

### SHAUNESSY AND A LITERARY DEATH

### Book 1 of 2

### Edward Drobinski

Copyright © 2020 by Edward M. Drobinski. All rights reserved.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

And furthermore, well within the imagined constraints regarding the precise precision of impressiveness, all spurious and soon to be overstated rights are supposedly reserved in pragmatic futility, and are hereby ludicrously claimed as such; the result of the confines of the US law which provides a modicum of protection to written materiel; strongly encouraging duplication and plagiarism, especially in the lawless bastion called China. In the US this scurrilous activity is now disciplined through a righteous "Shame on you" from inconsequential writers with nothing worth writing as well as college professors on the US Federal Government dole with nothing worth writing. This wordy errata is only here, since it may appear as amateurish to leave this blurb out, in full realization that unpunished breaches, excepting the painful, red marks which live on slapped hands for as much time as a China BatPoo II virus, will invariably be the case.

This section is customarily mandated to say in sad ineffectiveness, as the writer is a bit of a wary traditionalist with no desire for punishment, thereby reticent to defy any pointless literary customs, that no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means except those so authorized, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in the course of writing a review; limited to one of the laudatory type. A sincere thanks is extended to those who have allowed this time-saving boilerplate to be copied under a spurious CCO license. So, there part of it is.

Continuing in the practical doctrine of accepting passivity, the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Understand? Entirely fictitious. As in untrue, fabricated, invented, made-up (not like in one of those Marilyn Manson "outrageous" struts done in the most unattractive black, leatherette corset known to man, (not the fault of the corset) when performing to a large audience, obviously not his own, that being some weinie awards show televised from Tuxedo Junction), false, pretended, fictional, conjured, and all those other words one calls liars. If you have been sufficiently cursed to have been previously subjected to any people with similarities, either the book's characters, people you have wrongly construed to be analogous to the writer, or Marilyn Manson him or herself, you have the author's sincerest sympathies. Large charge. Right? However, if you are like any of them, the author invites you to socially distance yourself from him by six zip codes, at least until old Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus at the W.H.O. finds a remedy for some disease, the author most reasonably willing to settle for him not doing his Chinese by way of the remaining repressive elements in Africa best to exacerbate one.

In monochromatic addition and also in monochromatic fact these objectionable characters are so obviously fictitious that any attempt to assert otherwise would have to be the mercenary ploy of some lazy, non-productive crook or crooks, counseled, aided, and abetted by an otherwise unemployed chiseler or chiselers, as yet un-dismissed from the less than diligent bar. Any fancied apparent similarity to real persons is not intended by the author insofar as the author, if one is paying any attention to the flow of the materiel, spuriously alleges that he can conjure every possible archetype and their subdivisions upon subdivisions upon subdivisions ....... and if thought to be detected is either a coincidence or the product of your own sick and troubled imagination; perhaps most practically suggestive of an intensification in treatment and dosage.

Where the names of real places, corporations, institutions, and public figures may be projected onto made up stuff, they are intended to denote only such said made up stuff, not anything presently real as of the time of this entirely conjectural and metaphorical writing. China is merely a passing state of mind or a cheap something one might make one of those overpriced mall available chachkas out of.

I hope that you are one of those blessed with common sense, thereby being one who did not bother to read this professionally and thereby assumed and claimed "expert" semi-obligatory absurdity.

Portions have previously appeared in the following; New Yorker, Esquire, Playboy, New York Times, Ploughshares, Paris Review; and has been most appreciatively summarily rejected within the gloried holes of prestigious Horror Sleaze Trash (HST). Need the writer say more? Dumb question. I don't care. .... You choose to not believe it, but the author really does not believe that either. If necessary, expletive you with no mask.

### Contents

### 1 - CJW's Backhanded Smash

Zabriskie Point"; property of the author.

This rudely and perhaps presumptuous morsel commenced upon page 1185 of Connor James Wheaton's "Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers." Written more or less, mostly an unfocussed less, as a goof on the "Politically Correct Police" absurd notions of propriety, as well as consciously ignoring the standards of the world of literature while simultaneously demonstrating that CJW thought he understood and was well-versed in the ultimately ignorant farce, our anti-hero, Connor was the most surprised of all at what followed. That is, if the dead know anything or continue to give the required, ethereal fart about such matters. "Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers" proceeded to have had seven figure sales. Adding an ostensibly reversed insult to an ostensibly reversed injury, 85% of the derivatively clichéd, pedantic reviews were glowing as a brilliance only exceeded by the esoteric congregations of lightning bugs, which the unfortunate traveler seeks to avoid during the lightning bugs' weekend yard sales, no matter how neatly tabled and purveyor intrusively smiley in the paved, asphalt church lot. Perhaps making the youthful effort, thereby a short-listed candidate for the inevitably incorrectly seen as an unwanted naïve effort prize;, those reviewers who were actually paid a pittance, not much minding that in order to attempt to attach their unknown names, and write such things which followed the indie reviewers' lead, despite their hilarious, though obviously zero circumspection, disdain for indie writers. The pot does always call the kettle black. "Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers" was placed on a number of All-Time Best 100 lists, the crowned darling of those Connor had sought to unceremoniously mock, as mildly and lovingly as he unceremoniously mocked himself, in search of the nirvana provided by an understanding partner, no sell-out audience wanted or pursued. This proved to reach no level of discernable avail; this overwhelmingly likely to be viewed as just another in a long string of personal failures which some long-winded wordsmiths, most adept in their needy, and thereby self-serving evaluations of "Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers" were bound to misinterpret as a rendering of their derivative "art" of persuasion lack.

Telle est la vie. Please feel free to substitute the short phrase of your thought to be equivalent choice. "F" words haven't raised an eyebrow since something like the days when your granny was a toddler. The writer used to care, but things have changed.

Unlike an international bat seasoned hor d'oeuvre, this excerpt requires context for those who have not read, or who have skimmed, the alleged "masterpiece" not intended to be the fodder of the many. But, as with most everything, no context is necessary for those who have been able to intuitively understand. Failing that, the second through sixteenth raters who perceive themselves as no one else does, as a remotely diligent entity through the common art of back cover blurb re-hash in the name of minimalism; please feel free to proceed as you will or won't. It matters zilch. CJW would no longer care either way, celebrative in finding either approach a source of unrestrainable glee, like a winged, visitor from Asia with a targeted US destination.

A pause must pervade, more or less pregnant, but probably not anything more minute than a Gates' multi-colored-pixel bit. This is not to be confused with Gately, according to both the latest CNN poll, the pregnancy aspect that is, and the testing machines which came from China which gave 50-50 results while holiday decorated, free of charge, with Chinese BatPoo, more or less reminiscent of that un-named tricky horse, which had traversed the desert. Decades later, the pause that is, convincingly said, as much as a pause can say anything, that this was to be the result of a $7,500 American replication of a Hitlerian, Nazi, 'Manchurian Candidate' type of popular fiction with a programmable assassin and all of that stuff long pontificated about by Icke and Jones, when not in the presence of the entrancing Purple People Eaters and the 2018 Federal invasion of Texas. Never mind. Most mercifully, here at last is Connor.

"Thank you for allowing me the honor of being and coming before you; no innuendo intended; I think. Be assured that now that I have called your attention to it, that mini-puddle you think you see is either not really there, or is solely the result of a spillage caused by an Iranian gunboat, which they deny owning and controlling. ...... I see that you find that not the least bit funny. Frankly, neither did I, but I figured that there was no reason to knock myself out to try conjuring a decent joke at these prices. Thank you and I most appreciate the silent smirks granted. I'd like to say that I understand, but I probably don't and you'd only hate me if you thought that I pretended to. Not that that is of any interest to me or anyone other than a Chinaman trying to peddle some poorly constructed metal abomination through legally removed, through obviously complicit 'partner' AmawayOnSteroids.com, replete with screws that don't match the nuts; that a relatively insignificant problem for one whose decades long promise of yet-to-come profits remain yet-to-come, if one believes the published numbers. Thereby it works well as a business model to be deceivingly-pumped-up like any steroid addicted hula hoop cheaply stapled at the seam, while existentially puny and entirely dependent upon ....... that stuff. You know. That their economic existence is primarily dependent upon their ability to disclose and be remunerated for your gathered personal information, for which the government continues to lust and pay, merely places it within a long-term, well-defined, and played out genre of disrespected snitches with throats cut in jail; of laughable, apparent interest to those who are unable to recognize the same character redone and redux subsequent to a change in wardrobe.

Welcome my fellow alcoholic friends. My name is Harold and I too am an alcoholic. .... Whoops. Quite presumptuous. Worse, quite the wrong meeting. Terribly, the wrong speech. Catastrophically, the wrong something. I think. You're the New Agers, sweet suburban division. I am indefensibly remiss in not having made note of the burning incense, patina enhanced teddies, the Native American designs on colorful sweaters manufactured in Wuhan, and the lotus positions you have decorated the floor with. Peace and love, fellow travelers. Am I now correct? I hope so, as it means so much to me. .......... To tell you the truth, I hope not. Aha. That explains your humor-challenged countenance with all the social skills of a flock of lock-glided insect suckers. I should have known. I really should have. My ignorant embarrassment at my failure is now and forever will be an infinite source of personal humility. Peace, "Whole Foods Market", and un-danceable flute music to you all. Further and to my un-retractable joy, many of you have commenced fondling your crystals, teddy bears, and animal familiars which strongly suggests a tolerant, non-judgemental yes. Thank you. ..... Thank you, sincerely. However, pardon me for having been eternally crippled by a childhood surrounded by cruelty, abuse, poverty, and racism in ignorant, Atherton, California. I mean like these Athertonians don't even have an ocean view from their highest point, but act as if they have some sort of right to be offended, deleted, edited, maligned, and ignored by the weinies, grunts, and flunkies employed for chump change at the likes of FecesBook, LooTube, BarneyGoggle, Goofreads, and Twatter. I must say in as yet not overcome fear of rejection that you, yes you, in the front wearing the pointed pixie hood jacket; you do have your familiar dipodomys under control. Do you not? ...... Good. Thank you, sir. Please forgive my bad-childhood-induced deficiencies in matters of trust. I am confident, in the boldly demonstrative sense of one who wagers even money on a doped track shoo-in, that my daily ritual of yoga and transcendental meditation, followed by Upanishad reading will soon obliterate my horrible memories of constant, early hominid mistreatment, as that term is currently ill-defined. But that's another tangential issue best reserved for another time. ...... Dammit! Dammit! Just dammit to hell! Neglect, inclusive of being afforded zero protection from the wolf pack, and overt cruelty, such as that of a friendly kitten tortured and slowly and painfully killed by a fearful, hominid gang led by a fat boy the group dared not oppose, with some sort of issue with his humongous, sad-ass; thereby soon healed through meditatively induced recognition of his observed hominid deficiencies. ...... Faux optimism is your requirement. No?

Nonetheless and whatever, trouble on at least two fronts remain here in River City. .... No, no, no. You're fine. It's me. I'm certain. First and last proceeding up and down the sleep capable yoyo, thereby indirectly, as is still needed by one so damaged, not to thereby infer that said one is anything other than quite common in terms of experience, just deficient in coping skills, regarding that prior 'confession,' I'd truthfully like to point out that it is often expedient to say what is expected; the minutiae not worth the potential argument; and likely no one was paying any attention anyway. But, frankly I had some difficulties with admitting that I was an alcoholic when they couldn't define what one was. I mean like if one is asked if they are a kangaroo without the asker showing what a kangaroo is, one can guess risking that to be interpreted as lying, when it is actually the fault of the inquisitor for not defining terms.

Well, now that I've gotten that 33.3% out of the way, we all may be reminded that there are no coincidences; only conjunctions. I'd like to share my earliest memory with this enlightened and loving New Age group. I recall exiting the dark tunnel, to wondrously behold the bright expanses of a brand new Walmart superstore; one of those with crafting aides, auto parts, tires, rifles, and ammo. Soon after 'have-a-nice-daying' me, the aged, ostensible female, who was scrunched on her tiny bench right at the entry, pointed out the yellow sign which tripoddedly resided on our immediate floors, its message available both north and south. In large letters it said 'Vomit Explosion.' In smaller print it addended; 'Do not walk, run or stand here.' I proceeded to consider the options offered. ........ That resulted in a long and irrelevant story involving a rude person carrying a mop and bucket you wouldn't want to sit through, and one I'm even less inclined to tell. You might consider suffering through the Harper's version, available near your favorite check-out counter for only $9.99. Huggy, huggy, and the huggiest of sincere warm hugs. ......... Thank you Kristin. Thank you Hannah. .... Whoa, whoa, whoa there Sidney. Let's not cut into the time allotted for the divination, crystal gazing, channeling, astrology, visualizing, and Yanni. Next, you'll consider this some sort of ploy begging attention. Ha. That's merely what you'd like to think. .....

Also when you are next in Sedona, you might want to check out the Steiff teddy bears. They are outfitted with caps and shirts with every color in the rainbow, capable of complementing any sweater. Time is quite up. Bye-bye. It appears to be time to err on the safe side, and go."

  * Connor James Wheaton from "Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers" –

Yellow vomit sign/warning; property of the author.

### 2 – The Long Wait

Cop; property of the author.

Shaunessy and his much younger partner Striker sat in their parked patrol car at the curb. They were in front of the tan, stucco, one storied Southwestern styled house at 977 Camino de Tristeza. They saw periodic peeps through the drawn blinds. They had been dispatched there because of a call to the 911 operator. Under instruction from the Chief, they were waiting for the arrival of the Medical Examiner. Their investigation was instructed to be "coordinated."

977 Camino de Tristeza; property of the author.

The instrument panel inside their metallic heat conductor on wheels showed an outside August 12th temperature of 108 degrees. Indoors it had felt like that two minutes after Shaunessy had cut the engine and consequently the air conditioner. He scanned the driveway area and saw four cars. One was an out-of-place, dented, and dirty red junker in the driveway itself, alongside two more fashionable cars, with another stylish model in the open garage. The house had one recently mowed and meticulously maintained patch of grass in possession of part of the front yard's center, surrounded on all sides by irregular and overlapping stones, which brought more attention than would have otherwise been afforded to the yard's haphazard grass and weed mixtures elsewhere.

The grape harvester who worked the field across the street pretended not to be looking their way. His black legion hat danced behind the edges of the wooden, painted "Danza Del Sol Winery" sign planted near the road. He stood in the straight rows of six foot trellises as he picked at vines heavy with grapes, careful not to damage the plastic, black drip lines which had "climbed" in tandem with the vines.

Vineyard; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Shaunessy wasn't anxious to encounter his second un-natural death only six months into his relocation to "crime-free" Vista de la Feria. But, he was also annoyed to have to wait for the "Stiff Straggler;" saying that to Striker.

Resurrecting the duo's now playful east – west, big city –small town badinage, Striker said; "In these here parts we call them 'Stiff Stalkers.' Besides, the suicide is not likely to be going anywhere. In the meantime would you mind putting that 'magical cool box' back on."

"Besides an inability to tell time, what do you know of this 'Stiff Stalker?'"

"Not much personally. He's been in the backwaters for even less time than you. Young though."

"This young buzzard have a name?"

"Harrison Brody III."

"When did New Mexico go off the Coroner system?"

"Actually quite some time ago; before I started. The prior Medical Examiner left for Chicago corpses. Growing business, I hear. The Chief once said that the old time elected Coroner played a better game of horse shoes."

"Betcha that the Coroner showed up on time and got a few ringers. How long are we supposed to sit here and twiddle our poor old redneck cleavage?"

"Until the day when ....... when the Chief slaps a 100% tariff on cheap imports that don't work right, and we again become self-sufficient."

Shaunessy recognized another derogatory reference to his relocation from Yankee New York, and silently stared at the grass patch while Striker broadly grinned in his direction, making the repugnant sniggering sound through his nose. He considered occasional bouts of homesickness par for a traveler's course.

"While we're waiting, here's another one. What happens when a Mexican makes a baby with a Chinese?"

"New Mexico's native population increases."

"Wrong. A car thief who can't drive is born."

" ................ "

Breaking the silence a few minutes later, Shaunessy asked; "What do you know of this Connor James Wheaton stiff?"

Striker snorted like meth head who had lost his needle and replied; "He's lived in Vista de la Feria about four years. Prior to that he wrote "Interminable Gibbet Loop Capers," said to be one of the greatest books of all-time. Long-ass story I never read. When I can bench 600, I might try picking it up. Hahaha. One of those suicidal artistes."

Shaunessy knew Striker's answer and more. He was merely playing stupid to see if this lifetime dweller of the boonies did. He had become afflicted with the annoying modern habit of collecting useless information under the guise of appearing interested. He paid for it, as ostensibly feeling smart and energized, Striker proceeded to rattle off a series of "jokes" which were all the rage in Hillary and Joe's Democratic Basket of Deplorables. Compensatorily for Shaunessy, like a stage show, they required no verbal response; just a periodic grin and a well-placed finger in his right ear. Captive audiences are much better at defense than the majority of captors will ever understand.

Forty-five long minutes after their arrival; a van parked on the opposite side of the road from Shaunessy and Striker. The dashboard read 3:45PM and 72 inside when Shaunessy cut the engine. The driver's side view rear mirror initially showed a dearth of activity. For a moment, Shaunessy feared it was an unmarked Comcast snoop van and that he might have incorrectly assumed the arrival of the Medical Examiner. The nondescript, off white, panel truck behind could well have been one of the "Buddy's Affordable Discount HVAC Services" cruising, "independent," vulture vehicles, late for another appointment at the wrong site, leaving him to spend more socially distanced, waiting time with Striker. He re-engaged the engine and the magical cool box for reasons other than being hot.

Medical examiner's van; property of the author.

Almost simultaneous with the return of the calming whoosh, three men emerged from the sliding doors. Striker said; "This is it. Cut it," and Shaunessy again did so, taking one last look at the vineyard. The worker had either become as invisible as a healthy person in Wuhan Province, was now completely hidden behind the convivial greeting sign, or had quit for the day.

Wearing his special "new era" St. Louis Cardinals baseball hat backward, with the cardinal seemingly nauseous from being moved while facing the rear, wrinkle resistant Harrison Brody III took charge of the cursory platitudes, introducing his assistants, Grissom B. Smilowitz, PhD. and Petersen Beam II. As if the team's unexplained delay now necessitated haste, Brody III sprinted through the gravel driveway and the slender and cracked, concrete paver walkway to the front door. Requisite at the left turn, the others followed in single file. Shaunessy ambled at the group's rear; growing more cantankerous with each meticulous step. If he couldn't affect the leading pace and pecking order, without any effort he saw that he could affect the slant of the caboose; a manned railroad car coupled at the end of a freight train, which was formerly required in the US for lookout purposes, possible equipment damage, and overheating axles; now used throughout China to transport defective personal protective equipment elsewhere for a Premier's sum, paid in advance.

From the walkway, Shaunessy took note of the view through the floor to ceiling windows of four people more or less serenely sitting in the great room. Two inaudible mouths were in semi-motion. This was perfectly understandable and consistent with his thirty years of New York City homicide investigations. It was either that or cacophonous pandemonium. No in-betweens.

Not having been previously silent in total, they became so after hearing the sound of the doorbell. C.J. Wheaton's wife of four years, Anisette Rhona Hunter Wheaton, answered the bell and graciously let everyone in. Her finely chiseled, delicate, patrician features showed the emotion one does when in shock or that tolerance which one is required to show when confronted by momentarily meaningful extras on the set.

She motioned them to the nearest of the back doors of the Southwestern styled adobe house. The other three stared at the brick floor when they weren't glimpsed casting sidelong glances at the uniformed group of investigators. "Neither typical in composure or number," Shaunessy thought; more like old Salinger's thoughts about phonies.

Still bringing up the rear, Shaunessy saw the corpse curled up on the scorching brick portal; just where it turned inward to conform to the irregular shape of the house. The preponderance of a black belt was still tightly around its neck; the remainder nailed to one of the exposed beams above. Face sideways, the body slumped over its arms, yet showed that the wrists were duct taped together in front. Shaunessy used his smart phone to take pictures, while the Medical Examiner and his team recorded the facts deemed essential and took their own shots on state-of-the-art equipment.

They all went back in and Brody III invited either Shaunessy or Striker to sit in on his questioning of those present. Shaunessy grimaced at Striker, saying; "Allow me." He was somewhat relieved when he saw that the interrogations were to be done individually and behind closed doors in the adjoining sitting room. Striker, Smilowitz, and Beam mingled with the silent three, who made no signs of wanting to leave.

Brody and Anisette Rhona took their positions on opposing, yet identically gray, button tufted and decoratively nailed, Chippendale wing chairs. Shaunessy opted to throw up his feet and recline on the out of place, contemporary, beige chaise lounge. He was between the two of them and to a side, noting that though quite comfortable; his seat seemed much more worn than that of the others.

Anisette Rhona needed little prompting to say that "Connor" had been on "suicide watch" for years, hence her lack of surprise. "Connor and Emily were sequestered in his study, and had a loud argument shortly after her arrival. She was yelling; 'You're using me' and 'When is that divorce going to happen?' His responses were more subdued and inaudible. It again got quiet after an hour or two." Anisette Rhona had made no note of the precise time, probably around 12:00PM, but had left the house to run a few errands, "only upon Henry Battson's arrival," who she described as "Connor's editor in New York." Without any specific question going in that direction Anisette Rhona volunteered that Rolf Hoffius, the gardener, was working in front, and saw her leave. Shaunessy circled that on his notepad. She said that she returned at 2:30PM and saw that Battson was still there. She went looking for Connor and found him hanging. She screamed, "What have you done?" She said that she had righted the fallen patio chair, stood on it, and used the nearby branch and bush lopper to cut him down. "I then called 911. I was upset with Battson, as he knew the situation, and should have been watching Connor in my absence. Under the circumstances, it was understood."

Henry Battson testified that he had flown in from New York City on this day to discuss some business with CJW. Rather than describing himself as an editor, he said that he was President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now part of the McVirago group. The unfluctuating, copper tan on the proper looking gentleman suggested that he spent more time on the golf course or under a sun lamp than he did pouring through wordy documents in the shade. The hint of two pale elevated lips protruded from the board room head. He said that he had arrived at the Wheaton-Hunter house at 1:20PM. When no one answered the doorbell he let himself in the unlocked door; perhaps emboldened after having first hoisted more than a few at the local, famous artist café, "The Indigo Crow." After 20 minutes of silence, and reticent to disturb the notoriously tetchy CJW, he left to have a few more beers at the famous Indigo Crow, two miles away on the town's main drag, Vista de la Feria Road. At 2:20PM he returned and once again let himself in the front door. With another non-greeting, he was annoyed that no one had the courtesy to be there for his pre-announced visit. However, if CJW was there, Battson was still reticent to disturb the cantankerous artist. What they had to discuss was more provocative than complex, and was best served with calm, rational approaches. "I had flown in from New York to directly speak with C.J. about some of the practical, business aspects of his literature. Of most significance, I was going to stress the 'moral' obligation of a writer; indeed anyone under a willfully signed contract; who has been the recipient of a tidy advance, to produce the agreed upon commodity reasonably on schedule." Anisette Rhona entered at 2:25PM and offered to "fish out the unstable genius" for him. She futzed around a bit calling his name, and then found the body on the portal and began screaming. Battson followed her sound and there CJW was, sprawled on the brick portal.

Shaunessy noted the time discrepancies; but more so the divergence in stories about Anisette Rhona being home or not when Battson arrived, regardless of the precise timing. Though convenient to a liar, Shaunessy winced at the lack of Brody follow-up. He remained silent and tried to think that this was too early in the investigation to pursue the conflicting details. In some sense, he thought it likely that Harrison Brody III's incompetent inattention to investigative corroboration was actually a benefit at this point, as he could later pursue it himself without hindrance. Unasked, Battson left saying that his times "could be off a bit" as he was kind of sloshed and paying attention to more pressing matters like trying not to trip, trying not to converge with other cars, and trying to find out why McVirago pre-orders had fallen to zero on a significant on-line book retailer's site while engaged in a "discussion" with them concerning discounting.

Emily Crain trudged in. She seemed to be much dourer than the first two. The short, slim woman of approximately forty years breathed heavily and eyeballed the floor, necessitating regular brush backs of her long, black hair. She said that she had arrived at 9:45AM, was let in by Anisette Rhona. She had joined CJ in his private "writing" room - library with the door closed. She left CJ at 12:45PM, seeing no one at the time. She was there to unprofessionally help him edit the unfinished, and tentatively titled "Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel." She came back at 2:45-2:50PM because of an idea she had and found all of this. She did not volunteer anything that was not specifically requested. Shaunessy was again a combination of contemptuous and glad that Harrison Brody III had not asked the obvious question. He added "romantic interest?" to his notes.

Rolf Hoffius, the hulking and slouching gardener in need of a shave and shower, said that he had gotten there at 10:30AM, and that he left at 1:00PM, previously seeing only the departure of the woman he now knew to be named Emily Crain. He returned just about when she did; 2:45-2:50PM, seeking "mucho" needed payment for his services. He had originally left out of a wish to not risk disturbing belligerent CJW, but was desperate; his use of the "B" word sounding out of place. He advised that he had worked only in the front yard. Just as he had done with the others to no avail, Shaunessy used his smart phone and "secret" code to find that Rolf had served three years time for two felonies; a "first offense," plea bargained armed breaking and entering and an armed robbery coupled with a felonious assault; under his birth given name of Lupo Batinado. In addition, the gardener was also the self-publisher of three books no one had bought even on "free" days under the name of Dwight N. Creepshun; "Ax Uh Dental Murder Charge," "The Bainsbridge Massacre Patsy," and the science fiction/bizarro epic, "Snot What You Think."

Brody III dismissed everyone, Shaunessy included. He and his crew were about to commence on further "duly diligent" forensic work required in cases of suicide. Shaunessy took fifteen minutes of that time to use his notepad to chart out an opening time line.

Very Adjustable First Time Line Based on Initial Testimonies

9:25AM – Emily Crain, CJW's unprofessional local editor arrived, to be let in by Anisette Rhona. Shortly thereafter she and CJ had a loud argument. She stayed in his private room-library until 12:45PM. She was helping CJW edit his unfinished book.

10:30AM – "Gardener" Rolf Hoffius (A/K/A Lupo Batinado A/K/A Dwight N. Creepshun) arrived. He tended only the front yard and left at 1:00PM, seeing no one other than Emily, when she left shortly before him.

12:00PM – Anisette Rhona left to run "errands," upon the arrival of the expected Henry Battson, who she had admitted.

12:45PM – Emily left.

1:00PM – Rolf left.

1:20PM – "Sloshed" Battson got to Wheaton-Hunter residence finding no one there.

1:40PM – Battson left for a return visit to the Indigo Crow.

2:20PM – Battson returned to a still empty house.

2:25PM – Anisette Rhona returned, screamed and cut down CJW's hanging body.

2:35PM – Anisette Rhona called 911.

2:45-2:50PM – Emily and Rolf returned, each having "reasons" which in the absence of other information, on the surface, don't entirely appeal to reason.

3:00 PM – Shaunessy and Striker parked in front of the Wheaton-Hunter house and under instructions, waited outside.

3:45PM – Harrison Brody III, the Medical Examiner and his two associates arrive, and the five entered the house, admitted by an exceedingly composed, exceedingly distant, exceedingly cordial, and/or exceedingly shell-shocked lady-of-the-house, Anisette Rhona. "Excessive," semi-safely thought I.

DISCREPANCIES TO BE LATER INVESTIGATED, CLEARED-UP, ELIMINATED OR ATTRIBUTED TO EITHER STANDARDIZED, HUMAN, PROTECT-YOUR-ASS CONSIDERATIONS, MEMORY ISSUES, OR THE INABILITY TO PAY A MODICUM OF ATTENTION TO ANYTHING NOT ALREADLY HAPHAZORDLY AFFIXED TO THE SOLOPSISTIC "HUMAN" MIND PROCESS. THE USUAL.

Despite the brave remnants of the declining sun, when finished with his initial notes, Shaunessy told Striker that the day was over. He was tired; as tired as he had been in the ugly doings in his departed New York City. "Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, and without Brody and crew we'll canvas the immediate vicinity and maybe even some areas seemingly unrelated." Striker said nothing, but wondered why more police time was to be spent on a known depressive's suicide. As they departed, Anisette Rhona asked if they would be taking the body. Shaunessy said; "That's the Medical Examiner's job," without losing a step on his way back out the front door.

He drove Striker to the Police Station parking lot. They switched cars and each drove home.

### 3 - The Catcher in Eustacia's Vye

"Where were you all day? I've been here all by myself. All by my ethereal little self."

"Margaret, you are supposed to have the option of floating around heaven all day."

"I'm not old enough for that yet."

"I am. Another damn unusual, icky death. This one they will likely call a suicide; right here in the earthly ideal called Vista de la Feria. On top of that I couldn't proceed as I had to wait for Harrison Brody III, the hotshot fledgling Medical Examiner, and then be limited to his inadequate questioning of those present. Apparently, after all these years I'm required to follow his lead. It's as if we didn't have test tubing pathologists since antiquity. But now, they've been elevated to prime status, while experienced cops are relegated to second class citizens."

"I hate to say that I told you so. But, you really should have taken that AmawayOnSteroids.com Prime offer when it was offered for fifty dollars. Free two day delivery, free Prime originals, free movies, free music, free debris manuscripts, and free for life! Who could ask for more other than a stubborn, earth bound curmudgeon?"

"I'm not following, angel."

"Instead of getting involved with these icky deaths, you could be getting involved with tons of free and icky books."

"Maybe free for AmawayOnSteroids' profit challenged existence, but I expect to be living longer than that. Did your other-worldly spirit find anything else deficient today?"

"As a matter of fact it did. I wish these ghostly hands would allow me to push channel buttons, turn pages, punch the keyboard; or I'd even settle for the ability to put amusing stupidity on FecesBook, LooTube, BarneyGoggle, and Twatter."

"It's just mind over matter and don't talk dirty to me if you can't freely deliver."

"Jeez. I'm reticent to so soon repeat that I told you that you should join AmawayOnSteroids Prime. So, I won't. Kiss me."

"Kiss. Kiss. Gotcha?

Prior to her premature death, Shaunessy and his wife of thirty years, Margaret, had spoken of relocating out of New York City. They had visited some possibilities on vacations. They left each one with a feeling of; "It's nice, but .........." and did nothing but periodically have the conversation. But after Margaret's death, Shaunessy found that their five room condo in Kew Gardens, Queens felt empty. Everything about it and in it reminded him of her. Every piece of furniture and wall hanging prompted him to recall the ages Margaret and he had been when they bought it, what things were like back then, what they had expected for the future and why they liked that item. It became an intolerable inescapability.

Shaunessy couldn't stand the memories anymore and before his trip to Vista de la Feria he sold the condo. The personal property went in bulk to an "antique dealer," keeping only his clothing and the photographs. The pictures could easily be tucked away and pulled out at special times.

The gruesomeness of being a cop in Manhattan added an accelerant to his fire. He and Margaret had visited New Mexico a few times and found out through the government's freely handed out marketing brochures, that Vista de la Feria was full of New Yorkers, so he thought that he wouldn't be the only oddball Northeasterner in the "heartland" and would have a few to speak the same language to. It was only after arrival that he found out that he had been misinformed and that the majority of Vista de la Feria's residents had either been born in the vicinity or had migrated from Mexico or the Midwest. Bummer. Bummer de gran tamaño en el medio oeste.

He found this furnished place, for rent with an option to buy, and bolted before he could talk himself out of it. The house was a five room single story adobe "casita" with a flat roof. It sat on a "private acre" in the company of others much like it on Moongate Road and was quite different than the development houses bordering the one side which was not patrolled by unfencedly loose, loud and toothy Rottweilers, with a Martin Amis disposition. The least objectionable neighbors lived in houses which were larger and newer, with manicured lawns and gardener stopovers. They had a tendency to lift Moongate spirits through their obligatory drive-by waves, despite the apparent pain it caused their faces.

He was anxious to daily observe the touted Sangre de Cristo views, explained to him as encompassing their entirety, from foothills to peaks. In any event, Shaunessy was certain that the New Mexican touts ostensibly thought that the Adirondacks had stood up on its khuffs and went off on a long term hajj from New York State to Makkah, eventually blending with the J̲abal Saʿd and Jabal Kabkāb in Saudi Arabia. Under any circumstances, he would not be going back to the Northeast. Besides, Vista de la Feria was desperate for a cop with New York experience to keep an eye on all the "unruly newcomers of the AARP magazine set."

Shaunessy's rented house; property of the author.

"More or less," said Margaret, her context entirely lost to those stricken with Millennialism; a coronavirus syndrome identified in another "scientific" study, yet to undergo the anguish of crackerjack peer review as well as the heartbreak of psoriasis.

Shaunessy continued with his Brody complaint; "Conflicting testimony; and none of the Brody bunch even tried to follow up on it. Four people were in and out of the house, with someone always there according to the wife; and no one witnessed the event."

"Don't you know after fifty-four years that people don't really pay much attention to anything other than their own little blemish and how others might see their pizza-faced blotch?"

"Yeah, but you would think that someone would have seen a hanging thirty feet away much quicker than they did."

"This heat wave must be excruciating for the fat parts. I can just imagine how the finished, fishy flesh fluxes and fumes like a formerly frozen chocolate bonbon on a stick melts when it suddenly finds itself inside a heated cesspool ............... "

"Gross. Cute but quite gross. I suspect that someone who has passed becomes sort of inured to the pathological details attendant to yet another human becoming all melty, corroded, and passe. Understood, more or less. I suspect that a morbidly curious point of view is both natural and a source of humor for those dearly departed. I should back up a bit. I'm getting out of my touchy, feely, 'human' zone. Connor James Wheaton, the writer, on supposed 'suicide watch' hung himself today. Ever hear of him?"

"Sure. Most everyone has; especially here in proud, little Vista de la Feria. He wrote "Interminable Gibbet Loop Capers." It's on the greatest 100 books of all-time list. But, the question wasn't if there was to be a suicide, but when."

"Interminable Gibbet Loop Capers" cover; property of the author.

"That's one of the problems. Everyone has that belief, and it is exactly that; a belief, devoid of any substantiation."

"Common knowledge, common sense, lover. You get so arbitrary sometimes."

"It's much too easy to say; 'Oh yeah, this was expected.' Even my stupid partner Striker, is giving me that sort of thing."

"So .................. what?"

"So nothing. It doesn't yet hinder my ability to quietly continue the investigation. It just hinders my investigation from getting any useless 'assistance.'"

"What is the issue?"

"The conflict in the stories is significant. And they had sufficient private time together to get their act together, and they didn't. Their times are at odds and Brody glossed over that part. At least one someone has an angle."

"Unless they're at work, people don't always watch the clock."

"Yes, I understand that. It's not only what was or wasn't on the clock that bothers me within some tolerance of error. It's that here we have a man on 'suicide watch' and the wife says she left when the publisher arrived, and the publisher says that when he arrived no one else was there, except possibly CJW. But he didn't check, given CJW's temper."

"Hmmmmnnnnn."

"One or the other is clearly lying. Why?"

"Neither wants to be the last one to have seen him alive?"

"Yeah. That's never good. Scrutiny, scrutiny, scrutiny. I hope I find that I'm being a nut."

"That's still in doubt? Here you are talking to someone not incarnate. What would Tom Shaunessy, the investigator, think of Tom Shaunessy, the spiritual medium?"

"Nut. Love ya, too, Margaret."

### 4 – By the Time You Read This, I'll be Detached

The following day Shaunessy went to work with some ideas on his mind. Chief Kerry had received an electronic communique from Brody III. It said that a typed suicide note had been discovered in the course of his investigation. The one page note was at the bottom of the neatly left, 400 page typed pile titled "Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel," slightly askew. He showed his copy to Shaunessy.

"Suicide is a light affair because it is entered into lightly. The one-thousand questions asked by those left behind are without weight because it matters nothing to Death. Grieving embarrasses the suicide itself by the very act of memorializing it in writing and twice-fold in the reading of it out loud at a service. The point of self-murder is to leave everyone and thing behind, not be followed after with airy prayers, condemnations, or unwanted praise. Poets are particularly taken with suicide. This is so because poets are redeemed only through suicide, this one creative outlet, their collective niche. Self-murdered poets sell crummy books to weirdos and college professors, if you'll forgive the redundancy. This is a proven fact, a reality. I never met a poet that wasn't driven relentlessly to the noose, the knife, the gun, or any of the varieties of overdose available. It's all about the Pit and the Pendulum, the dying day."

Shaunessy said; "Signed?"

"No."

"Hmmnn. Convenient."

"Things often are."

"Guess this is the prelude to a suicide verdict."

"Guess so too. But there is no requirement for that. Why are you so distrustful of the Medical Examiner? He's sharing information."

"It's not distrust. It's more like the feeling you get, call it instinct if you will, that the information source is full of himself and totally incompetent."

"You presumably know well how that works."

"Mind if I talk to the Morgue MD myself?"

"You can be my guest if you promise to remain respectful."

"Sure. I'm surprised that you felt it necessary to specify." On his way to his cubicle, he heard the Chief take Striker sick call and a song which countered his instincts took up residence in Shaunessy's mind. Like looting, destructive thugs under the cover of a peaceful demonstration, some garbage refuses to be controlled peacefully. They need an unregistered, loaded 9MM in the face, held and discharged by someone almost as uncaring and crazy, though equalizing, to become "reasonable." Reciprocity works in all directions.

Equalizing 9MM"; property of the author.

Road sign and "Suicide is Painless" by Johnny Mandel and Michael B Altman; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Safe within his cubby, Shaunessy first wikied "The Pit and the Pendelum," and read.

"The unnamed narrator is brought to trial before sinister judges of the Spanish Inquisition. Poe provides no explanation of why he is there or of the charges on which he is being tried. Before him are seven tall white candles on a table, and, as they burn down, his hopes of survival also diminish. He is condemned to death, whereupon he faints and later awakens to find himself in a totally dark room. At first the prisoner thinks that he is locked in a tomb, but then he discovers that he is in a cell. He decides to explore the cell by placing a scrap of his robe against the wall so that he can count the paces around the room, but he faints before he can measure the whole perimeter.

When he reawakens, he discovers food and water nearby. He tries to measure the cell again, and finds that the perimeter measures one hundred steps. While crossing the room, he trips on the hem of his robe and falls, his chin landing at the edge of a deep pit. He realizes that had he not tripped, he would have fallen into this pit.

After losing consciousness again, the narrator discovers that the prison is slightly illuminated and that he is strapped to a wooden frame on his back, facing the ceiling. Above him is a picture of Father Time, with a razor-sharp pendulum measuring 'one foot from horn to horn' suspended from it. The pendulum is swinging back and forth and slowly descending, designed to eventually kill the narrator. However, he is able to attract rats to him by smearing his bonds with the meat left for him to eat. The rats chew through the straps, and he slips free just before the pendulum can begin to slice into his chest.

The pendulum is withdrawn into the ceiling, and the walls become red-hot and start to move inwards, forcing him slowly toward the center of the room and the pit. As he loses his last foothold and begins to topple in, he hears a roar of voices and trumpets, the walls retract, and an arm pulls him to safety. The French Army has captured the city of Toledo and the Inquisition has fallen into its enemies' hands."

Feeling as prepared as he ever would be, Shaunessy called Harrison Brody III, and was startled when he heard; "Shaunessy, what took you so long?" after only one partial ring.

"The lateness brought on by slowing age, my friend. .... The Chief told me of the suicide note. My question is how you can be sure it was not merely part of the fictitious book?"

"The context did not fit and the page was at the end, sticking out a bit as if it was belatedly inserted there by hand."

"Isn't it unusual to be unsigned?"

"A bit. But many suicides do not leave any note at all. So, if you'd like to believe that this was not written by Connor James Wheaton, please do. Your acquiescence is not a required component of modern suicide investigations."

"Are 'modern' suicide investigations really investigations, or might they be the product of proximity to a lazy and ignorant rubber stamp?"

"A smidgeon critical, wouldn't you say, 'partner?'"

"Heaven forbid. Just one more question, if I might. And please don't take this business personally. Be assured that you have all of my respect, just like the gloriously significant hordedes who welcomed the massive horse gift. Did you resolve the discrepancies in the testimonies while I slept?"

"Discrepancies? Pray tell, such as?"

"Such as Anisette Rhona saying that she let Battson in, and Battson saying he let himself in for one."

"To what end? You should well know by now that eyewitness accounts most often differ in the detail. The stress and inherent personal biases often cause mis-remembering of the events. Here in the lab, all the nonsense is stripped away, leaving only the facts."

"Sounds as if your verdict is set. You might do well to understand that while a conclusion obtained using only forensics may be reasonably accurate regarding the medical cause of death, it bears no relationship to the determination of what might have induced that medical cause."

"What was that, Junior Assistant Shaunessy?"

"Bye, Chief Chi Chi."

Shaunessy was much more pissed and frustrated than he had allowed himself to uselessly and congratutorily sound on the phone. Fully expecting refusal barring a miracle not seen for two thousand years, though still somehow compelled to take the less than five minutes required to dot all the I's and cross all the T's, he remained as composed as professionalism required when he requested Chief Kerry's authorization to go back to the potential crime scene by himself, before Connor's death was "medically examined' to be no crime. He wanted to further question Anisette Rhona and attempt to get a feel for the surroundings; just look around. Chief Kerry denied his request stating that; "Further investigation is fine with me, but it must involve and be coordinated with the Medical Examiner, Brady."

"Brody."

"Whatever."

"Precisely, Chief."

Squirrel and "Grind" by Steve Kilbey, Peter Koppes, Marty Piper, and Richard Ploog; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.
5 – An Investigation of His Own

Shaunessy was fortunate in a few ways. Despite Chief Kerry's effective denial while also endeavoring to sound reasonable and co-operative, Shaunessy could do as he wished as this was still technically an open case; at least until the official suicide verdict was issued. Kerry's effective denial was no worse than what could be reasonably expected from any appointed bureaucrat; much more prone toward "career" dependent stances, best effected through giving the appearance of not having made a mistake, as absently and in hindsight defined by opponents. Perhaps worse, the 'democratic' political process posts no reward for being right, especially when not done by the book. It's expected. So, rather than 'risking' having done something right, or having authorized something seen in retrospect as having been out-of-line, atypical, and not specifically prescribed in the operating manual, bureaucrats "bureaucrat." No expectation, no disappointment; little inconvenience beyond the minimal time taken to do the smiling, cordial formalities. To his benefit, his partner, Striker was not there on this day to impede and annoy his instincts through his rendition of stupid, standardized "jokes" rampant in "cowboy" bars. Laughably thought wise and pettily rebellious by the practitioners, the one-liners are all too often just boring and leaden displays of conformity to the rules; like 21st century police procedural mysteries with the compulsory "psychological" ickiness. And if push came to shove, Shaunessy didn't need the job on a financial basis anyway. His 20+ years of NYC Police Department time served like any dutiful soldier now provided a pension which paid all the bills plus some. He was now free to pursue these types of fun puzzles in Vista de la Feria, part of the New Mexico "Land of Enchantment."

Still, he started out slowly. He sat in his office cubicle and searched local police records. When that turned up nothing he goggled Emily Crain. That also basically produced nothing, other than nosy neighbor reports on Riddit that Emily was an avid early morning dog walker with a not un-noticeable taste for the grape, held some sort of job with short irregular hours, was not known to entertain men in her home, and that her knowledge of books indicated that she must have spent most of her free time reading or sleeping. Shaunessy was proud that he finally knew something Goggle did not; Emily was also one of thirty million and counting, clandestine freelance book editors.

Shaunessy made good use of Striker's illness related absence, and did some outside investigating. The Wheaton-Hunter house adjacent "Danza Del Sol Winery" worker, who also turned out to be the resident owner, one Alejandro Montserrat, told Shaunessy that yesterday had been an unusual day at the normally quiet residence. He heard a loud argument in the morning which was indecipherable, and the number of visitors was much more than ordinary, cars coming and going all day. The gardener, Hoffius, and Anisette Rhona left together at 1:00PM while exchanging some unintelligible conversation to which their agitated tones and staccato deliveries assigned some sort of an importance. Alejandro mentioned that he had seen the local news this morning and wondered what Shaunessy knew of the "suicide," adding that the gardener was a known trouble maker. Shaunessy shrugged and said; "Nothing. Likely less than you. At his point this is just the beginning of a routine investigation."

After knocking on 10-11 doors, Shaunessy found that nobody else in the area saw or heard anything; many citing the "intrusive" elm trees bordering the property as effective shields against their viewing abilities. Some seemed peeved at the lack of open-ness, and others alluded to local ordinances which restricted the planting and watering of the "weed" trees. Shaunessy mumbled; "Grandfathered," a few times, that legal concept one which the elm-haters seemed unaware, and would continue so. One talkative, five year old boy, "Inspector Briscoe," who was obviously a rabid fan of "Law and Order," stated that the beneficiary of CJW's estate most likely did it. "Always follow the money," the little Inspector advised, "and cops should always first find out who that is." Shaunessy thanked him for the information and simultaneously sighed that the youngster had not been protected from becoming so precocious. He said; "Medical Examiners do it with test tubes," and left.

Shaunessy then drove across town to visit with CJW's psychiatrist, Dr. Phyllis McGrab. Phyllis seemed anxious to talk, opening with and often later stressing that she was not licensed to practice psychology of any kind anywhere in the US. "I was merely CJW's friend and advisor, and have the documentation to show that he was made aware of that." She went on to say that she had not prescribed any anti-depressants during the four years of his visits, as he wasn't depressed and she couldn't write a fillable prescription if she wanted to. Rather he was having some trouble in trying to cope with the false image Battson and his agent had pressured him to effect, as well as guilt feelings he had in being unable to tell Anisette Rhona that he didn't love her, and proceeding to a divorce. Given the "money primacy," he had experienced with Anisette Rhona as well as other women previously, he was in no rush to get into the same potential trap with "sweet" Emily Crain.

Shaunessy asked; "Are you a psychiatrist-psychologist, or not?"

"I have the requisite education, but not the license."

"Did you ever have a license?"

"For a short while."

"Under what circumstances did you lose it?"

"It's a complicated story and has no relevance here. ...... I've had a successful practice, drawing many celebrities. Some 'colleagues' got jealous and made mountains over molehills."

"Has your practice always been here in Vista de la Feria?"

"Yes. Going on twenty years."

"I suppose that your 'celebrities' fly in from California and New York just to see you."

"Sometimes I do the flying."

"Your lack of a license obviously has an effect on your ability to prescribe medication, if needed."

"CJW had not been taking any anti-depressants for six years prior to becoming my patient."

"And you know that by ....... "

"His testimony."

"Why the suicide watch?"

"What suicide watch?"

" ........ "

"I have no idea. I suggested no such thing. If there was any 'suicide watch,' someone else put it in place; likely to try to create a public image a business interest thought advantageous. You don't believe all the stories you hear about celebrities. Do you?"

"Only those that make the cover of the 'National Enquirer.' Have you heard that Brad Pitt is gay?"

"Doesn't surprise me."

"To wrap this, in your 'professional' opinion, CJW was not suicidal?"

"No."

Shaunessy went back to the Wheaton-Hunter house. He was granted entry by Vivien, a healthy appearing woman in her early twenties who had the house to herself. Her initial frowning, distrustful reticence soon gave way to sighs of relief upon being flashed with a silver badge. Shaunessy smiled to himself, as over the years he had seen how easily people are taken by the official looking emblem, which for the negligible manner in which they inspected it, could well have been obtained as the "prize" in a Cracker Jack box.

Noting that Vivien was dressed in black jeans and a casual t-shirt, Shaunessy asked if she was a relative.

"No, I'm the maid. .... Well, you know I'm only doing that temporarily until I finish my Marketing degree."

Shaunessy smiled warmly at the fleshy, round face which was now blushing more than her AM pick-me-up provided. Without any question, Vivien volunteered; "It's a shame. All of this turns Connor into an even larger celebrity writer dude, which I think would have made him recoil, the good part of him; like Kurt Cobain. I mean like the whole fame-money thing gets all the useless, greedy, bullshitting vultures hot to burn out their impendingly lucrative cadavers."

"That's marketing for you. How long have you worked here?"

"A year. ........ Four-five days per week."

"How well did you know Connor?"

"Not very. He was either off somewhere or sequestered in his room. .... I was hired by and get my marching orders from Anisette Rhona. .... It's a living until I can parlay some credentials into maximizing revenue for all involved without killing the goose that laid the golden egg."

"Can we take a look at his room, cracked eggs and all?"

"Sure. I just got through making it tidy."

Though effectively cautioned, Shaunessy was still somewhat surprised to find an immaculate room, without any of the previously standard, investigatory, yellow-crime-scene banners or mess. He thought; "Doesn't Brody deign to even pretend to follow the most basic of long established investigative procedures?" The answer obvious, he asked Vivien if she had seen anything unusual while cleaning up the area.

"No. ..... Only that beforehand Anisette Rhona insisted that the area be done first. I usually go in whatever order I choose. ... Oh yeah; while I was cleaning this morning, Henry Battson came in with Anisette Rhona, and he took away all of Connor's computer equipment; storage drives, androids, notes, and everything."

"How did you know that this was Henry Battson?"

"Anisette Rhona told me. I had never heard of nor met the gentleman previously."

"What did he look like?"

"I tried not to stare, just going about my duties as Anisette Rhona was there too. ... Out of the corner of my eye, he did seem rather large, though that may just have been relative to diminutive Anisette Rhona."

"Were you ever made aware of Connor being suicidal?"

"Yes. Anisette Rhona stressed that. Part of my job was supposed to be to keep an eye on him in her absence; though that was virtually impossible. It's like one of those things your boss tells you to do, and you find it easiest to just yes-yes them."

"Impossible?"

"Quite so. Connor was most often in this room with the door shut. At other times he just took his car and left."

"Unattended?"

"Most of the time. Sometimes Emily Crain was with him. Sometimes his black dog Drone."

"Where is Drone now?"

"He died a few months back. Connor was pretty upset."

"Anisette Rhona?"

"Not that I noticed. In fact I think she was glad, as Drone didn't like her."

"No, no. I meant did Connor ever go out with Anisette Rhona?"

"Not that I remember."

"What would she be doing?"

"On-line banking. ...... Excuse me. That was a half joke, and please don't tell her. It's difficult to generalize. If not on her laptop, she'd be off somewhere or supervising the gardener."

"Hoffius?"

"I don't know his name."

"Same one during your stay?"

"I think so, but wouldn't swear on it. I tried not to stare, as he gave me the creeps. ....... Sometimes he spent extended periods in CJW's room too."

Silently disgruntled about the potential crime scene being contaminated through cleaning, yet encouraged by having gained a glimpse into the family's day-to-day modus operandi, Shaunessy requested a tour of the portal and the rest of the house. Vivien led him through the door to the portal, which had been swept and hosed down. The cut off belt which had been fastened to the overhead beam was gone along with the nails. Shaunessy asked Vivien if this was her work.

She incorrectly thought of that question in her sense of her important self-image and indignantly replied; "I told you that I'm a college student!"

Shaunessy stifled a smirk and re-phrased; "I meant did you also clean the portal?"

"No. You can't blame me for this. I haven't touched this area."

Not seeing the instruments of death, Shaunessy made a quick call to Brody, who advised that he had the nails and belt pieces, adding that he was "shocked that the local constabulary had to ask the Medical Examiner something so basic." When asked if he had swept and hosed the area, Brody chortled in the most snot packed of manners, prior to saying; "No my yob, man. It's 3PM. Does your boss know where you are?"

Shaunessy was actually relieved to hear the rude disconnecting click. As far as he was concerned, the information he wanted from Brody had already been provided, and he had been spared the burden of being the one to appear and sound discourteous and/or dismissive. Since Brody had now clearly added his being uncooperative to his being inept, Shaunessy gave him the benefit of the doubt regarding the question of him being an elusive idiot playing the standardly, thereby obvious imbecilic game, and complemented him through the addition of the Brody name to his unofficial "Shaunessy's Personal Suspects" list.

In what seemed to her a Shaunessy lull, no doubt measured in nanoseconds most convenient, Vivien wished to avoid the possibility of Anisette Rhona coming home and finding her much too cooperative with cops, possibly a nuisance or a possible impediment to her "Wheaton-Hunter House," "un-needed," servile, housekeeping entrée into the working world, in hushed tones saying to Shaunessy; "Come this way," as she slowly sideways her non-contacting eye countenance out of CJW's former room.

He was relieved to see that she meant something else when she kept her well-worn "PHLEBOTOMIST; Only BECAUSE FREAKING AWESOME is not an OFFICIAL JOB TITLE" t-shirt on.

Vivien's t-shirt"; property of the author.

Shaunessy said; "Thank you," his vocal brevity refraining from any unnecessary elaboration about Vivien's concern with her "temporary" thing.

The one level structure was centrally and to its right face open and airy, in the forty year old style most often since safely done and done and done under a variety of monikers. In concept, it was comparable to the similarly aged redundancies of rap, hip-hop, gangsta, boom bap, or whatever the agitated lack of melody is right now termed.

His pocketed smart phone did its reverberating boompa boompa Eminem intro adding a Li'l Wayne yo against his left leg. He took it out and eyed it. As he was expecting, it was Chief Kerry, no doubt after receiving a call from Brody's stepped on toes. He shut the tiny terror off and re-pocketed it.

Continuing on through the Wheaton-Hunter house, he noted that the current eclectic mix of faux decor, of the ostensibly desired faux decor prior, which apparently now had been credentialed as being "conceptually" original. That was documented through the stapled verifications conveniently visible near each item's lowest point, supplied by trustworthy and reputable "Overvalue My Stuff - Online Art, Antique & Collectable Appraisals" accessibly reachable at overvaluemystuff.com.

Amusing and mocking, personal value judgements aside; what he saw as a hodge-podge, like a Murakami, Japanese, expanded to death, cover of the mid Beatles, short transition period, he knew that some might say that it was a sophisticated mix of stylish "old" and new. The never-had discussion bored him prior to commencement. Some of the pieces were modern-day painted, pricey, custom New Mexican, reproductions of rare, unprofessionally handmade things. The rarified status of the originals was the result of their having been used as firewood when the advent of the train line opened the turn-of-the-20th-century New Mexico residents to the improvements offered through the Sears catalogue. He wished that he had not clumsily stumbled over the errant metal thingy at the base of the replicated Eames chair, but not too much or long. The nine rooms were fastidious and as well spaced as a museum giving off an aura of not having been lived in. Shaunessy thought it potentially worthy of note that the only books present occupied one neat bookcase in CJW's room; while even middling on-line book lovers devoted not less than a full wall to the display of their purported on-line passion. Avid readers and book mavens, Connor and Anisette Rhona were not. He was about to leave when the front door, whose gilt handle he was carefully, softly fondling opened, creating a startling blast of perfumed, summer New Mexico weather. The combination of unsuspected, natural interior movement with the suspected, doctored exterior intrusion set him momentarily unbalanced.

Anisette Rhona genuinely smiled when she saw Shaunessy do a skip step prior to re-balancing through deft use of his overstepping right foot. He said; "Good afternoon, Ms. Hunter. It was an accident."

Quickly resuming her intended demeanor, Anisette Rhona said; "Good day, Detective ........ Vivien; you do have things to do elsewhere. Do you not? ...... Was your supervisor Brody unable to make it?"

"That seems a reasonable assumption. Tell me something. Yesterday you said that you let Battson in; while Battson said he entered an empty house."

" .................. "

"Do you have a response?"

"What was the question?"

"Why do some imprudent people think it's in their interest to antagonize the nice policeman? Some theorize that it stems from a subliminal desire to advertise a guilty conscience."

"Distaste? And what you speculated requires a footnote."

"Jung's 'Red Book,' pp. 18 past 21, the perimeter pending. Please pardon the planned peeing, as there was no jolly alliterative intended."

"Good sir; you display absolutely no sympathy for the grieving widow."

"Will you just answer the question?"

"I have no idea why Connor's editor has a faulty memory. Perhaps he has as many marbles as Joe Biden. Good day. Further questioning might be arranged through co-ordination with my attorney."

Shaunessy went to his car and 'accidentally' flattened some bordering, bold, purple sage while on his erratic trip down the driveway. He was annoyed with himself for allowing his said self to be annoyed by Anisette Rhona. It wasn't as if he hadn't previously encountered her and her type numerous times in almost three decades of investigative work. However, he found it personally disturbing to not have yet acquired an immunity through the many prior shots. Most often "old money" had been quite polite to the point where Shaunessy thought that some of them were going to volunteer their time to assist him; their gracious dynamic also a means to attempt to manage the situation. But this "new money" was most often still infatuated with their newfound importance and "exclusivity," ostensibly unaware that their little green addition, so hellaciously prayed for, didn't suddenly morph them into something they weren't previously. At best, it made them not have to worry about paying the bills as prior, at the expense of making them the bull's eye on the target of every scam archer, yet still not in possession of their coveted default setting on the true "A" list. But don't believe me. What do I know? If you have any interest, you would do better to ask the way-over-the-hill, overly compensated, hawker of crummy rabbited draws, while suffering the pangs of "ingrained racism."

Anisette Rhona was merely behaving as one might expect, as she was sufficiently "new" at being in the bull's eye, that she didn't even yet know that there perennially existed a desperately aching over-supply of the fleeting sort, perhaps measurable in exalongtons of "clandestine" archers; their intents not giving a priority to usefulness or respect for the greenie-enamored-in-the-aha moment, beyond their uniformed obsequious intro.

Shaunessy gradually sedated, sans any prescribed opioid "assistance." More than once, he had been flattered by having been called a natural at being quite good in inducing a personalized dosage of oblivion. He failed to satisfy the entreaties of the "indirect" questioners and observers, as he didn't deign to attempt analysis, taking their supposed humongous-deal for granted; like when a Sufi naf is requested to provide reasons for its existence. Most talents are like that; simple; as opposed to the "difficult credentials" bestowed by the younger, difficult questioners devoid of the hint of an answer. He levitated all of an inch and paradoxically almost floated, moving with the current of the Styx River, eventually entering into the realm of a perverse sort of "humor" he didn't much like except when done masterfully as might be imagined through the assistance of a Beckett-type; Samuel-type that is, for the likely lack of benefit to the "faultlessly" literature challenged. The dogma provided by modern psychology is even more wonderful than Dr. Phil's fascination with Britney Spears. Whatever, it's not your fault. You have no personal responsibility for your previously 'programmed" thoughts and actions. ....... You're supposed to say that. Right? ...... Whatever.

Shaunessy found this personally useful in the pursuit of his investigatory job when he was obliged to share space with odious, alleged humans. He also knew that one must try not to be overly critical or conversely mirthful with the widespread members of one subset of the seven identified archetypes, as they are legion. Untutored, in the common sense moral difficulties which all too simplistically suggest that looting and arson are bad, it came as naturally as a comb-over in the wind does to a rapidly aging, liberal, college professor who thinks that he is still "cool." Unaware Legionnaire Anisette Rhona was acting as if she had attained the Legionnaire rank of Aspirant, though she also seemed quite strong in the subset of the Legionnaire's Disease commonly referred to as "disgruntled-mid-life-crisis" (DMLC) accompanied by a side serving of premature dementia.

It is now standard to ridiculously attempt to delay DMLC's onset through the splendid use of cosmetic surgery, frequent address changes, and dim candle lighting; inevitably resulting in a Nancy Pelosi trampoline face sitting on an eighty year old chicken's neck. While that is something your best friends won't tell you, you cannot stop the AARP devils from finding you. They have almost as many records of your 'private" information as Goggle, Fecesbook, and CheapVirago combined. And then it happens. That dreaded arrival of the "AARP Monthly;" unrequested but correctly addressed, for your uniformed, snickering, post-person to see. The cruel message is clear; "If you haven't made it by now you never will. Schmuck. Outmoded schmuck. Hahahahaha. The clock has run out, dip draws."

The photos of once heralded codgers you last saw at age 25 are particularly howlingly fantoddish. Jogged out of your lapse in thoughts of the petty, passing, pro tem "stars" you had been subjected to as if they were made up early on, you have now seen what they have "evolved" to. On the one hand, it was almost exhilarative to see that they had not yet corpsed. On the other it was ice water in the face to come to the full realization that you must look as putrid to your enemies as well as your congratulatory supporters with an angle; reasonably close anyway. The non-corpsed "stars" of old had "grown" and morphed well past the terminally wrinkled of the new, which you had idealized in horrid, fleeting, "midstream" moments of clarity assisted through the "co-operation" of eight of ten bathroom bulbs being left for dead. And not only had these old-stars the ability to effectively submit cavernous selfies to "AARP," along with some "old school" stuff which had to have had the politically incorrect references removed along with the verbal evidences of dementia; their smiley countenances said; "You lost, cretin. I won. Haha. I'm living in a magazine." Despite the intended personal insult, somehow, you could not gather up that elusive get-up-and-go, requisite to win the "prizes" booby. As a capitalist, you knew that it was much easier to pay someone else to do that for you.

Woman and "Is This Where You Live" by Steve Kilbey; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

How those horrible people at AARP tracked one's address had to have involved a conspiracy, or at least a legally unprovable, Deep-State-mastered collusion; perhaps with Satan himself, the more abundant Nephilim, or the totally omniscient, ever-present, and socially indiscreet Cerberus, its heads individually known as Goggle, Fecesbook, and CheapVirago.

A testimony to her rare perceptive abilities, Anisette Rhona well knew that she was closer to the AARP delivery date than she was forty. Either that, or her worst enemies had deluged her with close-ups.

### 6 – The Tehran Review

Rather than go to the office and deal with a further instructive Chief Kerry under the influence of lackluster Medical Examiner Brody, he decided to go home. Now miles; both nautical and statute, as well as relative brain voxels away from Anisette Rhona, Shaunessy fully relaxed, that in direct proportion to the time elapsed. He felt guilty over having flattened some innocent purple sage, who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but knew the resilient species would soon bounce back. New Riders of the Purple Sage can't help but spin off. Strangely, his increasingly relaxed mood didn't lead to him needing a nap, as he became energetic to the extent where that meets dreamily languid. Shaunessy entered and paced the living area leisurely, taking special note of the errant laptop which had apparently garnered the ability to walk from its sitting position next to the coffee-machine-convenient kitchen floor's covered heating pipes to the cocktail table, climb one of it's painted, Southwestern, nondescript legs, and turn itself on. Standing, Shaunessy found the entire situation, inclusive of his silly insistence upon competent due diligence in cases of possible murder, amusing; his effortless efforts to fruitfully upset the recognized authorities, perhaps the result of a bar someone had set much too low.

Jolting him, Margaret said; "That's a fine greeting."

"Oh, sorry babe. I thought you might be out on a flyabout."

"Hmmnn. My broom is out for servicing."

"No loaner?"

"I've been a landlubber all day. How was yours?"

"A disagreeable start segued into a lengthy innocuous mediocrity containing a small element of humor and one yet-to-be-verified middling factoid, and ended back with the disagreeability."

"Vollmann?"

"Oh no. Not that tedious or ineffectually remorseful."

"C minus?"

"More or less on the curve were there Gass in the class."

"When my broom is returned we can fly."

"When off duty, lover. Right now I could do better teleporting in a time machine."

"This landlubber has her limitations. Got any Verne?"

"Asimov, as far as that name begs a dissertation."

"Please dissert with appropriate abandon."

"Later, honey. ..... The confusion will increase by then."

"Sure of that?"

"No. But, just in case, I can use one of the standard alternatives."

"Deviltry."

"You're quite welcome. At your continuing service."

"Presumptuous fiend!"

"Presumption does not necessarily equal incorrect ...... ness?"

"Fiend is fiend."

"Be on my side. I'll be on your side, baby."

"Sigh."

Shaunessy opened his padlocked eyes, which were now perched on a pillow, positioned at a right over left 180, parallel with the plugged, pentagonal alarm clock. The old thing always said 2:39, not specifying P or AM; while if taken alone, the big hand said something like 2:10, also secretive concerning P's and A's.

1921 Art Deco Ingraham "The Gable Luminous"; property of the author.

After the cigarette puffed no more, the stub close-up showed a different picture.

Blowup of 2:39; property of the author.

Shaunessy inquired; "Have you noticed that our laptop has developed abilities which could alarm the Artificial Intelligence alarmists?"

"That was just little, old ethereal me. My corporal and kinetic abilities are growing at a rate sufficient to impress the deluded investors in CheapVirago. Wanna see?"

"I think I already have."

"Again?"

"Willing, ability moot so soon."

"Okay. Look. Look, Tom. Look at what I found. Look at what I found today. A poll. A poll I find funny. Look."

"See. See poll. See poll run. See poll run intensely."

"Voila. I knew you could do it."

"False flag."

"You're not funny."

"Real USA flag! Real USA flag!"

"MAGA?"

"Matter?"

"Not really. Methodology is so over-rated and boring; no pun intended. ....... Unless you meant it that other way."

"There is no other way than through me."

"Good boy. The correctness of the wrong confuses so many."

"After all this time you still think that? I'm insulted."

"It's not me, baby. It's the devil."

"Exorcism needed?"

"Tomorrow, Tommy." After a few proud Margaret button pushes, the laptop screen showed the following:

"After blowing a hole in an oil tanker, attacking the US Embassy in Tehran, shooting down a US drone, trying to make an illegal, as per agreement(s), nuclear bomb, sabotaging Saudi Arabia's oil fields, disrupting the world's price and supply of the oil which has been their only escape from an economy based on the hawking of camel and yak poops, and making faces at Trump with thumbs in ears, you will recall that on Tuesday Iran fired missiles at US-coalition troops wounding eighty, Wednesday they downed a commercial airliner killing 147, and Sunday they fired on US bases in Iraq. It's already Monday; high noon Pacific time, in the US. Why is Iran still in existence?

1) Because somebody fucked up big time.

2) The Dem controlled, deep state, shadow government sabotaged the annihilation.

3) Because Vlad had a serious talk with Donald and told him to make nice with Russia's main ally in the Middle East, or else.

4) They escaped back to Wednesday through wormhole technology they have been working on under the guise of a nuclear power program.

5) Trump was openly annoyed that he didn't get the Nobel Peace Prize, so he's angling for the Jimmy Carter Restraint Award.

6) Its more politically beneficial to Trump this way. It's genius strategy few comprehend.

7) The resultant nuclear cloud could hurt Australia's ersatz environment.

8) Its much more fun to pop the Q-Tip heads individually when they aren't expecting it anyway.

9) Shhhhh! The US is being tricky.

10) Trump was confined in a lengthy IRS meeting. He is quoted as saying; "BOOM. POW. ZAP. Friday. OK?"

11) Pelosi's prescribed prayer policy permeated the Seven Heavens. Allahu akbar.

12) I don't know, but I'm totally disgusted.

13) It's amusing to see and hear vermin mimicking lions. .... For a short time.

14) Iran is actually gone. What everyone is seeing is a hologram, replete with duplication of the belligerent, loudmouthed assaholas who have convinced the ignorant, ultra-violent public that their successful attempt to usurp secular influence from their faux religious perch makes them miracle men; or at least intimidating Aces of Flimflammery. Watch out! Here comes the billion billionth fatwah now.

15) No worries. The odds heavily suggest that their toddler level handling of their prized nuclear rattle toy is long overdue for an "accidental" explosion.

16) Awwww, shit. I could have sworn that the bombing instructions said Iraq. Double shit. Sorry.

17) I'm a proud Libtard and consequently I don't remember shit. And if I did, I ain't tellin' nobody, no time, nowhere, no how. Keeping my false cyber identity is primary, Luddite jerk. You know what century this is?

18) Don't try to confuse me with the alleged facts. I know your game, fascist righty pig.

19) Can you make that question more ADD friendly?

20) Matter can neither be created nor destroyed, least thet be whut the sciency geeks opined yestiddy.

Shaunessy looked perplexed, and said; "Can I choose three?"

Margaret said; "I don't know. It doesn't say."

"It doesn't say not to either."

"Yeah. There's always more than one reason."

"Confined to one, the result is merely the straw which broke the camel's back."

"So, which three."

"I forgot already. You?"

"The object is not for the poor bastard to die for his country. It is to make the other poor bastard die for his."

"That wasn't a choice!"

"Not officially. I did a write-in."

"Hehe. While we have the 'everything interface' up and running, I want to Goggle a name." ....... Click, click, click, click, click, click, et cetera, et cetera. I easily found that Rolf Hoffius, A/K/A Dwight N. Creepshun had been arrested in the state of stupefied inebriation A/K/A Georgia on two charges of felonious, first degree robbery and felonious first degree assault, both bargained down to R2, A2, and D2 and one year at Central State Prison in Macon. Approximately two years later on June 5, 2014 he plead to the same crimes and was sentenced to three years, doing two inside and one on parole with mandated psychiatric counseling. Dwight N. Creepshun and DNC are known aliases. He is now believed to be residing in the US Southwest. These stupid things never get it right. That was Lupo Batinado. Rolf Hoffius wasn't even born yet."

Interior of Central State Prison; property of the author.

Margaret said; "At least it was close this time."

"There was a house full of sweethearts that day."

"Consider the bright side. Only one got dead."

"So far. Let me check something. Ugh. I have to send an e-mail. Work. Shaunessy typed;

To: Jimmy Kennedy, NYCPD

From: Thomas Shaunessy, Vista de la Feria Relegated Police Functionary

Subject: Henry Battson

The subject is said to be the publisher, former editor, and now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now part of the McVirago group. His name and presence have come up in conjunction with my investigation of the death of author Connor James Wheaton, here in the Land of Enchantment.

How have you been, pal; and all of that? The weather here has been mucho consistent with the claims of those Climate Guerillas. You may have heard of such type allegations from Greta Thunberg. Most everyone has.

Publically and not-so-publically accessible sites have what I have written in my first sentence. He's in your neck of the woods. At a minimum, I've got him on computer theft. Got anything more juicy?

My appreciation.

Shaunessy said; "We have some time to kill. Any ideas?"

"I was hoping that you'd entrance me with some of the nuances attendant to the police-medical examiner-coroner relationship."

"Naughty girl! Three is tabu and more importantly tricky. Police may have either a medical examiner or a coroner, but never both."

"Okay, okay. Forgive me for being on some progressive sites. Please don't tell on me."

"I mean it's right there in the fuckin' manual and everything. Jeez! But, be assured that this will remain our little secret .......... as long as you behave. Please allow me to extrapolate and synopsize thusly. The original and steadily declining coroner system is today usually commonly termed medical examiner, with no thought of difference. But, the former is/was an elected office, with or without medical credentials. The latter is appointed and requires an M.D. You can easily tell the difference, while sometimes there is be an overlap when the elected Coroner also has an M.D. That's the easy part. The difficult differentiations arise in their relationship to the police. This is an oversimplification intended to convey the gist at the expense of the detail, which could go on quite a bit."

"Thank you."

"The reader's interests are primary."

"Who are you calling a 'reader'?"

"Sigh. Remember secret ....... as long as you behave?"

"Okay."

"Initially, as part of their own structure, the Police Department has always had an internal Forensics Department. Many still do. Later the Coroner notion was made a separate entity. For the most part the Coroners were entirely co-operative with the Police Department. The Medical Examiner's Office has replaced most of the Coroners and they have been specifically given the right to make some judgements, those rights formerly belonging to the Police. In the majority of cases co-operation still exists, however if push comes to shove the Medical Examiner's findings will prevail, as in the question of murder or suicide, with which I'm currently involved. My Mr. Brody is not thorough, incompetent, arrogant, and quick to make a judgement. Any questions?"

"Can we play some music?"

"Your choice."

Assorted pictures and "Ventura Highway" by Dewey Bunnell; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Shaunessy mumbled with a hint of the song; "You're gonna go. I know."

An eternity of silence prevailed for a second.

Margaret broke it saying; "'Fireboy and Watergirl: The Forest Temple' just came out with the fourth version. They say it's totes amaze-balls modif."

"Killer kosher. .......... Oh, damn this phone and damn this Kerry. I'm going to get this over with." He pulled the melodious, "smart" nag from his pocket. He tapped an icon, and in a tired and fed up, but unaffected manner staccatoed; "Okay. I've been a very bad boy. Go ahead and spank me."

"Sorry. This is not your BDSM chat service."

"Jimmy!

Jimmy said; "Yeah."

Shaunessy said; "Jimmy?"

More softly, Jimmy said; "No, this is your cyber butt buddy, Rock. What's on your mind today, sweets?"

"Jimmy, you old joker. You're on the edge of a PCP investigation."

"Tell me about it. No breaks these days. What's up with that Relegated Police Functionaries title?"

"Ah, it seems that our system here has the Medical Examiner on top of the heap."

"I told you that you should have stayed here amongst the Towering Fruit. The Luccheses and Bonanos show you some respect. Listen, enough of these jesting sallies. I have something on Battson. .......... "

"One might say clever badinage."

"One might, but he's on the crapper reviewing an old tape. You may have wondered why I'm calling rather than sending an e-mail."

"As a matter of fact I wasn't. I assumed you wanted to hear my dulcet tones."

"Well, yes; though that was a tertiary consideration."

"Not being numero uno just doesn't cut it here in the US. Can you imagine people chanting; "We're number three. We're number three. We're number three?"

"New Mexico is part of the US?"

"One might as well confirm the allegation. Who needs the shit?"

"This took a bit of digging. The information is minimal in the official files, but there is more in our 'unofficial files' on paper. It's nothing I want to put on the net. Police phones here in the real US have an app which prevents recording. Battson has been questioned three times regarding the suicides of Farr, Simon, and Moreau authors. FS&M used to be one of those book publishers which put out the award-winning-stuff which rarely made any money. Since McVirago bought them, the thrust has been changed to a more capitalistic model. Battson hit it big there when he put out Connor James Wheaton's book about ten years ago, being promoted from editor to head honcho. Since then he's made the McVirago people very bottom-line-happy, whether the results were propelled by him or not. The death cult with its standard sales boost moved the suicide award winning writers into a more lucrative selling arena."

"I thought that only worked with painters and sculptors. Can Battson be placed at the scene of any?"

"No, and definitely not the first one. He might have just gotten lucky that time. The other two were the typical, solitary, sad-ass writer types. The bodies weren't found until they had been defunct and unlamented for more than a week."

"The first one?"

"Pills undisclosed to family. Just went to sleep and stayed that way."

"Modus operandi of numbers two and three?"

"Hanging, as in participle."

"If found guilty the lawsuit could cost a billion. What did he say when questioned?"

"Dunno and dindu nuthin'. I'd like to extend my sincerest regrets ....... "

"Pro level."

"Yeah. Stole the computer? Why didn't you take it first?"

"It was the Medical Examiner's job, and he blew it. You see what kind of incompetent shit I have to endure in the Third World?"

"Emergent Nations."

"Thank you, James."

"Anytime." Click.

Margaret said; "You poor cops are always at the disadvantage. Aren't you?"

"Yes. Police work was once only subordinate to politics and 'contributions.' Now we are also overruled by geeky technicians."

"You can't argue with science."

"Sure I can. The scientists argue with themselves and change their minds every ten years. They have not yet been able to attain exclusivity through patenting the process."

"Okay. As far as I'm concerned you're free to argue with yourself and change your mind in ten years."

"How about doing it again ten years after that?"

"Off the top it seems an inordinate wait, but hey, whatever you're up to. Don't knock yourself out."

"Never do. Back on the murder-suicide thingy, I'd bet a buck that the Medical Examiner will be making a rapid ruling of reckless suicide."

"And he might be right. Did that possibility ever occur to you?"

"Once. .... And maybe he is. But, I doubt it. ..... I shouldn't say that. Brody and Co.'s investigative aspect of the job has been less than cursory. The problem caused is that any suicide ruling prevents any further investigation."

"That makes no sense."

"We agree. No, it doesn't. Like W.H.O. he relies on and supposedly studies numbers and the trends which the poorly collected number garbage suggests. In effect, you ask 'Why?' Why? Very simply and obviously, because under that ruling no one is obliged to answer my or anyone else's questions. Potential personal and Police harassment liabilities may be invoked. And even if I happened to discover something suggestive of murder, the Medical Examiner is not obliged to reverse his initial and legally binding verdict. Besides the legal ramifications inherent, that would require the 'hotshot' to admit error; an admission of being wrong while in the position of holding a politically appointed job. Having an elected Coroner in the old days had its advantages. Our deferral to youthfully arrogant 'science' has produced more bombs than Einstein, Oppenheimer, von Braun, and Pynchon ever could imagine; while remaining woefully deficient in the production of antidotes, that perception based on the obvious and inarguable lack of results. Sure, the need for a funding source is a major consideration for us all. ..... "

"Not I."

"I always said that you were special. However, for mere mortals there is that strong tendency to find what money wants found. ........ Not necessarily that the findings are always wrong; but that they are one-sided."

"Okay. So relate that to this particular case."

"That's more on topic than the chosen deployment of the dumb bombs themselves."

"The drones of science are coming. Hahahehe."

"No need to make a cantankerous, personal attack, love. It can be easily misunderstood despite your good intentions. It's still ridiculously metaphysical and theoretical at this point."

"But, by your own standards, not approaching a value of zero."

"Okay, okay. I don't think that equates to value-less either, and I didn't say that. Hahahehe on you."

" ....... "

" ................. "

" .... "

" ............................. "

" .... "

"Being terse never helped anything other than a cacaphony."

### 7 - The Actor Reviews the Reviewers

At 7AM the following morning, Shaunessy parked his recent model, sun-faded, Indian red Toyota Avalon Hybrid in Police Headquarters' lot. As Chief Kerry's achromatic, platinum gray Honda CR-V was already there, he fully expected to be "greeted" with a semi-solid reprimand; like the critical failure of Hardy's first issuance of "Jude the Obscure." The most onerous and tiring part would again be the necessity of acting as if he cared and also retained some respect for the barren critic.

Shaunessy's car; property of the author.

He painstakingly plodded to the pea green, snail mail box, numbered 111, which displayed an early sign of impending capitulation through the raggedy curling edges of the first and second pasted ones. Ostensibly, this was still USPS regulation compliant at one inch, more or less, in intent if not performance. At any rate, no complaints had been registered.

The three identical one decals were topped by an obviously computer assisted series of letters, most remarkable at their ability to produce sameness. Though the data crunching abacus was currently in hiding, the gold leafed Jokerman font still valiantly said "Vista de la Feria Police Department," not bothering to point out or even hint at any possible deadpan attempt at raggedy humor. This assertion was comprised of thirty, somewhat irregularly hand-placed decals, if one does not count the minimum of five blank spaces, which must have necessitated the purchase of multiple kits to get the four e's required, if not the blanks. In a condition better pasted than the dog-eared numbers, the lettering supplied the optimist with a suggestion of a bold afterthought, which just seemed to be trying a tad too hard. However, thus far, it had escaped being saddled with any of the 8,651,006,723 USPS regulations, or in any event still retained the sufficient stature which prevails over any standardized selective enforcement thereof.

Shaunessy found the nothing anyone would have easily suspected; as earlier arriving Boss Kerry had surely picked it clean; evidentially not even leaving any gastropods behind, not even a coiled shell or slug. Today's boss' thoroughness made Shaunessy shiver. He trudged toward his office cubicle, with his only satisfaction that he had made Kerry wait a few more minutes before he could unleash his scathing commentary and issue more orders, which might almost be followed if the flimsy fatwas were common sensically consistent with long lasting, proven police procedures.

An elusive snail; property of the author.

As Shaunessy had expected the boss was somewhat deficient in his opening pleasantries. Before he could even butt his seat, Chief Kerry's straining red face was almost in his. It was not the Chief's fault for lack of trying, but Kerry was five feet eight inches on his toes while Shaunessy was 6'2" when shoeless as a Jackson. The veins in Kerry's apparently sexagenarian neck were popping out and vibrating as much as those of a frustrated and denied, British, European Union Remainer under Boris Johnson. He bellowed; "Your solo investigation is over. Understand?"

Hoping that any sarcasm would not drip from his tone, Shaunessy said; "Wouldn't you first like to hear what I've found out?"

"No! It doesn't matter at all. Case closed! At an end! Finished! Concluded! Terminated! No more! Ended! Extinct! Gone! Dead! A thing of the past! Ancient history! Uber! Oltre! Sobre! Dros! Rln! Os cionn!"

"I was with you for a while. But you're starting to ramble incoherently. Are you all right?"

"I don't know who the hell you think is in charge here."

"Nothing personal intended, but lately I've been figuring that it's Brody and company."

"Our PARTNER, Medical Examiner Brody has now issued the final report indicating a Wheaton suicide. This is now officially a closed case and you will not have any more involvement. Mr. Brody has also given me a complaint regarding your efforts to undermine his investigation yesterday."

"That's rich. How can you undermine something which never existed?"

Kerry actually laughed in a short controlled burst. But, he followed that by reverting to his assigned place, and sternly saying; "I don't know how the system works in your outsized and soaring New York. But, here in little backwater Vista de la Feria, the Police Chief, namely moi, is elected, and he doesn't have any need to answer to public political charges of not following proper police procedure or an inability to manage his staff."

"Yeah, all over, but for the 'uniquely' local details. Finding murders doesn't exactly gain votes anywhere. Screws up the Chamber of Commerce marketing stats."

"Look! Read Brody's report. This is as clear a case of suicide as there is. This has been made an officially closed case and you will not have any more involvement. .......... Can you be certain that Wheaton was murdered?"

"You were accidentally a tad faux reasonable there for a moment at the end, but no."

"All right, then."

"Given some odds, I might venture a Franklin on manslaughter."

"Fuck you Shaunessy. Just plain fuck you. Just promise me that you'll not do anything Brody can criticize."

"That's not possible. How's about I will not do anything a reasonable version of a Medical Examiner can criticize?"

"Fine. If anything goes wrong it's your ass."

"Thanks loads. Can I speak with Brody on the phone?"

"Suddenly, your ringy-dingy works?"

"Oh, damn. Forgot to push the on button once more yesterday. It won't happen again, Chief."

"Why do I feel like I'm being bullshitted?"

"I don't know. Lots of experience with the subject?"

Shaunessy strode toward his more or less slate gray cubby, its tightly woven fabric decoratively sprinkled and splashed with muted versions of a standardly tarnished silver, a Gainsboro currently all the rage in kitchens, as well as some other black-white-mixed concoction which might have been the result of not many misting muzzle malfunctioning aerosol sprays. Well-armed with a hard copy of the Medical Examiner's report, and with a confidence only attainable through twenty-eight seconds of on-the-hoof skimming, and a lack of familiarity with the expertly recognized facts, as well as their semi-investigated, implied conclusions, Shaunessy was ready, willing, able, and eager to both terrestrially and metaphysically rip it, in expectation of nothing; just for the potential fun of possibly bringing Brody's blood pressure up to a death of heart muscle caused by a loss of blood supply, fatal heart attack level. Brief turnabout is always fair play, and it's even funnier when the one who started the game can't play it all that well. Barely five feet from both an excited and frustrated arrival, his red swivel chair was beckoning like a raucous, beached Leucosia brand, this one another Chinese siren which had been on special at AmawayOnSteroids.com with free shipping.

Shaunessy's more or less pleasant, more or less distracted reverie came to an abrupt halt when he saw the grinning head of his partner, John Striker pop up above their shared partition. Striker was shaking his head when he said; "Can't leave you alone for one day. ..... Not even eight little hours."

"Feelin' better today I see." Shaunessy sat hard making the wheels of his chair roll on the partial plastic covering over the wall to wall carpet. He rolled with them.

The thirty-ish Lieutenant, who had been on the Vista de la Feria force for six easy going, peaceful years kept standing and grinning, his arms now perched on the partition top. He weakly stifled a giggle as he looked down.

Shaunessy said; "Yeah, I know. I'm being totally irrational. I know."

" .................. "

"I've earned the right, kid."

" ................. "

"Sorry to cut you short, but a further explanation would just prolong the 'inefficient' garbage. ......... What can I say? The whole thing smells like an open septic to me. Just wait a few minutes, partner. I don't expect to be long."

"Your 'intuition' is graciously granted another half hour."

Shaunessy reserved his 'bright' retort for a future badinage or sophistry session, and used part of the time so kindly granted to read all of Brody's two page report, rather than rely of a skim of the short story. His degree of enlightenment was only enhanced by Brody's mention of the dearly departed having had a .32 blood alcohol level at each of the spectrum of times provided for the approximate time of death. This was hardly likely; but also one of those details which are overall extraneous, only of interest to a dumb BOT, attempting to masquerade as a yet-to-be-seen AI, programmed to find fault with whatever Trump says, as if that took anything more than two decades of work by 58,000 highly credentialed computer geeks. In all fairness the AI's which said computer geeks predict will soon master the world have already learned board games, and it will become truly scary when they take the next projected step of learning to play "Go Fish."
8 – Il Principe

Shaunessy rang up the general number of the Medical Examiner's Office, genuinely surprised to be greeted by the convincing tone of Chief Brody; who opened with; "I've been waiting, Shaunessy."

"You Brody or an artificial 'intelligence' 'enhancement' of the widespread vulgar with a common paper framed near your desk?"

"Please pardon me. I have this absurd penchant not to look back, though I am eagerly awaiting your assessment, assuming your boss has allowed that in any gradation."

"Hot stuff here. One oh eight on the plastic thingy they shove up your bum or place somewhere on my windshield. Any idea what they officially register at your airport?"

"Back to the basics, virtuoso. You might do well to make some note of the obviously obvious, even to those irretrievably dumbed down through the siren-like 'party cool' of those ridiculously needy and thereby susceptible to an obvious overture, more than perhaps suggestive of the rule of the credentialed; and rightly so; aberrant tweets inevitably given in a lack of choice to the unpopular contrary. ....... At the infinitesimal risk of understanding; for your sole information, the seemingly endless and certificated licensee studies purport to show ................ Lost my unnecessary train of thought. Please pardon. No real matter. My view prevails. Dig it or be dug over by the anti-testimonials prevalent on social media. ......... Ummm, I should not have been so forthcoming. But for some yet to be lab determined reason, I take a fondness, mind you not one conciliatory, but perhaps anticipatory of your next move, fully recognizing that this temporary position serves no discernable purpose, while simultaneously and effortlessly trumping that through bearing the popular view that the seeming simplicity is recognizing what is going on, or being privy to an interpretation thereof, which is as solid a position as one has ever encountered. .......... I'm certain that I've said too much. Though you hate me for my dominant position, that's actually kind of sad or amusing; as the consequences of that is and always will be inconsequential in the overall scheme, assuming there is one. Most likely I am compelled, much like your average Pollyanna or subsequent rendition thereof and destined to like you to the extent that is under the potential pain of guilt or regret, I'll answer your expected calls, no matter how many tapes Krapp was previously said to have made, devoid of any scientific verification. Had you a true choice in the matter, your response-overture would have been something vague and despite that personally viewed as contentious, that entirely consistent with the banal, common, inconsequential rebellion; afforded through your subservient placement. ....... Could you restate it if any? If there was a question anyway. I've forgotten. No offense intended. In all cases I tend to efficiently skim the boiler plate. Please don't consider this personal. More or less, it really isn't. More or less."

At this point Shaunessy was certain of more and less than Brody was. The Medical Examiner man was openly thrilled with and consequently gloating at obscene length over his "win;" that "win" one over him rather than one over the possible murderer. As that is always a serious tactical mistake, it struck him personally as kind of funny, albeit detrimental to the matter at hand, that Brody was celebrating an "accomplishment" which was handed to him by someone else before anyone had rung the opening bell; like the chosen referees and scorers in a Don King fight fix or the main stream reporters of the looting which ostensibly they can't see. According to Brody, Shaunessy's allotted place was to be the scrawny kid who had been fed to the fat schoolyard bullies with no backup, like in "High Noon" with three marauders coming and replete with "pals" making excuses as to why they simply must depart. There was nothing Shaunessy knew how to do which might change the rules of the game, the playing field in which he had been placed, or the referee's imperfect judgements. Ideally, he considered it his job; nothing particularly heroic; more or less just part of an occupation, which had long ago been established to provide a semblance of some semblance of justice to those who had been unfairly hurt, and to remove the crooked and one-sided predators from the domain of the masses of good people for the benefit of the others and those yet to come; making a motion for justice toward those besieged; which had now "evolved" into Audrey Hepburn's necessitated participation in 1963's rendition of "Charade,"

Audrey Hepburn in "Charade"; modified public domain.

inclusive of "Carousel."

Carousel and "Carousel" by Michael Allen Patton, Theobald Lengyel, Clinton Mckinnon, Daniel Heifetz, Trevor Dunn, and Preston Lea Iii Spruance; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Not to be unnecessarily overly deferential to the simple scam beneficial to only the criminals, Brody, his two flunkies, and his "science," it was most fair to observe that Shaunessy had been granted Mike Tyson girth, which he was playing for Goliath stature in the confusion which at a subliminal level emanated from a broad acquiescence to a recognition of the inevitability of value judgements, formidably married without consummation, like that of some archaic Prince to a propertied daughter of another Prince, to an abandonment of any "silly old" notion of personal responsibility, that dichotomy ostensibly "solved" through the microscopic study of trousers, soiled through rumored defecatory activities, coupled with a conveniently loose liaison with old meta whores, much more compelling in the vagueness afforded by incongruous and conflicting ontological aspects, rather than in the theoretically "biased" dregs of epistemological recollection not derivative, some antonyms virtually and quite reasonably interchangeable.

Nonetheless, the addition of his naturally excursive digression into the deconstructing meta was sensibly, merely a slight trip over-the-line into territory inhabited by a tiny, though deceivingly abundant on-line group of conformists who thought that their forays into innocuous and approved rebellion convinced others that their ca. 1963 antics were of the moment, though all too conveniently devoid of any deconstruction of the deconstruction. More potential amusement abounded. However, Shaunessy's "due diligence," perhaps a desire to be thorough at all costs, no matter how pedantic, may have had given him all the advantages achieved by a mediocre chess player who had made an exhaustive study of the 1,005,854,923 "most important" games ever played, when he wasn't summarily dismissed through losing every attainable match; the few he could get with a middling player. Brody, a puffed-up "heavyweight" product playing the public's safety, both here and there, as a condescending "Minister of Information" desperate for privately peculiar personal praises, thereby presenting the same weakness which all bullies do. He was overplaying his hand; an imaginary Royal Flush in spades with a club deuce in the queen's place; and it was Shaunessy's job to explode the cracked space, best done after lulling him into a false sense of security. All in, yet with arms down, he'd be susceptible to spurious charges of vigilantism; not for Shaunessy's particular benefit, but for the benefit of those denied justice.

Not the least bit idiotically comfortable, but confident that his position was prevailing and pragmatically challenged, Shaunessy settled into what the rules, field, and referees references made possible. At a much higher level than he could attain in his wildest fantasy, the powers-that-be had demonstrated long-term, virtually un-challenged success in having written Lilith out of the Bible to the detriment of the people; ipso facto in having branded her as evil. Depressing, contestable visions to his rational rear, he acceded to a false posture of an amused and detached non-participant. He re-ordered his hastily planned direct questioning on a temporary basis, moving toward a seemingly non-productive sideline designed to encourage and exploit Brody's ridiculously needy penchant to gloat over nothing gloat-worthy; much like a questioning commentator upon that old "Saturday Night Live" skit wherein Steve Martin's "wild and crazy guys" were jigging and bragging in outfits, which are still supplied today by ZazzleClothiers.com. Under the circumstances, real and imagined, Shaunessy intended to maximize the benefit of his faux solipsistic or otherwise flawed approach through a counterfeitted limiting idea of personal amusement, with the largely unknown ease attained through having successfully restrained any innate naf at one of the naf's own levels of supposed and contradictory destiny, most beneficial to one of the plethora of nafs, which invariably worked together as well as any Jimmy Hoffa led labor union did, with the "benefit" of vague and thereby deniable approval from the protected big guns.

Under the circumstances restricted, yet fully aware of that as much as one can determine such things, in this case regarding his outwardly imposed limitations, Shaunessy now planned to improvise an opening which fell well short of a return to his profession's desired place. He envisioned a meta form of the Ali famed rope-a-dope as opposed to a Don-King-twice-dictated one punch knockout ala the Foreman v. Frazier bouts, as if it wasn't destined to be that way sans the interfering fix; that a source of confusion as well as a seeming necessity prescribed through inherent abilities as well as the personal recognition of a failure effectively induced by the prominence attained by the consistently revised and thereby obviously and also ostensibly faulty results of the sheepskin decorated and heralded lab mechanics in balloon, toxic hazard gear, like that again worn in Devo's semi-posthumous farewell tour, used costumes available at Goodwill cheap, that much too uncomfortably close to that place of the unproven suicide, but the only game now played by the residents of self-congratulatory Sciencetown. Its jury consistently "manned" by the credentialed and deified one, were both out, as they seek to make a profession of being, if that makes any sense; while being anathema to the hung verdict legally accepted only in the non-capital cases allowed to be decided by "the preponderance of the 'evidence'" they safely purport to have sought; the sometimes undetected deference to the sheepskinned, entirely consistent with the attributes of an effort to maintain personal prominence rather than pursue truth or justice. This procedure may have been anticipated by some noted, thereby trite and anodyned poet and his unrecognized forebears, who have conclusively rendered in no uncertain terms that the snow generally comes when it is cold outside; mostly insofar as cold is still scientifically taken as a relative and degreed term; in denial of the absolute of "cold is cold."

Making further note of the Brody derivative weakness inherent if not un-electably prominent, as if that thought was necessary on any basis other than one which had chosen un-electability than fatuously attempting to explain what one either got or didn't and never will, despite a slight Shaunessy twinge of evenhandedness; suggestive of values which leave no stone unturned or tern unstoned, envisioned, investigative, compelling acumen could claim to have the slightest chance of waylaying, unlike a highwayman of old or through the current efforts of the nigglingly rebellious rookies of a largely unrecognized whatever time, Shaunessy decided to counter with an obsequious sounding, two part question with potential for resurrection. It boldly displayed his intent, though he was wary that the obviousness of the farce might have been a trap set by one capable of Machiavellian intrigue, which ostensibly set in some in an apparent naf variation of pre-destined ignorance of duplicity yet to be chronicled by someone in bored, purposeless absentia. Still for some lost reason Shaunessy remained naturally shy and thereby not totally able to address the deficiencies that are ignored by the blatant lack of short term relevance, wherein the attacked does not defend, but responds in an attack mode, as indirect as Floyd Mayweather; comparatively clever in the low level of competition surrounding, if not yet anymore free or rewarding than the anticipatory stone sharpening of the pre-emptive blade. In simplicity, Shaunessy's largest immediate goal basically concerned how one might encourage the over-weighted bully to appear even more ludicrous than his continually re-done scientism had become of its own nuclear volition and violation. This was now meta-personal, though in a professionally dispassionate manner, like early Blondie's "Just Go Away." He was certain of two things; obsequiousness was the order of the day and Brody was too enthralled with himself to recognize it right in front of his face. Analysis paralysis and editing aside, Shaunessy felt more like a Groucho in a yet-to-be-proven as scientifically reliable wait for the descent of the magic duck. He kept looking up in fear of cranial injury. His personal considerations were more than half in search of a humor valid as evidence in court, played through the verbal aspect of the game presented in a mock-serious voice which he knew would be as un-detected as a patented David Foster Wallace professorial mock. Shaunessy said; "I have heard from a few dubious authorities that when a body dies, it relaxes and poops its pants. If that is true, can the condition of the poops born at the time of death be used to estimate the time of the body's death?"

Brody was even less of a fool than a sotted Houellebecq pretended to be upon having encountered a Knausgard. For all of a second he considered the possibility that Shaunessy was attempting to set him up for one of those quotes which ruin careers forever. However, at second 1.0000001, the bully's need to be hailed as "powerful" overrode the bully's ability to exercise caution. Like any trained canis lupus carnivore with sheepskin in tow, he started somewhat tentatively with the antediluvian, copyrighted and flagrantly plagiarized with no penalty, not even the tsk-tsk of academia's snooze-specialists-sans-story, hereinafter referred to or not as the "SSx2," "That's an excellent question. I'm glad you asked it" response, still somewhat unaware that those devoid of the dime a dozen, "expert" badges, would "ignorantly" hear those words as "That's an excellent question as I know the answer to that one and you have won a place in my greatly enhanced and beneficial abacus for having asked an easy one." Brody, having heard no noticeable guffaws during the following and almost interminable three second pause, proceeded to geyser out each of the un-convincing platitudes concerning personal humility that have ever been known to induce spontaneous vomiting at a lifetime achievement awards dinner; inclusive of those gala retirement dinners mandated in the Goofreads policy manual. He boldly continued with; "I've been lucky and God-blessed to have been one who has naturally gravitated toward poops all his life, fully recognizing that hundreds, nay thousands of other corprophiliacs have been doing the same or better thing for ages. The tragedy is that you will never know their names, as well as those struggling in the 21st century to bring further enlightened nuance to the feculent subject. ....... Please excuse me. ....... Tears come to my eyes, overtaking the meaningless words. ....... May we have ten seconds of silence in commemoration of the many poop provocateurs we will never be able to corncob."

Deeply affected, Shaunessy wiped back a tear, coming within a centimeter of moving something which seemed to emanate from the very center of his very being; very much like what happens when one, for the very first time, hears an onslaught of genius Nirvana lyrics; the ostensible genius very cleverly and subliminally hidden somewhere "In Utero." Shaunessy was verily saved from being very overwhelmed by the pop-up of Striker's head above the partition. Noting the look which either connoted a WTF or an unstated desire to hit the road in tandem, Shaunessy said; "Not too very long. This is very good. Here. It's on speaker. Here hear." Striker very sat, any hints of corprophilia very buried. Shaunessy was prepared to have his pants re-stitched in anticipation of the possibility of one of those "corrections" so Oprah and not, the invariable net result the generation of maximum coverage as blaringly shown daily at the discount store check-out line.

Appropriate period of silence more or less elapsed, perhaps having taken a very untalented Colin Kaepernick style knee on a very inappropriate neck; Brody went on. "I happen to have taken two graduate level courses in the subject. Indeed, cadavers tend to let things fly, so to speak. These trouser deposits were once considered an indicator of the time of death; however the prevalent theory now is that they are misleading. You might easily appreciate how whoops condition is greatly affected by their clandestine longevity, drugs, co-dependent heart condition, long term prison stays, and their access to air. In layman's terms, basically three things can happen. For the sake of simplicity, I'll leave out the gradations. First, if the corpse is either sitting or lying on its back, the castoff matter is substantially housed between the cheeks in a vacuum. Think in terms of your Maxwell House coffee can upside down. In that case the condition is identical, whether the cadaver expired one second ago or one month. Secondly, if the dearly departed expired while on his face, the 'evidence' gets some degree of air through the porosity of what was worn; what we professionals call 'normal' defecatory decay, like the covered fruit in your center island kitchen basket. Third, if the carcass packed it in with his pants down, you've essentially got a situation akin to that which occurs when dog walkers don't use a pooper scooper, the result an instantaneous introduction to desiccation and discoloration. Don't you just hate that? So low class, slobby, and oblivious to the rights of others. Don't you think? ..... That was rhetorical. Anyway, back on topic, think in terms of when you greet your morning with your 'Original Kellogg's Corn Flakes Cereal,' a healthy and delicious breakfast cereal that's simple inside to help you start your day off right.

While you might rightly conclude that proper identification of the corpse' position and pants placement would be an easy adjustment to make based on the many scientific studies of excreta, you will have to appreciate the fact that in many cases some possible idiot starts fucking with the stiff, resulting in a purposeful deception or the work of some asshole in the Police Department. ...... I should conclude by mentioning that sometimes the poops blast out upon corpse expiration, the propulsed material forming a more or less bell shaped curve, as in a probability theory graph representing normal distribution; that normal or Gaussian or Gauss or Laplace–Gauss distribution, a type of continuous probability distribution for a real-valued random variable; which does not at first glance appear to be very different from a standard deviation curve wherein about 68% of values drawn from a normal distribution are within one standard deviation away from the mean; and about 95% of the values lie within two standard deviations; and about 99.7% are within three standard deviations. This fact is known as the 68-95-99.7 empirical rule, or the 3-sigma rule. Think in terms of what sometimes happens when you take more than the recommended laxative dosage and then you try to get the stuff off your bahookie hair only to find that the deviated portion has spread all the way to ......... In the interest of good taste, I should stop here. I think you get the picture. At this point you have to bring in one of those math nerds, and you know; just shit on that. Who needs the aggravation? ........ To tell you the truth, I think that the poop studies have near ended because no one wants to mess with it. But, we're subject to the current dictates of science. I mean when we get another crapped out corpse, the first thing we do is put it in the tub, face, if any, down and run a strong hose on the turdish area, whether Istanbul likes it or not. I hope this answered your question."

Shaunessy said; "Clearly, thank you. If I might, a small follow up, perhaps the end product of what went previously?"

"Please go ahead."

"Pushing on, your report stated that CJW was found on his back on the brick portal in the sun, his pants ostensibly up ....... "

"That's correct."

"Did you think it might have been worth the effort to calculate a poo based estimate of the time of death assuming this was his position all along? I do understand the procedure's shortcomings. But in the case of currently scientifically accepted procedures being irregular, would it not be of some possible benefit to some toilet sitter somewhere to have additional information?"

"Again, let me commend you on an excellent question; one I must also note as having been asked by one of my most pedantic of poo professors. This wasn't covered until my second course. But, no; not at all, as being of 'some possible benefit to some toilet sitter somewhere,' as you so eloquently put the matter at hand, as such sitter is invariably a struggling dilettante in matters of the rusty dusty, most happy to receive any response from a professional hauncho replete with defecatory documentation up the wazoo, and is thereby easily farted around. More directed toward the more uninformed of fecal matter plebes such as yourself, for a reason I purposely left out of my previous answer, the heat index comes into play, as well as the repeated and repeated steam calculations of the physicists. Understand that in some cases, corpse doo-dah one of them, steam is synonymous with stink. It was 108 degrees that day, hotter on the brick portal. You could literally fry two or three arguably misnomered whoopsies, as studies have conclusively shown that cadaver 'whoopsies' bear no relationship to the whoopsies of the kickers, even those dependent upon Depends Adult Undergarments; there in a matter of seconds whether under pants, over pants, or without pants. Any analysis of those whoopsies is absolutely useless, and only of interest to Physics PhD candidates. I'll tell you, when we tried to hose CJW down in the tub, the caca was so hard we actually had to let him soak for a half hour, and even after that use the heavy duty Parker High Pressure 2380N Hose for high and ultra-high pressure applications, combining excellent handling and long service with superior safety standards."

"Thank you again. Hope you didn't get any on ya."

"No, thank you. But, my assistants did. Hehe."

### 9 - Krapp's Last Tape

Like a segment of a formerly sensational cable series that had recently bottom burped, Shaunessy continued; "I suppose that closet trouser browners present another diagnostic difficulty."

Brody modestly chuckled or did something else which approximated that sound, saying; "Depends. ........ Please pardon me. But, yes; there are still those who fear that their innocuous, purportedly predestined penchant to pants poop will bring them disadvantages; both economic and social, in the modern world. As a result, if they experience an overwhelming urge for an anal release while away from home they sit on it until they are back again and can change in complete privacy. If they die before removing their soiled drawers, the forensics investigator would have all the problems previously mentioned, as well as, at best, placing the time of death incorrectly at the estimated time of the first plop. You might recall that infamous case when OM (Over-rated Manure) was acquitted in the death of his wife. What you may not be aware of is that she was a closet pooper back when eh-eh evaluation was still considered science. The footballer's Harvard attorney, a legal pioneer in the admissibility of such evidence, got the judge to declare a mistrial dismissing the murder charge. The case never went to the jury because the prosecution's primary evidence was dropped when OM was photographed running through an airport in a desperate attempt to hit the head."

"Did he make it?"

"We're not certain as we suspect him to also be one of those closeted cases."

"A few years later they got him on some other shit."

"Yes. I believe it was fraud or breaking and entering; a number two felony at any rate. He did a few years in or on the can."

"I'm beginning to think that poo-poo references are infinite."

Brody's tone changed from one from one anus open to one more akin to harboring a stuffed butt plug when he indignantly said; "My good man, we are talking science here, not religion."

"Sorry. The subject interests me and as a consequence I'm getting inappropriately off topic and long winded."

Brody immediately returned to the tone emblematic of the calm which precedes the bluster of a wind storm, saying; "Don't get me wrong. I have no qualms with religion on a theoretically airy level. In that regard please allow me to present a personal anecdote. I once bought a house which came with a detached barn. Red, it was painted with vertical, wooden, tongue-in-groove siding, though at its age some of the tongues were out of the grooves, or vice-versa. I explored it, finding all sorts of interesting things, like old photo albums, tools, lumber, forgotten furnishings, nails, and screws. I'd find uses for these things. But, the floor was covered inches deep in spots with a dried out sandy substance, colored like a fuzz-free Kool-Aid peach mango concentrate on the skids or a beach in LA. I paid it no particular attention until a neighbor who had lived in the area for 'farty' years, in a remarkably feigned New England brogue, told me that two owners back my old red barn was used as a chicken coop; that 'dried out sand' actually being old chicken droppings, more or less analogous to your nutritious everyday fruit concentrates, just needing water. I was appalled, but did my best not to publically break ranks with my home's ancillary amenities. ...... I may have digressed, as much as you may have ignorantly concluded, no value judgement intended; insofar as my understanding of feculent matters cannot help but exceed that of ones not so educated and experienced. Please excuse me again if necessary. I've forgotten and you might appreciate that it is quite the task for one so blessed in one area to communicate the basics to another blessed not with any as yet discernable talent."

"I think you were on what the chickens had left in your old red barn."

"Yes. Yes. Back with the posthumized chickens and their doo-doo. I investigated whether AmawayOnSteroids.com had found a market for it. You know, a few extra bucks never hurt. I was initially glad to discover that this product was being marketed as a 'new' product addition to AmawayOnSteroids.com's 'Hole Foods' subsidiary's natural repertoire. The upbeat blurb produced some wariness as AOS kind of overdid it, though my thoughts of easy green obliterated any nay-saying analysis-paralysis. The bullish ad said; 'Chicken Shit' (If given the choice I'd likely have opted for a more deceptive product name.) is the versatile seasoning/beverage designed especially for chicken! A glass is strongly recommended in the case of the latter.' Ostensibly opting for the colloquialisms popular with the ad copiers, it deftly went on with; 'This ain't the same herbs and spices the fat fart in the white house and suit uses; this is so much better! 'Chicken Shit' is guaranteed to produce the juiciest, most succulent chicken dinner and/or anytime drink imaginable.' I was as enthused as Jed Clampett when first getting an oil bath, and simultaneously as exhilarated as a packed borborygmus can be, more or less; though upon instantaneous reflection I realistically flashed; 'Who can be sure of the highest degree of borborygamia attainable?' Having realized that I had realized that decades before any ad copier plonking twerp had ever realized that he was a plonking twerp, in a crosscurrent of swirling, intellectual doubt, as if someone had prematurely flushed, I was obliged to make an exerted effort to stifle my heinie from doing its desired brown pucker. This was truly not much of an accomplishment, as I now not only had loads, but I was also soon to be fabulously rich. ...... That's where the good part ended. I momentarily discovered that AmawayOnSteroids.com's shipping charges exceeded the market value of my granulated, vegan chicken shit. I might have been able to alleviate that somewhat by paying $55,000 for a lifetime Prime membership which supposedly obliterated the economic disincentive of shipping costs while also making tons of shithole e-indie books available to me free, but got hung up on the thought that there was more relevant fine print than I cared to endure and that my projected, lifetime likely income exceeded that of AmawayOnSteroids.com anyway; making the tax deductible cost amortization problematic in IRS eyes."

"Bummer, give or take."

"Will the banal attempts at Bumtown jokes never cease? Yes and no to the other. On the positive side, I wasn't losing anything I had to begin with, and my now released time from chicken shit plans was appreciated by my wife to the point of a saturated pot in hirsute bloom; roses fertilized. She had previously been making a hobby of putting flowers on the spaced, Mayfair do-it-yourself, bathroom shelf originally intended to evasively appear to hold leaky Clorox Bleach bottles while any errant outflows from the top just dripped carelessly yet substantially satisfyingly onto what is hidden by that persecutor within, inclusive of that popular plastic container which according to the percentage taking thieves at AOS 'holds a Clorox Regular Liquid Disinfecting Bleach boasting the CloroMax which kills 99.9% of germs, bacteria, and viruses. It cleans, disinfects, deodorizes, whitens, removes stains, and excites your zombie grandpa and his prison positioned, persecuted pals, purportedly members of Atomwaffen and Aryan Nation. As purely American, if not better described as more broadly western than an easily discarded in the ultimate irrelevance of a right place-right time, Trump card, Clorox Disinfecting Bleach whitens whites, keeps clothes whiter longer, and removes 70% more stains than detergent alone. Remove tough laundry stains from white clothes; including red wine, grass, dirt and blood stains. It is safe to use in standard and HE washers. What's more, Clorox Disinfecting Bleach contains the aforementioned CloroMax Technology to protect household surfaces as it cleans, so stains won't stick and cleanup is easier. Clorox Disinfecting Bleach Plus disinfects and deodorizes surfaces, killing 99.9% of mold and germs, including norovirus, ChinaBatPoo I virus, ChinaBatPoo II virus, affectionately known in 21st century, educated, 'expert' domains as non-stigmatizing CBP2, Palestinian Camel Pox I & II viruses, the Spanish flu virus, the Asian flu virus, MRSA, E. Coli, and salmonella, left on household surfaces such as countertops, floors, toilets and more. Ideal for use in offices, restaurants, and other looted commercial facilities. Discover the power of clean with Clorox Disinfecting Bleach. CloroMax Technology, 64 oz. Bottle, 8 Carton, $28.53 reduced from $51.26 with a built-in excuse for leaks, ....... ' It went on, and I bought ten, just to be able to stop reading the ad copy put there by the marketing genius ad copier flunky. I didn't care if it was ten bottles or ten 8 cartons. I was emotionally moved, and AOS had my $285.30 plus tax, shipping, and spurious charges yet to be determined; a panacea to my dissolved dreams of chicken shit riches, like a so-so writer, chancing upon an entrée mildly stimulative to the kind reader-reviewers who often kindly said; 'Good for a first effort. Look forward etc., etc.' yet auguring of the retensive luxury of being uncriticizably unable to deliver a number two, despite squats and groans.

Staggered. Speechless. Prone to not only incomplete sentences, but those which also presented the heartbreak of verb confusion. Caps near locked. Notwithstanding and in addition, the chicken shit story was not yet done. One day when my wife was visiting her doctor or some other leech-dispensing squid, I decided to remove the chicken doo from the barn. I swept most of it out the doors. You know, some of it was in hard to reach places, and why bother spending 90% of your time with 10% of the project. That's as useless and inefficient as one of those gardeners who walk around with the blower blowing out of his migrated, mercenary ass for an hour.

Things were fine until it rained. I had gotten my eight bottles for $375.49. AOS sent an e-mail asking how I liked their service and provided a link to use in case there was any problem. When I tried to give it less than a five star rating, it 'just happened' to work worse than a visit to the Walmart returns department; zero. But, the lousy eighty bucks I was overcharged took a back seat to what was going on within my immediate vicinity. I first thought that local septic pumping crew was dumping their brown bags someplace in the woods again. But, it was worse than that. The now moisturized chicken shit at the barn borders was throwing off a stench like the rumored hydrogen sulfide covering of Uranus which was supposedly capable of making the Jim Jones Kool Aid flavor a hit. ........ Pardon me, I still gag when I think of it. Boolyopbrapbop... Oh Jesus. Boolyopbrapbop ... "

"Are you all right, Brody?"

"Do I sound all right to you? Bringing up these old memories is like trying to remain civil while stuck with an hour of that early years psychological crap with an MS from a community college best noted for excellence in automotive body work. Boolyopbrapbop... Shit. Double shit. Got it on the new stiff."

"How does it feel about that?"

"Fuckem. Who cares? The next thing I knew ...... Ewwyap. ..... Whoo, caught that one. Smilowitz, fetch me that bucket we use to catch the livers. ...... Well, I care even less about that. Stick them in the Easter baskets we send to the Girl Scouts. ...... Thank you. The next thing I knew creepy Middleton from across the street was at the border sniffing like an anteater near the tree which Fido watered, and soon he was joined by 5-6 other nosey asses with their hankies over their snouts. One of them must have called the Health Department, as in five minutes Walter's pickup was cheered down my driveway. Walter waved to his fans and asked me, sans any opening pleasantries; "What in the fuck is that stink here?" Under the flatulent circumstances, I figured it best not to deny anything and I told him about the granulated chicken shit. Walter complained for a while, even threatened to issue an evacuation order; but maybe since I had fessed up over the stench, and agreed to the imposition of a community satisfactory remedial plan, he got as soft as a Dem politico in the middle of a looting, cop killing, bullshit riot carried out by the 'homies' from the Bloods International, Inc. and the Crips International, Inc. I told him I'd have the area covered with three inches of clean fill topped by sod. He agreed. I did it. And the next time it rained it stank just as badly. Creepy Middleton and the crew again cheered from the fringe as Walter's pickup traversed my driveway. ..... "

"Please excuse my interruption, Mr. Brody. I'm just having some difficulty in understanding how this relates to autopsies and their relationship to the little hard balls in whatever state they may reside."

"Sigh, as exaggerated as an on-line rendition of same in County Cork. Please exonerate the smidgeon of verbosity which results from our increasingly impersonal methods of communication. They are not my fault. Perhaps next time we can Zoom. ........ It's the ancillary though unimpeachably relevant and significantly significant stink-on-shit topic to which we have trodden. And as a point of order, by now you might have understood that they are not always little hard balls; their size and consistency quite variable. Though the study is still undocumented to the extent of lacking peer review, it obviously varies widely. Ever get near some of that green gooey stuff like when a stiff has overdosed on laxatives? Likely not. Sweet Jesus! Damn. Take my word. You don't want to. We forensics guys have been trying to make a case for hazardous duty pay for some time now because of that. ...... Anyway, Walter was more of a friend than you might have previously detected. He was formerly the Clinton Township Animal Control Officer, with responsibilities inclusive of catching runaway dogs, who seemed to be attracted to my property. But that's another story. He said that this moisturized chicken shit was an intolerable situation. I said that dry chicken shit was not a problem for anyone and that it was not my fault that it rained sometimes. I assured him that I never watered the area myself. He wasn't entirely swayed, and just grimaced while mildly shaking his head. Being a perceptive person I realized that I had to come up with some better chicken or bullshit. Enabled by one of those unexplainable flashes of ostensibly God given insight, common in times of desperate need, I informed him that the agricultural zoning in Clinton Township had permitted uses which allowed the politically connected Prune family two miles up the road to operate a stinking sludge farm. The size of it was thousands of times over my little chicken plop, and was a purposeful daily dumping event as opposed to my accidental foray into minor public contamination. My pal Walter said that he would take it under advisement and left to check the fine print in the Clinton Township Procedural Manual, not yet available on line. I should here note that Walter was a Native American, though most didn't know that as he had long ago cut off his pony tail. Progressing onward, Walter likely didn't research any of the ins-and-outs of the changeable 'interloper rules' written through the un-natural, devious occurrences of those of displaced Western European ancestry. ........ I must admit that is a guess as Walter, though I considered him a friend, never confided his deepest motivations with me. In fact, that was the last time I saw Walter as his pickup made tracks in my gravel driveway, while smiling and waving to the small group of poopy pong attracted weirdos still gathered at the perimeter. Though this could easily be construed as a more or less victorious moment, I couldn't help but be cranially plagued with the thought of a shit intolerant future. I waited for the next drought and sold out at a good price; pockets brimming and in effect dumping the doo on the next sucker.

But, hey, hey; pilgrim. Don't get me wrong. I'm not knocking the doctrinaire shit adherents. Back when doctors were sometimes mistakenly burying the still living, the checking for poopy pants saved many a life. It took modern science to unequivocally conclude that faux-corpses don't do poo-poos. In fact they just generally fart around. Sure, it's easy to mistake the sound of one of those stagnated wet raspberries for a disinterested dropping, but we professionals know the difference. It is no doubt seen by the lay detractors otherwise, but we scientists have been certain of one thing since the days of Anaximander. If it farts, it's still alive."

With Shaunessy speechless and possibly mesmerized, Brody attempted to fill the blank with words not right and not wrong; hoping that no one could thereby detect that he had read a smattering of Foxfussy, though actually considering every word, even in the six page 'poetic' parts which might well have ended at one. Brody did a 'Ducks, Wherever the Flying un-Depended Whoopsie;' if not precisely that, most certainly a reasonable attempt at a regurged Lillian Hellman regurg; previously post-mortem, punishment-worthy profilers derivative and to that extent, fatuously wrong, though semi-valuable as a relative bar useful to assess the degree and implications of incontinence. Likely unaware of the fact that his audience had recently doubled through Striker's eavesdropping, Brody said; 'Their tolerance for mass intrusion assumed. Wrong, precisely, bad Shaunessy in your moment, seldom otherwise perceived as such. After the tempting offset, any assistance undeterminable and unrequested, continuing on with a rendition, perdition of the jargon based exclusion unavailable to all on AmawayOnSteroids.com; free shipping and an array of asshole sock puppet accounts available free, FREE SUCKER, FREE GODDAMMIT, to those green-supportive operatives of a 'primacy,' almost as amusing as what might have been referred to but likely wasn't more than a few pedantic paragraphs back; the value of any framingly, supportive wall hangings replete with yet to be determined as an 'authentic' drop into a wax most sealing, by a minority un-advertised and thereby ignored."

Personally as disinterestedly and pleasantly vacatedly lost as anyone else is through a deficient void of goggle-maps-driving-directions is lost; that is regarding the latter in their "unique" case, yet professionally desirous of what would undoubtedly be seen as the remotely recorded retardation, but nonetheless damning soundtrack, utilized by those choir members pretending to have heard and/or passed on the identical preaching in their invariably blinded, lock or goose stepping view; the obvious dichotomy between seeing and hearing actually a difficult concept for those addicted to the simplicity of Identity Politics, Shaunessy may have more or less changed the speciously non-existent subject with his next statement or question. It was more or less difficult for him to make that absolute determination at this time, but it didn't matter. He asked Brody if he had been more benefitted by graduate study or if his had been blessed with the belief that common sense was all too common to have any relevance when in possession of instruments which finely calculate the degree of error, purposely leaving off another option or two. Whoop. Whoop.

His place in this semi-dialogue conversation resultantly as well as conveniently indeterminate, Brody, feeling obliviously and boorishly superb, or as reasonable an approximation thereof his limited relativistic skills supplied in an impression of perpetuity, as he saw it, he stated that he believed that he was blessed to having been given a "natural instinct for matters of the arse," later, more or less, confirmed through other's amorphous, mathematically based advanced study, well beyond the ruminations of Plato; no fault directed toward James Dean's directors' insistence upon a fascism iridescently Germanic. The innuendo supplied by the partial viewing appalled in an unsatisfactory upside down reiteration like a tidal wave directed at a meta lack of form for those downwind from the newest presentation from whichever money magnificent consignment site which crashed shortly after a foray, purposeful or not, into a comfortable area oblique, just prior to the inverted crash not seen as imminently coming.

As Brody's reply was less than incriminating this time, Shaunessy felt duty-bound to attempt to make it so. He said; "Yes; the all too obvious problem with these Luddites who ignore the charts as a matter of a 'fact,' seemingly unaware of that 'fact' possibly being another manifestation of that already accepted or tactically inarguable in the court of the world wide web, or as a more conservative estimate one which would undoubtedly prevail in a court low barred to a preponderance of the evidence. Who cares of comfortable, practiced platitudes? Not me. Not you. Not anyone. So be it. It has fallen for Disney to advertise and sell the time. During any of the 'inter-textual' episodes of 'Whirlybirds' this seems outlandishly prescient when in the air. 'Chop, chop, chop' go the blades. ...... Self- aggrandizement to the foolish aspiration which invariably aspires to inevitable losses on both sides."

At this point, both Brody III and Shaunessy were in the Shaunessy red zone, Brody with the ball. ....... Maybe. Maybe not. No one could claim an indisputable position on the matter; so Shaunessy searched without the "benefit' of goggle for a place complimentary to the science wonder which had brought Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and untold "mistakes" as well as the miracles attendant to the accessibility of the zeroes supplied in tandem with the ones attained through heralded nerds Gaines, Jobs, and Bozos. Shaunessy was laughing in a semi-clandestine manner, as if laughing was no longer anymore allowed, though contemplative and critically dismissive on an internal basis of his secondary derivative reaction. He searched for questions which would further allow Brody to demonstrate his ref supplemented, number one seeding, in hope of additional fumbles or intercepted passes. His leap into rejected humor was momentarily irrepressible. Through a brain blip he came up with a properly placed Brody encouraging bit which might be interpreted as being more than the simple words made less than obvious, a joke to which he had somewhere become addicted, saying; "Do you think that the lab work supersedes on-site observation?"

As a result of ostensibly having mistakenly taken this belated entrée as complete acquiescence, as Shaunessy expected, Brody took the opportunity to further expound upon his revered scientific brilliance, though reverting to the modest tone, most popular at life achievement award granting ceremonies. In sciency heaven he said; "Under the guidance of my esteemed colleague, Matt Poops, I did my humble doctoral dissertation on the subject of 'Cadaver Expulsion and its Use in Post-Mortem Laboratory Inquiries.' My data based analysis, supplemented by an historical overview strongly suggestive of an evacuation of the posterior premises."

"I suspected as much and I'm beginning to feel jaded ...... the faux version of getting bored. I have a question regarding your specific findings. In your final report, you waffled on the time of death, stating that it was between the disturbingly inexact parameters of 11AM and 2PM. Given that the death obviously occurred sometime reasonably near, but prior to Anisette Rhona's 2:35PM police call and your belated 3:45PM arrival it would seem to me that it takes no forensic expertise to come to such a useless conclusion. Is that an indication of how your 'science' is as precise as being able to be within a decade of accuracy had the corpse been discovered last month?"

Sensing Shaunessy's change of tone, Brody changed his and countered with a return to terse professionalism, saying; "As I've previously indicated, excessive heat precludes retroactive precision. What has been written in the final report is the most accurate approximation currently possible. If you're asking me to supply a time of death based solely on physical evidence, I can only say sometime between 11:00AM and 2:00PM, and even that could be off."

"This just happened today. I'm not asking for the precise time of something that happened ten years ago."

"I appreciate your point. However, there are a number of variables which effect that calculation. For one, the temperature. The body will decay much more quickly at 110 degrees than it will at 15."

"It was hot that day, over one hundred."

"Yes, it was; outside. But, we have no reason to believe that the body didn't spend time inside."

"That presumes a cover up."

"Stranger things have happened. Look, personally I have no evidence to suggest a cover up."

"Yet your consideration of that makes it more difficult to analyze whether or not there was one."

"Sometimes things are a bitch. Huh? Ever work homicide?"

Shaunessy was embarrassed as that was exactly what he had done for decades in the Big Apple, but never before had he needed this degree of exactitude to eliminate suspects.

The Medical Examiner added; "It's always best not to come to easy early conclusions, and having stated that, this has every earmark of a suicide."

"Your report also makes mention of CJW's 'suicidal tendencies.' On what do you base that conclusion?"

"The frequency of mention in his writing, that he was periodically medicated for depression using a dangerous 'last hope' drug, and testimony from those who knew him."

"Last, you stated that his blood alcohol content was .32 at the time of death. That level induces severe impairment including unconsciousness. An unconscious person cannot commit suicide."

"If you would have further pursued your cursory knowledge of the subject, you might have found that the calculated number must be put in a few contexts; including tolerance level attained through prior drinking, sex, age, type of beverage consumed, food intake, and you are probably especially surprised to hear body weight. Is that all, Detective Shaunessy?"

"Oh, I should have said earlier that this conversation was being recorded. But, by now I'm sure you are aware of standard police procedures." Click. Shaunessy's worry level went up a notch; not to mention his annoyance index. But he buoyantly said; "Hahahahahaha. Come on Striker. Let's go."

As they approached their police car, noticing that his hands were shaking as much as his allegedly under-fed brain; Shaunessy said; "Your turn to drive today."

Striker said; "I did last time."

"Don't argue with me. I drove when you called in sick yesterday."

"When are you going to learn that the simplistically calculated number must be put in a few contexts to extract anything worthwhile?" Striker grinned as he drove.

After five minutes of looking out the passenger window to spot speeders or drooling murderers on Vista de la Feria Road and finding none, Shaunessy again relaxed, his hands returning to their usual degree of manageable tremble, but not for the lack of predators. He had attempted to make a documented ass of Brody by also making one of himself, and the Medical Examiner had a better finale than he had anticipated. He realized that it was not his ass that had any relevance, and he was able to extract much Brody ass material prior to the brief denouement. Now all he had to do was find a way to effectively counter Brody's pro end. He was personally and happily flabbergasted at his realization that the faux construct alternative, conceptual ontology, had its periodic place.

He shot a glance toward Striker, who was still silently grinning with his left hand on the wheel, his right apparently reserved for the backhanded wiping of his mouth or fronthanded scratching his balls. It was Shaunessy's turn to grin. Striker saw that through one corner, lost his, and said; "What?"

No reply, other than a larger grin.

"What?"

Still no reply.

"What?"

"When are you going to learn that the simplistic observation must be put in a few contexts to extract anything worthwhile? And I've never had any wish to teach, or the audacity. ....... Be happy to drive while you still can. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?"

### 10 – Infinite Jest

In Shaunessy's case tomorrow brought two burials; one a funeral, more precisely described as a cremation service. The other was the placing of his valuable Brody discrediting tape safely underground, where only he could find it. Mercifully, the funeral was not his, but still one of those morbid things one rather not do on their day off; almost tolerable when on the clock. Margaret told him about it ten minutes after he woke up, maybe thinking that she was being funny. The type of humor attainable in a long term relationship is not worth attempting to describe, as those who haven't been there can never understand, while those who have find it much too obvious to go on about.

Margaret was off on one of those psychedelic-type surrealisms of old; Jefferson Airplane, Barney Miller, and all of that stuff. It was easy for her in her now quite natural esotericism; Madame Blavatsky and her cohorts most supportive, primarily through their "enhanced photography" of ethereal presences.

Shaunessy finally came to dare saying; "All right. All right. I get your innuendo. Jeez, how could anyone miss it? I'll bet that Youtube has a free showing of 'Easy Rider' this afternoon."

"Well sure. But I feel it my right to once see it without you ruining it by laughing every time Jack Nicholson says something."

"The visuals are outstanding. ...... You know the whole thing got waylaid when those concerned with lifestyle and dropping out felt a need to maintain 'relevance' through the inclusion of those with economic 'issues.' It was as if ice felt some need to engage bogus fire. Losers. Sad ass losers. Conveniently 'inclusionist,' like a goddam leech. It took a foreigner to see that; Antonioni's 'Zabriskie Point.'"

"Thanks a lot. See, I know what will happen. I'd just like a trip back to when things were beautifully innocent; when the flunkies of the petit bourgeoisie driving the commode trucks just blew away the dissidents who tried to pass while waving the digitus tertius."

"I think you're mixing two movies. Archie Bunker was in the other one."

"That shows I need an update."

"Okay. Do you have an idea of what I'm supposed to wear to one of these things?"

"I'm not up to date on funerial proprieties, either. But, you can't go wrong with that cheap, dark suit your tightwad sister gave you one Christmas."

"Shirt and tie?"

"Optional, though not one of those devil-may-care t-shirts the stars wear on Fallon. When in doubt it is always best to err on the side of caution."

"Bare chested?"

"Only if your tits now warrant a b-cup and have no hair on them."

"No outstanding warrants, hair last shaved when you got into that Bowie androg thing."

"Moi?"

"Well ...... yeah! ..... No?"

"Hymmmm."

"Hymmm yourself. I think I'll go with the white button-down your overtly 'normal'-lesbo sister sent."

"How can you be so sure that she's a lesbo?"

"I'm not. It's just that her having had zero boyfriends through age 55, her membership in that on-line LilithKillsMen.com club, and that she shares her apartment with that fat, old, butch dyke with the mustache prompts one to leap to silly conclusions any court would throw out as circumstantial evidence."

"On her Goofreads profile she chose the female gender option."

"As I said."

"Off with you already! You're going to be late for the funeral."

"Cremation service."

Shaunessy dressed in the appropriate attire and was off. When his ignition key turned the engine of his Indian red Toyota Avalon Hybrid over, the radio came on. He must have left it tuned to the "Oldies but Goodies" station, as he heard Cream:

Shaded path and "As You Said" by Jack Bruce and Pete Brown; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Shaunessy and his engine happily hummed as he drove to the cemetery, he lowly singing three portions; "As you said. As you said. As you said." Suddenly the sky darkened and his windshield was pelted with a cacophony of savage sounding water drops, near blinding his vision of the road ahead. "Damn deserts are just too often like that." He adjusted the wheel's stick setting and the windshield wiper came on, making its comforting bodunk bodunk bodunk repetitions, and providing enough visibility to allow him to more or less safely continue driving. That's what he thought, though he realized that there was nothing he could do if another car's driver was unable to properly adjust their stick setting.

The cemetery itself was his next problem. His four wheel drive vehicle handled the now muddy dirt road to the parking area, but that still left him with another three hundred feet of mud to go through on foot if he remained adamant about visiting the final service area. Shaunessy turned off the engine and glanced at his watch. He was late, and since he never had any good experience with having walked into movies already in progress, even "Lonely are the Brave," he considered turning back. But duty called and besides, Margaret wanted to watch "Easy Rider" alone. He didn't have any recollection of having joked over the Jack Nicholson dialogue, and his instincts suggested that it was totally out of character for him to have done that. His suspicions were that Margaret was either confusing "Easy Rider" with "Hell's Angels on Wheels," Jack Nicholson the common denominator, or that she just felt like being alone, or something else. Whatever the case, Shaunessy as semi-always took Margaret's word as it seemed a most reasonable, over-riding request.

Shaunessy slowly slogged through the mud toward the canopy, apparently erected by the professional death merchants who had made duly diligent use of the weatherman to determine on an "optimistically likely - most expected – pessimistically likely" percentage basis which way the wind would blow; that sourced from the US Department of Commerce, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, National Weather Service, Detroit/Pontiac, Michigan, also surreptitiously known as DTX Coop; and regurgitated at every local level through the "funny, smiley, nice-guy-weatherman" on your local AM TV show. How Michigan knows New Mexico weather better than New Mexicans is another issue, best not raised this time as they gotten it right.

He'd be soaked and his shoes and cheap trousers would be caked in mud, but Shaunessy didn't care. He dutifully trudged toward the canopy, his most significant discomfort the cold water running down his back after his hair had reached the point of complete saturation. He thought; "I should have worn a hat," apparently oblivious to any consideration of a desert bound umbrella, being that it was akin to leaving Charlie the Tuna on a "socially distanced" beach with no sign of possible enforcement in that particular zip code.

Burial service; property of the author.

Shaunessy stood at the back of the plain, pro tem pavilion perched on precarious poles, in a puddle of his own production, possibly puzzled by well-read proles as presently purported, previously popular pee parallelism. He was most interested in being able to view the attendees, whose backs, which were all to him, more or less blended in New Mexico's "monsoon" blues. The gathering totaled near one hundred. Shaunessy was looking for something unusual. Anything. Anything out of sync; under the useful pretense of some ill-defined concept of sync. He easily picked out Anisette Rhona, as she was near the front and was wearing an all-encompassing veil which rendered Madame Psychosis' infinitely jested approximation a dilettante's delicacy; nothing unusual or revelatory/anti-revelatory there; either pro or the result of top-notch coaching. Emily Crain, CJW's "local editor," was facially uncovered as opposed to her head which was obscured by a black brimmed hat which she must have borrowed from Bogart. Emily seemed to be the most distraught of the group when one excepted the customary soiree of un-related attendees who "prove" their "caring humanity" through public displays of an appropriate level of "feeling" about things which they actually find foreign; easily detectable though unwise to mention. She was holding back tears in what seemed to be an unpracticed manner. Rolf Hoffius and Henry Battson were nowhere within the realm of regular sight; the former a household employee and thereby unexpected to be.

In progress, the eulogy was being given by fellow writer, and alleged CJW friend, Fenton Foxfussy. Shaunessy knew that only because the circling lights on the neon sign ensconced to his podium said so; in smaller letters adding "author of 'Theme from an Imaginary Midwestern.'" Fenton seemed accepting and chirpy, perhaps excessively so, and he had apparently been going on a while already as the audience was regularly sneaking peeks at their watches. Foxfussy said;

"Like a lot of writers, but even more than most, Connor liked to be in control of things, even in small subtle ways most of us have not imagined. He was easily stressed by social situations and he never went to a party he had not been bound and dragged to. This was not a case of being ridiculously anti-social in particular. But rather it was result of his well-thought intense dislike of the human race in general. This ranged from lesser writers who suddenly sought to be publicly viewed as a 'friend' after the breakthrough of 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers,' to those who wrote magazine articles about the man they never met, to the marketing slicksters who required tons of hello, hello's and thank you, thank you's and a smiley photo op before they'd get out of his face.

Connor loved details and said of them; 'Every day we are bombarded with 500,000 factoids. Two of them might have some relevance.' for their own sake, but details were also an outlet for the contempt bottled up in his heart; inevitably a way of disconnecting, on a relatively safe, disinterested, middle ground, from another human being. We writers do not choose to spend more time on our keyboards than we do with people as a result of yearning to be around and liked by them. Ha. Some people would like to think otherwise; a shyness, a defect, something curable through love and reassurance, that tired sort of worn claptrap. Connor told the liberating truth, often saying; 'Just fuck off.'

By the way, I may have forgotten to note that after the service I'll be signing the special limited edition of my best-selling novel 'Theme from an Imaginary Midwestern,' which my friend Connor very graciously helped me to do. Many have made note of 'seeing' Connor's wit and wisdom in some of the passages.

His detached and abstracted insights have even made their way into the most hallowed halls of psychological learning. I quote from last month's issue of 'Psychology Today,' a prescient article by Dr. PC McGrab. 'Loneliness is indeed the most salient risk of aloneness. The very idea of solitude may evoke deep childhood fears of abandonment and neglect, and cause some people to rush toward connectedness. But I do not believe that loneliness can be totally banished from life, nor that it should be. In the words of Lee Michaels; 'That's how you come in. That's how you gonna go. Everybody.' Let's all take a few quiet seconds to ponder that insight.

One thing that made Connor an extraordinary interview was the formal structure and the sums paid by TV. The instances in which Connor berated his interviewers were entirely the fault of the interviewers for departing from the predetermined script to ask stupid questions.

Within that kind of confine, he could draw on his huge serving of misanthropic humor without worry of repercussions. When Connor was the subject, he could relax into the ridicule of the witless flunky host; doing it so well that the witless flunky host seldom realized that he was being ridiculed. As a journalist himself, he was most at home when he was able to find a technician who was thrilled to meet someone else disingenuously interested in the arcana of his job. The techie got overtime and Connor had an excuse to ignore the subject. He affectionately referred to these people as weinies. CJW loved details for their own sake, as details were also an outlet for the mocking disdain inside; a way of disconnecting, yet appearing the opposite, with another uncongenial and cynical human being.

This was approximately the definition of literature that he and I came up with in our correspondence; my stream-of-consciousness, rambling input dwarfing his precision by a ten to one margin; perhaps more. Despite not having personally met, I loved Connor from the very first letter I ever got from him. His marvelous sense of humor wrote three words; "Fuck off, asshole." Whenever I tried to meet him in person, he'd make a commitment and then fail to show up. Ostensibly, he thought that I would take his hint. I suppose I should have expected that, but at first I did expect the courtesy of a phone call. That's the sort of behavior one expects from a handy man or a gardener. At any rate, after the first no show - no call, I always made sure I had a backup plan for the rest of the time I had allotted to being in Lord Peter Wimsey's presence.

Cover of "Whose Body?" by Dorothy L. Sayers; public domain.

Even after I did start cyber-hanging out with him, our communications were often stressful and rushed. Having loved him at my first spamming e-mail, I was always straining to prove that I could be funny enough and smart enough, and he'd space out pretending as if he had no interest. What a joker! This humor which he had mastered would have made me feel as if I were inadequate, were it not for what I could extract from him for use in my 'Theme for an Imaginary Midwestern." Not many things in my life ever gave me a greater sense of achievement or money than getting a useful idea from Connor.

My bell again rang. I may not yet have mentioned that after this dreary service I'll be signing the special limited edition of my novel "Theme from an Imaginary Midwestern," which my best friend Connor very graciously helped me to do. Many have made note of "seeing" Connor's wit and wisdom in some of the heralded passages.

But that "middling ground upon which to make a deep connection with another human being;" this, we decided, was what the fictitious bullshit of fiction was for. "A way out of loneliness" was the formulation we agreed to disagree upon; actually my phrase to which Connor made no objection. And nowhere was I ever more able to totally and gorgeously maintain control than through his written language. He has the most inventive rhetorical virtuosity of any writer alive. ........ Errr; never mind. Way, way out in a sentence deep into an extended paragraph of dark humor or turning in on his own self-consciousness, you could smell the freshly breaking wind whistling through the gingko branches with the melodic precision of his repatriating beat, his pitch-perfect shifting among ten different levels of turgidity using only the reach of his bazoo. Those sentences and those pages were as happy a home as any he had during most of the two years I stalked and harangued him. I could tell you stories about the little road trip I once took, or I could tell you about my little apartment, or I could tell you about my awkward chess bot and the even more awkward Top Spin 3 tennis my lonely bahookie plays; the comforting structure of the games versus the weird deep rivalries bowling induces; but truly the main thing for me was the writing I could borrow from Connor.

For most of the time I knew him, the most intense interaction I had with him was sitting alone in my armchair, night after night, for ten days, and reading 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.' That was the book in which, for the first time, he'd arranged the world the way he saw it. Although the quality of the humor was constantly high, it contained an indirectly spoken undertone of true misanthropy. My friend, Connor nailed literary post-modernism to death like nobody else ever had or will again.

And now he is dead. You may be aware of that. Connor has taken his own life, and the rest of us are left behind to ask why. One could simply blame the brain chemical imbalance. This story is sort of true, safe, and also totally incorrect; a modern reduction of the entirety of 'War and Peace' to a bumper sticker slogan which says; 'I heart zombies.' If you're satisfied with this story, you don't need any of the stories that Connor wrote. If you're satisfied with this slogan, you don't need any of the slogans that Connor wrote. However, this doesn't mean there are no more meaningful stories for us to tell or slogans to stick somewhere. In that regard, don't forget my 'Theme from an Imaginary Midwestern,' the special limited edition, signed in the parking lot after the burial is over; all major credit cards, debit cards, and paypal accepted. Sorry, no bitcoin. I know Connor would have recommended it.

It was a challenge to be CJW's friend. People who like to be in control can have a hard time with intimacy. About five years ago, CJ settled into a good, stable situation here in Vista de la Seca. ....... Of course, please excuse me; Vista de la Feria. I can't imagine what I was thinking. Another huge part of it was meeting a woman who was right for him. Anisette Rhona and I managed to get him to Italy for a week, and instead of spending his days in his hotel room, watching TV, as he would have done a few years earlier, he was actually socializing with and eating octupus and octopi without stopping to consider them. In broad daylight, mind you. Here was a genuinely fun thing he might well have done again.

About a year later he expressed a wish to fully concentrate on his more frivolous, fun, and more lucrative style of writing. And he had help. Ethan Weiner, Chief Editor at Esquire just loved Connor's style, and constantly inundated him with requests for more articles. He was joined by Christopher Franks at the Paris Review and Stephen Crisp at the New Yorker. Between them Connor felt as if he was being constantly pitched, often, though not always comfortable with his chased 'hustler' position. I just know that Connor had a ball covering the Class 1A Boys Junior High School baton twirling championship event in San Francisco for Weiner.

He'd emerged from the old archives of abyss-mal Dorkey and very quickly produced momentarily entertaining shorts; lighthearted and thoughtless articles. They were light-years beyond what anyone else was doing in the early to mid net days, as you could not tell if he was being serious or joking.

He had a beautiful, yearning innocence, and he was trying. And then this. Why, Connor? Why? .......... Don't forget my special limited edition of 'Theme from an Imaginary Midwestern,' signed in the parking lot after the burial is over; all major credit cards, debit cards, and paypal accepted. Sorry, no bitcoin. I leave you with just one of his many extraordinary phrases. Hear it. Hear the perfect symmetry. Connor James Wheaton is not dead. No. He will always be remembered for having said; 'I smoke. I smoke. If you don't want your air fouled, get out my fuggin face. Get out my fuggin face, weinie.' A Sierpinski gasket or a pyramid on acid, we will never know."

Shaunessy must have drifted off into an automatically piloted state, as when the silence aroused him, he also saw that the rain had stopped. "Whew," he thought, glancing at his watch. "'Easy Rider' must be way over by now."

In the slogging pack, Shaunessy drifted over to Fenton Foxfussy's muddy-legged parking lot table, installing himself at the head of the line. He wasn't in his cop uniform, and was thereby able to semi-engage in some conversation, as well as any could with a Nulibby white plagiarizing apologist.

Fenton Foxfussy; property of the author.

Shaunessy said; "I'd vote for the pyramid on acid."

"That's very interesting. Why is that?"

"The weinie ending."

"I guess you're interested in my book."

"Do you also live in Vista de la Feria?"

"No. Not even in a zip code with the same first number. New York City."

"Just get here today?"

"Yes sir. Checked out of 'Yadda Yadda' early."

" .................. "

"It's an artist's retreat in Saratoga Springs. Not everyone is granted entry. Have you enjoyed any of my previous books?"

"Sorry I can't say yes. I'm not much of a reader. This is actually an obligatory birthday present for the nasty, little, tomboy niece I hate. Could you make it out to Helga? ..... Or Butch. ....... No negative aspersions cast or intended. You are required to be so careful these days. ...... She just fancies crew cuts, and her best friends call her that when they're playing 'Moto Maniac Men VIII,' XX, or whatever the hell number they're up to now."

"I think that it's XXXIII. But at any rate, how old is she?"

"Forty, forty-five. I don't remember exactly."

As Mr. Foxfussy wrote, he demonstrated his multi-tasking skills, by simultaneously reading along. "To Helga; my favorite little lit maven in Vista de la Feria."

"Whoops. Perhaps I should have mentioned that Helga doesn't live here."

"Hmmnnffffff. Yes, perhaps you should have."

"Don't get all overworked over it. Actually, if you'd really like to know, I was just being polite. It was you who leapt to a conclusion and made an incorrect assumption."

"Where might our bibliophilic Ms. Helga reside?"

"Fenton, uh; before we go any further let me point out that I didn't describe Helga as a bibliophile. As far as I know she may not even be semi-literate. She has never particularly impressed me with her use of the language. Could be that computer speak everyone does; that ROTFL and IDK-type of stuff, but I don't know. I didn't make an issue of your 'lit maven' comment out of a wish to not be contentious with you over something so petty. In fact, given your well known, erudite use of sarcasm, I thought that my hated Helga might be insulted, and she'd blame you. Not my fault, you know. See, my getting a dumb book as an obliged present for a hated illiterate is a pretty good insult. No? Anyway, back on your wavelength, she might reside in Saratoga Springs, but I doubt it. Last I heard it was somewhere in Queens."

Fenton furrowed his brows and crossed his eyes as he crossed out Vista de la Feria, and inserted Queens, leaving his deft "lit maven" mini-narration.

Shaunessy said; "You might have gleaned that I wasn't sure that it is Queens."

Furrowing issues as subsided and still spectacular as a lackluster tidal wave might appear to be to the uninitiated, Foxfussy reverted to an aging Beckett-type of corrected simplicity, and crossed out "in Queens," augmenting the prior cross-out with an added scribble over "Vista de la Feria." He closed and pushed the book toward Shaunessy, saying; "I considered asking how you would get the book to Helga, but was afraid you might answer."

Shaunessy opened the book to the scribble and said; "This is kind of sloppy. I don't want to hear any complaints from Helga; so can we start over with a fresh book?"

" ................. "

Brightly sensing the introduction of an impasse, Shaunessy said; "Alternatively, we can make this damaged book half price."

"That won't solve your potential problem with Helga."

"Not in and of itself. And frankly Fenton, that is not any of your business. But coupled with your astute observation about a possible difficulty in getting the book to her, I have decided not to send it. If she complains my reply is; 'I didn't know where you were.'"

"Okay. Let me play the fool. So, why do you still want this book?"

"I was just trying to be nice to you. Besides, I can probably sell it on E-bay for more than a halved price, and pocket a couple of bucks, assuming that you have been successful in convincing everyone that you knew Connor. A gamble, but worth a shot."

"Thank you. Don't bother. You're holding up the line of normal people. I'll sell it on E-bay myself. Good day!"

"Good day."

Shaunessy regarded his burial attendance as productive, as he had now identified another suspect in CJW's demise. He would next have to verify that Fenton Foxfussy was registered at Yadda Yadda until this day as he had said. That was likely not 100% proof of his being in another zip code on death day; however coupling that with airline traveler records could prove a reasonable alibi. Through Fenton's "eulogy," which seemed to be more about Fenton Foxfussy himself, rather than his recently dead "pal" CJW, and subsequent marketing, Shaunessy thought he had detected court inadmissible clues. Though he knew that he was most probably wrong, it was his job to convert them to admissible ones or dismiss his instincts. More importantly, he had used the time spent being less than gracious to Fenton and stupid Helga, to multi-task with his right shoe; digging out an eight inch hole in the saturated soil, where he placed the Brody tape and covered it, making mental note that the spot was three feet west of the most attractive five foot rabbit bush you ever saw and ten feet in from the parking lot's southern fence. More or less. Whatever. Things never change.

By the time Shaunessy returned home, Margaret had either become bored with the dated standard fare now available freely and easily ridden, or Jack Nicholson had dredged up too many memories of a "different" brief time in too sharp a contrast with the present. She immediately referred him to an on-line poll she found contemporarily "amusing," saying; "Look at this, Shaunessy."

For the benefit of those who may be less up to date on US news, this poll is the result of some one or conspiratorial ones having raucously and famously cut the cheese on "Hardball" as Chris Matthews was interviewing Eric Swalwell. Both Swalwell and Matthews denied culpability. The media has named this event "Fartgate" and the House Committee on Energy and Commerce is investigating the matter, ostensibly in continuation of their exhaustive attempts to find new bases of energy. Rumors of a 3.0 on the Richter circulate; attributed to the usual un-named sources. Corey "Spartacus" Booker had once again risked his political career by "breaking" the whole cheesy story and is suggesting a secret government program which provides affordable, alternative sources of energy only to the elite. Those purporting to be operatives of InanePolls.com think he was again full of it. But, despite the imposed complications, the simple impacted question remained; "Who farted?"

1) Not me!

2) Trump is responsible for everything foul.

3) A feral Goofreads librarian.

4) Oprah.

5) I don't care. It was the best thing on TV this month.

6) Chris Matthews.

7) A Russian bot hacker.

8) Okay, if not Trump, it could have been Guiliani or some other overly eager Trump suck up. There are no other possibilities if you're a doctrinaire Dem.

9) Lets first find out who ate the beans. This is not indicative of any sort of outlawed racial profiling. That said, I'll bet it was Cruz or his Kennedy-assassinating dad.

10) Eric Swalwell.

11) A backstage technician with no known political affiliation.

12) This is even too tasteless for a Goofreads Hater poll. I'm totally appalled.

13) I don't know. I just hope that for his sake that Sonny Biden wasn't doing a Big Daddy Biden Ukraine "influence" special at the time.

14) Boris Johnson.

15) I don't know, but how come we never get to know who the real heroes are?

16) An ISIS suicide bomber lacking complete faith.

17) The network marketing team.

18) Bernie Sanders. Codgers are known for this sort of activity.

19) Tommy Robinson.

20) The Antifa sissy Tommy Robinson knocked out.

21) Book reviewer, Steven Moore.

22) Obama's entrenched deep state Muslim, surreptitious government.

23) Hillary pussy farted. "It's talkin' to ya, daddy."

24) One of the LBGT&Q guys with a wide one.

25) This could go on and no doubt will.

Post a comment.

message 1: by Osvald

On the dog photographed near the horn Victrola they blamed it, but a Muslim terrorist it was. Only a crying to be set free, prisoned poo is a hastighed. Analysis evolutionary fart smell a deaf benefit.

message 2: by Rip1

Sounds like a shitty story to me, but I defer to your claimed fart knowledge for now. However, I think it only fair to point out that news reports of this TV raspberry have yet to make any mention of aromatic qualities, only resonance factors. Where do you get your inside info? This is beginning to sound as if something stinks in Middelfart, Denmark.

message 3: by Osvald

English funny you speak. Farter foreign?

message 4: by Rip1

Zone no go.

Shaunessy stopped reading and said; "I think I'll cut it right there. So many way out choices."

"Always such an ass. It's off."

"Wait! Breaking news from the White House."

"Ah, site's on the blink."

"It never ceases to amaze me how much we are on the same wavelength. Luvya babe."

"Luvya."

### 11 – We Are Never Meeting in Real Life

The next morning Shaunessy arrived at the office a bit late. He had overslept as the previous evening he had gone to bed extremely late and tired. Margaret had supplemented her initial amusing web findings through a foray into www//EtcEtc.com/gov – type information, finding the World Health Obstruction's "Manual for Suicide Attempt Surveillance" right next to their retractions and "corrections" of any possible misunderstandings previously generated regarding their web posts about how they weren't China's dumb flunky, hahaha, and all of that kind of stuff ostensibly not consistent with receiving further contributions from Schwartz György Soros' "World Federation of Dupa Libbies." Yes, the communiques were marked as if they were first posted in Finland.

Possibly still feeling tipsy from the angel dust, Margaret had said; "There's a recommended way to watch them off themselves?"

Shaunessy said; "Evidently. Let's be further enlightened. WHO people spend many years at school to learn these things."

"Could be a waste of time, as we're not likely to catch a real practitioner of seppuku in the act."

Bored pooch and "Never Mind" by Paul Westerberg; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

"Aha, and there is your mistake. RSVP's habitually appear on the web. The ceremonial disembowelment is part of a more elaborate ritual and is performed in front of spectators. It traditionally consists of plunging a short blade into one's belly and drawing the blade from left to right, slicing the belly open. If the cut is deep enough, it can sever the descending aorta, causing a rapid death by blood loss. Perhaps, there is some sort of protocol regarding how long one stays, or cheers. Opera glasses seem suitable."

"You are becoming quite the maven on the subject."

"All in all of a day's work, babe. Let's read more of WHO."

"Improved surveillance and monitoring of suicide attempts and self-harm is a core element needed in all countries. 'The Practice Manual for Establishing and Maintaining Surveillance Systems for Suicide Attempts' aims to provide a tool for countries to use in setting up a public health surveillance system for suicide attempts and self-harm cases. A well-regulated program can prove as financially worthwhile as any other mass audience sporting event, excepting the allegations anecdotally rendered by promoters of the US Super Bowl.

A short synopsis of the manual follows. This practice manual aims to provide a tool for countries to use in setting up a public health surveillance system in lieu making the fat required, up-front investment in the superior entertainment made available to the point of overwhelming disgust in every fascist, did I say every fascist white dominant and supremacist abomination ever seen in sad perpetuity by the prophet, Mohammed, PPBUH, praise and peace be unto him. Any other translation of the PP is the work of the white devil, and subject to a righteous fatwah issued by any of a number of the competing ayatollahs farcically claiming relevance.

Increased surveillance of suicide attempts and self-harm is a core element needed in all boring, shithole countries yet to have achieved the Adept level in extracting monetized sympathy from the white devil. 'The Practice Manual for Establishing and Maintaining Surveillance Systems for Suicide Attempts," downloadable here at minimal cost to bruthas, aims to provide a tool for countries to use in setting up viewings and even making it into a lucrative spectator sport.

It is estimated that, for each suicide, there are likely to have been more than twenty suicide attempts. Despite the majority being as phony as Ru Paul's tits, it is also statistically true that having engaged in one or more acts of attempted suicide or self-harm is the single most important predictor of death by suicide. Consequently, long-term monitoring of the incidences, demographic patterns and methods involved presented at hospitals in a country or region provides important information that can assist in the development of suicide prediction, filming, and capitalization strategies. The practice manual includes a section on training."

Margaret, perhaps still somewhat tipsy said; "It's seemingly irrelevant in my particular case, but I think it not the best of ideas to train people about how to do it."

Shaunessy hid a chuckle while retorting; "I fully agree. The teacher coterie may disagree, but it seems to me that you either know how to do it or you never will, re-enforced by that old adage; 'If you don't know how to do it, teach it.' But, one's ability to market the event is an ever changing acquired taste. Taking another approach, are you sure that this wasn't first posted on 'The Onion?'"

"Sometimes you're as objectionable as Trump. And you're so ignorant, the correct thing to say now is 'The Rag.' Now, everyone either posts it on Fecesbook or pays-through-the-nose-per-click to put it on AmawayOnSteroids.com."

"Hmmnnn, hymmnnn. Sweet Jesus, I hope you're not looking or listening. You know, those AOS people aren't dumb. They have an army of crowd-sourced-indie clickers who spend all their day click-click-clicking in return for their unsupervised right to delete or maim site users who provide less than $500 per annum to AOS."

"Slick. Full time work for less than thirty cents an hour. Super coolie! But I would expect that the funeral, casket, and burial industries would make their presences known, insisting upon a profitable, un-weinie-disturbed advertising rate, no matter the AOS impediment. I mean, most of them hold high governmental office."

"Aye, my sweet love. The crux of the biscuit may have virus-like mutated into the perils of a 'novel' weinie-master-silently-colluding-DFW porous border; further details publically forbidden through the definitional, web-based inability to pinpoint the source, as well as an economic necessity, un-mitigated by any sappy forays into nostalgia. ...... In other words they get what they are offered and quickly learn to tolerate. Even a few of the sciency aristocrats opine that humanity's temporary earthly dominance is not a function of superior mental capacity, god's will, or ability to make weapons of mass destruction; but rather an unsurpassed ability to adapt to whatever kind of substance, inclusive of those realized in the defecatory position, is put in their faux-collective faces."

"What has this crap to do with murder and suicide?"

"A perhaps incorrect, but given some odds, worthy of a small wager, suggestion or suggestive, of a continued dynamic of one clear rule; 'Don't eat the yellow snow.'"

"I'm confused."

"You think you're confused? You're the one who is supposed to be able to understand all of this."

"Been listening to Bob Dylan 1990 lately?"

"Depends on what you mean by lately."

"Recent enough to inaccurately recall."

"With the standardized smidgeon of doubt PCP required this month."

"That wasn't a question."

"Then that wasn't an answer."

"Let's start over."

"Pick your favorite spot."

"Gee, so many possible choices."

"An infinite supply, it would seem."

After too short a nap, Shaunessy was awakened by his smart phone. He saw that it was Striker, but he pushed the button anyway, opening with; "Did any neighbors see anything?"

"I don't know. I never asked."

"Did you check everyone with a view of CJW's portal?"

"There aren't any of those. Perimeter foliage and bushes near the portal prevent that."

"There are a few two stories which have a view from their upper level."

"Shaunessy, look. You're new here. CJW was Vista de la Feria's most prominent resident. Everyone knew of him. Everyone was proud of him. And everybody knew that he was suicidal, having attempted twice previously."

"I suppose you mean that to be a reason not to do the full investigation standardly done for obscure residents. And exactly what made him so 'prominent' anyway?"

"I guess you're not much of a reader."

"Have it your way."

"Okay, be informed. CJW was not only a writer. He was the writer. Everything he said was scrutinized, and some things he never said were attributed to him, in the attributor's attempt to call attention to himself. CJW often wrote of suicide."

"Thank you for bringing me up to date on local mythology and its possible broader implications. I might note that half of the writers address suicide as either a 'to be or not to be' type of primacy, a path toward supplying 'ideas' of reader interest, or both. So my question remains."

"NM is a tolerant state. We're even accepting objectionable immigrants from New York now."

"Did you call just to antagonize me?"

"Yes. I heard a good joke."

A Chinese guy had some problems with his eyes. So he went to see an eye doctor. The optometrist tested him and said; "I know what the problem is. You have a cataract." The Chinese guy said "I don't have Cataract. I have Rincon Continental."

"Say good night, Gracie."

"Good night, Gracie." Click.

"That wasn't half bad."

### 12 – Radical Chic and Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers

To his semi-imagined, tending toward his real "Visions of Margaret," Shaunessy said; "I came across some excerpts from CJW's conversation with some lit weinie which made me think that CJW could have been bipolar; creative and productive when manic. But the downside of that is that the depressive aspect can be staggering. They seem to confirm CJW's obsession with loneliness and death as a subject for his fiction; and maybe something that was a large part of chronically manic depressive natures. I'll read it to you if you'd rather nap."

"In most other cultures, if you hurt, if you have a symptom that's causing you to suffer, they view this as basically healthy and natural, a sign that your nervous system knows something's wrong. For these cultures, getting rid of the pain without addressing the deeper cause would be like shutting off a protest while the riot's still going. But if you just look at the number of ways that we try like hell to alleviate mere symptoms in this country, from fast-fast-fast-relief antacids to the popularity of lighthearted musicals during the Depression; you can see an almost compulsive tendency to regard pain itself as the problem. And so pleasure becomes a value, a teleological end in itself. It's probably more Western than U.S. per se. Look at utilitarianism; that most English of contributions to ethics, and you see a whole teleology predicated on the idea that the best human life is one that maximizes the pleasure-to-pain ratio.

The interesting thing is why we're so desperate for this anesthetic against loneliness. You don't have to think very hard to realize that our dread of both relationships and loneliness, both of which are like sub-dreads of our dread of being trapped inside a self (a psychic self, not just a physical self), has to do with angst about death, the recognition that I'm going to die, and die very much alone, and the rest of the world is going to go merrily on without me.

Fiction's job is to aggravate this sense of entrapment and loneliness and death in people; to move people to countenance it, since any possible human redemption requires us first to face what's dreadful, what we want to deny."

Margaret interrupted Shaunessy's monologue saying; "Is this anywhere near through or a point?"

"If you were listening you might have had some idea."

"I wasn't."

"This is important?"

"Not to me."

" ........ "

Margaret failed at trying to sound perky when she said; "No offense intended, but just for a second, try looking at it from my diaphanous point of view. Another someone is dead. He has loads of company including yeztruly. Everyone other than you say it was a suicide. Even on the tiny chance it was a murder, the murderer is not the type to do it again. Conclusion; there is no point in obsessing."

"A lack of diligence only encourages other creeps, and it's my job."

"So quit your job. You don't need it."

"It's not a matter of this particular Vista de la Feria job and the benefits attendant thereto. It's a conceptual matter of being conscientious and painstaking about seeking justice for the victims of, at the very least, capital felons."

"Have you been sneak reading Coover lately?"

"Cervantes."

"In 'One World News' today, the conspiracy theory industry has posited that tax-dodging Greta Thunberg and her cohorts developed and are spreading the ChinaBatPoo II virus, as well as the Palestinian Camel Poo Virus II; she and her rookie cohorts apparently still angry that the Boomer codgers have had the long term audacity to make their little world warmer. Whatever the case yet to be empirically determined, one thing is abundantly clear; there is inhuman shit all over the place."

Greta Thunberg flanked by part of her headless entourage, making double evil eyes at the "stupid," geriatric warmers in the audience, and "Instant Karma" by Greta Thunberg, as adapted from John Lennon's "Instant Karma"; property of the author under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Margaret refrained from bopping long enough to breathlessly say; "Look, it's gotten so popular, that it has spawned imitators."

Person, ostensibly standing in otherwise un-rowed dory on the River Styx and Bob Dylan's "Silvio;"; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Politely having waited for the natural conclusion of this particular presentation, ostensibly finding that in the efficient pause, Shaunessy said; "Perhaps rather than an imitator, a regurgitated re-release, a throughback?"

"Assuming you meant throwback, I can deal with that, in your point of view. However, in mine, before presenting that as a criticism, I'm now inclined to blend those purported sorts as dates meaninglessly and changeably amorphous in aggregate perspective."

"Slut on a personal level?"

"You still have to ask? Just substitute normal for judgmental slut."

"Question marks are vague, but entertaining ploys."

"Synonymous with foreplay?"

"More or less; you still have to ask?"

"Yes and no. Where were we?"

"In the middle, I think."

"And if we're not?"

"Not what?"

"You know."

"No, I don't. Tell me."

"Preach perimeter to get the nomination, and then race to the middle to win the election."

"I didn't know of any exceptions. Can you name one?"

"I don't know. I've lost my train of thought."

"Good."

"Good?"

Margaret ambled to the computer, motioning Shaunessy over. She said; "I've not been ignoring your Wheaton obsession. I found this."

"Edited excerpts from today's _New Yorker_ article; 'The Incompleted' by Triton Tohaccian.

With the kind recommendation of Henry Battson, highly regarded publisher, former editor, and now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now part of the McVirago group; Anisette Rhona Hunter Wheaton, Connor James Wheaton's grieving widow, has engaged the writer to write CJW's biography. This article will serve as an entrée into the yet un-named work to be soon published by Farr, Simon, and Moreau.

Connor James' wife, Anisette Rhona Hunter Wheaton, came home to find that he had hanged himself on the portal of their house, in Vista de la Feria, New Mexico. For many months, CJW had been in a deep depression. This condition had first been diagnosed when he was a college undergraduate. Ever since, he had taken medication to manage its symptoms. During this time, he produced a lengthy and great novel, was on the verge of a second; and had written countless articles for magazines. Depression was often a character in his 'fiction.' He once wrote; 'Paxil, Zoloft, Prozac, Tofranil, Wellbutrin, Elavil, Metrazol in combination with electronic convulsive therapy; Parnate both with and without lithium salts, Nardil both with and without Xanax. None had delivered any significant relief from the pain and feelings of emotional isolation that rendered the depressed person's every waking hour an indescribable hell on earth.' He never published a direct word about his own mental illness; though private letters and quotes from family and friends are herein quoted.

Early on, in his college days, doctors had prescribed Nardil for Connor's depression. Nardil, an antidepressant which was developed in the late fifties, is a monoamine oxidase inhibitor that is rarely given for long periods of time, because of its side effects, which include low blood pressure, bloating, and suicide. Nardil can also interact badly with many foods. One day in the spring of 2017, when CJW was feeling stymied, he and Anisette Rhona ate at a Persian restaurant in Vista de la Feria, and afterward he went home ill. A doctor thought that Nardil might be responsible. For some time, Connor had come to suspect that the drug was also interfering with his creative 'evolution.' He worried that it muted his emotions, blocking the leap he was trying to make as a writer. He thought that removing the brain overlay produced by Nardil might help him see a way out of his creative impasse. As he recognized even then, maybe the drug wasn't the problem; maybe he simply was inherently distant, or maybe boredom was too difficult a subject to make humorous. That summer, Wheaton went off the anti-depressant. He hoped to be drug free. Wheaton planned to finish 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel' with a clean brain. He entered this new period of life with what friend and fellow author, Fenton Foxfussy termed 'a sense of optimism and a sense of terrible fear.' He hoped to be a different person and a different writer. 'That's what created the tension,' Foxfussy recalls. 'And he didn't make it.'

Henry Battson, publisher; former editor, now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now part of the McVirago group; has kindly made an excerpt from the soon to be released 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel' available to this writer-reader, which is reproduced here.

'The writer writes because of having been blessed with an imperfect indifference which in turn has not yet been cursed; that demonstrated through the fact that it still has foolish aspirations of becoming perfect hatred, among other blessed deficiencies and it can be done in bed under the covers, the writing not either of the hatred or blessing parts. Reflect on that a while and you'll know exactly where I'm at, or used to be at, contradictorily intend to make you think I'm at, or think you think I'm at over my Taco Bell Customized Chicken Quesadillas or my Taco Bell 'Let Us Do It For You' Nachos Supreme, both and either accompanied by a Mountain Dew Baja Blast every Tuesday and Thursday. You get over the sickly green color after a heave ho or two, which the surly flunky has to clean up. Hehe. Make sure you get all that creamy jalapeno sauce, boy. Before the weinie is through mopping, the manager is expressing concern. I have a gift for reading people's motivations into the situation, so I figure that the manager, who was recently promoted from the sizzling fries pit, cares as much about my health as I do writing, but has to pretend otherwise because he would like to avoid a 'food poisoning' charge so soon into his watch. I realize that the manager's worries have their bounds; ipso facto he's on my side until it is in his interest to not be. Since this a standard replay I figure the best thing I can get out of the immediate situation is a couple of free coupons for the supreme and crunchy Chalupa Cravings Box. Yum. So, I take them, thank him profusely, and assure the manager that my vomit was not likely the result of anything on Taco Bell's menu, but rather the result consistent with my long term bout with nauseating depression. Having sat through some college existentialism on his path to glory, he half understands that, though he is not trying to replicate the cupcake professor's outlook, as almost dictated by the syllabus he was Nazi instructed to use. Most Collaborationists do what they can to present themselves as being one of the founders of the 'Resistance,' which was most adept at hiding their existence until after what was to be resisted had disappeared. I'm getting somewhat off-topic, and while I really don't care about that, I care even less about Collaborationists and Resistors, especially insofar as the indifferent poseurs are personally understandable when the qualifying noun, poseurs, is back burnered. In the seeking of the something I don't deserve, endemic to the 'human' population, I basically assured the manager that I'm fine in three different languages, then adding that the flunky, who was still cleaning the floor as leisurely as if he had some sort of Union protection, had shown his antagonism toward me with contorted facial expressions rather than displaying a concern for my possible illness or injury, which no doubt had contributed to any sense of illness or injury I might have had, adding too overtly that this type of employee was not conducive to the successful operation of a private business enterprise. As I expected, the rookie manager, to date, most accomplished with fries, took that as either a veiled threat or a 'reason' for an EEOC approved remediable situation on the clock. Being an optimist or a calculist, he opted for the safety of the latter with deference to the former, and said; 'Jorge; tondele, tondele. Clean that good and then report for drive-in-window duty.' Jorge didn't know exactly what the manager said; but understood drive-in-window, and looked forward to having the opportunity to gob into the Taco Bell Customized Chicken Quesadillas or the Taco Bell 'Let Us Do It For You' Nachos Supreme, both and either accompanied by a Mountain Dew Baja Blast when ordered by a pig cop.

Of course the first place I went after leaving Taco Bell was my attorney's office, and of course I told him a different story, to see what I might 'legally' get out of being publicly vomity. Please don't quit here as the rest is not so challengingly intellectual. I'm expected to say that and really don't care, but if you've been paying any attention and don't have terminal ADD you know that already. If not so situated, ignore this paragraph.

Rather it is 'down to earth,' a stupid response to the stupid assertion that some forms of language not understood by the earth-bound advertiser of severe limitation, floated here from Venus and Mars, an oft used phrase overused by the most retarded of on-line book reviewers, ersatz wishfully 'funky' people I most find humorous rather than hate; their 'antics' null. Don't get me wrong. I'm the first to empathize with those whose sack has been physically burdened by the added weight of an extra chromosome. Appear to criticize the obscure, be told; 'Pick on the biggies.' Criticize the biggies and be accused of jealousy. 'Dare criticize the indies' and be told to stop bullying the little ones. That's a joke, reader. Are you not now LOL (laughing out loud) or ROTFL (rolling on the floor laughing)? ...... I'm supposed to ask that. Hehe. Take a wild guess as to how much I still care.

The uneven, wide board, pine floor gives a familiar grunt and instantaneous curt return as I get up to head to the bathroom; a relatively small space in which I feel safe; first going the roundabout route where the glow of the fridge light almost blinds me as I reach in and fumble around for a bottle of water. Forgetting the primary mission, I go back to bed for now as I plop down on the mattress and hear a groan from the springs. Looking at the bottle I can't help but think, what is this for? Maybe I won't piss myself overnight once more. But more likely I will in less time than it takes to drain the bottle of water, to wake up extremely wet in seven hours to get ready to make the trip to work. Maybe if I do piss myself I could call in and say that I'm sick again. The phone call would just be an awkward stammering of words trying to give some version of the story that involves me giving up on life and just wanting to stay in bed instead of slaving away in my office trying to chip away at a stack of infinite meaningless bullshit. You know, that horse shit the dumb Libbies always go for.

Rising from bed again at the sound of a beeping, I know it's time to finally be awake. These smart phones work better than Eastern gongs, having eliminated any need for imprecise human participation. For real this time, almost as if being awake for anything other than work is just a false start, or a practice lap. The routine calls for a quick shower; the water in this apartment is spotty at best and I'm never sure if today's jaunt will be hot, cold, or somewhere in the middle. I'm praying that when my foot lands outside of this tub that I'm not going to just become part of the accidental death statistics involving slips in the bathroom. What if one day it wasn't a slip and I was just found not-alive in here, I guess I'd become another statistic.

Breakfast goes something like this; I head into the kitchen looking into the fridge for the almond milk. Do I have enough left, or should I have gone to the corner store before going to bed last night? If there's enough milk I'll grab a bowl, open a cabinet and make a maddening leap of faith at pouring whatever cereal I have in my hand to some level that seems keen to me. Will I be able to survive on this amount of food until terrorist attacks shut down the subway? I don't know, but I hope I can. My back-up plan is oatmeal; whatever. Oatmeal is always in the cabinet, an when I'm not being all that picky, I always seem to just grab a variety of oatmeal hoping to never have to use it, but thinking that I should probably eat this instead of a sugar frosted nutsack. Is no hyphen required?'

This biographical writer thinks this is entirely telling, though he will proceed to elaborate; that his un-consulted yet 'chosen,' job, if one is oblivious to the point of view seemingly obvious.

By the way, 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel' by Connor James Wheaton is expected to be released this month. $49.99 in beautiful hardback with a disposable artistic dust jacket designed by Bonanzio of FecesBook trending 'Cool Asylum Designs,' and contains an Afterword by Henry Battson, publisher; former editor, and now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; part of the McVirago group, who details the process of how he tirelessly and expeditiously completed CJW's unfinished book, thereby bringing it to his many fans, prior to them having moved on to the next media hyped tragedy.

At the undergraduate level, CJW had joined the debate and glee clubs, and smoked a lot of pot with friends. One day, though, toward the end of his sophomore year, he sat alone, slumped over his gray suitcase, a Chicago Bears cap on his head. 'Self, I have to go home,' he told himself. 'Something is very wrong with me.'

It is said that his professor parents were surprised by his return, and about as happy about it as later Millennial progenitors would be after rejoicing over the long awaited departure of the darling progeny, only to be shortly confronted with an 'I'm back,' followed by the litany of circumstances, both onto and epistemo-logical, the latter stem-stem problematic and a sub-discussion within its bounds, which may have produced the results, replete with complaints deftly extracted from the archives of 'Dr. Spock' and 'Psychology today.' 'We neither pressed nor impressed him,' his mother has reportedly said. 'We figured if he wanted to talk about it, we could find an excuse to delay; like a sudden and urgent attack of last night's laxative, a member of the insistent and irresistibly powerful citrate of magnesia family as opposed to that of the mild, enematic, intrusive squirts of soap derivatives; much like an irresistible force relative to a measured response, of and with no protection from 'Depends.'

It is uncommonly common knowledge that for a short time Connor drove a xanthic local school bus, which he carelessly described as yellow or near yellow, getting a kick out of the button which produced the flashing red lights coupled with the rear end sign which stated the penalty for passing. It was power, though the thrill was short lived. 'New and improved,' like a can of Ajax eventually found to be not all that different from its predecessors other than its container's come-ons of 'new, reduced, and 30% more,' cleverly not specifying the items to which these relative comparisons had been made, and found a psychiatrist-'managed' psychologist more than willing to authorize the dispensation of valium and antidepressants. During this time, he traced his breakdown to his not really wanting to be a philosopher or a mathematician; to then his dual undergraduate majors. 'I had kind of a midlife crisis at twenty, which probably doesn't augur well for my longevity,' he allegedly later told Fenton Foxfussy, self-styled confidante.

He began to write fiction with all the enthusiasm of one who still considered this as being one of the fictional genres. During this time, young Connor wrote several short stories, one of which will soon be published by esteemed Farr, Simon, and Moreau. 'The Planet Detachaphone' appeared in the 'Welcome to New Pages.com's prestigious annual review issue. The autobiographical story captures the intense pain of the depression he suffered. CJW had written:

'I'm not all that incredibly interested, but since my professor requires something in writing to pass this required course which I detest, I'll proceed to tell the poor, misled reader what I think Detachaphone is like. .... Imagine that every single atom in every single cell in your body is disgusted .... inconsolably disgusted, to the point of a fully body, chunk, chunk barf. Further imagine that every proton and neutron in every atom .... in your head is semi-imprisoned on the planet of Detachaphone, where unthinking conformity rules all, but a few Quebecois separatists; predominately residents of a group home where death threatening the China BatPoo II virus has been seditiously introduced by a Nulib operative named Wang. Throat clogged, you have lost any ability you once had to throw up, in a futile, but inanely popular, pro-active demonstration; an attempt to relieve the awful feeling. Every electron is nonplussed, twirling off balance and all erratic in the funhouse mirrors that are just thickly warped and woozy. Quarks and neutrinos are out of their minds and dancing, half correct in what they believe to be a charade, disgusted, many sick all over the place, producing a Dominoe's-like floor as the possible result of disinterested, minimum wage 'help' who punch bed-ridden and defenseless old timers. If you are still there, further imagine the unimaginable; that you are required to make up crap like this to just pass a required course given by an out-of-date Libby codger with a grin you'd like to smack right off his tenured face.'

One night Connor and his older sister Lethille watched "The Karen Carpenter Story," a sappy TV movie about the anorexic singer, who died young of heart failure. When it was over, Lethille, who was working on an MFA at the time, told Connor that she had to drive back to Herzing University in Milwaukee. Connor implored her not to go, saying that Herzing degrees can be obtained on-line, to no avail. After she went, he tried to commit suicide with pills. He survived the aspirin overdose, and checked himself in to a psychiatric facility, where he was given electroconvulsive therapy, touch and go surviving that. Connor's mother remembers that he emerged 'as delicate as a newborn bunny rabbit.'

After another breakdown upon returning to school, CJW went to the psychiatric-services unit at the university. There he was prescribed the drug Nardil for the first time. 'We had a brief, maybe three-minute audience with the psychopharmacologist,' his mother has now said.

Wheaton was released and sent to a halfway house. 'It is a grim place, and I am grimly resolved to go there,' he wrote somewhere yet to be relocated. He had become semi-serious about fighting his addictions. He participated in alcohol and narcotic rehabilitation programs. He replaced pot with cigarettes and vodka with aged 'Houdini' wine. But he found that he had more or less lost all interest in fiction, substituting avant-garde, classical foreign film. He wrote to Fenton Foxfussy, with whom he had recently become a reluctant correspondent, 'Right now, I am a pathetic and very confused young man, for lack of trying a failed writer at twenty, who is so begrudging, so pale, and yet sneeringly envious of you and Bill Holehead and Mark Inaner and even David 'Fuckwad Plagia Devise' and any young man who is right now producing pages with which he can command extraordinary sums, assuming for the moment that applies to Holehead and Inaner, and even approving of them as the result of some lack of conviction regarding the project's stated meaning and its inevitable culmination.' He added that he considered suicide 'a reasonable if not at this point a desirable option with respect to the whole wretched problem,' the confirming papers in transit.

Some might say that is more or less, tentatively revealing. Read of more revelations in this writer, Triton Tohaccian's, effort yet to come, who through the kind recommendation of Henry Battson, highly regarded publisher, former editor, and now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now part of the McVirago group; Anisette Rhona Hunter Wheaton, Connor James Wheaton's grieving widow, have engaged the writer to write CJW's biography. This article will serve as an entrée into the yet-un-named work to be soon published by Farr, Simon, and Moreau. Also, be on the lookout for 'Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel' by Connor James Wheaton, which is expected to be released this month. $49.99 in beautiful hardback with a disposable artistic dust jacket designed by Bonanzio of FecesBook trending 'Cool Asylum Designs,' with an Afterword by the well esteemed Henry Battson, publisher; former editor, and now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; part of the McVirago group, who details the process of how he tirelessly and expeditiously completed CJW's unfinished book, thereby bringing it to his many fans, prior to them having moved on to the next media hyped tragedy."

M.T.A. train and "M.T.A." by the Kingston trio; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

Shaunessy said; "Interrupted by some supposedly surreptitious segue into unrelated advertising?"

"What did you expect?"

"An eloquent closure of some sort?"

"There was a closed parentheses squiggly."

"Thanks. That was really interesting. Do you know if Triton Tohaccian ever met CJW?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't ask."

"Okay. Forget it. Thanks for the effort."

"Ooooh, look at this. Vista de la Feria made the net again."

" **New Mexican Donut Shop Ending Police and Military Discounts in Support of Protests by Hyman Rosenzweig**

Vista de la Feria, NM - A donut shop in north Vista de la Feria, NM announced that it is discontinuing its discount for the military or law enforcement officers in support of the police brutality protests.

Maleek's Donuts took to social media on Saturday to say it will no longer be offering its discount to police or military officers after an Albuquerque McDonald's Fries Expert was allegedly pulled over by local police just for having 53 wide screen, high definition TV's in his truck after having lost his sales receipt.

The Fries Expert had participated in a recent protest/riot and shared his experience of allegedly being racially profiled by officers.

The donut shop took to Fecesbook saying, "We're fed up. Until local police take action to solve problems with racism and injustice, Maleek's Donuts will choose to stand with the people of our great state. We will no longer offer military or police discounts. Thank you for your patronage, and shame on you for your silence.

This reporter interviewed Abe Silverstein, preferred street name Brutha Maleek, owner and manager of Maleek's Donuts, and received an amplification. 'Look, honky' he said. 'We people have had enough of this drek. You nowumsayin. That wasn't a question, white boy. It's time to stand and take a knee for ............. Whatever, nowumsayin. Shtup the imprisoning details. Just shtup em. You hear me. That wasn't a question either. Maleek's Donuts will have no preferences for the oppressors. From this moment on cops and military will pay exactly what the schvatzas do. We all must do our part. Besides, not too bad for the old auntershte shurh. DONUT PRICES MATTER, mufugga. Oh, you might be interested to know that I've ordered some bumper stickers which will be soon available here, both in the sanitized clean and more relevant dirty version.' This reporter turned to leave while assuring Brutha Maleek that I'd be back to check the bumper stickers out. He held up a reddish kruller which bore an uncanny resemblance to an old used brick and said; 'Well, you gonna buy anything? That was a real question. For today and today only, we got special on sprinkled and cream filled krullers.'

Under the militarized circumstances, yeztruly thought it best to take a couple dozen of the ones which gave no external evidence of having been chucked. Open Society Foundations was paying all my expenses anyway."

Shaunessy said; "Wotcha reckon?"

"False flag operation."

"If not?"

"I'm flying right there. I love those sprinklers."

"This was dated yesterday."

"Oh yeah. In that case, on the lesser level, I don't think that we've been making any sense for a while now."

"I was wondering whether Striker's lousy jokes finally did us all in."

"That doesn't make any sense either. I mean like Striker's Fecesbook account hasn't even received a hundred likes since inception."

"The righteous have righteously lowered their bar."

"That too doesn't make any sense. Goggle can't pursue every little byte put out there."

"Evidently, the sciency nerds on the web seem to think they are now able through some inflated notion of artificial 'intelligence.' Personally I think it a bluff designed to maximize their imagined popular image of 'importance.' Whether or not that is true, it is simple to screw them up. Just keep searching, clicking on, and liking things you don't."

"So deep; deep without a meaning."

"No meaning! Au contraire, my brain challenged one in distant and idealized etherealization. ........ Apologies. Retractions. Resignations. Please allow me to mimic the popular and burgeoning bullshit club. Take one step back to that archaic fascist requirement of sensibility. It is just so mid-20th century Hitlerian, that for your sake, I hope you refrain from making any reference to it when in mixed company. My level of appall no longer knows any bounds, but that's what partners are for. ........Wanna shtup? I'll stand or take a knee. Whatever your heart desires this moment."

"I'm much more in tune than you seem to be able to realize. That knee thing is now all the rage. Go for it! We can fantasize being Millennials thinking it new."

"Hot. ................. Ummmmmnnnnnnnn."

### 13 – A Visit from the Goon Squad

Powerful radio signal detected within our own galaxy for first time.

One week ago, scientists detected the powerful signal SGR 1935+2154 within the Milky Way and say it could finally solve the mystery of fast radio bursts.

Gotta be Aliens! There is a powerful radio signal coming from within our galaxy

This is not a dead star!

The SGR 1935+2154, a dead star that is around 30,000 light-years away from earth, registered for the radio observatories around the world with a single and millisecond-long burst of incredibly bright radio waves.

Vishna Mathur

Comment #1 - Personally, I wouldn't get too excited until the Aliens invented TV.

Last updated: tomorrow, 9:49 AM

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There is a very powerful radio signal that is doing rounds in our galaxy, and astronomers are perplexed because this is the first ever fast radio burst (FRB) originating in our own galaxy. And this has happened as recently as April 28, when SGR 1935+2154, a dead star that is around 30,000 light-years away from earth, registered for the radio observatories around the world with a single and millisecond-long burst of incredibly bright radio waves. Astronomers say this radio signal is so powerful, it is possible it can also be detected in nearby galaxies.

The activity on the SGR 1935+2154 was registered by the Swift Burst Alert Telescope, the AGILE satellite and the NICER ISS payload. The burst had a double-peak structure with two components ~5 ms wide separated by ~30 ms (see URL below). The spectra of the two components show differing band-limited structure, which we caution are not corrected for the telescope sidelobe response or instrumental bandpass. However, we do not expect the telescope's spectral response to change significantly on a timescale of 30 ms (the separation of the two bursts), which suggests that the two peaks indeed had different spectra. There is clear evidence for a scattering tail of similar magnitude in the two peaks, The Astronomer's Telegram had reported its findings.

new sly surreptitious ID#1

welcome to our expanding family #16,543,790

my pleasure

we know stoop

look

Libtard = Fascist = MSM

Pasty-faced LFM has been pushing for bullshit about racism for years, when under Trump, blacks had the lowest level of unemployment (3.5%) and highest level of income ever recorded. Now, you got it mufuggas and you may not survive.

Fact. Under Obama black unemployment was in double digits for 6 of his 8 years, peaking at an outrageous 16.8%, and averaging 12.2%. But, Obama is your hero.

What's the hidden deal here? Your need for a black population much less able to support themselves? Your need to use blacks as effective pawns for your own agenda?

ITS ABOUT THE ECONOMY, STUPID.

Trump's a racist

just look at this

[image error]

yo mama's bahookie

[image deletion by GFR feral non-management]

friend

like me on fecesbook

Don't even like you here. Pardon the piss out of me. But I don't give two fucks whether Trump likes me or not, and if he has any sense he feels the same way. Point is, Libtard game player, that if the Man can get me a mufuggin job to get me out of this ugly, unsafe ghetto, he's fine with me. What I don't need is one of those friendly-friendly, Libtard bozos who talk shit and then stick me here in this shit, dependent on them for the mufuggin welfare that can't even pay the rent in fuggin Illegaltown. Fuck your pussy ass, bitch.

current codification eradicated

we have your name

blue screen

courtesy of renegade gfr librarian

acting alone in concert

don't have to say why

new sly surreptitious ID#2

welcome to our expanding family #16,545,611

my pleasure

we know stoop

friend

gotta click

if

no friend

Something like this has never been seen before, Shrinivas Kulkarni, astronomer at Caltech, told Science Alert. The consensus seems to be on the fact that this FRB signal may have originated as a result of massive, shifting gravitational forces causing a starquake or magnetar flare, that caused a disturbance in the magnetic field surrounding it. As gravitational force tries to keep the star together; an inward force; the magnetic field is so powerful, it distorts the star's shape. This leads to an ongoing tension between the two forces, which occasionally produces gargantuan starquakes and giant magnetar flares, Kulkarni explains to Science Alert. Astronomers believe that a magnetar can possibly produce even larger outbursts. The SGR 1935+2154's burst did not require much energy, they say, for a magnetar and the star could easily handle a burst a thousand times stronger.

At this time, astronomers are still observing the source of this signal for any follow-signals, which could indicate further activity on the SGR 1935+2154.

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Tags: aliensastronomyEarthfast radio burstFRBLifemagnetarradio signalscienceSGR 1935+2154space

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In other US news, while the cops were trying to watch demonstrations elsewhere, south Chicago reported a record number of murders and shootings, quite a high bar to hurdle. Libtard apologists say that requires "nuance." Their "nuance" is that it was the first hot day of the year and that people have been cooped up. This writer thanks them for the information, as he ignorantly thought that situation was not unique to south Chicago.

Someone willing to risk the charge of "racism" might ask why BLM did not live up to their chosen name and intervene. But, I'm risk averse.

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click here to see images

(image error)

Fine. I'm now certain that you're always in error, and will act accordingly most of the time when I feel like it.

Most computer owners don't know this clever security trick (do it now) Security Savers Online

The formula is:

Hours since death = 98.6 - corpse core temperature / 1.5

This approximate rate of heat loss continues until the environmental temperature is attained, after which it remains stable. That sounds simple enough.

Unfortunately, it's not quite that straight forward. The 1.5 -degree-per-hour factor varies, depending upon the environment surrounding the body, the size of the corpse, clothing, and other factors. For example, a body in a temperate room will lose heat much more slowly than will one in an icy, flowing stream. And a body in a hot environment, such as an enclosed garage in Tucson, Arizona, in August, where the ambient temperature could be 145 degrees Fahrenheit or more, will gain heat. The key is that the corpse will lose or gain heat until it reaches equilibrium with its environment.

Corpses are environment friendly.

Once the body reaches ambient temperature, all bets are off. But even if done correctly and soon after death, body temperature determination is subject to several sources of inaccuracy.

One assumption made in the calculations is the initial body temperature. The normal 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit is .........

Even I got bored a this point.

In my loooong "expert" experience, did I say loooooooooong "exxxpertttt" experience, the usual procedure definitely involved taking of pictures, cordoning off the area with police tape, informing the investigator of the gore detail, covering the deceased with a police tent, and not black plastic cover as in the movie.

How To: Reduce Sagging Jowls (Do This now) www.zitzbeooty.com.

Flash Poll: will you vote for Biden? Democratic Governors Association.

Can't trick me. If I say no, I'll lose my job to an EEOC supported bum. So, yes, of course. Yes, of course Johannesburg Joe brings needed progress. My actual ballot is still supposedly confidential.

Next Story

Complicit deep state government affiliate pre-empted by the remnants of US goggle, the miniscule segment not yet relocated to Beijing.

Brop. Bop. Brop. Bop. Brop. Amber alert. Amber alert. Kiev Joe Biden has been reported missing by his keeper; big, black, fat, loud, loser, and allegedly lesbo Stacey Jemima Abrams. He was last seen in a pillaged Minneapolis mall wearing oversized pants sporting eighteen Rolex watches, all set to the wrong time of day. His sparse white hair had now been done in cornrows, as it were. This man may not know his way home, and that's stating it PCP "kindly." If you have any information about his whereabouts please call the disbanded Minneapolis Police Department in futility, Nancy Pelosi, Stacy, his hoary old mama, or disregard. Brop. Bop. Brop. Bop. Brop.

Crack Antifa operative buried under his own shattered glass and "Third World Man" by Donald K. Fagan and Walter Carl Becker; property of the author, the latter under both the "fair use" and "transformative" doctrines.

CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT

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Surprise fucking surprise, MSM libtard

This properly edited form of transparency BS will never end

Ignorant Alt-right dupe

Eat shit and die.

Hate speech! Hate speech reported.

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News18 »Tech

5-MIN READ

Totes confused

Understanding Cyber Laws in India and How You Can Report Online Bullying in Delhi or Deli

Representative illustration of an act of online harassment. (Image: The Dhaka Tribune)

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Figured, and I could care less

Me too. In conversation with N.S. Nappinai, advocate, Supreme Court and founder of Cyber Saathi, on how various forms of cyber bullying can be prevented in India.

Shouvik Das

News18.com

Last Updated: May 10, 4:06 PM IST

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I don't hate anyone that much

Cyber bullying is a prevalent activity around the world — from the trivial trolling on social media, to more serious acts of targeted posts, anonymous stalking and the likes, online activities that can be objected to are a regular occurrence. However, contrary to public understanding, the Indian judiciary does have plenty of provisions to hold these acts accountable and dole out punishments. In light of the recent controversies around 'bois locker room' and 'girls locker room' chats on social media platforms, News18 caught up with N.S. Nappinai, lawyer at the Supreme Court of India, and founder of Cyber Saathi — a digital rights, awareness and em

Time of death

Defining Time of Death

There are several times of death. Let me repeat that there are several times of death. Time of death seems to be a simple and straightforward term that obviously means the exact time that the victim drew his last breath. Unfortunately, it's not quite that simple.

There are actually three different times of death:

The physiologic time of death, when the victim's vital functions actually ceased.

The legal time of death, the time recorded on the death certificate.

The estimated time of death, the time the medical examiner estimates that death occurred.

It is important to note that the estimated time of death can vary greatly from the legal time of death and the physiologic time of death.

The only absolutely accurate determination of the time of death, more or less as it were, is the uncommon circumstance in which a person died with a physician or other skilled medical professional present. The doctor could make the determination and mark the time, and even this is assuming his watch or the clock on the wall was accurate. But that little inaccuracy aside, a death witnessed in this fashion is the only time that the three above times of death would correlate with one another.

Otherwise, it is impossible to determine the exact time of death. But what if someone witnessed the fatal blow or gunshot or what if the event was recorded on a timed surveillance camera, wouldn't that accurately mark the time of death? The answer is a qualified no and/or yes. If the witnessed event led to immediate death, then the witness would have seen the actual death. If not, the witnessed event is simply the trauma that led to death but not the actual moment of death. People can survive massive and apparently lethal injuries for hours, even days or years. It's a best guess.

This likely means little to you, but you must realize that this is free stuff on the net. I mean, what did you expect?

The changes that a body undergoes after death occur in widely variable ways and with unpredictable time frames. There is no single factor that will accurately indicate the time of physiological death. To help with his estimation, the Medical Examiner / Coroner utilizes various observations and tests, including:

Body temperature. Of the corpse that is, not the Medical Examiner's/Coroner's own. That's kind of silly, but required in documents purporting "scientific" merit.

Rigor mortis – A/K/A degree of stiffidity.

Livor mortis – lividity – A/K/A the color of death. Often blue, the precise shade somewhat variable.

Degree of putrefaction. The icky stuff. Usually performed with a quick "windshield" estimate.

Stomach contents.

Corneal cloudiness.

Vitreous potassium level.

Insect activity. Kafka-esque fantasies aside, these little buggers take some time to get going, especially indoors. Cockroaches and waterbugs rule.

Scene markers.

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Nonetheless, the most important and most commonly used of these are body temperature (of the corpse), rigor mortis (stiffidity), and lividity (color).

Body Temperature

Normal body temperature is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. After death, the body loses or gains heat progressively until it equilibrates with that of the surrounding medium. None of these un-named have proven to be any more accurate than the current formula for heat loss of 1.5 degree per hour.

Tic cover might contaminate evidence. If it was found to be an unnatural death such as suicide, accident, illness etc. but not crime related then a police van will be activated to take the body back to the hospital for Medical Examiner/Coroner examination if they don't have their own office. Then further effect will be made to identify him and contact him family. However, it will be (an) entire(ly) different story if (the) crime related (was) such as murder. (English translations (of) shithole (foreign) language(s) (is) a gift (most?) rare.) If discovered it was a murder e.g. obvious injury, head missing, parts of body chopped off then (the) immediate condoning (cordoning) of (the) area (will be) required. Asking for backup in case the murder was just committed and the murderer might be in the vincinity (vicinity, not to be confused with lividity). Condon area widen as initial search for weapon or evidence be conducted also prevent onlooker get too close. (You might have correctly surmised that the translator quit one sentence back, under vague government orders orders, as well as also also in legitimate fear of contracting contracting the China BatPoo II virus.) On Scene Investigation Squad, the Crime Investigation Department, high ranking management officer will all be informed. Fingerprint will not necessary be taken if there is no evidence around but if needed, usually will be left for the on site SIS or CID to conduct as they have higher technology although technically patrol officer can do it and have done it before. Photograph will have to be more detail securing a story and evidence. Medical Examiner/Coroner only be asked to come down if necessary, if not the body will be sent to them. When the CID have arrived then the scene and authority will be hand over to them.

Most suicidal hangings from lower heights, the victim dies from suffocation and lack of blood flow to brain. The victim typically a Vee-shaped bruise on the front of neck. Tiny broken blood vessels seen in the eyes and mouth.

If the victim dies from the strangulation, less bruising will occur from the rope. The Medical Examiner/Coroner call this a homicide.

A hanging by the neck with a fall of more than six feet is capable fracturing neck. There's fair body evidence on this since hanging is utilized as capital punishment in many west libby country. Throwing a victim off second floor balcony is very likely cause fracture. Few suicide would choose method.

Hanging from intermediate height; such as forcing victim to stand chair then chair removing look like suicide. If the victim drunk and/or taken sedatives, like recent US "victims" brutality pole-eeese she could be unconscious this, making it easier control her. It not unusual suicide take pills sedative and/or alcohols.

Hanging (continued)

While accidental hanging rare, anecdotal substantially, and homicidal hanging even anecdotal more, hanging the third most common form suicide account 16% of all male, and 13% of all female suicide. Most people commit suicide by hanging, jump from chair or ladder, choke to death slow. Rarely the neck is broke. In order to broke neck, drop six feet or more required, which rarely happen except in execution hanging.

Hanging, whether done with rope, electrical cord or belt, always leave an invert V bruise on hangee neck, and is easy tell from ligature strangulation (murder), which leave a straight-line bruises. Hanging compress veins, but arterial blood flow continue, causing small bleeding sites on lips, inside mouth, and the eyelids. As with ligature strangulate, the face and neck congested with blood becomes dark red.

Ligature (bind something) strangulation are always almost homicide and the victim is always almost woman. Often the murderer uses more force than necessary to kill the victim, causing deep bruises and abrasions around the neck. The victim will usually struggle, which results in damage to both the interior and exterior structures of the neck and throat.

Accidental strangulation is rare, but does happen, usually when a tie or a scarf gets caught in power machinery. Consider causing a murder that looks like an accident by catching a woman's scarf into machine gears. Or hanging a man by pushing him off a chair and making it look like suicide? The police would have a very tough time proving it wasn't.

Don't anyone ever again dare tell me that free web dwelling information is useless.

Please click the Greta Thunberg icon on the lower left of your screen to register your valuable like.

Ummnnnnn. I didn't say that I liked it; just that it was not entirely useless.

Please click the Greta Thunberg icon on the lower left of your screen to register your valuable like.

You deaf?

Dumb question. To continue, please click the Greta Thunberg icon on the lower left of your screen to register your valuable like.

If you insist on remaining in this loop, subjecting me, I'll sign off; swear to God.

Chill. OK? Police and law enforcement begin suicide investigation before arrive place the suicide take place. The 911 call (if one placed) preserved in case there a trial in future.

Suicide scene treated as crime scene. If suicide took pace in home and if people present in home when body discovered governing authority (Medical Examiner/Coroner) immediately separate all people in house and they questioned as to what took place prior discover body. There answers not be exactly same; however, they should be certain amount consistency between story.

In case child take own life parents separated (not like pre-divorce maneuver) as are siblings (not like illegal alien turnover to DYFS or ICE) and they asked questions multiple which later discussed with other law enforcement officers.

The police search for note and all victim clothing of the victim wrapped in plastic clear considered evidence forensics examine and stuff all that diligent most.

During time Medical Examiner/Coroner interrogate witness they look reactions specific. People at time of trauma will go shock. They pace and they and they cold to touch. They repeatedly ask go hospital to be with victim and they ask if they love one still alive. This can be expression hope, ignorance necessity breath, or fake job.

The police will ask how victim behave prior suicide and whether victim has mental history illness.

Regardless of hour day of weak police will notified victim school or place employment and go through paper personal (pp) or school work look for signs depression.

The interrogate of family, friend, school official, employer, and physician used to put to put together psychologic autopsy (meta considerate matter) look for a history of mental illness, bully, or emotional and mental issue, isolation, depression, lack of friend, or family support and suicide threat or suicide behavior such as attempt, threaten suicide prior suicide and drastic and consist change what consider normal behavior of suicide week before suicide occur.

Police be train what look for and although no two suicide same there is consistencies. Police take look quick but not touch body. They are look for bruise and wound on body see if there struggle before death.

Police be know if something not routine immediately as they attend to hundred if not thousand suicide. Police also will call in detective if feel the death is suspicious, Medical Examiner/Coroner permit.

Person who take life by suicide has a life time unresolved pain. Final act, such a fight with loved one not reason people take lives. It a fight or breakup does happen just prior to suicide fight oft instigate be suicide to push loved one away. If beak ups cause suicide we have lot more people corpsed because of break up,

Last act that of suicide should not be legacy of one die by own hand, despite hoo ha popular. They live and they were un-love.

Although it rare anyone charge with contribute suicide, it happen and is becoming more frequent, especially in the case of bully and video tape evidence that support fact someone try talk someone take life.

Woman who allegedly goaded boyfriend into suicide panicked after cops would read her texts

Of course they do. I have been a police officer for 40 years, and I spent 12 years in Homicide. In Homicide we spent far more time investigating suspicious/unknown deaths and suicides than we did murders. The other fellow is right, the Medical Examiner/Coroner rules on the manner of death (homicide, suicide, accidental, natural or undetermined). Like another fellow said, there are no "obvious" suicides. There are only deaths which appear to be suicides. They must be investigated thoroughly to eliminate the possibility of the death as actually something else; a murder or even an accident.

I have investigated hundreds of suicides. I found that they are particularly difficult cases, because often the family members are in denial, and don't want to admit that a loved one took his/her own life. It is easier for them to accept a murder. Also, for insurance purposes, many family members try to hide signs of suicide, including notes, and even the weapon itself.

Conclusion

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It should be noted that the final determination of suicide is made by the Medical Examiner/Coroner after all the facts are evaluated. However, the investigation at the scene and an inquiry into the background of the deceased may indicate the presence of life threatening behavior or activities that suggest suicidal intent. Of course, the Medical Examiner/Coroner is supposed to avail him or her of the input of the investigators, who were present at the scene and conducted the death investigation.

A NOTE?

It is a common misconception, that

I'm not common

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah on you. But continuing on, after law enforcement officials have checked out a murder or suicide crime scene, they are not responsible for cleaning or removing the body. After they have left the scene, the body will still be there, along with any chemicals, dust, or remnants of the investigation the officials may have left. The home is now not only dirty, but dangerous.

Connor James Wheaton Autopsy

Semi-author Connor James Wheaton bound his wrists with duct tape before hanging himself from a patio roof rafter in the backyard of his Vista de la Feria, NM home, according to an autopsy report released today. The 46 year old writer was discovered by his wife, who cut the black belt from which Wheaton was hanging. The autopsy report notes that Wheaton had nailed the belt to a wooden patio support and that "there was a lawn chair that was knocked over on its side next to the decedent."

Excerpts from the report can be found here.

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News18 »Tech

1-MIN READ

Realme Nardo 10 Specs: MediaTek Helio G80 SoC Confirmed by Company

The Realme Nardo 10 appears to be directed at the budget segment of devices, and is likely to advertise some scale of gaming credentials.

News18.com

Last Updated: last Wednesday, 1:59 PM IST

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Realme has confirmed via Twitter that its upcoming smartphone, the Realme Nardo 10, will be powered by MediaTak's recently unveiled Hellacious G80 SoC. While the Hellacious G series is typically aimed at gaming devices, the Hellacious G80 is seen as a processor that may cater to the budget and mid-range gaming segments of smartphones, This gives users a fair idea regarding what may be expected of the Realme Nardo 10 smartphone.

In terms of capabilities, the Hellacious G80 SoC comes with MediaTak's HyperEngine gaming mode that will boost the peak performance core of the processor in order to give the best possible gaming performance to the best of its abilities. The Hellacious G80 also has a dedicated AI co-processor, which has pretty much become the norm for any smartphone processor in the market at the moment. However, the Hellacious G80 will not be able to support displays richer than full HD+ resolution, which is what the Realme Nardo 10's display resolution would be. The Hellacious G80 can also record up to 2K videos at 30fps, which clarifies that the Nardo 10 will not feature 4K video recording.

The Realme Nardo 10 is already confirmed to feature a 48-megapixel quad rear camera setup, a 5,000mAh battery and a physical fingerprint sensor at the back. The display size will be 6.5 inches and feature a waterdrop notch to house the front camera. All of this lines the Realme Nardo 10 to be a fairly run of the mill smartphone. However, given how competitive the budget and mid-range smartphone space typically is in India, it remains to be seen if the new "Nardo" series of devices manage to find footing in the country once lockdown protocol is lifted, and smartphone sales resume in India.

Comment #1 – I can no longer contain my excitement. I just hope that I can refrain from getting all vomity and stuff all over my archaic waterdrop.

Comment #2 – I'm having some trouble in determining whether or not this is the RealMe.

Comment #3 – So, I'm supposed to care about your problems/inadequacies?

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What's in it for me, loser?

You'll feel good supporting the daily wage earners who have been hit the hardest by the COVID-19 crisis. Click here to contribute to the cause. #IndiaGives

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Code expired or something.

First Published: today, 1:59 PM IST

Tags: MediaTakmediatak hellacious g80realme nardo 10realme nardo 10 featuresrealme nardo 10 india launchrealme nardo 10 launchrealme nardo 10 launch daterealme nardo 10 pricerealme nardo 10 specsrealme nardo 10a

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"In an apparent attempt to put an end to the many conspiracy theories surrounding the death of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, his body was exhumed. The expert Medical Examiner/Coroner concluded from his test, with all the degree of accuracy approved by the W.H.O., that he died from the China BatPoo II virus, any other noted injuries as ancillary as those of a ridiculous 'George of the Jungle' cartoon."

Barack Obama and Joe Biden went kufi in hand to discuss the burgeoning amount of US debt held by China with Xi Jinping. When entering the palace they were confronted with a gardening project which produced mud. They rolled up their pants and went through it, eventually taking a seat in the waiting room. Biden said; "Roll your pants back down." Obama answered; "We owe him that much!!!??"

Q: Why is the coronavirus like pasta?

A: Because the Chinese invented it and the Italians spread it.

Q: Why is China's production level so far down?

A: That's what happens when your work force becomes teenagers.

Q: What happens when a Mexican woman and a China man make a baby?

A: A car thief who can't actually drive is born.

When US Representative Andy Barr questioned him, Barack Obama said; "Now hol' on there Andy. ......... Treason? ... I'm not even a US citizen."

Most people are not shaking hands because of the coronavirus. I'm not shaking hands due to the shortage of toilet paper.

Do not call the coronavirus Chinese. That's racist. Call it "Uninspected Undocumented Immigrant."

I got thirty days for protesting the shutdown. Luckily, I have plenty of room there, as they released all the murderers and rapists in fear that jailbirds might contract coronavirus.

Q: Who is taking all the toilet paper from the stores?

A: Assholes.

If you need to be told not to drink Clorox, then ...... you just might be a libtard.

If you think that the China BatPoo II virus isn't China's number one export, then ...... you just might be a libtard.

If you pretend to think that Joe Biden is playing with a full deck, then ...... you just might be a libtard.

If you think that under-qualified terrorist Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus did not assist China in their export of the China BatPoo II virus, then ...... you just might be a libtard.

If you think that the likes of Fecesbook, Twiddle, Goofreads, and Goggle have the right to censor and delete comments, then ...... you just might be a libtard.

If you think that any post on Fecesbook, Twiddle, Goofreads, and Goggle does not violate their stated terms and conditions, then ...... you just might be a libtard. Note the very selectively enforcement.

If you know or care what the ever expanding term lbgtquia now stands for other than weirdo, then ...... you just might be a libtard.

If you think that your pork fried rice take-out is not really bat fried rice, then ...... you just might be a libtard.

If you watch CNN or MSNBC discussion groups and don't recognize the spun political agenda, then ...... you just might be a happy libtard in sync.

If you think that human rights and equality are better in your loved Muslim countries, China, or Mexico than they are in your deficient, hated USA, then ...... you just might be a supremely ignorant libtard.

If you've never said that Adam Schiff is a fish-faced, bug-eyed sissy, then ...... you just might be a libtard.

Another mysterious radio burst in space is repeating a pattern. This one occurs every 157 days

By Asshead Strickland, CNN, 22 mins ago

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Another mysterious radio burst in space is repeating a pattern. This one occurs every 157 days

For the second time ever, astronomers have detected a pattern in a mysterious fast radio burst coming from space.

Alleged space burst with seemingly disproportionate receiver; property of the author.

Fast radio bursts, or FRBs, are millisecond-long bursts of radio waves in space, and astronomers have been able to trace some radio bursts back to their home galaxies.

They have yet to determine the actual cause of the bursts.

Surprise, fucking surprise.

Individual radio bursts emit once and don't repeat. But repeating fast radio bursts are known to send out short, energetic radio waves multiple times.

Previous observations showed that usually when they repeat, it's sporadic or in a cluster.

That all changed earlier this year when astronomers found that FRB 180916.J0158+65 had a pattern in bursts occurring every 16.35 days. Over the course of four days, the signal would release a burst or two each hour. Then, it would go silent for another 12 days.

Now, they have detected a pattern in a second repeating fast radio burst, known as FRB 121102. During this cyclical pattern, radio bursts are emitted during a 90 day window, followed by a silent period of 67 days. This pattern repeats every 157 days.

FRB 121102 has been known as a repeating fast radio burst since 2016. Now, they know it has a pattern.

"Until now, only one other repeating FRB was known to show such a pattern in its bursting activity," said Kaustubh Rajwade, lead study author and postdoctoral researcher in astronomy at the University of Manchester, in an e-mail. "Finding such a pattern reveals important clues as to what could (be) the progenitor of FRBs. A periodicity tell us that object is producing FRBs is probably in orbit with another astrophysical body."

The study was published Sunday in the journal Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society.

FRB 121102 was the first repeating fast radio burst to be traced back to its source, linked back to a small dwarf galaxy more than 3 billion light-years away in 2017, distance indeterminate as of yet in 2020.

The fact that this repeating fast radio burst pattern is at least 10 times longer than the one repeating every 16.4 days shows the potential large range for such activity, the researchers said.

What's behind the burst pattern?

So what could be the cause of FRB 121102's extended pattern? Researchers believed these powerful bursts could be due to the orbit of a massive star, a black hole, a dense neutron star, or a shithole alien "discovery" of yet to be controlled, incoherent radio waves.

One potential explanation for repeating fast radio bursts has been the precession, or wobbling top motion, of a highly magnetized neutron star's axis. But that may not explain what astronomers are seeing for this particular burst because it lasts so long, the researchers said. That model may be more suited to bursts that repeat over a few weeks.

Moving forward, the researchers want to find other repeating fast radio bursts, determine if they also have patterns and see if these two represent the range of patterns. They also want to observe FRB 121102 more and see if the patterns change over time.

"Answering these questions will take us closer to the true source of FRBs," Rajwade said.

Bottom line, it's eating beans. Trust me on that one.

The burst pattern in this study was detected while using the Lovell Telescope at the Jodrell Bank Observatory in the United Kingdom over four years. The telescope is sensitive to faint radio signals and capable of regularly monitoring repeating fast radio bursts that have already been identified. Fast radio bursts were only discovered in 2007, followed by the discovery that some of them can repeat in 2016. Now, researchers know they can have patterns as well.

"This exciting discovery highlights how little we know about the origin of FRBs," said Duncan Lorimer, study co-author, associate dean for research and professor of physics and astronomy at West Virginia University, and general raconteur of fundably useless assholery. "Further observations of a larger number of FRBs will be needed in order to obtain a clearer picture about these periodic sources and elucidate their origin."

Connor James Wheaton, who left behind a suicide note, had a "history of depression with two prior suicide attempts," his wife told a Medical Examiner's investigator. Wheaton, best known for his much heralded novel of a decade prior, "Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers," had last seen his psychiatrist two weeks before his death, and was prescribed several drugs. The report also notes that Wheaton had previously undergone 12 electroshock therapy treatments. (4 pages)

blah blah

If God didn't want there to be ethnocentrism, he wouldn't have made different ethnicities.

That's rude and inappropriate

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### 14 – Interview with the Vampires

The following lit stuff was posted on the Dorkey website, allegedly reproducing a conversation CJW recently had with a few associates. The "Charlie Rose Show," from which it supposedly part emanated has been deleted and/or web mangled. Mark Leyner, Tom LeClair, Fenton Foxfussy, Steven Moore, William Vollmann, Michel Houellebecq (hypothetically a male, but from France), William Gass, and Crapaton Milkwart got well deserved subsidiary billing. A good time was had by all. More or less.

Connor James Wheaton; property of the author.

CR: "Are you still a writer?"

CJW: "Some make such charges. I'd personally say more of a reclusive celebrity pop star."

CR: "What's popping now?"

CJW: "The errant trajectories of batons."

CR: "Might you elaborate?"

CJW: "After Esquire publishes it. I fear anticipatory hack imitation."

CR: "Movie potential?"

CJW: "What doesn't have movie potential?"

CR: "Is it fiction?"

CJW: "I think so, more or less, depending. Some will say no."

CR: "So, most will say that it's real life?"

CJW: "Try paying some attention, Charlie. I think not, more or less, depending. Most will say yes."

CR: "Who is the main protagonist?"

CJW: "It's an ensemble piece. The many erratic baton twirlers and their fanatical parents in the stands."

CR: "You're not personally involved?"

CJW: "Truly, only in the sense of erratum from the bleachers, while, simultaneously realizing that others will expound in both directions."

CR: "Being misunderstood must be so depressing."

CJW: "I really don't know. If any, it's others problem of choice. They can try to deal with it and leave me out."

CR: "Will there ever be another novel?"

CJW: "Maybe, if I can find a semi-competent ghost."

CR: "Awesome."

CJW: "I'm totes a mufuggin' saint."

Mark Leyner; property of the author.

ML: "You abandoned the Midwest and moved to the Southwest?"

CJW: "Sí senor, hace muchos años."

ML: "I didn't know that until it appeared on the prompter."

CJW: "I'll ignore your unintentional straight line, and just say that it's perfectly understandable as I sent out no announcements or invitations to weinies."

ML: "Must have been a culture shock."

CJW: "Perhaps had I mingled. Sun's consistent."

ML: "I meant the literary scene. Tony Hillerman and all that reservation-type exotica."

CJW: "Didn't make much note. Hillerman is supposedly dead. Right?"

ML: "Really? Didn't know that."

CJW: "That's quickly becoming one of your habits."

ML: "As opposed to your eternally remote fountain of creativity?"

CJW: "Evidently, as seen by lesser nags who mistakenly think that they are still in the race."

Fenton Foxfussy; property of the author.

FF: "We're all friends here. Are we not?"

CJW: "Peace and love to you my friend, Donovan."

FF: "Twas then when the hurdy gurdy man ....... etc. etc."

CJW: "Far fuckin' out."

FF smiled and raised two fingers, not necessarily from the same hand.

CJW: "Pray tell. How's the Oprah-defiant, family reunion, rebel business going?"

FF: "Families are not a business."

CJW: "I'll advise Vito of that the next time we have clams at the Indigo Crow."

FF: "Ha ha, and another ha. You're such a jokester. Have you seen my new collection of essays; 'How to be Inundated with Parasites,' published by Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now part of the McVirago group? A few hard cover copies are still available through all physical and metaphysical retail sources, as well as those in-between for only $19.99 plus tax; shipping free in the US?"

CJW: "Sorry, must have slept through that one."

FF: "Your loss. It's my multi-viewpoint elegy to our diminishing environment."

CJW: "How timely. The reciprocated Greta Thunberg endorsement will no doubt do it wonders. Kudos."

FF: "You sound a tad cynical today."

CJW: "I prefer to use the most misunderstood, happy word 'languid' myself. The Southwestern late afternoon, hot weather, announced and undelivered storms can produce that sad effect. Sigh."

Michel Houllebecq; property of the author.

MH: "Your books Francais sir, available they are?"

CJW: "I not hope. Say you so. Bother to check, I never."

MH: "A question, believe I that was."

CJW: "Care, I not do."

MH: "But a market for potboilers American is Francais."

CJW: "Rules censoring and EU anyway ban it would. See you, gay character, looking good and likeable no role had, besides."

MH: "English you speak like one long distance in US."

William Vollmann; property of the author.

WV: "Great piece of writing. The surreal sequences blend so well with the epistemological 'facts' that one is challenged to further examine the textually introduced aspects of the event as well as that of its narrator."

CJW: "If you'd like to get nasty, be forewarned that I can play that game too."

WV: "Unlike your false denials, most literary critics agree that fiction cannot be reduced to mere falsehood. Characters in books become as real as Pinocchio. Pornography causes orgasms. The charade that things are the way one wants them to be will bring it about. With supernaturalism, the author and reader yearn for seeing winged beings fly across the sky. For if they could only do that, then why not us?"

CJW: "It might have something to do with the wing parts. You know, like the birds and bats served in China."

WV: "Great literature opens the door to anything?"

CJW: Sure, for someone headed for the loony bin. But, outside of the screwballs, so fucking what?"

WV: "Comment amusant. Though, what was the significance of your duality of selfs?"

CJW: "I failed to notice that particular duality. It might be your perception only. What is the significance of your cross-dressing and calling yourself Naomi?"

WV: "The correct anticipation of a growing market trend. What did you expect?"

CJW: "Such conflict in your narrative arch. The books themselves are your muse. No?"

WV: "Such a conflict, you should only know."

CJW: "Channeling the weinies. The pathetic. The losers. The sad."

WV: "The space between."

CJW: "I never found it particularly interesting to mention the inevitable."

WV: "No? You've not done that?"

CJW: "Of course I have. I just didn't think it was particularly interesting. Such a conflict, you should only know."

WG: "A modern day Sartre is stalking right here in the lessers' midst."

William Gass ready to drop one; property of the author.

CJW: "There must be some kind way outta here say the joker to the thief."

WG: "You are much too modest, sir."

CJW: "Look for my soon-to-be-released, 380,000 word 'Ode to my Chair.'"

WG: "Might that be subtitled; 'I Sit on It?'"

CJW: "Rotfil. What's next on the wordsmith's agenda?"

WG: "Hatred, Part 24."

CJW: "Should have known. Weinie level commerciality is best served through providing their 'fandom' with continued ugly un-challenges."

WG: "I've been with the professors and they've all liked my looks. Of greater personal significance, the eggheads give grants and pay for speeches to their cracked constituents."

CJW: "Good gosh and golly. Whooda thunk academe so bounty insular?"

WG: "A quicker picker-upper is yet to be found."

CJW: "Classical Gass. Would I be incorrect to sub-categorize it neo-bop?"

WG: "Don't forget 'progressive.'"

CR: "This can go on to the boundary of infinity. May we hear a few words form the official arbiter of un-popularity?"

Steven Moore; property of the author.

SM: "Au contraire, mon dieu. The bigger the better."

CJW: "I thought that this discussion concerned books."

SM: "Tsk, and coming from one so deft in the use of metaphor."

CJW: "Didn't your review say allegorical."

SM: "If it did, I must have been using the word metaphorically."

CJW: "Might you have something to say to those critics who claim confusion?"

SM: "Please stay that way. Allow the learned to grapple with these issues. You'll be better off. Between us more or less Dorkeys, allow me to say that, look, it's simple. To establish an 'artful' display, using synapses, generalized disconnecting devices, pictures, and blank pages is anti-literary; and moreover the writer's failure to recognize that humanity knew nothing until they established words. Indeed, prior to that they didn't even know how to think and dream."

CJW: "Still with old man Hegel, I see."

SM: "Old man Heidegger too."

CJW: "I appreciate the deficiency admission, but I'm about today; the school of what's happening now. Cut and paste. Hashtags. Irreducible identity non-politics. Memes. Snappy www talk. Blam-O."

SM: "Recognized. You might recall that my published review-blurb of 'Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers' was very quotable in the positive sense of Blam-O."

CJW: "This is not personal, and they all are. I don't care, and that was ten years ago."

SM: "Your inability to subsequently produce any 'artful' books, or books of any sort for that matter, is not my problem."

CJW: "Fine. I just wish you'd stop trying to take some credit for 'Interminable Gibbet Loop Capers' order and editing."

SM: "If you'll please excuse me, a Gaddis book I have not yet annotated is calling at the utmost volume."

CJW: "God bless us deaf."

Tom LeClair; property of the author.

TLC: "Anyone for tennis? .... Table."

CJW: "Ah, you had me going for a minute. But, thanks and sorry. The tabled varieties never got my interest."

TLC: "Thought I might fool you. ...... "

CJW: "As clever as we've all come to expect. Continued kudos."

TLC: "How's about we paint up some signs, and carry them as close to Trump Towers as they allow?"

CJW: "Splendid. I've always relished the new unconventional."

TLC: "We could write a book about the unique experience!"

CJW: "I'm new-fangled hip. But, no offense intended, I think I'll pass as trying to establish new genres is never conducive to income. Yuhnowhumsayin?"

TLC: "Luddite?"

CJW: "Maybe. Your call. But, to me it seems more of a mixed genre, as a result of Mellor, not that one with the 's' appendage, having been married to Caishen. That remains undocumented. However, please take my word or not; there are no racial prejudices here. More or much less, they only exist in the minds of the prejudiced."

TLC: "Ha. You must be joking, as no noted writer of fiction has any conception of reality. Their only interest is in their 'accidental' disclosures and their 'artful' ability to manipulate words."

CJW: "Perhaps your low-income posture has conveniently blinded you to the gods of mammon; whatever name they have currently adopted. If you read the lit mags you might have easily inferred that I am doing whatever I know how to do to escape the categorization of 'noted.' ...... Redundantly, is this personal? ....... Don't feel challenged. That was semi-rhetorical."

TLC: "Noted."

CJW: "I don't suppose that is an indication of a disallowed infinitesimal movement away from the Identity confines of vanity publisher 'Dorkey Archive Press?'"

TLC: "You may have anticipated that I can honestly respond to that in a myriad of ways. Let me oblige that thought. First, is that you might have confused me with your surreptitious buddy, blurbomatic Steven Moore. Second, is that insofar as a $35,000 contribution allows the contributor to 'sponsor' one book for a year, they indirectly portray the status quo. And isn't that what we're all about when we strip away the layers? Third, meaningless accolades are invariably attached to the less than mediocre Esquire essay."

CJW: "Formidable farce set to eleven. Whoops. My turn, I guess. Pardon me. It wasn't any ADD as far as I know, but I got distracted while trying to goggle 'blurbomatic,' and missed the rest of your well-taken statement. If it is of any solace, my results with 'blurbomatic' came up null too."

TLC: "No wonder you are diagnosed as a genius. In addition to your unique abilities to ignore the assessor, that attribute, daringly feigned only by the small contingent of those who eke out a semi-living, though evocation of the commendably true and real in another sense, thereby being painfully obvious, through the attempted dissemination of freelance bestiality porn, the spelling of which I will never understand, and unsolicited adult diapers TV ads, you also bring something to those who would otherwise sink into a pooped pants type of depression. You are the most modern of anti-heros and I fully and humbly recognize that I am most blessed to be in your kind and generous presence. I'm as overwhelmed as I was upon first becoming aware of the cop killing of that arrest resisting, drug addicted, armed robber, penitentiary dependant, chop-chop martyred saint, for which I was and remain so sorry."

CJW: "Thank you from the gravest of my sincerity, more or less muchly. I'd like to say that I find it a rare gift for one so unfairly considered as irrelevant to bestow others with jaundiced complements. Thank you once more. The insistence of resentment, sarcasm, and distrust can so easily prevail. It is an indication of dogged adherence to the cause, rather than any deference to lower considerations. Those who say; 'Haha. Loser. Asshole,' are referring to themselves. Will you be my best Goofreads friend and/or marry my sister?"

TLC: "I'd truly like to, but still have difficulties or issues in dealing with my many prior rejections. The pain of dashed hopes exceeds my desire for new relationships. I hope that you understand."

CJW: "Gotta stay fresh, baby. Gotta stay fresh. I'm considering doing a systems review. ....... Surprised? It would be a 'new' challenge to learn the processes in which the underlying book participates rather than to dictate its circumstances; to try to understand information rather than cause the eventual review to happen. I'm still wrestling with my conceptual problem of getting paid for my understanding in lieu of a written document."

TLC: "Same here, I think. Looking for a collaborator?"

CJW: "Maybe after I see how the ping-pong match works out."

CR: "What are you working on?"

CM: "Things. Ah, sorta like ...... ah, stuff; you know."

Crapaton Milkwart ready to drop one; property of the author.

CR: "Please forgive my literary ignorance. I don't."

CM: "You know, like knocking off Bunuel, Scorsese, and Kurosawa, making them less boring and adding humor. There is 28 lifetimes worth of material there. More or less copying is kind of good for one's output; ya know. If you don't believe me, just ask the slant-eyed flunky of your choice."

CR: "I keep assuring you that I don't consider you literarily plagiaristic and ignorant. Just like 2% of the middle grade market, you act as if you think that I'm funning you."

CM: "Not intended in the least. I most appreciate the opportunity to appear on your prime time show. It does so much for sales. Tell me, have you seen my 'Clown Town?'"

CR: "I presume that is a book. The postal snail must have stolen the ARC. Damn."

CM: "I can send another in return for an honest laudatory review, or at least a few blurbs which could be construed as complimentary."

CJW: "Allow me to introduce some clarity, weinie. Charlie is politely not saying that he thinks your anti-literary 'humor' sucks big time. How the fuck would he know anyway? In addition to your inability to have recognized that anti-literary is a minor and declining subset of literary since sometime prior to 1962, you have continually gone over the top with a broad 'humor' most appealing to recent pubescents primarily in the terminal-acne-stricken-nerd category. You still seem surprised that your consistent 'popularity' decline is reversely proportional to advancements in over-the-counter medications. ........... Whoops, I see that you may not be aware of the progress. A full beard under that bald head might cover the pizza supreme .... in most locations."

CM: "Yo mama."

CJW: "A prelude to "The Wit and Wisdom of CM?"

CM: "Butt plug."

CJW: "I thought you had already written a gem with that title."

CM: "Partially correct, an improvement."

CJW: "Charlie, I'm curious. Since when have you been booking weinies with 500 book sales?"

CR: "Since the budget cuts. These weinies actually pay us for the 'exposure.'"

CJW: "'What We Talk About When We Talk About the Ontological Aspects of Septic Pumping,' an excerpt.

'Shit's all over the floor.'

'Pretty much.'

'Want it removed?'

'Why else would I have called?'

'Gonna cost ya.'

'So how should I know?'"

CR: "Astute observation. Everything except weinie writers do."

CJW: "I'm appalled. Absolutely as appalled as an advertising brand which discovers that one of their employees has Twattered something which might be deemed racist. Make a statement! Fire the bugger! Next thing I'll be hearing is that there are mercenary considerations in our hallowed literary world. On a more personal theme, I'd like to point out that my contract specifically states that I will not have to share the stage with low end weinies. I gave you the benefit of the doubt in the close calls with Leyner, LeClair, and Gass; but Crapaton Milwwart is way over the line. I'm out of here."

Connor James Wheaton voraciously spat chunks of old, previously embedded substances as he walked off stage. The ensuing silence roared like a gibbeted swoon.

Margaret said; "Whoo. The boy has a temper."

"Had in your sentence. A coldly rational disinterest in being subjected to a severe level of stupidity in mine."

"Then why would he engage with the others at all? It's inevitable."

"Charlie Rose pays the non-weinies very well; better than the book publishers."

"Then why walk off and hurt his chances of repeat performances?"

"It doesn't hurt his chances. It actually may have enhanced them. If Charlie bans him, he's left with a program which would best try to emulate 'The $1.98 Beauty Show.'"

"Which one has or had more viewers?"

"I don't know. But these 'lit' weinies always find some personal 'pride' in thinking that they're being relevant; with the invariable opposite effect on everyone else."

"That's funny."

"That's standard lit weinie. Here's another thing I found."

" **Trans-Atlantic Journal – HEALTH OR THE LACK THEREOF**

Study: Writers Are Twice as Likely to Commit Suicide

Lindy Danseur

Fall 2017 Regularly Special Issue

The popular notion linking creativity and mental illness

Problem: "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia," E.L Doctorow told the Paris Review. He was speaking metaphorically, as creative types do. Right?

Methodology: In the most comprehensive study ever undertaken of this purported phenomenon, 1.3 million researchers at the United States Department of Health funded, Karl Marx Institute of Geneva gathered census data representing almost 1.2 million patients with schizoaffective disorder, depression, anxiety syndrome, alcohol abuse, drug abuse, autism, ADHD, anorexia nervosa and suicide; the latter category necessarily based on corroborated tittle-tattle. They then, the 1.3 million researchers at the United States Department of Health funded, Karl Marx Institute of Geneva, that is, looked at the weirdo's employment in the arts and sciences; 'creative' occupations. The control, naturally, was 'accountant.'

Results: Bipolar disorder was the only diagnosis found to be more prevalent in people with creativity-based careers, who were overall less likely to be diagnosed with the mental illnesses included in the study. An earlier study of this same population had found, though, that families with a history of bipolar or schizophrenia were more likely to produce creative people. Researchers are still struggling to comprehend what this means, both in terms of contradiction, significance, coherence, and textual accuracy, not necessarily in that order.

When the 1.3 million researchers at the United States Department of Health funded, Karl Marx Institute of Geneva, (hereinafter referred to as 1P3MRUSDOHKMIOG) looked specifically at authors, under the assumption that they, the authors that is, are creative, they found that they are overrepresented among people with schizophrenia, depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety syndrome, and substance abuse problems. Authors were also almost twice as likely to commit suicide as the general population, that 83.3% of the suicides were skewed toward indies no one had previously heard of, with their typically average annual income of 228 Swiss Francs. No suicides were noted among authors with reported annual incomes in excess of US$155,000.

Interestingly to someone, the close relatives of people with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, anorexia, and, to a lesser extent, autism, were more likely to be employed in creative fields.

'In general, being an accountant or a relative of an accountant meant negative or no association to the psychopathologies investigated,' said Giada Hochstutter, one of the 1P3MRUSDOHKMIOG.

Implications: It may be useful to not always think of mental illness in black and white terms. It may also be even more useful to not think of mental illness at all. Once these nutcases think that they have an ear, they invariably proceed to fill it with all those sad-ass, depressing stories, in an ostensible attempt to 'share' what no healthy and rational person wants any part of. These findings suggest that some positive outcomes like creativity can be health countered through the study of Accountancy. Such remedial efforts can help to reduce the stigmas surrounding both mental illness and Accountancy, and to some extent, be construed as empowering to the weirdos.

But if I can editorialize for a moment, it's impossible to overstate the importance of not reading too far into results like this, as the significantly increased suicide rate emphatically demonstrates, the reality of mental illness is bleak. It's fine to celebrate people with mental disorders' contributions to society, but of course that shouldn't stop us from doing everything possible to treat them if they can afford our hourly rates.

The full study, 'Mental illness, suicide and creativity: 40-Year prospective total population study,' is published in Dr. Phil's Britney Spears Memorial Journal of Unlicensed Psychiatric Research.

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit an e-mail to the nonexistent editor or write in 20 words or less, to ltrs@transheat.com, making sure to use the BrandNewCaesarianRoman font, size 12. Utilization of the insertion rather than the cut and paste method is required. If you don't hear from us in a year, assume that we either didn't look at it and never will, or that it was too stupid to take seriously. Please don't bug us in the interim. Thank you.

Lindy Danseur is a former editorial fellow/fellperson at Horror Sleaze Trash Publications – Buttplug Division."

Connect Twatter.

Margaret freaked, yelling; "Disconnect, disconnect!"

### End of Book 1 of 2
