tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85912129901140591932024-03-16T03:09:22.617-04:00Trooper YorkMichaleen Flynn: No patty-fingers, if you please. The proprieties at all times. Hold on to your hatsTrooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.comBlogger8219125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-65765794279534759672023-10-25T22:09:00.001-04:002023-10-25T22:10:32.657-04:00The case of the greasy infidel<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdA2Xx-ZYMgl4hM-BhGRCsnkf6xEnDUtxJ_U53XPYdu9imu_xQ_FyYWp3hmcvqyb5SObUZIxdeYpu-4gsaMxNCX05KAH5Ora7QXCXDXQXR2TLp7yIdLM8cB0HiYMlFF9JxjPqV6RFzPXoJ3FUY8QVLizzyox7eQ2KXfCTXbMBdx_v-lW8ZaFwgTe-S2c0" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="298" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdA2Xx-ZYMgl4hM-BhGRCsnkf6xEnDUtxJ_U53XPYdu9imu_xQ_FyYWp3hmcvqyb5SObUZIxdeYpu-4gsaMxNCX05KAH5Ora7QXCXDXQXR2TLp7yIdLM8cB0HiYMlFF9JxjPqV6RFzPXoJ3FUY8QVLizzyox7eQ2KXfCTXbMBdx_v-lW8ZaFwgTe-S2c0" width="169" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">My dear Holmes,<br />
<br />
It is your most humble petitioner, Inspector Lestrade. I know that I have
continually requested your assistance in the troubling matter of the
disappearance of Lord Douchebag and the obscene affairs of the odious Lady
Chatterley and her grass-stained lover. Be that as it may, I would request that
we put that matter in abeyance so that I can ask for your assistance in an
entirely different matter<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">We here at the Yard are well aware of
the secret work your brother Mycroft does with the Foreign Office. It is the
reason we have not inquired too closely into the comings and goings of various
swarthy sepoys and tattooed lascars in his rooms at the club. We presume that
he is simply gathering information that would educate rather than edify. However,
a recent difficulty with certain foreign powers has caused some concern with my
superiors and I would like to address them with you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">It seems that several members of a Bedouin
cast have made visits to your brother’s abode. They are obviously clearly Musselman
and we have followed several of them back to their place of worship which you
might know as a “mosque.” On further investigation, we have determined that
they are part of a plan to protest and cause disorder in the public square to
protest the actions of certain Hebraic factions in the Holy Land. They plan a
disorderly protest as well as acts of violence that can not be tolerated by Her
Majesty’s government. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">This would not be a problem if the Honorable
Disreali were still in power. Unfortunately, the advent of Prime Minister
Gladstone has led to a tolerance of violence towards the Jews. The Yard is therefore
at an impasse. We can not take action for fear we will not be supported by the government
when the Arab moves to kill the Jew. I would ask if you had some inkling of
what we can do to effect change and prevent further disorder and criminal
activity. Perhaps you could enquire of your brother as to the actual policy
extant as to these disorders so we might take guidance as to what we might do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Although we at the Yard are not enamored
of the Hebrew in general, we do not want to see them killed in the street.
Especially on our watch despite the popularity of that course of action among
many of the party in power. Although the Wigs often claim to support the people
of the book, they in fact cleave to the mercenary alliance with the vast
pockets of the sheiks and sultans who are the bitter enemy of the Hebrews and
who seek to destroy them root and branch.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I would beseech you to question your
brother as to what he is doing with the visits of these disreputable desert
dwellers and to find out if he is associating with them as part of his employment
or for a more personal reason.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">My best to Doctor Watson and I hope he
is enjoying marital bliss since his recent wedding. I presume that he is fully
recovered from the swelling and painful discharge he evidenced after his
bachelor do. When last I saw him as he left the water closet, he was in pain to
such a degree that I ventured to jest that he had begun to resemble a Chinese
woman. Please assure him that was not in fact an allusion to the size of his
breasts. We all increase in weight as we age. I trust he will forgive my
impertinence and join you in your efforts in this most serious matter.<br />
<br />
I remain as always,<br />
Your obedient servant,<br />
Inspector G. Lestrade<br />
November 18, 1884<o:p></o:p></span></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-47404911006298564962023-10-21T22:59:00.001-04:002023-10-21T22:59:03.494-04:00The Spinners - I'll Be Around<iframe style="background-image:url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/ojCikI9npJQ/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/ojCikI9npJQ?si=zOSYXAPqTG2vZrKn" frameborder="0"></iframe>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-71549125324662059722023-08-29T18:52:00.003-04:002023-08-29T18:53:57.007-04:00It's been a while......<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4w2ephRZBOmXVQs1l9scXBx8wGyDhs8cuEekuHLNCpTttFGuIo5FjJXIp2OkRXwrKdqWhwZEri46KEC3wOd_rNi1fb1BwRvLX-ZXm7IXkpvGG3H0uC47ppP5m_ffkjE4Gb_NfOx4PD2DrZWJfBBQetRzmCyZXRW8M-YpSEsSpDFYRRcL_HyHXisEv9yA/s1300/yankee%20crowd.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="1300" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4w2ephRZBOmXVQs1l9scXBx8wGyDhs8cuEekuHLNCpTttFGuIo5FjJXIp2OkRXwrKdqWhwZEri46KEC3wOd_rNi1fb1BwRvLX-ZXm7IXkpvGG3H0uC47ppP5m_ffkjE4Gb_NfOx4PD2DrZWJfBBQetRzmCyZXRW8M-YpSEsSpDFYRRcL_HyHXisEv9yA/s320/yankee%20crowd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It has been quite a while since I have posted here. I have just been too busy. Got a new pacemaker. Wasn't feeling all that great. Been putting stuff up sporadically at Lem's. Trying to write fiction in serious way.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I will try to do better.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Just know that both this blog and Trooper York is still alive and kicking.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">(Note that this is a picture of Yankee Stadium. I haven't been there for more than ten years now. Doesn't mean I am not still a fan. But life can get in the way.)</div><br /> <p></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-74366186457078386812023-01-24T23:55:00.003-05:002023-01-24T23:56:40.402-05:00The case of the missing documents<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-iaYxHc1nQaZKRtsK9cfsOYfaWl2JqeUyGo2D40bcx1selDLn8EzuA7XUgDr4ZXLFocjSls7KIdiNwmmllgqOWd-ZtMk9Ch-tzDLkxGEHn_PSDpIrV2hZuYa0EyOzKR0vJXKUOY_3Z49BA3y8zEM8FV6aqChyOiJ3AYlSD7hxteZ-5VQlvo34oso/s279/lord%20salsivury.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="192" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-iaYxHc1nQaZKRtsK9cfsOYfaWl2JqeUyGo2D40bcx1selDLn8EzuA7XUgDr4ZXLFocjSls7KIdiNwmmllgqOWd-ZtMk9Ch-tzDLkxGEHn_PSDpIrV2hZuYa0EyOzKR0vJXKUOY_3Z49BA3y8zEM8FV6aqChyOiJ3AYlSD7hxteZ-5VQlvo34oso/s1600/lord%20salsivury.jpg" width="192" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">My dear Holmes,</span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">It is your most humble petitioner, Inspector Lestrade. As you know it has been many years since I have last requested your assistance in the troubling matter of the disappearance of Lord Douchebag and several years since we examined the obscene affairs of the odious Lady Chatterley and her </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">grass-stained</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> lover. Today I must ask for assistance in an entirely different matter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">It has come to the attention of the Yard that certain top secret and confidential papers have been removed from the National Archives and have been found among the personal papers of a former prime minister. In a clandestine search of the abode of the recently deceased Prime Minister Lord Salisbury several very important confidential records regarding the Boer War were to be found among the personal papers in his study. These papers were marked Top Secret and are prohibited by both law and common practice from being removed from the archives of the government. These including many incriminating documents from prior administrations including several salacious letters from Lord Gladstone to underage soiled doves and quite a few indecipherable musings in Hebrew from that most disreputable Disraeli. When this discovery was brought to the attention of Prime Minister Balfour, he demanded that it be covered up. This is understandable since he is Lord Salisbury's nephew but still it rankles many of those at the Yard. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">I write to you in hopes that you might reach out to your brother Mycroft who still has contacts with Security Services even in retirement. The Yard would like to avail itself of the opportunity that this presents to cobble together a united front to investigate this odious breach in security and find some way to prevent it in the future.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">I will note that the only item that was released to the Yard and the public was what can only be described as a recipe from the time of King George the Third who had outlined in his own hand the necessaires for a beef dish that he had learned to prepare in Hamburg before he took up the reign as King of England. It appears that Lord Salisbury has adapted this recipe and demanded that it be served to him every night as his only form of sustenance. It is passing strange that this is the only legacy that has been passed down from a figure who has been some important to history of the realm.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Something is just not quite right about this whole affair.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Please give my best to your brother Mycroft who I recall has moved to countryside of Yorkshire to work on his art. I know that in </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">addition</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> to his deeply felt devotion to the collection of artistic pieces, he has become a gourmet who </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">revels</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> in </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">epicurean</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> ecstasy provide by his personal chef. I know he eschews traditional English fare such as the meat pie and the Toad in the </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Hole,</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> but I am quite sure he is enamored of a good Spotted Dick. If he can at all be </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">helpful,</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> I would be greatly appreciative.</span></span></div><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10pt;">I remain as always,</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Your obedient servant,</span><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Inspector G. Lestrade</span><br /></span></div><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 10pt;">November 12, 1903</span></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-88118890730116573242022-09-25T00:42:00.001-04:002022-09-25T00:42:06.816-04:00The Man Who......<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFE3YzWVYlIKUsLHcyJ5OOviqRifDbiq910ZYR8Cz7RAel9DjZRHCi_yCK95Qr9XP8RMxi3OqC_y5rzK2ishNkukL3LVvhkGbrEBwxRaE5cEPAYwBQS2tI9zUb5qEXofo40VFLs9C_U7LkwMF0M_M3Zf8N31nktcftnSzORA7Ub24625NpFsszTHUH" style="color: #2288bb; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;"><img alt="" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFE3YzWVYlIKUsLHcyJ5OOviqRifDbiq910ZYR8Cz7RAel9DjZRHCi_yCK95Qr9XP8RMxi3OqC_y5rzK2ishNkukL3LVvhkGbrEBwxRaE5cEPAYwBQS2tI9zUb5qEXofo40VFLs9C_U7LkwMF0M_M3Zf8N31nktcftnSzORA7Ub24625NpFsszTHUH" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="180" /></a></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">General George Armstrong Custer walked into the hotel room in Washington and the notables gathered therein jumped up as though Jesus himself had entered. They looked at his as Jesus since he would have to save them. Because he was the only hope the Democratic Party had of winning the Presidency in the upcoming election in the centennial year of 1876.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">The only potentate who did not rise was the nominal canid ate Governor Samuel J. Tilden of New York who had been selected by the convention to carry the banner of the Democratic party. A handsome individual in expensive clothing with a diamond stickpin in his cravat he looked at the strutting gamecock with a jaundiced eye. He had been designated as the candidate by the convention but the party bosses wanted to what you should never do. Change horses in midstream. They wanted to replace him with the Hero of the Battle of the Little Big Horn.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Bayard and Thurman who had been among the bitter rivals that had contested the nomination were leading the charge. Even Hendricks who Tilden had taken on as his Vice-Presidential nominee was in on the attempt to steal the nomination. The only one who refrained was General Winfield Scott Hancock who thought if a general was to be the nominee it could only be him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">The problem was that the “soft money” contingent led by John Kelly from his own state of New York wanted to abrogate his victory and turn to a successful general to combat the dominance of the Republican Party ever since the War Between the State. They wanted to flood the nation with greenbacks instead of going back to the gold standard that Tilden embraced. This strutting peacock would be their puppet in this since he knew about as much about economics as a dog did about Latin. It is the rest of the duties of a President that would be the rub.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">“Gentlemen thank you for inviting me to meet with you today. I have just arrived from the Dakota’s where we put paid to the savages as you well know.” Custer stood tall in his fringed buckskin jacket and battered felt hat like he had just ridden in from the battlefield. He was a theatrical presence of that there could be no doubt. He couldn’t even appear in his correct dress uniform. If these idiots thought they would control this vainglorious lout they had another thing coming. There was no doubt that he would take them into another war.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">“Please sit down General and we can put our proposal to you.” John Kelly motioned to a seat in the middle of a circle of chairs that had been set up for the group to discuss their plans. It seemed that the New York Tammany Hall ward heeler had been chosen to be the spokesman for the group. Which was bad news for the Governor since his bitter break with Tammany Hall had poisoned the well. Now the Sachem would have his revenge by stealing the nomination.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Senator Bayard of Delaware took up the torch. “General we are faced with a conundrum. You know the efforts the party has made to break through the prejudice that the nation feels towards our great party because of the late unpleasantness. General Grant has run his course and is not the candidate. We need a general of our own to compete and we need someone of your demonstrated bravery and competence to once more lead the charge.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">General Custer sat back in his chair and asked the obvious question. “I am sorry but I thought the convention is over and Governor Tilden has accepted the nomination? Or have I been misinformed?” Tilden leaned forward and said “Yes there is that Bayard.” “Now Samuel you know that we have discussed this. A unanimous vote of the committee can allow us to change the nominee. We have the votes. I had hoped you would acquiesce. For the good of the party. For the good of the Nation. A General especially a hero of both the War and the ongoing conflict with the Indians would be a far easier matter than a mere governor. Sorry to be so blunt but there it is.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Governor Tilden was incensed at the caviler treatment of his candidacy by this cabal of fat cats and corrupt politicians. A reformer who fought the good fight, he was not going to surrender without a fight. “I was fairly elected as the Democratic Candidate for President and I have no intention of stepping down.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">General Custer turned to look at the group and did not say anything. He was here at their invitation and knew enough to be discreet. Finally, a voice in the corner spoke up.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">“You have to realize Samuel. They have the votes, and they are determined. If you try to fight it you will lose and maybe sink any chance we have of finally defeating the Republicans,” said Horatio Seymour which was a stab in the back. Tilden had managed his campaigns including his losing” campaign for President. For Seymour to tell him there was no chance meant that it was true.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">“Et tu Horatio,” Tilden sighed. “I will not stand in the way of the party. We need to defeat the Republicans at all cost. We cannot let their continual subjugation of the South to continue. If we do, we are in danger of the hostilities breaking out once again. But I learned long ago not to buy a pig in a poke. We need to ask the General what his plans are since I am not aware of him ever announcing them to the public at large.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">“That is a very astute observation,” Senator Bayard said quickly. “General if you are to be our candidate can <a>you </a>share you views with us.”</p><a name="more" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"></a><o:p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"></o:p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">General Custer looked quizzically at them and said, “Does that have some effect on getting the nomination. I would think my views were well known. Otherwise, why offer me the nomination?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Congressman Kelly leaned forward and said, “Indulge us general if you would. What is your plan for the savages and the settlement of the frontier?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">“I intend to go forward as we have now. I did not kill Crazy Horse to surrender to the dictates of Philadelphia sophisticates who weep for the red man. They will submit or they will perish. It is as simple and brutal as that. The West must be opened for the white man, and I am the one to do it. I know the Army and I know the red man and I will finish the job just as I broke the Sioux at Little Big Horn.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">“That’s fine as far as it goes. What about monetary policy?” asked Senator Bayard. “Are a gold standard man or will you support continuing the use of greenbacks to maintain our economy.” “I expect to be guided by you and others in the party in these matters, since you have the experience and knowledge to tutor me in this respect. I anticipate not making any changes in the near term unless the situation calls for it.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Bayard and Thurman looked at each other and nodded. That was the key. The rest didn’t interest them all that much.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Tilden decided to stir the pot. “I understand you had some trouble when you were in Texas in the early days of Reconstruction. What will your policy be towards the Southern states?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">“I intend to integrate them back into the nation as expeditiously as possible. I have a plan to that effect.” “Really,” Tilden said. “What might that plan be?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Custer leaned forward and said one word. “War.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"> They were all nonplussed at the one-word answer. “War? With who?” sputtered Congressman Kelly. “With the South again? That would be a disaster.” Custer smiled. “No not with the South. They will be fighting with us this time. The marital spirit of our Southern brothers will be ignited and it will unite the country as we march shoulder and shoulder. It will heal our wounds to fight together instead of fighting each other.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">“War? Seriously? Answer the question sir if you please.” Tilden demanded. “Who will we declare war on to unite the nation? Mexico? England? France? Who?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Custer smiled a knowing smile and said, “Why I don’t think it much matters Governor. But my preference would be Spain. I think Cuba would make a great addition to our nation. It will be easy and bring us all together. That in short is my plan. Take it or leave it.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">The group all beamed in unison. Except for Tilden who hung his head in despair. The rest were jubilant. They had their man. They had their means to unite the South and bind them back to the nation. They had the chance to profit in a war footing as they printed more greenbacks. What could be better?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">They had their man.</p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-41704577898673557162022-09-25T00:20:00.005-04:002022-09-25T00:20:48.823-04:00Hipster Holocaust- Chapter 38<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFe1ZkZKbOiFVTp1Z9ShM4gWN_xwvbr8naF3rq3oY5352r4HIhQdxzufJNIVtCD3YfcItOcaUhcPSC3s0VJQnFitgt2wawL94DNQfyTCUgZxiD0k28uQz60PPYNX0iS1DubNZwugcbZXynzby1CEyeT-FqRueCy0d-T67vrl3T6vlc97Tr5jqG5mB5" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="2560" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFe1ZkZKbOiFVTp1Z9ShM4gWN_xwvbr8naF3rq3oY5352r4HIhQdxzufJNIVtCD3YfcItOcaUhcPSC3s0VJQnFitgt2wawL94DNQfyTCUgZxiD0k28uQz60PPYNX0iS1DubNZwugcbZXynzby1CEyeT-FqRueCy0d-T67vrl3T6vlc97Tr5jqG5mB5" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">O’Malley and Johnson walked into the interrogation room and
sat across from Fat Louie DeMaio. Fat Louie sat all calm and collected like a guinea
Buddha. He didn’t look calm at first glance because he was sweating like a pig.
But that was because of his thermostat not his energy. He was stoic almost
meditative as he waited. Louie was cuffed to the table and had to lean slightly
forward because he was too fat to sit back as his stomach kept him away from
the edge of the table. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">O’Malley gestured to Johnson. “Why don’t you unhook this
fine gentleman Detective Johnson so we can have a little chat?” Johnson grimaced
but went across the table and unlocked the cuffs. Fat Louie sat back and rubbed
his wrist that had been severely chaffed as the cuffs as usual where too small
for his meaty wrist. He looked at O’Malley expectantly like he would have to
answer as to why he was sitting there in a too small chair in a too small room.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Well boyo it looks like we need some answers from you.
Detective Johnson has some questions and it would behoove you to answer.” Fat
Louie smiled and said, “I would be happy to help if I can Detective. Who are
you by the way? I didn’t catch the name.” O’Malley smiled. This one was sharp. “Detective
Sergeant O’Malley to be sure Mr. DeMaio. I am in charge of this little merry
band and I would appreciate if you would answer us truthfully and clearly so we
can get you out of here as expeditiously as possible.” “Fair enough Sergeant
but I don’t see how I can help you. I told Detective Johnson that I only knew the
girl in passing as someone to buy flowers from and no more. We met maybe three
times in all. You know who I am I guess?” “I am aware.” O’Malley said. “None of
the boys knew anything more. Certainly Mr. Aiello didn’t. How can I help?” O’Malley
turned to Johnson, “Yes how can he help Detective?” Johnson silently fumed as
he regretted bring this fat fuck into the station. His temper was going to get
him in deep shit someday. “I think you know something more than you are telling
us. Is there any word on the street about these killings. The girl worked a
block away from you. Didn’t any of your mooks hit on her and try to get over? I
know how you guinea bastards operate. This is bullshit man because you have
your ear to the street and you have to know something. Give me something and
you can walk out of here.” Fat Louie just gave him the dead eye. “I don’t have
any idea what you are talking about. Nobody has been talking about these murders
except as it being a shame. It has nothing to do with us. You know that is not
what we do. The only other thing I can tell you is that she worked at the Ace
Hardware on Court Street. Maybe she got in a beef there or something. The guys
there were more likely to hit on her and try to get over. She wasn’t the type
of girl my guys go for. They don’t stick it in hipsters. It’s beneath them. So
you see I don’t know anything.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">O’Malley took over the questioning from the floundering
Johnson. “That is fine as far as it goes concerning Miss Winship who is the poor
lass from the nursery. How about the first victim Sunshine Eastman? She worked
in a boutique on Court Street. Do you have any knowledge of her at all?” “Never
heard of her. Never went into that store as far as I can remember. I have
nothing to help you with there.” “How about this new one this Goldie Hirschberg?
Do you or yours have any knowledge of her?” Fat Louie smirked at that question.
“No, I don’t know some random Jew broad. Why would I know her? She was a civilian.
Nobody would deal with her. No way.” O’Malley agreed. “That was what I thought.
So you have nothing to add now do you son?’ “I told this moolie all I know at
the club this morning.” Johnson bristled at the insult. “Listen you fat fuck
you can’t talk to me that way. I will fuck up your shit!” Johnson moved up as
though he was going to jump across the table. O’Malley put his arm as a bar across
his chest and firmly pushed him back into his chair. He was old but quite strong.
“There be none of that now Detective Johnson. Mr. DeMaio is rightfully upset
that you cuffed him and dragged him down here for no reason. Humiliating in
fact. Now in light of the fact that he
could lodge a complaint that in my view would be substantiated I think we can
give him a little leeway. Now why don’t you go get Detective DeStefano to come
in here and you go and cool off.” Johnson glared at the silver haired Irishman
who said gently, “That’s an order Detective.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Johnson got up and stormed out of the room. O’Malley turned
to the sweating Mafiosi who was enjoying the byplay and said “I am correct am I
not Mr. DeMaio. You will not be making a complaint against Detective Johnson?’ “I
wasn’t planning on it. Although I think the old man might be pissed at what he
pulled on the street today. That was very disrespectful to him ya know what I
mean?” O’Malley smiled his thin Irish smile and said, “Be that as it may I hope
he gets over it quickly. You can tell him from me that the New York City Police
Department meant no disrespect and I apologize for the mistakes of an over
zealous Detective who is naturally distraught of this series of murders that
are plaguing your neighborhood. The key word is “Your” neighborhood. I had
always heard that you people protected your turf from street crime. That poor
girl was right down the block from your playhouse now don’t you know. What does
the old man have to say about that.” Fat Louie laughed out loud. “What are you
saying Sarge? That we should police the neighborhood like we used to do in the
old days. If we did that spook Johnson would never have made it past Hamilton
Avenue. Those fucking days are over. The neighborhood has changed. It went from
ninety nine percent Italian to about twenty if that. We don’t have the people
watching out to let us know what is going on anymore. You know that. Why
pretend?” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">O’Malley agreed. “Yes, what you say it true. If you don’t
perform the same function then maybe Mr. Aiello might understand that he will
not get the same deference and respect. I am old enough to remember how it used
to be. But it is not like that anymore and I am sure that Mr. Aiello is just as
cognizant of the same facts.” Fat Louie had to get in a shot. He was pretending
to be above it all but he was still pissed. “Yeah, you are old enough to remember
that. I bet you were old enough to be on the Pad too! The respect the coppers
get has changed too. You used to be useful. Nowadays not so much. The deference
is not there anymore for youse guys. The old rules are shot. So many guys turned
rat that if you have to survive you have to do what you have to do. I recommend
you tell your boy that.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">O’Malley’s ice blue Irish eyes stopped smiling and narrowed.
“Are you trying to tell me something son? Something I don’t want to hear?” “No,
I ain’t. Not specifically. Just that the old man ain’t predictable no more. Like
I said the old rules don’t apply. I think your boy needs to realize that before
we get in a situation. He might want to steer clear of us that’s all. Word to
the wise.” “I don’t think he needs to fret too much since you are not going to
do anything and neither is that old man. His time is past and he knows that we will
come down on him like a ton of bricks if he dares to do anything to a sworn
officer. That never changes regardless of how we feel about the individual. Why
do I need to tell you this? You should know it by now. So get it in your head
son before you make a big mistake.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Detective DeStefano walked into the room and looked at O’Malley
for direction. “Ah Anthony here you are. Would you be so kind as to transport this
fine gentleman wherever he might wish to go. I assume that would be the club on
Carroll Street?’ “That’s fine. Thank you.” “Please give my regards to Mr.
Aiello and please pass on my message to him. All of it.” “Sure.” <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fat Louie hoisted himself out and walked out of the room
following DeStefano out of the room and then out of Brooklyn South. Everyone they
passed looked at them and wondered what the story was but they didn’t stop as
they fled the premises. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fat Tony and DeStefano walked silently to the Crown Vic that
DeStefano had requisitioned from the front desk. He had left his original ride
for Johnson as he didn’t want to deal with the bullshit if he didn’t. Fat Louie reached to the side of the seat and
pulled the lever down so he could push the seat back as far as it would go.
Even so it was a tight fit. That is why Louie only messed around with SUV’s
these days.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Hey you’re Leo the Lip’s nephew, right?” Fat Louie asked as
they drove away from Brooklyn South. “Yeah. I am” DiStefano wanted to keep the
interaction to a minimum. “Well then you know the dealio. That moolie fucked up
big time. I know your Mick boss thinks that they are inviolable but those
fucking days are over. The climate has changed. You know if every mutt can throw
water and piss on cops and refuse to be arrested then you know the old man is
not gonna take this shit. I want to head off trouble if I can.” DeStefano drove
silently. He didn’t want to get involved. He wanted to go back to Staten Island
where there was no crime to speak of that wasn’t a DUI or a domestic. The
silence lengthened until he couldn’t take it anymore.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Look I don’t know what you think I can do about it? Johnson
don’t listen to nobody least of all me. O’Malley is right. If you move on
Johnson he will come down on you big time. You know that right?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fat Louie sighed. “Yeah. but I don’t think it matters.” They
drove on in silence. When they pulled up to the clubhouse Fat Louie got out
without another word. DeStefano drove off to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel to get
on the highway on the side entrance that neighborhood people knew about.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fat Louie walked into the clubhouse and walked into a shit
storm. Geno was raging and screaming and acting like a dick. The other mooks
were standing around with most of them backed up against the wall as Geno
smashed glasses. There was no sign of the old man. This shit was not good.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Geno, Geno what the fuck,” Fat Louie said as he walked toward
the raging ginzo. Geno spat at him. “Fuck off Fatso shut the fuck up. I can do
what I want. I am a fucking made man and you ain’t shit.” Geno took a rocks glass
and flung it at Fat Louie’s head. He put up his meaty paw and batted it away
like King Kong smacking a biplane. Fat Louie generally gave off a placid cow
like vibe but that wasn’t his true nature. He was more like a bull. A big fat powerful
bull. And his balls were twisted. Everything that happened from being arrested to
being brought into the station contributed to him seeing red. And Geno was the
fucking red cape waving in his face.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fat Louie lumbered forward and punched Geno right in the face
breaking a few of his teeth. Geno rocked back against the bar and bounced
forward. He was a dick but he had balls and could take a punch. You don’t get
made if you are a pussy. He swung with all his might and buried his fist in Fat
Louie’s massive gut. He didn’t even feel it. All of that fat served as
insulation or maybe a shock adsorber. Fat Louie grabbed Geno by the neck and turned
and banged his head against the bar. Once, twice, three times. Geno was out and
Fat Louie dropped him on the floor. The mooks stared at him like they saw a ghost.
He had put his hands on a made guy. Fucked him up.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fat Louie bent down and picked up Geno like he was broken
doll. “Hey Huey and Louie take this dick down to the basement and throw him on
the cot. Lock him in. Got it.” “Sure Louie no problem.” They took Geno and
supported him under both arms as he was as limp as a rag doll. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fat Louie turned to the other three guys backed up against
the wall. “What are you chootches doing for fucks sake. Clean up this mess
before the old man gets in. Then get the fuck out of here and don’t come back
tomorrow until I reach out.” They scurried around to clean up the broken glass
and spilled liquor. Fat Louie went behind the bar and poured himself a Johnnie
Walker neat. He drank it slowly. He laughed at himself.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Tomorrow will be an interesting day.<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-54139864614411014422022-08-25T00:38:00.001-04:002022-08-26T13:35:17.301-04:00Hipster Holocaust<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjyWouakBH9v03p8reWj8iN7Focpkd0jMeFybMELD1tNCmVt4Fj89EJfPwESBsxYP1ZuWrPGrHrsiwwVRdCo9M1tq8m3gnkwyuwBSQheALVe1KPbMziGkZtBvVB-JGTb1kjmEh0a82yArVr4MWQz1l2ZrplOgGNXhJjP2EFJydjVh0j6r8WbyaGuhY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="436" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjyWouakBH9v03p8reWj8iN7Focpkd0jMeFybMELD1tNCmVt4Fj89EJfPwESBsxYP1ZuWrPGrHrsiwwVRdCo9M1tq8m3gnkwyuwBSQheALVe1KPbMziGkZtBvVB-JGTb1kjmEh0a82yArVr4MWQz1l2ZrplOgGNXhJjP2EFJydjVh0j6r8WbyaGuhY" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">Hipster Holocaust Chapter Thirty-Two<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Goldie Hirshberg was pissed. Her fucking dog had run away.
The stupid boxer was really her moron husband’s pet but she got stuck taking
care of it. Along with their brat of a kid and their stupid brownstone. This
wasn’t what she had signed up for when agreed to marry the jerk.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She had thought she had the perfect “Sex in the City”
lifestyle when she had graduated from college. She moved to Manhattan from Manhasset
to be on the cutting edge of fashion and style. Goldie thought she was in the
height of fashion. Part of the hipster invasion she would go from art gallery
opening to spoken word poetry slams. She loved to get all dolled up and go out
with her three best girlfriends. Cosmo’s and flirting and maybe bringing
somebody home when she felt particularly daring. Every week they sat in front
of their TV to study “Sex in the City” which served as her textbook and lodestar.
Like millions of other young women of her generation she thought she was oh so
unique and fascinating while she slavishly copied the attitudes and actions
from the show. She sent a decade proving how special she was by acting like
everyone else.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her carefree lifestyle all came to an end when she met Joshy
on her birthday when she turned thirty-five. He was a Wall Street Guy. Tall,
handsome and best of all he was a Jew. Mazel Tov. Her mother and grandmother
could stop haking her to get married. They had a whirlwind courtship of fancy
restaurants and trips to the Hamptons to his boss’s mansion on Shelter Island.
They even took a helicopter there once when he was working on a big project and
his boss wanted him at his fingertips. She didn’t care about him abandoning her
to toady to his boss because she got to hang out at the pool with the Eastern
European Trophy wife as they downed martini’s and basked in the sun.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They had the big wedding and the honeymoon to the Islands
that anyone would want. She thought their life would be golden. A smart
Manhattan apartment. A place in the Hamptons. Cocktails at the Carlyle in her
Jimmy Choos. Except for one thing. She got pregnant on the honeymoon. Her
husband refused to live in a Manhattan apartment with a new baby. He had grown
up on the Upper West Side and swore his kid would have a yard. They joined the
exodus of the rich urbanites to the wilds of Brooklyn. Brownstone Brooklyn to
be exact. It was at least civilized. Not Bensonhurst or Borough Park. Carroll
Gardens had smart restaurants and coffee shops. Even a cool bar or two. They
bought a two-million-dollar brownstone next to his boss which sort of assuaged
her grief at the end of her dream. You see she thought she was Carrie but she
turned out to be Miranda. A miserable cunt who married a guy she really didn’t
love who got stuck in Brooklyn!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Goldie had to make the best of it. She eventually dropped
the rug rat. Bought the expensive stroller. Even got that stupid fucking dog. She
just didn’t want the false aura of domesticity end her life. She had to go out
for cocktails with her friends. They even took the trip out to Brooklyn now and
then to hang out with her. She had been sitting at the outside café at that
cool bar that pretended to be a slice of Texas in Brooklyn with her best
friend. Along with a whole lineup of pretentious snots who were too cool for
school. Other women who had settled for a dude with a dollar now that forty was
in the offing and their biological clock has started going Koo-Koo bitch you
are approaching your sell by date.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today was the day that took the cake! She had the stupid dog
run away. Her idiot husband would be livid. Sometimes she thought he loved the
dog more then he loved her. He was certainly more affectionate toward him.
Maybe that was it. He was gay for a dog. What a loser.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">All of that didn’t matter. She had to find a way to smooth
it over. She was good at that. She can say she was attacked by that bitch in
the bakery. And that stupid man with the wagon. He was probably homeless so
there would be no point in suing him. But they could sue that waitress, her
bakery and anybody else she could think of. She came from a very litigious
family.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Suing everybody in Brooklyn would not solve the problem when
her husband came home. The only thing he loved more than that fucking dog was bourbon.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Maria come down to take of the baby I have to go out,” she
shouted in her normal petulant tone. She treated Maria like a slave. Which what
these Mexicans were to these rich entitled hipster bitches. Just a robot to do
what she said or get fired. They never hired legal immigrants. They wanted the
power to intimidate them and bully them with impunity. So only illegals need
apply. Mexicans were the new slave labor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She never thought about what Maria thought about her and how she was
treated. Goldie had never heard of Nat Turner. But then Goldie had never heard
of a lot of things.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maria rushed down and picked up the baby who immediately
started cooing at her and was settled. Goldie felt jealous for a moment but
only for a moment. There was time enough for her daughter to get to know her.
Then she could torture her the way her mother had done to her. It was a family
tradition.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t expect Joshy until late tonight. But if he calls or
God forbid comes home early you can tell him I will be right back. I have to do
an errand.” “Yes, Missus I will tell him.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Goldie went out the door and dialed up an Uber. Thank God
for the ride app. No need for a car. Or to call a dirty cab let alone a car
service that used to service the transportation needs of people in Brooklyn
until the ride share came along. The ride share app made living in Brooklyn
almost tolerable.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While she was waiting, she went to the mailbox and reached
behind it to the hidden recess in the wall. She slid a panel out and took out
the pack of cigarettes and the lighter she had secreted there. She lit up a
butt and put the pack and lighter away. She had promised Joshy she would stop
smoking after she had the baby but that was just one of the many things she had
lied about. She really needed that smoke. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Uber pulled up. Great. A fuckin’ Toyota. She had to
squeeze in a fucking Toyota. Can this day get any shittier. “Car for Goldie,”
asked the driver who looked more like a Russian MMA fighter than an Uber
Driver. “Yeah, that’s me. Take me to Otsego off Van Brunt in Red Hook.” Goldie
threw her ciggie on the floor and got in the back seat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They drove without incident to the hipster brewery that
specialized in home brewed bourbons. She knew Joshy loved their stuff so was
going to get him a big bottle to give him before she told him she had lost his
dog. Maybe that would distract him for a moment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She strolled into the place with her usual toxic mix of
bravado and entitlement. She bellied up to the bar and order a Cosmo. She
needed a little liquid courage to face what she was going to get when her hubby
got home. He would be pissed off. Not in a violent way. He was too much of
wimpy nerd to raise his hand to her. In any event she would kick his ass if he
did. He would just whine and pout and act out unless he got something to
distract him. The bourbon should do the trick. Plus, the stupid mutt would probably
come home on his own. Didn’t Lassie always find her way home? Why couldn’t that
dumb fuck find his way home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As she ruminated on her sorry lot in life, she had inhaled
that Cosmo as if it was water. The bartender was no dummy so he set up a new
one by the time she had finished the last drop of her first. He did the same
with the next one. And the three after that. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She had managed to get trashed. She did that when she was
upset. Or even more when she was uncertain. As she stumbled out of the bar she
stopped and took a deep breath of the night air. What time was it? She had no
idea. No matter. She had decided on the strategy to deflect her husband’s
anger. Shock and awe. She would give him his bottle of bourbon. And a blow job.
That always got her what she wanted ever since Hebrew camp. Still, she was
pissed. He gets all that and what the fuck does she get? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I know,” she mumbled to herself. “Ice Cream.” That new
fancy ice cream parlor she had read about in Time Out New York was around here
somewhere. She would find it and get some ice cream to go with the bourbon.
Look out bitches because Goldie has fixed it so everybody would be happy!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She had only a general idea of where she was going. She
staggered in a zig zag pattern from the wall of a building to the cars in the
street. She would bounce off one and stagger diagonally to the other to bounce
off that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still moving forward in search
of her ice cream.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If this kept up much longer, she would just call an Uber and
go home. She had just bounced off an older model BMW. What was that car doing
in Red Hook. Some people had more money than sense. She barely noticed someone
standing in the doorway. Not that she was afraid. Her natural stance was
arrogance and entitlement and drink only reinforced her tendencies. She was
never afraid. Not even wandering drunkenly in Red Hook. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She tried to straighten up a little as she started past the
figure in the darkened doorway of a shuttered shop. She passed him by without a
thought in her drunken head. She had only gotten about two feet in past the
doorway when she felt a vise like grip around her breasts as an arm grabbed her
and held her tight. She tried to scream but nothing came out. Just a wet
gurgle. She only felt that wetness. As if she had thrown up on herself. She
dropped her bottle and it sounded like a gunshot when it broke on the sidewalk.
She wanted to shout. To scream. To complain. But nothing came out. Except more gurgles.
And blood.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She fell to the ground and her last thoughts were not of her
husband. Not of her child. Her last conscious thought was of the hundred
dollars she had lost in that broken bottle. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was that kind of fool.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-67038074588199497952022-08-24T14:00:00.003-04:002022-08-24T14:00:19.159-04:00Hipster Holocaust<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGsOTBPp8dFOE4BcFbrFp48AN_w9jc1_Qo5m4gVSBcwVNlBmSQwQqLe7HIt_KOpa92xJak7RUx8Gd-M4eBCXvnKQOyZ5he6OaSeVqC7cZJysPIz21oMncYOC4ert0AsZROSvW1Q4894l1g9aO5fEn1LblgVwH2lQCv4ZS_cVWSYltoftfkckM4bwq-" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="436" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiGsOTBPp8dFOE4BcFbrFp48AN_w9jc1_Qo5m4gVSBcwVNlBmSQwQqLe7HIt_KOpa92xJak7RUx8Gd-M4eBCXvnKQOyZ5he6OaSeVqC7cZJysPIz21oMncYOC4ert0AsZROSvW1Q4894l1g9aO5fEn1LblgVwH2lQCv4ZS_cVWSYltoftfkckM4bwq-" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Hipster Holocaust Chapter Thirty-One<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anna was doing her evening self-care ritual. She had taken a warm
shower to get all of the grime from working at the bakery and traveling on the
subway to another audition. She had even washed her hair which was a pain in
the ass because she was a member of the Lotta-hair-club. Then the various
creams and oils she always applied after her shower. Ending with her sitting in
front of her mirror using her Gua Sha. It was made of her favorite crystal
green aventurine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Green aventurine gave her grounding and stability. It gave her
strength and courage which she needed since she had just been in a fight. She
hadn’t been in a fight since kindergarten and she didn’t know how she felt
about it. She was always getting into it to protect somebody else. She would
fight with her bosses when they abused the Mexicans who worked in the kitchen.
Anna suspected that they were illegal so they didn’t say shit if they had a
mouthful. She had to stick up for them. She would not stand by and see anybody
bullied.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That’s why she jumped into help Leo. He seemed to be on the
spectrum. Or slow as Celestine put it. He needed someone to step up for him
since his mother was gone. She wasn’t going to take him on as a permanent
project but she wouldn’t let him be bullied right in front of her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Using the Gua Sha always calmed her down. The repetitive stroking
of her cheek and face up and down to stimulate blood flow and lessen
inflammation. She would meditate later to clear her charkas as she had done
since she was a teenager and had first gotten into yoga.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Anna Bella, can you come down for a minute,” Celestine shouted in
the hallway. Anna sighed. She loved her dearly but there was a downside to
living with a landlord who treated you like family. You were at her beck and
call at all times. Celestine was oblivious to the fact that she needed some
time alone once in a while. Especially after an emotional upheaval like a fist
fight on Court Street.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Okay Celestine, just a minute,” she shouted in turn. She got up
and rinsed her face in warm water and patted it dry. She went down the stairs
from her parlor floor apartment to the basement. Celestine was sitting in her
chair and motioned to her to sit on the couch. Good thing she was wearing
sweats instead of her night gown. Celestine was typical of every old Italian
lady has she had her furniture covered in plastic slipcovers. At least the
couch and the love seat next to it. She didn’t cover her recliner but it was
covered in a crocheted blanket that her sister had sent her. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Anna whata you do? I hear you were fighting in front of your
store today. What’s the matter? You in trouble?” Celestine asked as she looked
very concerned. Anna just laughed to herself. Sure, she was a neighborhood girl
now. Which means everybody was up in her business. “The jungle telegraph really
works Celestine. How did you hear about that?” she asked with a smile. “You
know more about what is happening in the neighborhood than I do and you never
leave the house.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Celestine answered with a guilty smile of her own. “Please Bella I
donna wanna gossip. But that chiacchierone Birdie Rubino couldn’t wait to call
me up and tell me you were in a fight. Why were you fighting?” Anna laughed
again. “Boy she gets around. She always comes into the store and minds
everybody’s<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>business. I wasn’t really
in a fight. I just had to straighten out this girl that was hitting Leo. You
know Leo? Your friend that died son. He is always walking around with the
pushcart. Some nasty lady had her dog and he ran and attacked him. Got all
tangled up in his legs and the cart. Then the waitress started hitting him. I
couldn’t let that happen. So I decked her,” Anna said all in a rush.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Celestine laughed out loud. “Good for you Bella. You canta let
them hurt poor Leo. That Bambino is lost without his mother. Good for you! But
are you gonna get in trouble? These new people they like to sue. They sued Connie
because she wouldn’t shovel her snow. They will sue anybody. Are you gonna have
a problem with this?” “No, I don’t think so. It was the waitress and she
doesn’t any money for a lawyer. She works at that bar on the corner. She
doesn’t want any trouble.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Celestine looked at her for a moment as if she was deciding if she
should say something. “You know what you should do? If the girl makes a problem,
you tell Vincenzo. He will take care of it. I promise you.” Anna smiled deeply
at this and Celestine blushed because she knew that Anna was thinking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Oh, so I should ask your boyfriend to take of it for me?” Anna
joked. “If I tell him you were asking he will be sure to jump in.” “Statazit
you. He will do it because he likes you. Don’t you tell me he is nice to you
every day. He don’t do that with people he don’t like. You tell him and he will
do it. For you. Now let’s a stop with this foolishness. How about we have some
ice cream, eh?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anna laughed at the obvious way Celestine tried to wiggle out of
talking about her long-lost love. Plus, the fact that she thought that ice
cream cured everything. Well at least in that she was right.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anna went into kitchen and opened the old school freezer
compartment. She took out a half empty gallon of butter pecan ice cream and
went over to the counter. She took out two spoons and a couple of small bowls
from the cabinet. She got the ice cream scooper that she had gifted Celestine
out of the red ceramic La Creuset cylinder that held all of her utensils.
Another gift she had given her on her birthday. She made two bowls of ice cream
that used up what was left in the carton. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anna walked back to the living room and gave Celestine a bowl and
a spoon. They sat quietly for a moment as they both turned their attention to
the tasty frozen treat. As they spooned up the butter pecan Anna decided to ask
some questions.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Let me ask you a question Celestine. Leo what’s his story. I know
you told me some of it. He lived with his mom who was you friend. Ever since he
was a kid. Now that she is passed, he is all alone. He just walks all over the
neighborhood and picks thing out of the garbage. What don’t I know about him?”
“Well, he is slow. Not mentally retarded like Rose that poor girl from Tompkins
Place. He is just slow and can’t really deal with people. His mother took him
at of school at an early age. I thought she was wrong to do it but she wouldn’t
listen to anyone. A lot of people kept their children home if they were slow in
the old days. Not so much anymore. I never thought he was that slow but he did
have a problem talking to people he didn’t know. The problem was always gonna
be when the mother died. They have no other family. Lucky there is money. She
owned a couple of houses and made a lot of rent money. I think the lawyer on
Court Street collects the money now and gives Leo an allowance every month. She
set it up before she died.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anna thought about that for a moment. “But if nobody checks on the
lawyer, he can steal all the money, right? I wouldn’t trust him with that. I
hear bad things about him.” Celestine smiled at her as though she had made a
smart observation. “Yes, that is true. But you see Leo’s father used to work
with Vincenzo. In fact, the story is he saved his life. He told the lawyer no
funny business after the mother died. And the lawyer would never cross
Vincenzo.” Anna giggled. “It all goes back to Vincenzo doesn’t it Celestine?” “Not
all of it but a lot of it does Bella. He looks out for Leo in his own way.”
Anna agreed with that, “He looks out for me too. I saw that when I got into the
tussle, he was ready to intervene. But he let me handle it. I just saw that he
had my back.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Celestine looked a little cowed at that news. “Bella please donna
get too close with Vincenzo. He is a bad man. I know he sometime does good
things but you have to remember he is a bad one. The Black Hand has always been
like that. They give with one hand and take with the other. Please donna get
too close to him. It is nice that he was behind you but he really didn’t do
anything did he? He should have helped Leo. Not you. Still, you dida good
thing. I am proud of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Celestine put out her arms and Anna got up and hugged the old
lady. They looked at each other and laughed. It was great that they had found
each other. It made both of them a lot less lonely. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anna picked up the bowls and spoons and brought them to the sink
to wash. She put them on the drainboard and wiped her hands on the dish towel.
She went back to the living room.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I going upstairs Celestine. Thanks for the ice cream and your
concern about me. Don’t worry. I will be careful. I am not too worried. After
all I have you and Vincenzo looking after me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Celestine waved at her and said, “You kidder you. You go and get
your sleep. I will see you tomorrow.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anna went upstairs and changed and brushed her teeth. She crawled
into bed and pulled the covers up. She really did appreciate Celestine and how
she cared about her. It was so different than how she grew up. It gave her a
warm feeling. She really wanted to do something nice for her. She stopped moving
for a minute. That’s it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She would get her some ice cream.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-89907192201211742482022-08-22T16:01:00.003-04:002022-08-22T16:01:12.281-04:00House of the Dragon is here<iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/DotnJ7tTA34" style="background-image: url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/DotnJ7tTA34/hqdefault.jpg);" width="480"></iframe><div><br /></div><div>I didn't have much hope in the new prequel of the "Game of Thrones" franchise. I was pleasantly surprised. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now they had to bow somewhat to political correctness as they had a black dude on the privy council and there was a lot of female empowerments rah rah stuff, but it wasn't too bad.</div><div><br /></div><div>You see they kind of stayed true to the author of the work George Rape Rape Martin who revels in violence and gore especially directed at woman.</div><div> </div><div>The tourney scenes where they jousted and fought at melee were the most realistic that I have ever seen. </div><div>But the real scene stealer believe it or not is a birth scene. Not quite "Call the Midwife."</div><div><br /></div><div>The Queen has not produced a male heir after several still-borns and miscarriages and crib deaths. So there is a geriatric pregnancy in the hope of producing a male. The birth scene is horrendous. It rivals the scene where they burned an eleven-year-old girl at the stake while she called for her mother. It is heart wrenching. But probably true to the facts of medieval medicine when the heir to the throne is concerned. You have to see it to believe it.</div><div><br /></div><div>On balance I think it is worth watching. For now.</div>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-31689354336711546522022-08-22T15:11:00.001-04:002022-08-22T15:11:14.140-04:00Hipster Holocaust <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-yB3NxR67rk5iBUJx9qSS0rSYDVkHu9Nz2Se43fTfX_Q9tem_bpeyVobNZGFJA0vhsNSvoBu7ibAyotrJRvUCNPk7cRAprDIc6z_MU58xIV3JpnlpFLuVLv9oyye5XjuA-NrMFLsmreaKBVSpRrAImqCkwKB-5KM1z3fzXBRnUNj-ycsSOrerq0CY/s332/dumpster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="303" data-original-width="332" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-yB3NxR67rk5iBUJx9qSS0rSYDVkHu9Nz2Se43fTfX_Q9tem_bpeyVobNZGFJA0vhsNSvoBu7ibAyotrJRvUCNPk7cRAprDIc6z_MU58xIV3JpnlpFLuVLv9oyye5XjuA-NrMFLsmreaKBVSpRrAImqCkwKB-5KM1z3fzXBRnUNj-ycsSOrerq0CY/s320/dumpster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Hipster Holocaust Chapter Thirty</p><p>The old man sat silently in the car as Fat Louie drove him from the bakery back to the club. He sat in the back seat like it was an Uber because he never let anyone sit behind him in a car. Nobody was going to Paulie Gatto his ass if he could help it.</p><p>Fat Louie just sat and drove and sweated through his purple silk shirt. He thought being the old man's driver would lead to a promotion. More scratch. At least some shy customers. Something. It had for Geno but so far, he hadn't seen ugotz. That might be because Frankie always seemed to be his wingman when he went to pick up the boss. Frankie was always pushing his way in there kissing the old man's ass. Fat Louie thought that was a mistake. The old man didn't care about that shit. He was long past the place where empty flattery meant something to him. They all kissed his ass and had for fifty years. That's what you do with a killer. You certainly didn't want to piss the old man off. Frankie was just too brash. He acted like he was respectful but there was always an underlying layer of contempt that Fat Louie could feel. And if Fat Louie could feel it, you know the old man could. Fat Louie was so fat he couldn't even feel his dick under his stomach, but he sure could feel the oleaginous bullshit that Frankie ladled on the boss. Now that he didn't show up today, he thought that Fast Frankie might have finally stepped in it. Fat Louie played the long game.</p><p>They pulled up in front of the club on Carroll Street to see Geno standing outside. He went and opened the door and the old man got out on to the sidewalk as Geno slammed the door shut. The old man looked at the door as if it made that slamming sound by itself. "What?" the old man said out of the side of his mouth as he looked away. "I need to talk to you about something boss," Geno said as he rushed to open the door of the club.</p><p>They walked in silence to the "safe" room and closed the door. The old man sat in his chair and waited for the problem. There was always a problem. Geno was a fuckin' problem. Because he was not a problem solver. </p><p>"That scumbag McCarthy and his Rican sidekick scooped up Frankie and drove off with him," Geno blurted. "I wasn't able to stop it without violence and they took him in their piece of shit car and drove away. That dumb shit admitted he knew one of the whores that got killed. When he admitted that I knew they had to take him in. I went into the club to call the lawyer and they were gone when I got back. I called the precinct, and they didn't know anything about it. McCarthy didn't answer the phone, so I called that other mook. You know. The guy. He said they hadn't seen those two numbnuts all day. So, I don't know what the fuck you know?"</p><p>The old man sat silently and looked at Geno like he was an idiot child. "Did you do what you were supposed to do?" he said. Geno nodded affirmatively. "Yeah, I just swept for bugs an hour ago. We are fine. Nobody else came in the room. We're clean." The old man sat and thought for a moment. This all sounded fugazy. Was Frankie talking to the cops? No that wasn't happening. They wouldn't make a big show of picking him up at the club if that was the case. Was he really a suspect in one of the killings or the disappearance of that girl Lydia? Did they actually think he did or did they have something that tied him to the bodies.</p><p>"Did you talk to him like I told you about the broads?" "No boss I didn't get a chance before those two scumbags showed up. They didn't say anything. They just grabbed him up and took him before I had a chance to brace him about his bullshit. You think they really like him for these broads that got killed?" The old man grunted. "Yeah, I think that would be it. Especially if that chootch told them he knew one of them. He had to since we do since she worked down the block. They had to take him in to sweat him for information at the very least. That scumbag McCarthy asked for our help, but they got their own shit they do. That DNA shit. All kinds of bullshit. Maybe they are coming at him for some reason we don't know. Like a witness. McCarthy knows he's with us. He wouldn't grab him up just to roust him. There had to be some reason. Tell the lawyer to go to the precinct and demand to see Frankie. In the meantime, go out and find him and tell him I want to see him. McCarthy I mean. Don't take no for an answer. But no rough stuff. He might be bent but he is still a copper."</p><p>Geno hesitated. "McCarthy is a major league prick. He ain't gonna listen to reason boss. I don't know how I am gonna get him here without threatening him." The old man grunted again. Geno would never learn. He was getting tired of him. "I said no rough stuff but of course you can set him straight. You need to remind him of what he owes. And what happens if he doesn't pay. If he still holds out on you come and see me and I will tell you what to do. Now go and do it." </p><p>Geno turned and left without another word.</p><p>Aiello sat and thought about the whole mess. He was getting tired of Geno and his limitations. The kid had his heart in the right place, but he just didn't have what it takes. Maybe he should think about bringing up somebody from the minors. It was late in the game for him to change it up but needs must. He gripped his chair and pushed himself up. It was getting harder and harder to maneuver these days. He just couldn't let anybody see it. His weakness. Because if he did then the hyenas would pounce. He walked over to the door and called out. "Get Louie here I want to talk to him." One of the wannabees sitting at the bar said, "Which Louie boss?" There was at least four Louie's in the crew. "Fat Louie. He might be out with the car. Tell him I want to see him."</p><p>Five long minutes later there was a knock on the door. It must have taken that fat fuck that long to waddle in from the car. "Come in," the old man said loud enough for him to hear through the door. The door opened and Fat Louie came in. The old man looked him up and down. He was a fat fuck. But the thing was he had a brain. The old man had noticed that. He hadn't commented on it, but he knew it just the same.</p><p>"Siddown kid I wanna talk to you. Use the straight chair so you don't sweat onna the upholstery." Fat Louie made a noise as he gingerly lowered himself into the chair. Like a lot of fat guys, he had a strange grace about him. Like Jackie Gleason or something. "Where's your shadow?" the old man spit out like he was pissed. He wanted to keep this mook on his toes. No complacency in his crew.</p><p>"Who Frankie?" Fat Louie said. "I don't know. He usually jumps in the car if he knows I am picking you up, but he wasn't around today. Maybe Geno has him doing something." Smart. Pushing it onto Geno. The old man had noticed the unspoken rivalry between them. Even more he noticed that Geno was oblivious to it. Another reason that it might be time for a change. The problem is that Geno was a made guy and Fatso was just an associate. There were only two made guys left in his crew. Him and Geno. The whole crew knew that somebody was due to get straightened out soon but they didn't know who. This situation might tell the tale.</p><p>"Geno said that McCarthy and the spic picked him up in front of the club while we were on Court Street at the bakery. I assume somebody filled you in." "Yeah, I heard. He must be in the hoosegow, no?" "Hoosegow? Who the fuck are you Roy Rodgers for fucks sake. He ain't in the jug on Union Street. The guy said he didn't come in. Find him. Or McCarthy. And tell him I want to see him. Now. Capice?" "Sure boss no problem."</p><p>Fat Louie hoisted himself up out of the chair and left the room. It was like the fucking Hindenburg had just left the building. The room got twenty degrees colder when his fat carcass left. It was good. He had set up a sort of half ass competition. Let's see who got to that Irish prick first. More importantly who will get him here the quickest. </p><p>Fat Louie went out the street. He had to figure out where to go to find Frankie. He knew his usual haunts so he could eliminate them first. If he wasn't in the jug at Union Street, then he might hold up in one of his locals to nurse his sores. He would come back tomorrow full of bluster and bullshit. If that is what happened. But Fat Louie didn't think so. Still, he would cover all of his bases. </p><p>He stuck his head back into the club. 'Hey, I want three of youse out here now." Three of the wannabees at the bar came out on the street. They were poor imitations of the mob associates of the Seventies and Eighties. They wore designer jeans and silk shirts like they were auditioning for an extra role on the Sopranos. You might as well have called them Huey, Dewey and Louie. Their actual names were Nino, Enzo and Louie. </p><p>"Boys we are looking for Frankie. And that Irish prick McCarthy. They might be together they might not. Enzo you go check that strip joint the Foxy Den. Nino you check out the bars down Atlantic. I know he hangs out at Monteros sometimes so he might be drowning his sorrows. It is also a haunt of McCarthy so go slow. If you see him tell him the old man wants him. Or better yet call me. Louie, you get that Spanish place in Sunset Park. You know the one. With the cheap semi-pros. Check it out and then come back here. Remember grab up Frankie. If he gives you any shit call me and sit on him. In fact, if he says he ain't coming in then sit and drink with him and call me and wait. If you see McCarthy tell him the old man wants to talk to him. Now. Got it?"</p><p>"Yeah sure Louie," the three chorused. They went off to their individual cars that were parked on Hicks Street. </p><p>Fat Louie was going to do his own search. He took the big car. The SUV. This way if the old man needed a ride, he would call him. He didn't want anybody else to bogart his spot. He drove off the block and headed deeper into Red Hook. There was a bar in an out of the way corner that McCarthy could often be found at when he wanted to lay low. It was where he had found him when he was in deep with the bookies. He had floated him enough escarole to get straight and put the word out that nobody should take his action. That was how they got their hooks into him. </p><p>He turned down Lorraine and off to a side street and pulled in front of the bar. It was a nondescript hole in the wall. He had definitely found McCarthy. His car was outside. Fat Louie sighed. This was not going to be fun.</p><p>He slowly lumbered out of the car and waddled into the bar. McCarthy and Torrez were seated in the back at a table against the wall. Various shades of hipsters were strewn around the bar busy staring at their phones. Fat Louie waddled up to the table as the two detectives stared into their drinks. </p><p>"Hey McCarthy. The old man wants to see you. Now." McCarthy looked up blearily and laughed. "He does? Good for him. Look Fatso I don't work for him so he can go fuck himself. I'm tired of sucking guinea dick you hear me you miserable fat rice ball? Go fuck yourself."</p><p>Fat Louie took it. He didn't get upset at the invective. He was fat. He knew that. Calling him fat didn't make him blink. But blowing off the old man was a bad choice. For both of them.</p><p>"Look Dummy, can I call you Dummy? I know all of your friends do. It ain't smart for you to get on the wrong side of the old man. I am telling you this so you don't fuck up. Look I'm on your side. Didn't I get you out of those gambling debts? Now I want to help you again. Lets just go talk to the old man."</p><p>"I already told you I ain't gonna play your game anymore you shit. So just fuck off and die all right you fat fuck."</p><p>"Hey I can't help you if you don't want to help yourself. But here's the thing. Where's Frankie? He left with you and now he is in the wind. He ain't in the jug we know that. So where is he Dummy?"</p><p>"That piece of human garbage. Where do find garbage Fatso? You know they found that girl in the garbage. In the dump on Staten Island. She got all chewed up from the truck. Frankie said he knew her. So maybe he is in the garbage. It's where the elite meet you know what I'm talking about. I mean where do you find garbage in Red Hook? Riddle me that Fat Man?"</p><p>Fat Louie stopped to think for a minute. He knew that the girl had gone in a dumpster. He knew all about it. He knew about all the crime that happened in the neighborhood. The clerk in the precinct was his cousin. She fed him all the details of what was going on. Especially murders. So he knew about the girl from the nursery. In fact he knew her. He had bought some plants for his Mom from her. She was a nice girl. He was upset at her murder. If he thought Frankie had done it he would have whacked him then and there. So what was this drunken Irish prick telling him. That Frankie was garbage. Where would he put him. Then it hit him.</p><p>In a dumpster.</p><p>He turned and left them without another word. If the dumb Irish prick was going to blow off the old man it was on him. He went back to the car and got in and drove off. He started driving up and down the streets in a grid pattern. Stopping at every dumpster he found. He would get out of the car and look in each one. It was amazing how many of them there were in Red Hook. Gentrification led to a lot of refurbishing. Refurbishing lead to a lot of dumpsters. There seemed to be one on every block. </p><p>The first five came up empty. The sixth one not so much. It was an old rusty dirty one. He looked inside and there was nothing but rotting garbage. </p><p>Behind it there was more garbage.</p><p>Frankie was lying in the street covered in blood. He bent down to check his pulse. There was a steady strong beat. He was alive. Just unconscious. For now.</p><p>That could change if the old man got his balls twisted.</p><p>He didn't want to bet either way.</p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-60600629839617796762022-08-21T18:52:00.001-04:002022-08-21T20:48:52.558-04:00Hipster Holocaust <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhq-M14f4OEnd5VBFimSCrOrMEqvwzapDDT3aBHdPgm7akNGied8iFJJ9EIKLTNaduZzIEyar_T5GxbgVCZ2XvS6JKjf3-eE_ru3GL_ikwxbF0OTJebYoo0mdnevm-EPR2_2t00nkEojXJ8MWTLBPtk5PYrj72Zu_YUKCKVPFeSxRxrnTuG-_lYCYlN" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="212" data-original-width="230" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhq-M14f4OEnd5VBFimSCrOrMEqvwzapDDT3aBHdPgm7akNGied8iFJJ9EIKLTNaduZzIEyar_T5GxbgVCZ2XvS6JKjf3-eE_ru3GL_ikwxbF0OTJebYoo0mdnevm-EPR2_2t00nkEojXJ8MWTLBPtk5PYrj72Zu_YUKCKVPFeSxRxrnTuG-_lYCYlN" width="260" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p> Hipster Holocaust Chapter Twenty-Nine</p><p>Lydia lay back on the stained mattress trying to remain hopeful. It was a very hard task as nothing had changed. No one had come to save her. No one had come into the cellar other than the strange man who must be her captor. He would bring her some food and water. Replace the spackle bucket where she went to the bathroom with a clean one. He never spoke to her.</p><p>But he did start touching her. </p><p>It was very strange. At first, he seemed afraid. Tentative. He would touch her leg. Or maybe her hair. Then he started rubbing his palm up and down her body. First it had been her legs. Then her arms. Her stomach. Gradually he had progressed to touching her breasts. Each day he went a little further. Each day he got a little stranger. Lately he had begun rubbing her sex. It was beyond strange.</p><p>She wanted to resist the touching. But she immediately realized that would not be the best strategy. If he got upset, he might turn against her. He could beat her. Abuse her. Or worst of all just go away and leave her here to starve. So, she tried to be receptive without over doing it. She sensed that if she tried to be seductive, he would balk. She couldn't come on strong and initiate anything. His whole demeanor was inscrutable. In the beginning, she thought he was just shy. But more and more she thought that wasn't it. It seemed like he was savoring something. Her weakness. Her helplessness. Her nakedness. Her fear.</p><p>It was like he had an itch and the only thing that scratched it was the fear in her eyes as she trembled under his touch.</p><p>Her fear had become a palpable thing. She had always been an optimist and had thought there was some way she could get out of her predicament. Now she was afraid that she would be stuck down here for a long time. She was afraid that this would be like those stories you read about where a girl was kidnapped and held for years on end. She remembered that case with the young girl on Long Island who was held captive by a family friend for seventeen days. She hoped that was what would happen to her. She couldn't be here for months or years. Someone would find her soon. It all depended on who this guy was, and could he be traced back to her? Was it someone she knew? Someone she had a relationship with or worse had rejected in some way? Could that be how the people who must be searching for her would find her in this cellar? The police must look at all of those possibilities if they were looking for her. This guy just seemed too weird for it to be that simple.</p><p>Lydia heard the toggle of the lock to the cellar door. He was back. The door opened and he walked in carrying a sandwich and the empty bucket. He took a bottle of orange juice out of the bucket and put it next to her with the sandwich that he also placed on the floor. He took the dirty bucket and put it on the other side of the door. Then he came over and knelt on the floor next to her.</p><p>She smiled at him. Maybe she could still charm him. "Hey why don't you want to talk to me? I bet you do, Let's talk. I know you are not a bad person. You don't want to get in trouble. Please if you let me go, I will not tell anyone about what happened. It would be our secret. Just please I feel so dirty. I haven't showered and I smell. Can you at least take me to somewhere I can shower? I swear I will be good. I won't try to get away or anything. I just want to clean myself up. Please. I know you are kind. Please."</p><p>He sat up and stared at her though the mask that he always wore. He never took it off. She had no idea what he looked like. She knew he was definitely a white boy because he had taken off his gloves to feel her up. His hands were a working man's hands. Or at least not a guy who sat behind a desk all day. She didn't remember anyone that looked like him. Or at least she couldn't focus enough to remember. The constant fear and dread she felt just kept her discombobulated. He stood up and left the room making sure to lock the door behind him. </p><p>That went well. </p><p>At least he hadn't touched her again. She reached for the sandwich and saw that it was a potato and egg special from Joe's luncheonette. He must be a local. She was definitely still in Red Hook. The knowledge strangely comforted her even though it didn't mean anything unless she could break free. She started to eat the sandwich and drink the juice. Fear didn't cancel out hunger. Not when you are afraid all the time.</p><p>She heard the door again. He was coming back. She folded the paper back on the sandwich and put it aside. He walked in carrying another spackle bucket. Filled with what looked like soapy water. This was new. He put the bucket down on the floor. He motioned for her to stand. She just looked at him. What was he going to do? Pour the water over her? She just sat there and looked at him. He stood there for what seemed like forever. And then he acted.</p><p>He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up. She struggled and complained. "Hey, stop you're hurting me! Ow! Stop!" She struggled in his grasp. Once he got her standing up, he switched his grip to his right hand. He let go of her hair and grabbed her around the throat. He squeezed and shook her like a cat shaking a mouse he had just caught. She tried to catch her breath and tried to flail away at him with her arms, but he held her away from his body and tightened his grip. He reached down and took a soapy sponge out of the bucket. He wiped it up and down her body. Just the way he used to do with his hands. Only he was much rougher. He washed her back and legs. Then her stomach. He gave particular attention to her breasts and sex. Not is a sexual or sensual way. In a violent angry way. Like it was something dirty. Which it was. She was dirty and he was cleaning her. Finally, he stopped and threw the sponge on the floor. He reached down and picked up the bucket and held it over her head while choking her all the while. He poured the now dirty luke-warm water all over her in an impromptu shower as she shivered and moaned and tried to catch her breath as soapy water ran into her nose and mouth. Water went everywhere as it ran down her naked shivering body. Luckily, she was not standing on her mattress so while it got a little wet it was not soaked. </p><p>When he poured all of the water out, he pushed her hard, and she fell down on to the mattress. He threw a roughly textured towel at her and picked up the sponge and bucket and left without a word or a glance back. She sat there and wept. At the ordeal. At the violence. At her fears.</p><p>She eventually stopped weeping and grabbed the towel. She tried to dry herself as best she could. Her mattress had been spared the worst of it, but it was still soaked where she sat. Still there must have been a puddle of water on the floor that she would have to deal with. The water would get stagnant and pool there on the floor. She might get mosquitos if there were any still around. But when she looked it seemed that there was no puddle. She couldn't understand. Then she saw it. There was a large drain in the middle of the floor which must have been sloped so the water would run in. </p><p>That can't be good.</p><p>The only other place she had seen that was when she worked in the Western Beef franchise a few years ago. They had a drain just like that. Where they cut the meat. To drain the blood off.</p><p>My God is that what this is?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-73962454176234504912022-08-21T19:23:00.002-04:002022-08-21T19:23:35.687-04:00Snippets<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitQf24UJKykDrKAHUp3q7f5T-n5o7FBjGh2Lp4I7p4SNTka_I6K7mraENT0pPjp8YtGIwb5KZIdADGQ6tB1Po4gPh2KeWhkmSwZQ2_u9lhKPs2B52r55NdtHY2G2vWiX4AnscWD9Ly77SYf2M3yUDd398Yzn6zBG8yJj7mcphAq2r8LOY3dnDPVbrw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="352" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitQf24UJKykDrKAHUp3q7f5T-n5o7FBjGh2Lp4I7p4SNTka_I6K7mraENT0pPjp8YtGIwb5KZIdADGQ6tB1Po4gPh2KeWhkmSwZQ2_u9lhKPs2B52r55NdtHY2G2vWiX4AnscWD9Ly77SYf2M3yUDd398Yzn6zBG8yJj7mcphAq2r8LOY3dnDPVbrw" width="313" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Some of the biggest authors around have websites where they publish snippets of their latest work. Especially sci-fi guys like Eric Flint or George RR Martin or Peter Rholdan. They publish a few chapters of their latest to whet the appetite of their fans. </p><p>Now I am not doing that because I don't have a bunch of fans like they do. I just do it as an exercise. Well, that was until I ran into a problem. </p><p>My Microsoft 365 that I bought with my new computer has expired. A purchased a different one from this company Mashable which was a great bargain. The problem is as with all great bargains it is not easy, and it is not working yet. I downloaded it fast enough, but it is not working for some reason.</p><p>So, in the meantime I will publish some snippets here. I am up to Chapter Twenty-Nine so far as we will see where we are as we go.</p><p>Feedback would be greatly appreciated.</p><p>If there is anybody out there.</p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-80257428899123186102022-08-21T15:25:00.004-04:002022-08-21T15:25:36.107-04:00Hipster Holocaust<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIFv5jWlzK-pvVA7JT1yxNLqlMJnrc8Zw9kDfwjT1QYlxwp6-xWgsB0-clPUparkx6DPs6dJEvXHxZeXcvPMmmfw_ETJTWsDi3ecrch4FWVH38k8lwZxFvLNptG5b__asGXuU6yeid3HVtIKoMCwyPSt15_Ss1bxTGWrfS9ga1QZllkFCAUfUq_pVT" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="309" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIFv5jWlzK-pvVA7JT1yxNLqlMJnrc8Zw9kDfwjT1QYlxwp6-xWgsB0-clPUparkx6DPs6dJEvXHxZeXcvPMmmfw_ETJTWsDi3ecrch4FWVH38k8lwZxFvLNptG5b__asGXuU6yeid3HVtIKoMCwyPSt15_Ss1bxTGWrfS9ga1QZllkFCAUfUq_pVT" width="293" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Hipster Holocaust Chapter Four<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Dummy McCarthy and Julio Torrez were standing at the
autopsy while the Medical Examiner made an incision down the breastbone of the
almost albino body on the table. Pale and thin she was a big boned girl who
must have kept the weight off by subsisting on the hipster diet of premium
coffee and menthol cigarettes. The stark evidence of her white privilege made
her numerous tattoos stand out like a dog shit on freshly fallen snow. She had
the usual tribal band on her arm and the ubiquitous tramp stamp. A large
cartoon mushroom was growing out of her pubes. Or where her pubes would have
been if she had not been freshly shaved. Funny that she would shave her twat
and not her armpits.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“So how did she die Doc? I take it she didn’t drown?
Unless the big hole where her throat should have been made her swallow too much
of that Canal Water?” asked McCarthy while he idly scratched his balls. Torrez
did not complain because he had his finger shoved up his nose as if he was
mining for a gold nugget. They were both famous for their couth.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Cause of death was exsanguination Dummy. She bled out
almost before she hit the water. There was no water in her lungs so she must
have been dead when she hit the water.” “Shit Doc that ain’t water in the
Canal” Torrez joked. “Did she have any oil slick scum in her lungs?” “No, it
was the throat cutting that did the deed. The perp might have some knowledge of
anatomy because he hit the exact right spot on the jugular that meant almost
instant death. There was no slashing or hesitation marks. Just one slit nice
and neat.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Doc Isaac was short and frizzy haired under the dirty
surgical cap he wore. It was extra-large because he had pushed up his curls to
keep them out of the miasma on the table. He was a rotund Hebrew in a dirty
ill-fitting suit covered in dandruff and lint. The Doc was sloppy in his
personal hygiene but fastidious in his professional life. He squinted through a
thick pair of wire rimmed glasses as he ripped out her heart and placed on the
scale. He weighed it and called out the specifics to the tape and to the silent
tiny Asian girl who was his assistant. She hadn’t said a word so far today. She
rationed them. No more than ten sentences a day. Which was all right with
Isaac. That was the whole reason he loved to work in the morgue. The corpses
talked to him. Just not with words. The solace of silence was his haven before
we went home to his wife Rivka and their ten kids in Borough Park. The life of
an Orthodox Jew was many things but one thing it was not is quiet. Still and
all he enjoyed the dynamic duo of the loud-mouthed Irishman and the sardonic
Puerto Rican. They were like a comedy team. They took him back to the old
Brooklyn he had grown up in. He enjoyed their nonsense. It was his guilty
pleasure. He wouldn’t want to make a diet of it but now and again it was some
welcome comic relief. </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Did you identify her Dummy?” “Yeah. My excellent police
work told me her name was Sunshine nee Karen Eastman. I shit you not. Stone
hipster moved here from upstate. Works in a boutique up on Court Street. That’s
our next stop.” “That’s impressive. Quick work” said the Doc as he stripped her
liver out and replaced the heart on the scale. May Ling had already put the
heart in a specimen jar for later examination.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Don’t let him pull you dick Doc,” laughed Torrez. “He
found her wallet in her pants. Her driver’s license had an address from upstate
and she had a pay stub from that vintage clothing store on President Street,</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Well time of death is not a mystery. It was three am
yesterday give or take a few minutes. Her blood alcohol was pretty high, and
she had pizza in her stomach. She must have been drinking before she died so
there is that.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Yeah, I figured she was boozing Doc,” said Dummy. “Why
else would you be wandering around at that hour. Unless you were trying to
score and there is nobody dealing around there these days. We will be hitting
the bars around the neighborhood tonight after we finish with you and report into
the Twat.” Torrez shook his head. “You keep saying that and it is going to get
back to her Dummy. You don’t want her on your ass any more than she already is
dude.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“He’s right Dummy” said the Doc as he leaned over the
body and peered into the cavity as he poked around with his fingers. “She is a
klafte for sure. Everybody knows that.” “Why you know her from up around Jewtown
Doc?” asked Dummy. “I thought she lived in Jamaica Estates not Borough Park.’
“She moved there now but she came from Borough Park. In fact, her family used
to belong to my shul. Nobody wanted to have anything to do with her. She was
that nasty.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“I hear you, but we still have to deal with her. Fuck it.
I got twenty-five years in so I don’t have to kiss her pimply fat ass. I just
have to do enough so she doesn’t have cause to shitcan me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s go Torrez. Might as well get it over
with. Doc shoot me a copy of the autopsy as soon as you can all right? A prelim
is fine. I got to get a handle on this quick.” “I will Dummy no worries.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">McCarthy and Torrez went out into the rain and got into
their car. As they drove through the rain slicked streets Torrez stared
pensively out the window. “So, waddya think? Lover’s quarrel? Robbery? Crime of
passion? Lots of room for speculation here Dummy.” Dummy sat hunched over the
steering wheel as he tried to see out of the dirty windows. They had to get
this fucking shit box cleaned one of these days. “Don’t know Beaner. We have to
see. Let’s go into this with an open mind. And don’t say too much to this cunt.
The less she knows the better.” “Okey dokey,” Torrez agreed.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">They pulled up Union Street and stopped a few feet away
from the front door of the 76. The Toyota slid up on the sidewalk and they parked
it sideways like the rest of the hotshots in the precinct. Cops didn’t have to parallel
park like regular people.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">They walked slowly in the door and greeted the desk
sergeant as they ambled up the stairs to the Detective Squad room. Battered
green metal desks were set up in two lines that had not changed since the
forties. The only innovation were the computers on each desk. They were archaic
models which about five years out of date. Some of the detectives had their own
personal laptops or tablets to augment the lack of support. The City of New
York was a harsh mistress. Defunding the police was a reality not just a
slogan. The 76 was at the end of the supply chain. What they had was better
than nothing but not by much.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">They both went over to the stained coffee urn and poured
a cup of mud like coffee. It was the lube that kept the gears moving in this
joint. Or at least it kept some of them awake. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No sooner did they sit down then the captains
butt boy came scurrying over. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a
yapping little weasel who looked like a half ass Poindexter. The fucker even
sported a bow tie over his plaid shirt and a sweater vest that he even wore in
the summer. He was all of four feet ten and weighed about ninety pounds. This
was the future of the department. Jesus wept.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“The Captain wants to see you now McCarthy. Right now.”
“Take it easy you little shit or I will hold you out the fucking window until
you piss down your pants into your mouth.” The weasel almost foamed at the aforementioned
mouth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m going to report that
McCarthy. You can’t talk to me like that.” McCarthy flicked some imaginary dust
off his sleeve. He didn’t touch any of the actual dust because that was stuck
on like glue. “Fuck you…you little pissant I will talk to you any way I want.
Tell the Captain we will be there in a few minutes. I want to take a leak so
unless she wants to follow me into the crapper, she has to wait a freaking
minute. You know what? Fuck it. Let’s just go in and piss all over her desk
instead. </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">The two detectives went to the back of the second floor
to the Captain’s office. Torrez knocked on the door jam twice. “Enter” shouted
the diminutive precinct commander. All of five feet tall and round as a bowling
ball she was 200 pounds of resentment and bile topped by a curly Jew fro and a
schnozzola that went out of style when Jimmy Durante retired. It made sense
that she was so small. You could only stack shit so high.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“So, what do you have to say for yourself McCarthy” spit
the midget sized commander. “Not much Captain. Twenty-five-year-old woman name
Sunshine Eastman. From upstate but she works at the boutique on President and
Court. She had her throat cut and was tossed in the Canal off the Carroll Street
bridge around three in the morning. She was drinking so we are going to hit the
bars tonight to see what’s up. That’s all we got so far.” The captain sniffed
like she smelt something bad. But then she always did that around these
detectives. They were not her kind of cops. Not her kind of people. She planned
to get these dinosaurs out as soon as possible to get some diversity into the
unit. She had her eye on a couple of Latino lesbians from patrol to promote
into the Detective bureau as soon as she could get a chance. </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“See that you get this cleared as soon as possible
McCarthy. You hear me? None of your bullshit or I will have you out of here so
fast you won’t know what hit you.” “Sure thing Cappy. Whatever you say. Why don’t
you let us get on with it? Ok?” “Don’t give me your good ol’boy white
supremacist bullshit! I am the Captain and you will respect me or you will be
fired. You got that McCarthy?” “What does being white have to do with it?”
“Don’t talk back to me you shit. I will write you up and call in Internal
Affairs. You are on a tight leash. I want a written report every night, make it
the first thing I see on my desk in the morning. You understand McCarthy? You
are on thin ice here. Your day is done in this department.” </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Sure thing Captain. Written report every night. You got
it.” “Get out of my office and get this done.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">They left the office and walked back to their desks. They
looked at each other and both detectives mouthed the same word at the same
time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p>“Cunt.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-52435356742900878852022-07-26T14:48:00.000-04:002022-07-26T14:48:33.402-04:00The Case of the Deleterious Dick Toc<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 10pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7C0yWhj5WAzo8r0XRWuV0tcpaqMV_XDI-wv16x4WHfO776IlQxT0L2syWPcMLjUZnvHMD8_HW6-GdTHrBzs0x7iV2I-hXR-_3e3kE3hOrDMFc8Q_OoPWRDyNN5GP0GUr2qhsws1byqwtowfXE7t8wTCr4PGu8l0kUtyJ8L5kgs5ivIjX6c3VEs5gV/s896/wilde.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="606" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7C0yWhj5WAzo8r0XRWuV0tcpaqMV_XDI-wv16x4WHfO776IlQxT0L2syWPcMLjUZnvHMD8_HW6-GdTHrBzs0x7iV2I-hXR-_3e3kE3hOrDMFc8Q_OoPWRDyNN5GP0GUr2qhsws1byqwtowfXE7t8wTCr4PGu8l0kUtyJ8L5kgs5ivIjX6c3VEs5gV/s320/wilde.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 10pt;">My dear Holmes,</span></p><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-8679802802110030123" itemprop="description articleBody" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">It is your most humble petitioner, Inspector Lestrade. As you well know it has been several months since I have last requested your assistance in the troubling matter </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">of the</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> obscene affairs of the odious Lady Chatterley and her </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">grass-stained</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> lover. Today I must once again humbly beseech your assistance with respect to these horrible people.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">As you know we have been long keeping a jaundiced eye on the affairs of this nefarious couple. Ever since the disappearance of Lord Douchebag the Yard has maintained a check on the activities of this group of malcontents and </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">subversives</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">. We occasionally insert an operative into their circle to monitor their unseemly ways. Insertion is a poor choice of words and calls to mind an unfortunate vision as illegal </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">insertions</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> seem to be one of the goals of the group that </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">surrounds</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Lady </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Chatterley</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> and her shabby </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">vegetable</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> loving lover. The problem with attempting this mode of </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">surveillance</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> is that no operative can stand to associate with these two for more than a month or two as she uniformly </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">expels</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> them from her </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">presence</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> as she is mentally unstable and brooks no contradiction or even mild questioning. An acolyte lasts about as long as a mayfly in her unstable circle.</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">However,</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> a situation has arisen which requires your assistance. It appears that Lady </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Chatterley</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> and one of her foppish spawn have instigated an correspondence with the notorious </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">sybarite</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Oscar Wilde and his circle of rich and idle degenerates. They have been forward obscene renderings of male g</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">enitalia</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> through her </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Majesty's</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> post on numerous occasions. These drawings consist of </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">artistic</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> renderings of </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">various</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> penile </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">perturbances</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> which are drawn in slightly different poses. They are gathered together in a pile and then turned quickly to give the illusion of motion. They call this technique Dick Toc and it has become quite the rage in the social scene of catamites and </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">degenerates</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">You might ask why I am writing to you about these beastly </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">practices,</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> but I do indeed have </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">an</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> important reason. It appears that for some reason your brother Mycroft has </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">received</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> some of these </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">obscene</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> missives. I write to you to impart a warning to him and have him destroy any of these items he might maintain in his files before the Yard moves </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">forward</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> with the </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">prosecution</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> of these obscene practices. I feel I owe it to your family because of your invaluable help and our enduring friendship.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Please give my best to your brother Mycroft and inform him that the case of the Gibbon with the distended rectum in the </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Yorkshire Zoo</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> has been dropped. Please note that the </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">occurrence</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> of what various physicians have termed monkey pox have been reported in those </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">environs</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> and he should be circumspect in his intercourse with his current circle of friends and </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">acquaintances</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">. </span></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10pt;">I remain as always,</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Your obedient servant,</span><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Inspector G. Lestrade</span><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">July 25, 1898</span></span></div><div style="clear: both; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"></div></div><div class="post-footer" style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10.14px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; letter-spacing: 0.1em; line-height: 1.4em; margin: 0.75em 0px; text-transform: uppercase;"><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><br /></div></div>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-13759894311591943362022-05-17T16:25:00.001-04:002022-05-17T16:25:43.203-04:00Hipster Holocaust<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizlvf7RFWuYQZFDS7up3uI6zSP7Y-oDIGeTzJZ6DH9BqS5KcpNEKU505CpqzWbEMX8979fZKh7eR_V-N39kTj_JKG-28b1B_tUk7M-dc7JYEW99DlaFyKRQJ2xTNKzI5VXEGaCM0qPp5l95wpoMmTwqDxAI4n1_K4abu7TWZl_gdn6LOdCLDS6XCMT/s364/bagels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="364" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizlvf7RFWuYQZFDS7up3uI6zSP7Y-oDIGeTzJZ6DH9BqS5KcpNEKU505CpqzWbEMX8979fZKh7eR_V-N39kTj_JKG-28b1B_tUk7M-dc7JYEW99DlaFyKRQJ2xTNKzI5VXEGaCM0qPp5l95wpoMmTwqDxAI4n1_K4abu7TWZl_gdn6LOdCLDS6XCMT/s320/bagels.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Anna Feola walked into the Brooklyn Loaf to start her shift
at 6 am. Just about five feet tall she was slim but shapely with dark brown
hair with auburn highlights. Anna looked like an Italian neighborhood girl even
though she came from Suffolk County. She fit right in on Court Street.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Anna was always one of the first employees at the store
because she liked the first shift. First of all, it was always busy so she was
always moving. Anna hated having to wait around with nothing to do. Best of all
she got off early at 2 o’clock so she had the rest of the day to do whatever she
wanted. She could take a class or go to an audition. Or even just help out the
nice old Italian lady that was her landlord. She was like her Mom. Or more like
the Grandmother that she had never had back home. Her family originally came
from this neighborhood even though they had moved out to Long Island back in
the sixties. Even so she felt a prosperity interest in the Italian culture that
was fading away in the face of all the hedge fund managers and Wall Street
aholes who were buying up the neighborhood. There were still a few pockets of
the old Italian American Immigrant culture left and this coffee shop was one of
them even though it was only about ten years old. It featured bagels and rolls
and prepared sandwiches with coffee and tea. Not fancy like Starbucks but not
as declassee as the Dunkin Donuts on the corner of First Place. It was sort of
in-between. Just like Anna.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She started the coffees in the giant urns and Pepe brought
up a couple of paper sacks filled with fresh hot bagels. She sorted them out
and put them in the wire bins designated for each flavor with a little ceramic
name plate attached to the front. Plain. Salt. Poppy. Sesame. Onion.
Everything. A bin for everyone and a pile of hot steaming goodness. If only
life could be like that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">People started drifting in. Moms on their way to PS 58 to
drop off their little monsters. Nannies with their over privileged charges in
super expensive strollers. A couple of in a hurry commuters who wanted to pick
up something to take on the subway. The crowd grew and the line went out the
door into the street. She poured the coffee and buttered the bagels and even
had to serve the one section of tables against the wall. They were easy as they
were usually her regulars. The same people every day. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of them was an older Italian gentleman with hard eyes
and pure white hair. He was always elegantly dressed in an expensive leather
jacket and a silk shirt. He wore expensive custom-made shoes and had a Rolex on
his wrist that was worth more than everything that was in the whole shop. He
wore dark glasses inside and was very quiet. Occasionally someone from the
neighborhood would come and whisper something in his ear. He would nod or make
a gesture with his hand or very infrequently whisper something back. His order
was always the same. A cup of espresso and a plate of Italian biscotti. He
never varied it unless he wanted a short snort of anisette in his coffee. They
kept a bottle behind the counter just for him. He was always very kind to her
and there was always something mysterious about him. Anna didn’t know much
about him and was sort of intrigued. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What she really didn’t know was that he was the real owner
of the joint.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You see the Mob had gone into the bagel business in a big
way in the 1980’s. What’s not to like? A cash business perfect for washing
money. And you didn’t even have to lose money at it to boot. So bagel stores
went up in Bensonhurst and Kew Gardens and Staten Island and Ozone Park. There
were two in South Brooklyn that now had the Real Estate name of Carroll
Gardens. One on Smith Street was controlled by the Columbo’s and was full of
cowboys. They ran guns and drugs out of it and a bunch of them got pinched and
put away on a Ricco charge. This one was much cleaner. They kept the drugs and the
guns and gambling out of it. It was just bagels and a schmear. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At one time the cafes in the neighborhood had been part of
the fabric of their existence. People would come in and sip an espresso and
talk. It was a social thing. That’s why they were called social clubs. You knew
everyone and everyone knew you. Now it was like the rest of New York. Anonymous
and lonely. Sometimes people might know each other and nod before they became
engrossed in their phones. But most of the time they just stared at their
laptops or phones as though they could find the meaning of life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He came in around eight this morning and sat in his usual
seat. The second table from the front with his back to the wall. Anna hurried
over with his order. “Good morning Mr. Aiello. Here is your breakfast. How are
you feeling?” she chirped as she put down the plate. “Great sweetheart” he
rasped with his heavy Brooklyn accent. “Just great. Can youse bring over the
papers when you get a chance.” “Yessir right away.” ”Thank youse.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When he asked for the papers, he only wanted the Post and
the News. He never touched the Times or the Wall St Journal. Tabloids were all
he read. Oh well the rest were there for all the pretentious noobs who came in
and hit on her. But they wouldn’t be here for hours yet, so she was safe. Maybe
she would have time to practice that song for the audition she was going to hit
next week. She just hoped that Mrs. DiMartino would be okay with her singing
the same song over and over for hours. What was she thinking? Of course, she
would be fine with it. But she was going to bring her a bag of Italian cookies
just to make sure. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She had learned her lessons well. She was morphing into a
real neighborhood girl.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-81780555150690510902022-05-17T12:15:00.009-04:002022-05-17T12:19:25.703-04:00Hipster Holocaust<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJYbMV9Lfb5QY2Y2gUu-v0wwHYmjxyPTX0EULvwjMbsCgSm9pdyO7cUwBshpl_zWD86dDWqRztbRdXNJi6wOm_5K5e0rxR8XbwWn66Ln2FR6EGV1AI9fXfrAeZkTcIDQa8jZ7z8gXah4V_RbcH95CMMAWv0wHAEtmLGItBNXiLCfzrzhoqdlR411X/s400/charley.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFJYbMV9Lfb5QY2Y2gUu-v0wwHYmjxyPTX0EULvwjMbsCgSm9pdyO7cUwBshpl_zWD86dDWqRztbRdXNJi6wOm_5K5e0rxR8XbwWn66Ln2FR6EGV1AI9fXfrAeZkTcIDQa8jZ7z8gXah4V_RbcH95CMMAWv0wHAEtmLGItBNXiLCfzrzhoqdlR411X/s320/charley.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Detective Charlie McCarthy looked over the rail on the
Carroll Street Bridge over the Gowanus Canal and spit while a thin drizzle fell
on everything and bounced off the surface. A six-foot-tall pale Irishman he had
the map of Ireland on his face. With the landmarks represented by the veins and
broken blood vessels of a life spent with his gut pressed against a bar. He
wore what he always wore. A cheap suit with a $5 tie from the bodega. One look
at him and you said cop. Bad cop. Drunk cop. Dangerous cop. Not that he felt
dangerous these days. Mostly he felt gassy.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">A police diver fell backwards of the side of the police
launch. And bounced. He had to cut a hole through the surface scum as though he
was an ice fisherman freezing his balls off on a lake in Minnesota. How he was
going to find anything was a mystery, but they still had to try. They had a
report that there had been a jumper last night and some blood evidence on the
rail that was enough for the shit heel captain to demand that they investigate.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">His partner Julio Torrez walked up carrying two cups of
coffee with the plastic tops attached. A slim slick Puerto Rica with a pencil
thin mustache that went out of style in the fifties. He had a moderate fro and
a decided limp from an old gunshot wound from the Red Hook Projects during the
crack years. They had been partners for a long time. </p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Hey Dummy, what’s happening?” He handed over a coffee
and they both ripped off a small piece of the top so they could sip the coffee
while keeping the cover on to protect it from the rain. “Did they find anything
or are we just jerking ourselves off here?”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Nothing yet Beaner but they just started. How the fuck
they gonna find anything in this shit is beyond my freaking understanding. I
think that twat captain is just busting our balls with this shit.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“I don’t know jefe. They said they had a witness. Some
old biddy looking through her window. Said she saw some dude in a hoodie push a
girl over the side.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“How the fuck did she see that. There nearest house is
half a block away. What the fuck does she have Xray fucking eyes?”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Opera man.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“What the fuck are you talking about? Opera. What she was
singing? You are one dumb Rican you know that.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Nah man she had Opera Glasses. She is one of the
liberals that moved in. A fucking college professor or some such shit. She had
a pair of Opera glasses and she looks out her window and writes down what she
sees so she can call 411 to complain. Logged over 100 complaints so far this
month. Only this time she called and got right through to the Captain.”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Well how the fuck did she do that? What did they just
put her through? What da fuck?”</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">“No dude her name is Karen Cohen. She went to summer camp
with the Captain and shit. They probably licked each other like a lemon ice.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Great another Jew bag. I shoulda retired like my third
wife told me too before she split. What a shit show.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">The diver burst though the scum blanket that cover the
canal and not without effort. He was about five yards from the boat and was
waving his hand. The boat putt putted over to him and they threw him a line. He
went back down and everyone waited for a minute holding their breath. Too be
fair everyone had been holding their breath the whole time since it smelled
like the monkey house at the Prospect Park zoo. There was a series of tugs on
the line and the two coppers in the boat started pulling up the line. They had
caught something. A body. Covered in slime and debries. Pampers, plastic bags.
Maybe a condom or three. They rolled the body into the skiff and waited for the
diver to come up. When he did they pulled him in the boat. The maneuvered up to
the bridge and the sergeant in the boat called up. “Hey Dummy we got a fresh
one for ya. Wadda wanna us to do? Bring it to the dock or bring it over there to
youse and you can take custody?” </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">“Shit forensic is on the way and they need some space to
work. Just bring it over to the dock in the back of the furniture warehouse on
9th. I’ll have these guys go over and take custody so they can bag her. No need
to take it back to your shop. Thanks Flynn. Thanks a lot. Now I got another
body on my tab. Fuck it never ends.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">The partners looked at each other and sighed in unison.
“Let’s get over there and get this shit show on the road. Oh and give Captain
Jew Bag a call and let her know we found a stiff. That will give her a lady
hard on now that she is finally right about something.” “Ok Dummy I will call
it in.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">
</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">They went to the unmarked Toyota and drove on to Third
Avenue. This was really going to be a shit show. Cause the stiff looked white.
And young. And a cooze. A shit show of the first water. Fuck. Some days it
didn’t even pay to get up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-36235992938071076882021-10-01T12:32:00.001-04:002021-10-01T12:32:06.032-04:00Oh sure now you tell me!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxa8zimB85Hw1QQ2RIE1gmh3V72jBuMZ-YhcV8kw0Cq2GHxirHYgy0GA3HVZy_zmGgp6BJAA8DyUxJ72G3Q3xHBKydKHxJ8yyRVWMJ-CGPOoiIhIes_F8om8nBzglozhqmcSH0JLxPLBo/s828/4B327BA2-48E7-4092-A1D9-DFF6D7415CD1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="828" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxa8zimB85Hw1QQ2RIE1gmh3V72jBuMZ-YhcV8kw0Cq2GHxirHYgy0GA3HVZy_zmGgp6BJAA8DyUxJ72G3Q3xHBKydKHxJ8yyRVWMJ-CGPOoiIhIes_F8om8nBzglozhqmcSH0JLxPLBo/s320/4B327BA2-48E7-4092-A1D9-DFF6D7415CD1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> Thank you Dr Fauci!<p></p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-47147468255768259892021-09-30T17:52:00.004-04:002021-09-30T17:52:31.403-04:00Go down to Columbia Street to the pushcarts for Grandma.....<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6s51hq_a0msLwzeroOhkSXXPYV6KPM7_V-_lUOzKsg-SZCLmmm8UcKICTCEIRWpph2Fj_sCwqwnR39jIxcwpyoWCPlmK4g0GadRuXBpAP1HnxGPI4IVf0LzboJ0LX1Dli74SaX798n4I/s863/pushcarts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #33aaff; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="863" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6s51hq_a0msLwzeroOhkSXXPYV6KPM7_V-_lUOzKsg-SZCLmmm8UcKICTCEIRWpph2Fj_sCwqwnR39jIxcwpyoWCPlmK4g0GadRuXBpAP1HnxGPI4IVf0LzboJ0LX1Dli74SaX798n4I/s320/pushcarts.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="260" /></a></p><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" /><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" /><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">When I was a little kid I didn't just run around in the street and play stickball and scully. I had to do chores. Throw out the garbage. Go to the stores. I went all over the place even when I was in the second grade. When I was old enough to cross the street I was sent on errands all the time. My grandmother especially sent me out shopping. Why not when she was supposed to be in the second grade she was already working in a shirt making factory. So she didn't take any bullshit.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">She would send me to Columbia Street where the push carts were. They had a bunch of stuff that came from the docks. Legal and otherwise. I had particular people I had to patronize. Friends of my uncles who made sure I didn't get ripped off.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">I miss those days. Now I go to Stop and Shop.</p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-5545876514160103072021-08-26T17:07:00.006-04:002021-08-26T17:07:36.456-04:00My meat is spoiled!<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmMyhFBEmo9LnTHeZLah0cf4aB6_GQUyaUIhy5x53FI2FdjZabSqsi7LDbSc3bYbMuk1n1rWioAueFtr22tUodmYyemOJQrUMhOsTM4OgpL_m3LC4HO0ptA64e4dub5QDIquxKhFA8do8/s828/3C208F82-4B54-40A3-AD32-F30E66DCD504.jpeg" style="color: #2288bb; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="828" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmMyhFBEmo9LnTHeZLah0cf4aB6_GQUyaUIhy5x53FI2FdjZabSqsi7LDbSc3bYbMuk1n1rWioAueFtr22tUodmYyemOJQrUMhOsTM4OgpL_m3LC4HO0ptA64e4dub5QDIquxKhFA8do8/s320/3C208F82-4B54-40A3-AD32-F30E66DCD504.jpeg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13.2px;">What Bugs Bunny used to say when he met a big shot when he was dressed as an Indian Swami. </span><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://nypost.com/2021/08/25/salmonella-outbreak-linked-to-italian-meats-found-in-17-states/" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">In an article in the New York Post</a> it was announced that a salmonella outbreak has hit 17 states due to "Italian meats" that were infected </span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; letter-spacing: -0.16px;"><b>“Italian-style meats include salami, prosciutto and other meats that can often be found in antipasto or charcuterie assortments. Heating food to a high enough temperature helps kill germs like Salmonella,”</b></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">They recommend heating the meat to a temperature of 165 degrees or until they are steaming hot. Which would most likely ruin the meat but what do they care. I eat this type of meat every day and have not had any bad side effects. I think it is the typical nonsense purveyed by the government I bet they want you to wear a mask when you are eating a salami sandwich.<p></p></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">However that is not the truly disturbing news in this article. <b><span style="font-family: inherit;">"<span style="color: #2a2a2a; letter-spacing: -0.16px;">This past May, the </span><a href="https://nypost.com/2021/05/21/dont-kiss-or-snuggle-chickens-cdc-warns-amid-salmonella-cases/" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #c60800; letter-spacing: -0.16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline;">CDC warned poultry farmers</a><span style="color: #2a2a2a; letter-spacing: -0.16px;"> to stop hugging their chickens as it led to a salmonella outbreak. </span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; letter-spacing: -0.16px;">Don’t kiss or snuggle backyard poultry, and don’t eat or drink around them,” the CDC explained at the time. This can spread Salmonella germs to your mouth and make you sick.”</span></span></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; letter-spacing: -0.16px;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a; letter-spacing: -0.16px;">Rh Hardin hardest hit.</span></span></div>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-36631219498201632682021-08-26T17:06:00.005-04:002021-08-26T17:06:36.841-04:00RIP Rod Gilbert<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXw6k10tqWCFY9Y1WVWhUHxwnraDaIPFNqtJwZMUqnNJ45-dVZQQJjF1SU0hjzSP_9TAFJYD725QS3cNcgk9QSYv7MGwJ_qZMn1AaKTJjfgJBk-AIoqcFAibQI5CE0vmEPh3jRII2trvc/" style="color: #2288bb; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; text-decoration-line: none;"><img alt="" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="300" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXw6k10tqWCFY9Y1WVWhUHxwnraDaIPFNqtJwZMUqnNJ45-dVZQQJjF1SU0hjzSP_9TAFJYD725QS3cNcgk9QSYv7MGwJ_qZMn1AaKTJjfgJBk-AIoqcFAibQI5CE0vmEPh3jRII2trvc/" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="192" /></a></p><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" /><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Rod Gilbert who was the greatest Ranger of all time has passed. There might be bigger stars who played for the Rangers like Mark Messier and Wayne Gretzky. But for a hockey fan of a certain age like me it was all about the great Rod Gilbert.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">When I was kid in the sixties there were only a few hockey teams. So you could follow the sport in between watching football and baseball. The Rangers had a decent team. They had the great goalie Eddie Giacomin and his back up Gilles Villemure. The hard nosed Vic Hadfield. The always elegant Jean Ratelle. Glen Stather and Pete Stemkowski. The unpronounceable Walt Tkaczuk. All the flotsam and jetsom that Marv Albert would talk about when the Rangers played. I went to a couple dozen games in those days. Tickets were not hard to get. The Rangers were often out of contention. But they still were a lot of fun.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Rod lived to be 80. He had a good run. He was always a very classy guy. Never a scandal or a bad word. The kind of guy people would point to as a role model. I always really admired him and I thought of him as Mr. Ranger.</p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">RIP Rod. You did good.</p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-56212480705169925972021-08-26T17:05:00.006-04:002021-08-26T17:05:42.118-04:00Jibber jabber get the jab you douche nozzle.<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2W_rmmsWf-XNf-SMDOPUjqmVSd-JDQQMcbLuKRN1ZfR4obziG6Q3SBSSJjnwHX0Cs92CopwBx_MzXoq3Mv9I_8NLou4KNre-92ZM4lskHiWla1zDdJNumh2I2dDVH64hK6lKxtuhGZE/s2048/9A11E8CE-4CB2-4431-833B-01070E68662E.jpeg" style="color: #33aaff; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV2W_rmmsWf-XNf-SMDOPUjqmVSd-JDQQMcbLuKRN1ZfR4obziG6Q3SBSSJjnwHX0Cs92CopwBx_MzXoq3Mv9I_8NLou4KNre-92ZM4lskHiWla1zDdJNumh2I2dDVH64hK6lKxtuhGZE/s320/9A11E8CE-4CB2-4431-833B-01070E68662E.jpeg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Well I finally bit the bullet and got the jab. I waited until they worked most of the kinks out. We went fot the Johnson and Johnson since it was only one needle and we were told by our doctor that it had the least side effects and were the best for anyone who had an allegry.</span><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Now there is no way I was going to a CVS where some clerk would take time out from sticking his finger up his nose to give a shot. The hospital had set up an injection site about four blocks from me across the road from the hospital so if something went wrong we could be at the emergency room toot suite. There were several nurses and a doctor around so there was full coverage.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">We went into a cubicle and met the nurse who was giving out the dose. She said "What arm do you want it in?" I replied "Yours."</div><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><a name="more"></a></span><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">That didn't work so I got the jab. We hung around for half an hour to see if there was any adverse reactions. Nothing happened so we left.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Funny enough there was a new diner across the street so we decided to have lunch. I got what I always get when I go to a diner.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpuojxr-Ky8Vjo7WC3A8fvJ84rHihKEM2jxMOnvEZyqdFNbvPwXSBAi5uVkP6GyG4hLdrnA_hCINrFTyiEKMXqSwb9aUiSt7EDk-27Sstm7d8F5z5zVrq5Rce2uLOIai_56FNxbQSTyM/s2048/0E576085-585E-4A35-A3CB-40251445F44D.jpeg" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-decoration-line: none;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1411" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpuojxr-Ky8Vjo7WC3A8fvJ84rHihKEM2jxMOnvEZyqdFNbvPwXSBAi5uVkP6GyG4hLdrnA_hCINrFTyiEKMXqSwb9aUiSt7EDk-27Sstm7d8F5z5zVrq5Rce2uLOIai_56FNxbQSTyM/s320/0E576085-585E-4A35-A3CB-40251445F44D.jpeg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="220" /></a></div><br /><p></p></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Meatloaf and mashed potato. It was just ok. The gravy was a little to sweet for my taste. The whole diner was trying to do an upscale thing and it was a little much. I like a down and dirty diner and this wasn't it. It was better than nothing but not be much.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">Now I am waiting for the adverse reaction.</div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">From the meatloaf.</div>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-86798028021100301232021-05-19T19:19:00.000-04:002021-05-19T19:19:01.840-04:00The Case of the Disappearing Salon<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKkPMNc38tiIfMIwts56dSnph5E5aa5a2PqM-csy1jQnIzXMzshl6eaCiH0GNv_iRN8926_2c0TDRrGKvcIgOe8MwMQ6dvAZBjlfylNiEq0ScXdpJ2u-tYlfNHZZpz2VWvLaiow5G0yc/s800/holmes.jpg" style="color: #33aaff; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKkPMNc38tiIfMIwts56dSnph5E5aa5a2PqM-csy1jQnIzXMzshl6eaCiH0GNv_iRN8926_2c0TDRrGKvcIgOe8MwMQ6dvAZBjlfylNiEq0ScXdpJ2u-tYlfNHZZpz2VWvLaiow5G0yc/s320/holmes.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></p><br style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" /><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"> <span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 10pt;">My dear Holmes,</span></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">It is your most humble petitioner, Inspector Lestrade. As you well know it has been many years since I have last requested your assistance in the troubling matter of the disappearance of Lord Douchebag and also quite some time since we examined the obscene affairs of the odious Lady Chatterley and her grass stained lover. Today I must ask for assistance with respect to these horrible people.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">As you know we often review old case files in an attempt to discern if circumstances have changed or new information has come to light. It seems a remarkable transformation has </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">occurred</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> in the salon of the noxious Lady </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">Chatterley</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">. She has closed her salon and banished all the many miscreants out into polite society. These poor unfortunates who are barely literate and in need of our succor and understanding were left wandering the streets in search of some other false </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">deity</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> to </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">flagellate</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> them and torture their </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">benighted</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> souls. Bereft of the solace of their common herd they are bewildered and lost. I have no understanding as to why they were expunged except that the </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">syphilitic</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">psychoses</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> of their host must finally have reached it's zenith. They could no longer cover it up and so had to loose their </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">misbegotten</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">acolytes</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> on to our society. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Pray tell have you any news about this most unusual </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">occurrence</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">? Perhaps one of your irregulars might have some insight as they are well </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">acquainted</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> with the dregs of society where these poor unfortunates dwell. The Yard has called upon me to prepare for any new vile plans that this most </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">despicable</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> couple might be planning. I am most </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">desirous</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> of your council and advice.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Please give my best to your brother Mycroft who I now recall has moved to countryside of Yorkshire to work on his art and his continuing acts of charity. I know that he felt moving to the country would be salubrious and conducive to his health. I hope his work with young orphan boys will assuage his loneliness and allow him to live a </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">fulfilling</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> and happy existence. </span></span></div><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15.6pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 10pt;">I remain as always,</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Your obedient servant,</span><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Inspector G. Lestrade</span><br /><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">November 12, 1898</span></span></div>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-6828270142829742262021-05-10T15:29:00.006-04:002021-05-10T15:29:57.749-04:00The Eyes have it<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ0ea0Iq4GhWLhWP5NJkzfL60a4hgp9O6zCDvYSQVd_ZmqIV25D5wvXwKfePbrPAd_F5Ck8AvJnJqlmPTxN1I5Uf7xItDXFXddvaxfrQkdWGfmozjd_fqzDx-Ty-2NGWEULF6ZcbE3TiA/s640/face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ0ea0Iq4GhWLhWP5NJkzfL60a4hgp9O6zCDvYSQVd_ZmqIV25D5wvXwKfePbrPAd_F5Ck8AvJnJqlmPTxN1I5Uf7xItDXFXddvaxfrQkdWGfmozjd_fqzDx-Ty-2NGWEULF6ZcbE3TiA/s320/face.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>So not only am I hurting by falling down and bashing my leg and my shoulder....my eye blew up!</p><p>I have a sty and I look like Chuck Wepner. Which I was very surprised when the young doctor in the Urgent Care knew who I was talking about.</p><p>Anyhoo it was itchy and painful but I got some medicine so it is under control.</p><p>It sucks getting old.</p>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-14292709609914415522021-04-06T13:00:00.005-04:002021-04-06T13:00:56.056-04:00Trooper York's word of the Day<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rwnv6A-hq1uAG9NX7bzYxg9SYdApblw01J8q_roKsBlC6rp5IrDRO_endUBLaPSEXcy9WbMs4a2NuzKF36Z8j3SEEIAoO71RZ_27WcsD708GW8RFZFbKM5RjJMRo46ihxhVnNmCCVpw/" style="color: #33aaff; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="675" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rwnv6A-hq1uAG9NX7bzYxg9SYdApblw01J8q_roKsBlC6rp5IrDRO_endUBLaPSEXcy9WbMs4a2NuzKF36Z8j3SEEIAoO71RZ_27WcsD708GW8RFZFbKM5RjJMRo46ihxhVnNmCCVpw/" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="240" /></a></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"></p><div class="WI9k4c" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; display: table; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; word-break: break-word;"><div class="RjReFf jY7QFf" style="font-size: 28px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; min-height: 36px;"><div class="DgZBFd XcVN5d frCXef" style="font-size: 36px; line-height: 36px; vertical-align: top;"><span data-dobid="hdw">un·fair·ness</span></div></div><div class="S23sjd g30o5d" style="color: #70757a; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; padding-top: 10px;">/ˌənˈfernəs/</div><div aria-hidden="true" class="K6GhFd" data-is-bilingual="false" jsaction="BtuVOb:V46pce" jscontroller="AImii" style="max-height: 0px; opacity: 0; pointer-events: none; transition: max-height 0.3s ease 0s, opacity 0.3s ease 0s; visibility: hidden;"><div class="b8aKlc" style="padding: 8px 0px 6px;"><a href="https://www.google.com/search?client=opera&hs=qF6&q=how+to+pronounce+unfairness&stick=H4sIAAAAAAAAAOMIfcRowy3w8sc9YSnjSWtOXmPU5eINKMrPK81LzkwsyczPExLjYglJLcoV4pPi4eIqzUtLzCzKSy0utmJRYkrN41nEKp2RX65Qkq9QANSVD9SWqoBQBACu5xB7XwAAAA&pron_lang=en&pron_country=us&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiYlZbPhuDvAhXCUjUKHbvMAGcQ3eEDMAB6BAgCEAc" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1); color: #1a0dab; outline: 0px; text-decoration-line: none;" tabindex="-1"><div class="S5TwIf" style="border-radius: 6px; box-shadow: rgb(218, 220, 224) 0px 0px 0px 1px inset; display: inline-block; overflow: hidden; padding-right: 12px; vertical-align: top;"><g-img class="FamOtd" style="display: inline-block; height: 32px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="rISBZc M4dUYb" data-atf="0" height="32" id="dimg_14" src="data:image/svg+xml;base64,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" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.1) 1px 1px 5px; display: block; padding: 5px; position: relative;" width="32" /></g-img><span class="fe69if NDrQpb" style="color: #3c4043; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0px; margin-left: 10px; vertical-align: middle;"></span></div></a></div></div></div><div class="ABgcGb vmod" jsname="p0q1Sd" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></div><p style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"></p><div class="vmod" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><div class="vmod" data-topic="" jsname="r5Nvmf"><div class="lW8rQd" style="display: flex;"><div class="L1jWkf U3R6Ke" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: normal;"><div class="pgRvse vdBwhd ePtbIe" style="min-height: 20px; padding-top: 10px;"><i>noun</i></div><div aria-hidden="true" class="xpdxpnd" data-mh="-1" jsname="jUIvqc" style="max-height: 0px; overflow: hidden; transition: max-height 0.3s ease 0s;"><span class="BNl2gb" style="color: #70757a;"><b></b></span><span class="BNl2gb" style="color: #70757a;"><b></b></span></div></div></div><ol class="eQJLDd" style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;"><li jsname="gskXhf" style="list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><div class="vmod"><div class="thODed eO6Jqe L1jWkf" style="line-height: normal; padding-top: 10px;"><div data-topic="" jsname="cJAsRb"><div style="margin-left: 20px;"><div class="L1jWkf h3TRxf" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; margin-left: -20px;"><div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;">lack of equality or justice.</div><div class="vmod"><div class="H9KYcb" style="color: #70757a;">"he protested at the unfairness of the tribunal's procedure"</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></li></ol></div></div>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8591212990114059193.post-48968044943681507972021-04-06T12:59:00.003-04:002021-04-06T12:59:31.039-04:00Oh the Humanity<iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/jH-mhZLuGRk" width="480"></iframe><div><div class="fauxcolumn-outer fauxcolumn-left-outer" style="background-color: white; 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bottom: 0px; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; right: 0px; top: 0px; width: 310px;"><div class="cap-top" style="background-position: left top; background-repeat: repeat-x; height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="cap-left" style="background-position: left top; background-repeat: no-repeat; float: left; height: 0px;"></div><div class="cap-right" style="background-position: right top; background-repeat: no-repeat; float: right; height: 0px;"></div></div><div class="fauxborder-left" style="background-position: left top; background-repeat: repeat-y; height: 11042.2px; position: relative;"><div class="fauxborder-right" style="background-position: right top; background-repeat: repeat-y; height: 11042.2px; position: absolute; right: 0px;"></div><div class="fauxcolumn-inner" style="border-left: 1px solid transparent; height: 11042.2px;"></div></div><div class="cap-bottom" style="background-position: left bottom; background-repeat: repeat-x; height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="cap-left" style="background-position: left bottom; background-repeat: no-repeat; float: left; height: 0px;"></div><div class="cap-right" style="background-position: right bottom; background-repeat: no-repeat; float: right; height: 0px;"></div></div></div><div class="columns-inner" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; min-height: 0px;"><div class="column-center-outer" style="float: left; position: relative; width: 570px;"><div class="column-center-inner" style="padding: 0px;"><div class="main section" id="main" name="Main" style="margin: 0px 1em;"><div class="widget Blog" data-version="1" id="Blog1" style="line-height: 1.4; margin: 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="blog-posts hfeed"><div class="date-outer"><h2 class="date-header" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><span style="background-color: #bbbbbb; color: white; letter-spacing: 3px; margin: inherit; padding: 0.4em;">Tuesday, April 6, 2021</span></h2><div class="date-posts"><div class="post-outer"><div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting" style="margin: 0px 0px 45px; min-height: 0px; position: relative;"><a name="5361248306596253552"></a><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="font-size: 22px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;"><a href="https://comonocreerendios-lem.blogspot.com/2021/04/oh-humanity.html" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration-line: none;">"Oh the Humanity"</a></h3><div class="post-header" style="font-size: 10.8px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-5361248306596253552" itemprop="description articleBody" style="font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 546px;"><iframe frameborder="0" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/jH-mhZLuGRk" width="480"></iframe><div><span style="color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">"We are here in Madison Wisconsin on a rainy Easter Sunday. Many people are in church and others who have just finished two boxes full of wine last night have not stopped throwing up yet. Alcoholics always have trouble on holiday. The enormous gas bag is approaching the docking area as the usual group of fan boys and lickspittles applaud. </span></span></div><div><span style="color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">It's starting to rain again; it's... the rain had (oh) slacked up a little bit. The back motors of the ship are just holding it (uh) just enough to keep it from...It's burst into flames!</span></div><div><span style="color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Get this, Charlie; get this, Charlie! It's fire... and it's crashing! It's crashing terrible! Oh, my! Get out of the way, please! It's burning and bursting into flames and the... and it's falling on the mooring mast. And all the folks agree that this is terrible; this is the worst of the worst catastrophes in the world. Oh it's... [unintelligible] its flames... Crashing, oh! Four- or five-hundred feet into the sky and it... it's a terrific crash, ladies and gentlemen. It's smoke, and it's in flames now; and the frame is crashing to the ground, not quite to the mooring mast. Oh, the humanity!</span></div><div><span style="color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> And all the passengers screaming around here. Look they are running and screaming and lamenting what will they do without this gasbag.</span></div><div><span style="color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I told you; it – I can't even talk to people, their friends are on there! Ah! It's... it... it's a... ah! I... I can't talk, ladies and gentlemen. Honest: it's just laying there, mass of smoking wreckage. Ah! And everybody can hardly breathe and talk and the screaming, lady, I... I... I'm sorry. Honest: I... I can hardly breathe. I... I'm going to step inside, where I cannot see it. Charlie, that's terrible. Ah, ah... I can't, I... Listen, folks; I... I'm gonna have to stop for a minute because I've lost my voice. </span></div><div><span style="color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">This is the worst thing I've ever witnessed."</span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Trooper Yorkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01978703998566102194noreply@blogger.com0