’ know no shit ‘bout Mista Negrosun. Get dis search to stop.”
• “Lassly, you fohget I ever was hurr. Dese thoughts will stay in back of your mind and hit da front of yo brain when moment is right. But you think dey your own thoughts, not nobody else’s.”
Eye Patch turned off the flickering skull. He turned on the lights and opened the shades.
“We had good educatin’ today, you an’ me. But now’s time foh me ta fly.”
Eye Patch put his finger against the side of Asscock’s head and gently pushed. Assock had no choice but to flop over on his side. The blackop laughed, removed the darts from Asscock’s neck, grabbed his sack, and then crept out the window and clambered down the fire escape.
That God damn black son of a bitch, Asscock thought. He was going to pay for this. Leave it to a blackrican to believe in such superstitious nonsense as hypnotism voodoo. That shit wasn’t going to work. Once the paralysis wore off, Asscock was going to find Eye Patch and personally escort him to the slammer and reunite him with all his other felonious family members.
As Asscock’s mind raced and raged, his eyes remained fixed on one specific point, their ability to move not yet regained. They continued to water, but now the watering was more excessive than before. Perhaps it was his body’s reaction to the dart drug, a way to prevent his open eyes from drying out. He lay on his side with his head bent toward his stomach where part of his newspaper was resting. The movie listings for the CineTastic Theatres were directly in his line of sight. Asscock had nothing else to read while he waited for his movement to return so he read the same twelve movie titles over and over.
Zombies vs. Leprechauns*
An Interesting Hypothesis
Austin Powers Junior 3
Look Who’s Talking: Baby Got Back!*
Lost Prophecies 4: The Everything Accumulator
Catcher in the Rye*
Boys Are Like So Meh
Harry Potter and the Quidditch King: Part 2
Blues Brothers 2025*
Tu Madre!: Return to the Treasure of the Sierra Madre
(The showtimes were listed as well, but do you really care?)
All movies are presented in Cinemascopic 3-D unless otherwise indicated.
Please note: All midnight showings of Avatar have been suspended until further notice, out of respect for the victims and their families.
*Some showings available in Choosie-Vision. For $2 extra, rent a Choosie remote and vote on the direction the movie takes! You get to make the movie!
After an hour of reading this, Asscock felt his body’s voluntary muscular control starting to return. Good, he thought, because he was getting antsy to find that young punk in the red-hooded sweatshirt who broke into his place. That the kid was white was a great disappointment to Asscock. You didn’t see a lot of white burglars these days, and it broke your heart whenever you did.
For the first time in Asscock’s life he could feel the blood flowing through his veins and arteries and the hair growing on his head, his sense of touch coming back with a vengeance. Asscock felt vital – about as vital as a hippopotamus like him could feel anyway. He righted himself on his couch and his vision stuttered in front of him, his peripheral vision returning and settling in. He had a mild headache but otherwise he felt excellent, rejuvenated. Never underestimate the power of a mid-morning nap. A nagging voice in his head told him to look in the sewers again to follow up on the Club Blue Balls shooting and disappearance of Eye Patch. No one had seen Jenkins since he went down there, and he had to find out why. Asscock would put a man on the case tomorrow, perhaps Jankowski.
The phone rang just then. Asscock struggled to his feet and waddled over to the rotary device hanging on his wall.
“Hello, doctor. Do you have my test results?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Sometimes I put myself in the patient’s shoes. It is a result of all the empathy exercises we do in medical school. What I meant to say was, this is Doctor Guatamaharami. I have the test results from your recent physical.”
“Oh. How is my health? Good?”
“No, it is in a terrible state actually.”
“I thought I was doing better than most men my size.”
“No. Your cholesterol and blood sugar levels would be bad for a man of twice your age and size, but that is not the worst problem.”
“Spit it out, Gandhi. What is the damn deal?”
“Detective Glasgow, you have AIDS.”