Rubber Duckie's "Pardon the Interruption"
Administrative Note:

Greetings. Today we will commence Rubber Duckie's "Pardon The Interuption," a story begun by RD below, to be addedto--from a sentence or two, up to 1,000 words--by those listed (below Part I of the story). Rubber Duckie is hereby named Deputy Administrative Staffer in Charge of Getting People to Do This.

In other news, Rance will, sometime this week, respond to a comment to the last entry which shot his vinegar levels so high he had to have an Amstel Light (no real beer was available) to calm down.

[Drumroll]


PARDON THE INTERRUPTION

Part I by Rubber Duckie

A ferris wheel of thrill spun within each time she gazed upon her new found treasure. It was a steal! Drowning amongst a pile of costume jewelry it had surfaced amongst the searching hands of onlookers. At first glance she wasn't sure that it wasn't just another poor man's bauble, but upon closer scrutiny she knew what she had found.

It was a small Art Deco sterling silver pin with one large square cut ruby paste stone centered and surrounded by smaller round cut clear paste stones. The pin itself was a solid, retangular shape. From the markings on the back Anna was pretty sure it was a French piece with the date being somewhere around 1910 to 1920. It is easy for the untrained eye to mistake these pieces for mere costume jewelry, but for the sake of value the two should never be confused. She estimated this piece to be worth upwards of $300.00 dollars.

Of even more interest was the engraving on the back. It was rare for these pieces to have any engraving beyond that of the jeweler. She whispered aloud as she read the small cursive lettered words, "Omnia vincit amor". As Anna wasn't fluent in any language outside of her own she wasn't sure of the meaning of the words other than she knew they were French and that "amor" meant love. She discreetly placed it back in the box, burying it well beneath the faux pearl necklaces and cheap plastic trinkets hoping no one else would discover it before the auction began.

She clutched her bidder's number and patiently waited in the sweltering heat for the pin to be put up on the block. She didn't have to wait long. The auctioneer snatched the box up and attempted to sell it piece by piece. Fortunately, those from the small rural community weren't much interested in fake frippery. They were waiting for their turn at bidding on the brand new Kinmore fridge and the farm equipment out back. In fact, there was so little interest the auctioneer decided to sell the entire box as one item.

Anna thought the box was as good as hers since no one in the crowd had been interested in any of the individual items, but when bidding began for the whole shebang she soon learned she was in for a fight...with an 8 year old girl. Apparently, this dear child enjoyed playing dress-up on Saturday afternoons. The box contained the perfect set of accessories for doing so. The little girl bid at will and the auctioneer accommodated her, only allowing the bidding to increase in increments of quarters. "How many quarters can a piggy bank hold?" Anna thought to herself.

When the bidding reached the $10.00 mark Anna began to realize the crowd was starting to turn on her, glaring at her in distaste, most probably wondering how she could be waging battle against a sweet little girl for a box of costume jewelry. Things were fixing to get ugly.

(to be continued (see below for details))


Rubber Duckie's Administrative Note:

Here is the list of bloggers in numerical order for their turn at "Pardon the Interruption". My suggestion is that each blogger be required to contact either you through the comments or me through my email and let us know if they plan to participate when they are the third next in line to interrupt. Obviously, the first three need to let us know NOW. If some choose not to participate we will bump up the next blogger. If we receive no contact they'll automatically be replaced with the next in line.

They should post their piece here when it is their turn and make a note at the top addressed to you i.e. Pardon the Interruption #2, #3, and so on.

The order of the bloggers is random. I listed all bloggers I coudl think of who are currently reading/posting and then did eanie, meanie, minee, mo until I got to the last one, so no favoritism of mine would come in to play. However, IF YOU desire for a certain order of bloggers to be present, feel free to switch them around at will and I will keep mum on such doings.

I would tell each blogger that it is their option to post either a single sentence (preferably more) or no more than 1000 words. AND, to try to keep it clean...nothing TOO lewd. If I have overlooked anyone just chalk it up to my mental impairment and tell those not on the list to comment saying they wish to participate and they will be added accordingly.

The list is as follows:

1. Sass
2. Bingo the Monkey
3. WendyJo
4. Annie in Montannie
5. Private Dick
6. Nicole
7. JCanuck
8. Mia Toretto
9. Lora
10. Mikee
11. fishouttawater
12. Snubby
13. Rancette
14. BGC
15. Ken
16. Cheryl
17. flyrchld
18. Slippy
19. waxwing
20. Ginny
21. Lisa Marie
22. Grace
23. Curious Girl
24. Bard
25. mslauren
26. Lanie
27. leibniz
28. Wheeler Jones/Peeler Flones
29. Pepito
30. T-rex-in-tex
31. trish
32. Bubba
33. princessr9
34. feenxc
35. uthinkyouknowme




An additional actual Administrative Note:

If you, like Ken, would like a link to your blog posted on this site's Links section (on the lefthand margin), let us know. Only people who've had at least ten comments posted will be eligible (Sorry, pornographers).

--A.S.

An Open Letter From Rance to Rubber Duckie
Dearest Rubber:

I am sorry to hear about your receiving news compared with which eating urine rated favorably.

I'm writing now (or maybe, with incredible premonition, I penned this is 1993) in response to your note, as well as to thank you for providing a high percentage of the entertainment on this site over the past couple of months. Additional thanks to you and others for the sentiments implicit in asking that I write more (or at all).

Here's the deal: Get us a 27-hour day legislated, I'm here for at least two.

In the interim, some things to take into consideration:

Waxwing and several of the others mentioned have their own blogs. The community that developed here is, in my view, flourishing. This site is no longer as popular a stop on that circuit, but the bar is still open. I'd like to keep it that way so we can have your rendition of Pardon the Interruption. Also, the Administrative Staff is cooking up a couple of ways to subvert the government I think will be swell. And some of the guest bloggists have been great. Maybe there will be more. Maybe I'll chime in.

Lastly, I am currently doing plenty of writing. Just not on this site. Maybe even a whole book's worth. Stay tuned.

Best,

R

A Comment From Rubber Duckie Rance will answer
Entered: Wednesday, 8 September 2004 - 05:49 HDT
Name: Rubber Duckie
Comment: To: Rance and the ever present Administrative Staff

From: Rubber Duckie

Well, I woke up this morning and received an email that made a bowl of Cheerios drenched in fresh urine sound cheering in comparison. But alas, not even Cheerios doused with a fresh cup of milk straight from the cow's teet could cheer me up today since reading same.

Do you want to know why?

I'll share with you anyway.

To quote you, Rance, in your own words from your most recent and last post...:"People often suggest: Why not just have no comments at all? I like that solution least of all, because I like the community that's blossomed here. I had no idea that'd be the case at the onset, but now it is."

If you like the community so much then why are you killing it? Suffocating it? Blindly weeding out the flowers as opposed to the weeds?

I feel like I am attempting to give CPR to a dying gold fish, which ain't easy my friend. Not that I can call you "my friend" as I came here well after you stopped posting. I blogged here not because of you, the supposed CELEBRITY, but because of you, the witty writer, and your cast of faithful friends.

But where is your "community", these witty, faithful friends? Where is Robyn? Ginny? Nicole? Shorty? Mrs. Norman Maine? Jay? Cheryl? WendyJo? waxwing? and anyone I may have carelessly overlooked? I, as I'm sure others do as well, wish to chat with these people amongst your wittily veiled posts.

I'm sure your thinkin right about now what right do I have to ask anything from you and you're right, you don't owe me a blessed thing. But you can't make that claim with the others. You do owe them. You owe them for hanging out with you thru your burning pissing, ranting, raving stage to where you are now. And it isn't as if we're asking you for money or something material, or even something that you are not capable of giving.

I'm asking you for something really simple. A gift that costs you nothing, yet gives enjoyment to so many...you're words. I live in a town with one gas station, one stoplight in the whole friggin county, a Dollar General Store, a Country Mart, and a library with five shelves. That's it! No movie show, no skate-o-rama, no bowling alley, not even a WAL-MART!!!!!!!!! It is too much to ask for an ESCAPE?? If only via your stories and my imagination? And they don't even have to be stories...tell the truth. I find that fascinating as well.

What, are you worried someone is going to figure out who you are? So what? Who cares? If I were you I'd beat 'em to the punch. If you're a REAL CELEBRITY, claiming this blog as your own will do nothing but garner you a BLOG FULL of faithful, adoring fans. What's so bad about that? Are you worried some will be disappointed? Who the heck cares? If you're not a CELEBRITY, then BRILLIANT...I'd be an even BIGGER fan.

All I can say is whoever you are you have a clever, veiled wit that has me laughing five minutes after I've read it. Why you can no longer share your comments and thoughts with us is incomprehensible to me...as I said, it costs you nothing.

Alrighty then, enough of my rant. I'm sure you're sick of the lectures and the fighting and the pettiness that comes with a community...but that's LIFE. In between all the chaos you may learn something, grow, gain a friend or two...who knows??????????

I'm down and out.

Off to eat my Cheerios drowned in a bowl of beer...

Dick, Part III
My friend the detective called me at about 8 AM the following morning.
One of the reasons I quit the force all those years ago is because
the hours just killed me.

"Found the girl's body. Pretty ugly, looks like someone dumped her
off the pier, but she got tangled up in some rope or tackle or
something. She was caught on the dock when we found her. Neighbors
came down and identified her. Stop by the jazz club last night?"

"Yeah."

"See the ex-boyfriend?"

"No comment."

"Come on now, Dick, lying to a cop is a crime. Think he did it?"

"Not sure."

"Well, we're out looking for him now."

"What do you know about the girl?" I asked.

"Not much. She's here legally on a work visa. We know where she came
from, some stuff about her life in New York, but that's it as of now."

"Anyone else in her life? Family, friends?"

"Not sure. We're checking up on that now."

We talked a bit longer, then hung up.

Billy had told a good story the other night, but rotting corpses speak
louder than words. Still, I wanted to believe him. The only missing
piece to it all was the sister. I was still kicking myself for not
asking Billy for her address, though I assume her apartment was his
first stop after running out of the club.

After getting myself out of bed and through a cup of coffee, I noticed
the envelope of picture shreddings I had taken from Angelina's
apartment, and a thought occurred to me. It was a long shot, but if
there was any validity to Billy's story, it would probably mean two
things: 1) that Angelina had been tearing up any photos that had to do
with her relationship, and 2) that would include not only pictures of
Billy, but also of her sister. Maybe a picture of the sister would
jog someone's memory--the band, Angelina's neighbors, whoever. Get
people talking.

I took out the envelope and dumped the photo scraps on my desk. Like
I said, most of the pictures looked as if they had been taken in
Central Park near Belvedere Castle, and looking over the pieces, there
seemed to only be pictures of Billy and Angelina. In fact, something
looked out of sorts --" there were more Angelina heads than there were
Billy heads --"

I started to put together one of the pictures. A few minutes later, I
had assembled enough to know the answer to everything.

The picture showed Billy leaning against a wall of the castle, showing
off his teeth. In his left arm was Angelina. In his right arm was
also Angelina.

Angelina's sister Tina was her twin. Billy had ditched Angelina for
her twin sister.

I had to catch Angelina before she disappeared forever, and there was
a chance I knew where she might go.

---

The police had long since finished their investigation of Angelina's
apartment. A few lines of police tape were still draped over the door
knob, and I left them in place as I picked the lock. Once inside, I
fed the cat, then took a seat in her bedroom and waited.

Two hours later, the door slowly opened. A woman dressed in black,
with glasses and a large hat entered the room. She shut the door
behind her, then glanced around the kitchen and living room. Seeing
no one, she burst into action and began searching both rooms for
something. Amused at her stupidity, I watched her for a few minutes,
then came out of the bedroom.

"You know," I said loudly, startling her. "I hate being used."

Angelina started for her purse but I pulled out my .45 before she
could get the zipper undone.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she shrieked. "You work for me!"

"There's one clause that renders my contract void, and that's when I
find out I'm being used." She shrank back against the couch. The cat
came over to me, and I hefted him onto my lap.

"So let me just make sure I understand everything clearly," I said.
"Billy dumps you for your twin sister. You are furious. You try to
get him back, but they both ignore you. You plot your revenge. You
kill your sister, make it look like it's you that's been murdered,
then implicate Billy as the killer. Your plan is to run back to Italy
while the cops are trying to figure out what happened. Once out of
the country, it'll be a while before they figure out a twin exists
somewhere. In the meantime, Billy is the perfect guy to take the rap.
I won't go into the added benefit you'd have with a jury when they
have to judge a black guy for killing a sweet, beautiful white girl.
Then, you hire me to put all the pieces together and tell the cops
that my client was killed by her ex-boyfriend. Did I miss anything?"

She stared at me, shaking with rage but keeping absolutely silent.

"Didn't think so. Two mistakes. First, if you leave your plane
ticket at the crime scene, just buy a new one. Don't come back for
it." I held up the plane ticket for her to see, and the look of shock
that crossed her face was priceless. "Two, don't hire a private dick
who's as smart as he is handsome." No reply to that one. None
needed.

With my gun still trained on her, I called the cops.

---

No happy ending to the story. Turns out, Billy was going to marry
Tina before Angelina killed her and tied her body to the pier (yes,
that was intentional). As of now, there's no way to reverse what
doctor's refer to as rotting corpse syndrome, so Billy is going to
have to cry, write some great jazz numbers about what happened, then
ultimately get over it. Angelina got punished pretty damn severely.
There was always enough evidence to link her to the case. However, if
she had got back to Italy, there's a very good chance no one would
have ever seen her again, and Billy might be in jail now.

As for me, the greatest tragedy of all: I didn't get paid, as my
client turned out to be a murderer. It happens, though a lot less
since this case. I'm much less willing to take on a case for any
reason these days other than the payoff (pretty face or not). I
realize that a lot of people think I have no morals or ethics, and am
only in this for the money. These two statements are both true and
false. I have morals and ethics, but when it comes to my work, they
have no place save for helping me look out for my own welfare. As for
the financial side, the money is good, but there are other reasons.
I'll explain them sometime, but it requires telling at least one case,
maybe more.

However, that's not to say it was a total net loss. In lieu of
payment, I decided to take her kitten, who is named Sammy (that is the
one true name I will ever give in any of my stories; at least, until
Sammy verbally complains). My secretary acted annoyed, as it meant a
new host of chores that went beyond her job description, but I think
she's just as happy to have someone new around the office. Sammy has
been with us ever since.

More Dick
Part 2

But no body.

I searched the entire apartment from top to bottom but found no
corpses, Italian or otherwise. The blood was isolated to the carpet
in the living room - the bedroom and bathroom were both busted up in
much the same fashion as the other rooms, but nothing stood out as
evidence that might lead to answers. In the trash barrel underneath
the computer desk, I found a pile of torn up photos of Angelina and
her ex-boyfriend Billy, apparently taken on and around Belvedere
Castle in Central Park. I found an envelope and collected the pieces.
The only other noteworthy item I found was in the small space between
the refrigerator and the adjacent counter ??" a plane ticket.
Destinazione: Roma. Must have been held by a magnet to the side of
the fridge and fallen (there are certain places where helpful clues
tend to crop up, and such a space is one of them).

I'd think about it all later -- time to flee the crime scene. I
filled
up a new dish of milk for the cat (soft spot for animals, don't tell
anyone), then walked into the hall and closed the door behind me. I
turned around and ran smack into an elderly man, who had quietly come
up the stairs.

"They all done in there?" he asked.

"Done what?"

"Done arguing. Damn man and woman were arguing loud as hell. Walls
are thin in this building, and I couldn't stand it anymore, so I
left."

The old man went on to tell me that it had sounded like an argument
about a relationship. He knew his neighbor Angelina, of course, and
said he had seen the man, Billy, come around frequently in the past,
though not as often recently.

I thanked him, then headed outside. Almost midnight. I pulled out my
cell phone and called the police. I'm generally not one to involve
cops when I can avoid it, but something clearly had happened, and
Angelina could very well be injured but alive somewhere. I have a
pretty good relationship with a detective at the nearby precinct house
??" once in a while, I throw him a bone, and just as frequently he
returns the favor. I got him on the line, gave him the address, and
hung up before he could ask any questions. It wouldn't be long before
he questioned the neighbor, found out an ex-boyfriend was involved,
and searched Angelina's apartment for his info. Billy was their next
logical target, and mine as well.

As I write this, I realize I've changed a lot over the years. If a
similar situation were to happen now, I'd be much more prone to
leaving it to the police to handle. After all, there was a likely
chance Angelina was dead, meaning there was an even more likely chance
I wouldn't be getting paid. Why waste physical and mental energy?
Sure, I could lie to you all and say I was counting on finding her
alive and collecting a fat reward, but the truth of the matter is, she
was pretty, and I don't like when people fuck with my pretty clients.
Like I said, this is ancient philosophy, but more on that later.

Time to track down Billy. I arrived at the jazz club at 12:30, where
Billy's band was in full swing. The place was filled with smoke (back
when smoking indoors was allowed in New York), and was packed with
about every type you can imagine, from lounge lizards to college
students trying painfully hard to look hip. Billy was standing on the
stage in the middle of a wild solo on his sax, and I politely waited
until after the applause had died down before working my way forward.
He took his seat, and I sidled up to him. I yelled to him that we had
to talk about the argument he had with Angelina earlier. He kept
playing, but glanced down at me with a suspicious eye.

"Her place has been trashed and there's blood everywhere."

He let out an extra large breath of air and missed the next note,
causing the rest of the band to glance over and give me bad looks.
Billy continued playing for a moment, then dropped out the song and
got off stage.

He led me through a black-curtained doorway. On the other side was
what you'd call the Green Room if you were on a late-night talk show,
only in this particular club, it could only be described as the back
room ??" a dingy shoebox of a space with concrete walls and a few small
round tables for the performers to kick back a few drinks at before
going on stage. A few musicians were smoking idly or chatting with
their dates.

Billy led me to a vacant table, and we both sat down.

"Here's the deal," I said. "I'm a private detective. I just came
over from your ex-girlfriend's apartment. The place has been torn
apart and there's blood on the carpet. I have at least one witness
who knows you were there earlier in the evening. Hope you have a good
alibi."

"Listen man," he began, looking totally shocked, "Angelina called me
and asked me to come over. Did she hire you?" I didn't move.
"Doesn't matter," he continued. "Everyone knows we ended on bad
terms. I left her for her younger sister, and she wasn't too happy
with the both of us."

"Not what she said, man," I replied. "She said she left you, and you
were pissed off at her."

He laughed, though not the type of laugh that suggested he found
anything funny. "Crazy bitch. Look, I broke it off with her to go
with her sister Tina a few months ago, and she's been furious at both
of us ever since. Every conversation has been an argument, and just
when it seemed like it was getting to a dangerous level, she
disappeared. Nothing for a few weeks, then I got the call tonight. I
can't believe I even went over there. She said she was heading back
to Italy, and wanted to say good-bye. I went over, and she started to
chew me out. Screaming and yelling - fuck that. I left after fifteen
minutes."

"So you don't know how the place got torn apart? Don't know where she
is now?"

"No clue."

"All right," I said. "You can go play now."

He laughed again. "Yeah, right. How long before the cops get here?"

The sound of sirens answered his question. He looked at me to see if
I'd try and stop him, but I stayed still. He threw his sax in its
case, then bolted out the backdoor into the alleyway. I followed
suit, as talking to cops was the last thing I wanted to do at this
point.

So two completely opposite stories and no reason to believe either. I
headed home.

The next morning, I got a phone call that put things in perspective.
Angelina's body had been found down by the Hudson River a few blocks
over from her apartment.


(to be continued)

Administrative Note:

The Administrative Staff will taking a holiday from comment-moderating, resuming operations Tuesday.

Have a nice Labor Day,

A.S.

Gues Bloggist: Dick
Name: Dick
http://privatedick.blogspot.com

Part 1

Call me Private Dick. I work in New York City as a private detective,
and recently, I've been keeping a blog of my work (with enough fact
adjusting so those involved don't get wise). I offer you one from
several years ago which stands out as the last time I did a female
client a favor because she had a pretty face.

It was a Thursday evening when a woman came into my office. Jet black
hair, perfect face, full lips, skinny little body --" just the type of
client I enjoy serving the most, and she hadn't even opened her mouth.
She introduced herself --" we'll call her Angelina -- and I instantly
noticed the heavy Italian accent. She told me that she had been in
the US for a few years now. Her problem: "I think someone is trying
to hurt me, maybe even kill me."

Everyone always looks so disappointed when I don't react dramatically
to their out of the ordinary dilemmas. Well, I've said it before and
I'll say it again: after working in New York for a number of years, it
takes a lot to make this Dick raise an eyebrow. Hell, the case I'm
working on now involves an actress who thinks someone is out to do her
in, while someone unrelated came into my office just last Friday with
the same problem. Everyone is out to kill everyone these days it
seems, though fewer than you'd think actually go through with it.

In this case, Angelina thought her ex-boyfriend of two years, Billy,
was trying to kill her. Why? "Angry that I dumped his sorry ass,"
she said. "Months ago. He won't leave me alone. Always was coming
around. Threatening to beat up any man he sees me with. He's was
stalking me."

Finally, she threatened him with a restraining order, and he
disappeared. But she was convinced he was still out to get her, and
her suspicions had only grown over time. Lacking any hard evidence,
she wanted me to look into it and either put her fears at rest, or
give her something to bring to the cops.

Not a difficult job --" tail Billy for a few days, a week at most. In
my experience, most people give away their stalker m.o. very quickly.
Angelina gave me contact info and pictures of her ex: Billy, a
handsome black guy with a smile straight out of a toothpaste ad, was
employed during the day at Macy's selling suits, and worked nights at
a jazz club on the Upper West Side playing sax.

As I was knee-deep in other cases at the time, I promised her I'd get
to work on her problem the following Monday. She said that was fine
and left.

I continued on with my other work. The weekend arrived, and as I
finally sat down to mull over her file, I realized I no longer had
Billy's picture. My secretary searched through both file cabinets and
turned up nothing. Not completely necessary, as I remembered his
face, but then again, no reason to go into a case without all the
right preparations.

I gave Angelina a call and got the busy signal. I called an hour
later and it was still busy. A half hour later, still busy. Not a
good sign.

After one more failed attempt to contact her, I took a cab over to her
place on the Upper West Side in the 80's (four story brownstone) and
pressed a random buzzer to get in (most New Yorkers don't bother
asking who it is anymore --" try it for fun sometime). Up the stairs
to
Apartment 2R. I knocked on the door and waited. No answer, though
through the door, I could hear radio static. Knocked again --" no
reply. Tried the doorknob --" it was open, so I went in.

Angelina's place was ransacked. First room was the kitchen, and pots
and broken dishes were strewn everywhere. A small TV had been knocked
off the countertop and was lying on the ground in a million pieces.
Pretty ugly. The small kitchen led into a living room, which was a
similar mess. Couches overturned, bookshelves knocked over, the
works. A small radio was lying on the ground blaring static, and I
turned it off. A kitten was meowing sadly at its broken milk dish.

Last but certainly not least, the wall-to-wall white carpeting was
smeared with what looked to be blood.

(to be continued)

Ideas Anyone?
Administrative Note: From yesterday's In box...

Name: Lanie
URL: http://brn-eyed-grl.tripod.com/blog
E-Mail: lanabelle28@aol.com
Comment: Rance, A.S., or whomever is in control of this thing:

I'm wondering what constitutes front page billing on this blog? Can I make an attempt?

Some of you know me, most of you don't. I'm 28, live in Idaho, and am a single mother of two small boys. I have had some hard times recently due to lack of work. Recently I started a part time job, as this was the first job to be offered. I am still actively looking for something full time, and there is the opportunity to advance to full time in my current position.

I am three months behind on my rent. I am still a little behind on my utilities, but slowly getting there. But hey, what's the point of power if you don't have a roof over your head? Which is where we are headed since I was served a 3-day eviction notice today.

I was asked today if I have family to help. Short response to that is no. I have family, yes. Will they help? No. They have never helped anyone, anytime, that I know of. Besides, they wouldn't have the finances anyway even if they would.

I am in need of a little assistance right now. A helping hand? An angel maybe? Something? Someone? Anyone? I am always looking for new friends, so if friendship is all you can offer, it's very welcome.

Thanks, Lanie

p.s. yes, I can verify everything.

More from Wheeler Jones

Volume 13 Part II- Accounting Highs and Woes and the Hotel Couch


Peeler was a car salesman. That was true. But all great salesmen are head accountants by nature. What that means is that they see the web of numbers in its entirety at all times.

"Numbers, flumbers. It's the potential of them. You ever heard of he _expression `As Above, So Below?'"

I hadn't.

"Forget it then. You need to read more."

Peeler then launched into a dissertation on the distinction between accountants and HEAD accountants.

"Accountants are the swine of the earth, human cockroaches, polluted by self-esteem issues and an inability to take any kind of meaningful action in their lives. HEAD accountants are a different breed. Renegades, the lot of them- myself included. Willing to cut your throat or fuck you senseless in a closet. Hard to know which is worse some days. But I'll tell you this: they sure as hell aren't afflicted by inaction. Now hand me that pepper."

Point taken, if not totally clear.

Peeler had an accounting degree from a reputable school: the very school he played football with on scholarship, until the drugs became too much to handle. (When you're a starting lineman, you live on drugs. Back then *they* would deliver them to his locker each day and these drugs weren't optional in a moral or functional sense. Peeler was a better lineman than accountant, but the drugs and numerous injuries left his knees in shambles. A professional football career was out of the question, though he had try-out offers from a certain semi-pro league teams.)

In those years he was a rising star in the accounting world as well. Or as Peeler explained: "I wasn't shit on. I did the shitting."

A few mornings after the Jag/Vette fiasco, now in the new city, Peeler made a phone call to a friend in town and landed the job at the mortgage firm without so much as an interview. None required. He was vouched for. All he asked from the new employer was $1000 wired to him for moving expenses and incidentals (although he was already in town).

This money was deposited by mid-afternoon into the vouching friend's account, and said friend gave Peeler the cash over a plate of suicide wings in a particular seedy part of town.

The Voucher gave Peeler the money with some hesitation, having known him for the better part of 3 years.

Peeler assured the Voucher that he would get settled that very day. He even showed the Voucher the apartment listings that he had circled in the local paper. This made the Voucher feel slightly better.

Peeler hustled off shortly after the 6th or 7th pitcher of beer, citing an appointment to see the apartment he liked best.

The Voucher wished him luck and told Peeler he'd see him at work.

There was no apartment to see, of course. Peeler had a plane to catch.

Somewhere between the 3rd and 4th pitcher of beer, Peeler made a few other phone calls to old friends. One of them lived in Chicago and was a VP for an investment company. In a matter of minutes, he offered Peeler a position in his division. The company made immediate arrangements and the airline ticket was left for him that evening at the airport.

Peeler flew to Chicago after a brief but viscous upgrade confrontation with the ticket issuer.

He played the racism card, (his standard upgrading tool), when the attendant refused a free bump to 1st class.

In his words: "I told that dizzy bitch that I was ? genuine Micmac Indian and if an Indian can't sit in first class when there are seats open, then the local papers would be called immediately and I'd dole out lawsuits like the white man doled out smallpox."

Naturally, he got the upgrade and, not coincidentally, completely obliterated on vodka during the flight, frequently cursing loudly for "another vial of firewater!".

By the time he got to Chicago he was in no state for an interview. Peeler called his VP friend and explained that he caught a virus on the plane (because of the hideous business class food) and would need a day or two to recover, but that they should meet immediately, as he'd need a $1000 advance for moving and incidentals.

VP agreed, and Peeler, looking extremely ill (this was no act) met VP at an upscale trendy bar for the exchange.

$1000 later, Peeler rented a $25 room on the other side of town, made a few more calls, and finally went to sleep.

The next day Peeler flew to Vancouver for another job and $1000 in expense money. This too went without a hitch. One more stop in NYC for another position and another $1000 before Peeler called the Voucher and convinced him to expense a ticket back to -------.

He told he Voucher that he utterly despised NYC but had to tidy up some personal business that would have been superfluous if not for the new job at the Mortgage Company.

The Voucher was glad to accommodate this, as Peeler had been MIA for 3 days and he was taking the heat from superiors regarding the talented "new hire" who seemed to have gone missing with $1000.

Peeler promised to show up to work the next day though, and this time, the Voucher wasn't let down.

(The practice of fronting money pre-hire, Peeler explained, was extremely common in the 70's. Peeler said it fit perfectly into his theory of infinite regress. When I asked him `what's the theory of infinite regress?', he shook his head and said: "You're an illiterate hump- it's impossible to explain to you without a good bottle of scotch.")

Peeler worked there for almost 8 weeks. In that time, he tucked away what was left of the $4000 in cash, slept on a couch in the lobby of a nearby hotel and collected 4 paychecks from company.

In total, he had approximately $11,000 in cash, give or take.

(I asked him how one goes about living on a hotel couch for 8 weeks and his response was: "The first night is the toughest. There's an inevitable confrontation. You just need to whip the overnight staff and whip them hard, you obtuse fuck. The night crew at hotels is completely corrupt and ready to work with you. It's a hotel for chrissakes, not an airport, and I've done airports.)

After 8 weeks at the mortgage company Peeler figured that the brass suspected him of doing nothing all day but napping and drinking at local establishments. This was true of course, but he thought he might be able to fool them for at LEAST 6 months. They WERE accountants. And it might have been 6 months too if not for a poorly timed school reunion. A certain VP in Chicago was in charge of a certain reunion. The school and number are unmentionable for obvious legal reasons.

As it turned out, VP from Chicago called to invite Voucher to the soir?e as they were in the same graduating class. He also hoped Voucher could provide him with contact information for some of the other classmates living in ---------.

Voucher was delighted and also proud to tell VP that Peeler would come too. The conversation went something like this:

VP: "Peeler? What about him?"

Voucher: "Sure. He was in our class and works here now."

VP: "He works where?"

Voucher: "Here. In my division."

VP: "That fucker just milked us out of a grand and an airline ticket and never showed up to work. Put him on the phone IMMEDIATELY!"

Voucher was rattled by this news from VP and promised to investigate and call him back within minutes.

Into Peeler's office he went. Of course, it was 3:30 on a Tuesday, and Peeler was drinking heavily at a tequila bar on the west side of town trying to convince a heavily tattooed biker than he needed to admit that he was gay and to call an end to his macho charade.

Both activities were going well, in fact.

The biker was sobbing and Peeler was helping him balance the anguish and relief by drinking tequila on his tab.

Unfortunately for Peeler, this was only the 4th bar on the list that Voucher called looking for him, and when the bartender waved the phone at Peeler, he knew it was over.

He dashed out of the bar, fled to the hotel parking lot, jumped in his MG and started driving.

(Peeler didn't have any idea that it was Voucher on the phone, or of the reunion that busted any short-term plan to visit VP again in Chicago. He only knew that (as a rule) if someone waved a phone at you in a tequila bar after you totaled 2 cars, committed multiple counts of fraud, and just outted the member of a motorcycle gang, well, it was always best to run, no questions asked.)

So Peeler ran, but with a singular thought in his mind:

Days earlier he read an article in the hotel lobby (his nocturnal living room) about exciting opportunities out west for deep mine explosive experts.

More money than accounting, in fact. Apparently a qualified individual could earn nearly $50 an hour if he agreed to stay underground for weeks at a time and risk his by life blowing holes all around himself in some sort of fashion.

Peeler liked the sound of this and hit the highway with nothing but the cash and 3 second-hand suits he bought for his accounting job. He would have thanked the hotel staff for the couch, but of course, it was the daytime and they weren't HIS people at all on the job.

End of Volume 13 Part II

Up next: Volume 13 Part III- The Underground, Squaws, and Spanish Fly.

Note: Volume 13 Part I: The portion of the story between the flour bombing and the accounting job has been intentionally omitted due to graphic content and for personal safety, as there's absolutely NO WAY to tell of the car trip from Simon's to the city of ------ without giving away information that would lead directly to the implication of Peeler in a number of "matters".

Just know that not a single animal, bike courier, or car was hurt in the journey.

Rubber Duckie's Story Part II
The Organ Lady, as the younger crowed fondly christened her, had become a livin' historical landmark of sorts in our small town. Her silhouette was recognizable to the undressed eye from a quarter mile away.

The shape of her figure was akin to that of an eggplant with her hair standin' up in support of this observation, havin' a distinct purple tint to the soft gray curls. She was never seen out of doors without one of her homemade hats adornin' her head like a halo. I say homemade, in truth the hats were rummage sale finds from years gone by. No, it was the ornamentation that bedecked each crownin' glory that came straight from the imagination of Ms. Deanie Roze. You never knew what to expect, especially on holidays, bein' as The Organ Lady was a unique individual. Unique in the sense that she marched to a different drum, danced to her own band, spoke her own langauge...you get the drift.

I remember well the first time I set eyes upon her. I was fairly new to town, only havin' lived there since June and it was the end of October to be exact. I had ran down to the fillin' station to fetch a pack of smokes for my old man. I was 7 at the time, but the station was only two doors down and it was the 60's. A time when nobody locked their doors, everybody knew their neighbors and kids weren't considered an endangered species.

I was a regular to the joint, scopin' out the candy selection, buyin' an icecream or drinkin' a coke, not to mention the countless trips to satisfy my old man's nicoteine fits.

It must be mentioned that there was a daily assemblage of patriarchal men who rubbed eyeballs at the soda fountain bar. They passed their time playin' cards, chewin' the fat and pesterin' kids like me. That day would be no exception.

You see, The Organ Lady and me, we had somethin' in common...hats. Where as she had many, I had one. One very special hat that I wore at all times, 'ceptin for when I was in school or sleepin'. It was a black felt cowboy hat with white leather lacin' around the brim. I almost felt naked without it. The old farts liked to rib me about it, but I paid them no mind...water off a duck's back and such.

It was Halloween and I was already dressed and rearin' to go. As you may have already guessed, I was in full cowboy riggin'. I had on real suede chaps, a brand new pair of boots, pistols at my sides fully loaded with caps, a white western shirt with them pretty pearlized buttons and, of course, my black felt cowboy hat. I must say I was feelin' about ten foot tall and bullet proof. I strode into the fillin' station as if I were Billy the Kid himself back from the dead. All of this was not lost on the band of thieves sittin' on their thrones. Needless to say, it made me a sittin' duck and they couldn't resist firin' away, but this time they went too far.

As I walked the gang plank that is the aisle behind their stools that leads to the register I could sense that somethin' big was about to happen. They were way too quiet and laidback. I nervously picked up the pace and I was almost homefree when I felt my hat rise off my head.

I spun around just in time to see them pass it down the amen pew as if it were a collection plate, with each one takin' a turn at droppin' in some change. When it reached the end of the line it was passed behind the counter to Joe the Clerk, the high school dropout, the "I'll do anythin' for a buck" kinda guy.

Mr. Walter Smart, the mastermind of the small congregation who very much resembled a weeble wobble from the top of his shiny bald head to his pristinely starched clothes that just barely contained his egg shaped figure, then proceeded to tell Joe the Schmoe that the money was his if he'd pee in the hat.

Joe thought about this proposition for, oh, say, ten seconds, upon the expiration of which he dumped the change out on the bar and placed the hat atop his head while he unzipped his pants.

It is at this point where things become fuzzy for me. I think I suffered some form of outerbody experience brought on by the shock of what was occurrin' in front of my very own eyes. I remember Joe loomin' like a gargantuan Howdy Doody with my too small hat perched upon his too red hair and his big ears stickin' out like two open car doors.

The trigger that would set off the ensuing events was the sound of a trickle, like that of a fountain...or a stream of urine, splattering out into space. The state of emergency that now existed within my own mind was causing a river of adrenaline to flow throughout my body that I'm sure rivaled that of the great Mississippi herself. It was from this driving force that I drew my pistol and bounded over the counter like a hurdler on speed. Things were serious now...I had me a hostage.

Now I know you're wonderin' how a seven year old boy with a cap gun could hold a grown man hostage, but really, it was quite simple. You add a little bit of desperation with a dash of creativity and a touch of temporary insanity and wa la, you have what I fondly call "the trigger rigger"...

Rubber Duckie's Darkly Comical Comedy, Part I
It was a dark and stormy night...Bwahahahaha, just kiddin'


"Obituary of the Organ Lady"


The front page of The Weekly Tribune read as follows:

Grenadine "Deanie" Roze Quick, age 93, slid off the organ bench and into the Almighty's hands this past Wednesday, literally, in the middle of her stirring rendition of "Ain't Got Time to Die". She was the organist of the First Baptist Church where she had dutifully and selflessly served her Heavenly Father for the last 50 years.

Nary a service went by without Deanie Roze pressing the pedals and tickling the ivories. Her fellow churchgoers say she was as reliable as the U.S. Mail. Whether rain, or snow, or sleet or ail nothing was going to prevent Deanie Roze from showing up in her hat and veil to caress her beloved 1955 Casavant pipe organ. She loved working the Sunday crossword puzzle and enjoyed the company of her two dogs, Ho and Hum.

Deanie Roze was born January 13th, 1911 right here in our own Community Hospital to Abraham Taylor and Mary Porter. She was proceeded in death by the love of her life, her husband, Jack B. Quick...and quickened he was way back on October 31st, 1976.

She is survived by her daughter, Mary Love Quick, of St. Louis, Missouri.

A memorial service has yet to be scheduled as an inquisition into the incident of death has been ordered by Judge Woodrow T. Wiley.

(to be continued)