All Entries in the "Hard News" Category

GHOST OF UPTON SINCLAIR GETS TICKET

(Telluride) The ghost of writer Upton Sinclair, who while alive penned such classics as The Jungle and The Dragon’s Teeth is contesting a parking ticket received on South Fir Street Thursday. Sinclair, who is reportedly in town gathering evidence for his newest expose on the ski industry, said he was scouring the town for change when the summons was written.

     “His books were very critical of the powers that be,” said one literary enthusiast. “Many of us think the ticket was just another form of harassment.”

     The source went on to describe how she checked out every Sinclair title from the local library and has hidden them from the authorities.

     “The capitalists tried to silence him back in the 30s with an assortment of threats, which by comparison, make a parking ticket seem rather trivial.”

     Sinclair’s ghost said the vehicle was left unattended for an estimated five minutes lending credence to the conspiracy theory.

     “He should have parked somewhere away from the cop shop,” said the literati.

     Despite the citation Sinclair will continue work on the publication in which he accuses the ski industry of feudalism, misrepresentation of climatic conditions, and acting as a front for the real estate industry.

     “OK, so the ski bosses aren’t quite as bad as the barons of the meat-packing industry,” said the library source, “but the effects on the local environment are still questionable. Is it fair for the feds to lease land to a private concern who turns around and charges exorbitant fees to taxpayers for access?”

     Meanwhile one ski area spokesman here said the whole incident has been blown out of proportion and offered to pay the fine out of petty cash.

     “What can one expect?” he chided “Who would name a kid Upton in the first place?”

– Cool Hand Luke

CORPORATE SPONSORS WARY OF BOMB ENDORSEMENTS

(Tel Aviv) International corporations, some hoping to profit from the ongoing war in what was once Gaza, seem hesitant to directly endorse its weaponry. Attempts by NATO hard-liners to gain sponsorship of individual bombs has fallen on deaf ears according to sources here.

     Saying the bombs have about the same morality as methods of business conducted by most mega-corporations, one NATO spokesman had hoped to persuade both industrialists and retail interests to kick in their fair share.

     “We figure that each bomb dropped on Palestine costs about $20,000,” said Vladimir Pinche, a Hungarian accountant attached to NATO. “If we could get corporations like Shell Oil, Apple and Pizza Hut to buy space on the missiles we could save a bundle of cash. Up till now the response has been almost indiscernible.”

     Pinche said that he had presented a simple marketing plan that would include a simple logo and a short message.

     “Talk about a captive audience,” he smiled. “If corporate thinkers want to strike while the iron is hot there’s no better time than the present. We guarantee they’ll get the attention of the target market.”

     According to Pinche the money saved by the endorsements could go toward rebuilding Lebanese sites after the conflict or possibly to pay for expeditionary forces on the ground.

     “One leading corporation, the United States government, often marks bombs with its logo. the Stars and Stripes, so that adversaries don’t confuse its payloads with those of the Russians or Chinese,” explained Pinche. “One would think these mass merchandisers would jump at the chance to continue the barrage of relentless propaganda common to most Western societies, but they have not. Imagine a Nike logo on a cruise missile ‘Just do it!’ or Wal-Mart’s happy face on an F-16.”

     Pinche went on to say that he had Apache helicopters and even stealth fighters at his disposal as well.

     In a related piece the United States and NATO have apologized for the accidental bombing of a Beirut McDonalds on Friday. Although there were no injuries, fiscal damages were set in the thousands.

     “Even Ronald (McDonald) is pissed,” said one NATO release, “and the last thing we need is for that bastard clown to join up with Hamas.”

     One critic of the war, Senator Oral Noise (Unitarian-CA) has suggested that rather than advertising on weapons of destruction the international corporations simply send aid to the Palestinian refugees now in Israeli camps.

     “What are we gonna tell our stockholders?” asked one CEO, “that we gave away their dividends. We’re not comfortable embracing that much waste. We’d rather leave that up to the government.”

– Fred Zeppelin

LIAR”S POKER

Polly Shell’s peekaboo pump hung for dear life on satin tapping toes keeping time to Miles Davis. Senses perched, peering from her loft office onto Market in the old warehouse turned bistro and baseball barrio, she sighed. She dangled her two pretty legs, assets often more valuable than four years of college in this hardtack profession.

     Scanning the files newly strewn across the floor she daydreamed.

     “Look at that…the Louise DeHaviland murder from 2001 and the abduction of Sara Inkworme up in Cheyenne. That was a strange one. That cowboy couldn’t have been more than 14. Both incidents remain unsolved. No criminals brought to justice like they’d have you believe on television.

     “Wow! There’s a quagmire of major proportion…the Jack Jameson murder. Talk was he wanted out but there was no getting out. Gangland stuff in the Rockies! No indictments at all. Pretty slick.”

     The voice of her secretary buzzed her back to the present.

     “You’re eleven o’clock, a Mr. Callow is here,” she said. “He reeks of cologne and he looks a little rough at the edges. Should I send him in or send him home with tips on personal hygiene?”

     Suddenly Polly Shell remembered the rude little man who had continually interrupted her investigation a few nights before.

     “Oh nuts” she thought. “I thought when I told him to call the office he would get the brush off. I guess I was too subtle.”

     “Yes, send him in,” she snapped, thinking she’d make quick work of the intrusion. She opened her desk drawer and checked her 45. Her secretary opened the door and escorted a wrinkled, yellowish, dwarf-like creature into Polly’s office. He was squat, small-boned and looked like he’d spent the night in a cave. His skin was blue-white like he had never seen the sun. He shook her hand without making eye contact.

     “Hello Miss Shell. I’m Leche Callow. You may remember me from Brennan’s. He flashed a seesaw smile, exposing a rung of jagged teeth that resembled the Sneffels Range or better a batch of half-broken yellow-green bottles from a carnival shooting gallery.

     Wondering what this repulsive little man could want she pretended not to know him.

     “I bought you a drink at  Brennan’s last Friday,” he pressed.

     “Oh, yes of course and thank you Mr…

     “Callow, Leche Callow Miss.”

     She looked at him waiting for him to state his business but he was busy eyeballing her from head to toe. His eyes then stuck on her cleavage. Even after all of her encounters with creeps in this shamus racquet this little man made her feel uncomfortable.

     “What can I do for you Mr Callow?” she asked finally.

     He continued to gaze, now stuck on her legs.

     Oh, sorry Miss Shell. I had hoped to talk to you about some urgent business, some information that might be of great interest to you in your capacity.”

     Callow had no idea where to take the dialogue. He had no information or good reason to be in her office unless infatuation served as the key. Yes, he had the hots and hoped that this face to face might help his chances of bedding this beauty. A constant flow of bad whiskey and cigars had clouded his lowlife judgment. He was delusional. His breath smelled bad.

     Dropping his eyes to the floor Leche Callow landed on the Jameson file, now resting on top of the others. He latched on to his only course of action.

     “It’s about the Jack Jameson case,” he said. “I know who killed him and did away with the body. If my sources prove true I may even be able to pinpoint the whereabouts of dumping.

     Polly looked right through Leche Callow not knowing where all of this gandering might take her.

     “Interesting?” she flinched, trying not to display her growing disdain for Callow.

     Do you? you loathsome little rodent, she thought to herself.

     “That case has been closed for almost a year,” she frowned, brushing him off again. “I doubt whether your information would bring it back to life.”

     “But I knew Jack Jameson and I know…

     “You knew Jack Jameson?” interrupted Polly now slightly more interested.

     “Well, not as a friend per say. None of us really knew each other. It was better that way in the business at hand. Nobody knew anymore than was necessary to conclude business. It was clear enough that they wanted to be rid of him because he wanted to quit the business and he knew every contact, every drop point, every route, every face…”

     “And what was that business? Mr Callow, if I might ask,” said Polly now growing anxious to get the little creep out of her office.

     “I’d rather not say although I have paid my debt to society for those transgressions and am no longer on parole,” said Callow, his swampy, minikin eyes drifting back to her topography, making her quite uncomfortable again.

     “Creep,” she thought as his gaze once again fell to the Jameson file in the pile on the floor.

     “We would, of course, have to go to the police with your story, if it can be verified. Can it be verified, Mr Callow?

     “With a few days I can put all the pieces of the puzzle together for you,” he said buying time. “Right now some of the details are sketchy. As you yourself said the case has been dormant for almost a year.”

     “I see. Let me consider al of this and call you.”

     “OK, said Callow a bit disappointed that she hadn’t taken more of his bait. “You can leave me a message at Brennan’s.”

* * *

     The email was unnerving on the heels of yesterday’s testimony. It said simply that the authorities were reopening the Jack Jameson case. Apparently the foolish rantings of an elderly convict were not those of an madman after all. Had his chatter led the harvest of a bound body buried near of one of the many Buffalo Bill landmarks in the foothills. 

     She read; The hoards of tourists visiting Bill’s graves, souvenir shops and playhouses over the summer reportedly squeezed the rocky soil forcing the stiff upward, exhuming it from its poorly concealed, shallow grave. It was then run over by a near-blind RVver and nibbled at by magpies before police and coroner arrived with coffee and pastries.

     She called a friend that she had once worked with in homicide. He verified that new evidence had emerged and that the cops had already dredged the lake netting a few trout and two more bodies, believed to be cement workers due to their odd and cumbersome footwear.  From early indications the primary victim had been executed and buried last year before the freeze. He would let her know more.

     “Too much,” she said to herself as she got off the phone. “Could that little creep really be legitimate?” After pondering her options she realized she had but one and called Callow at Brennan’s. They agreed to meet that afternoon.

     

Here

Two hours later she picked her way out of the bright sun into a dark tavern, trying to make out the shiftless figures humping the bar. It was 98 degrees out in the high desert day and the air conditioner was humming right along with Callow’s mouth. She then focused on her target sitting at the mahogany trough. He had seen her first, his catty peepers having adapted to the stale, dim light.

     “Hi ya sweetie,” he blasted in a loud voice that drown out the jukebox momentarily. “What are you drinking?”

     “Just coffee,” she whispered trying to tone him down and avoid further attention.

     One coffee!” he solicited. “You’re looking good,” he said shooting a shot of brown liquid and making a face. “Glad you could come,” he piped so the other boozers could hear him. “It’s about time this place exhibited some class.”

     “Is this a good place to talk?” she asked. “Is it private?”

     He stole a furtive glance and motioned for her to sit on the next stool watching her do so with great interest.

     “You want to get private, heh?” he asked loudly. “Intimate?”

     She quickly changed gears and sat down at the bar, the idea of sharing a booth suddenly making her sick.

     “With legs like yours you should never have to buy a drink…”

     She almost puked. Leche Callow was bad enough but some of the other mutants that bellied up at Brennan’s were even worse. One round-headed chubby chucklehead sang to himself, another worn woman fondled her rocks glass, wrapped in a frazzled bar napkin. Leaned against the wall was a stooped figure in a cheap checkered sports coat who hid his face in his Denver Bears’ cap, smiling and listening intently to a host of mindless confabulation, painfully short on repartee.

     “Bartender get everybody one!” screamed Callow drawing attention to his congenial juxtaposition with this lovely female. “Even Leper down there,” he squawked gesturing toward the checkered hump in earshot at the end of the bar.

     “You got any money, Callow?” was the response.

     Leche Callow pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, snapped it fondly and told the bartender to keep the change. He then turned to Shell with the amps of alcohol engaged.

     “Jack Jameson,” he smiled, “was killed by the local drug cartel. He had been in bed with the gangsters for decades and had decided he had had enough. He also had overdue gambling debts. I heard him talking to one of the bosses a few days before he disappeared. It wasn’t friendly.”

     “So the mob had a motive for killing him. He owed them money and he knew too much,” she ventured. “So many wrinkles on the boom-boom trail.”

     She could hardly believe she was in this ratty bar talking to this pathetic little twit as he wormed his way closer to her. She feigned interest not sure what to believe but unwilling to ignore this possible lead. Was it all coincidental that the case popped open right after Leche Callow’s claims? He could actually know something, she winced. He’s such a wretched little pigeon but I am not in the business of cavorting with choirboys.

     “Exactly,” he nodded. “And I know who pulled the trigger and where the deed went down,” lied Callow. “The shooter was from right here in town which seemed odd since they usually brought someone in from Phoenix or Kansas City to do the dirty work.”

     “Are you willing to talk to the police?” she pressed him.

     “I don’t like police. You can do my talking for me. I have names. People like Sam Moonsie and Peg-leg O’Sullivan,” he name dropped far too loudly, claiming he had met the two in jail.

     The conversations at the bar had already returned to the weather, the Broncos and the government with everyone talking at once in slurred monotone…all except for the lump under the Bear’s cap who just listened as Callow’s afternoon lies got bigger and bigger.

* * *

     “This Callow is talking to the cops. Says he knows who killed that Jameson fellow,” said the checkered jacket hump named Raffini, running to the mob which had already gotten wind of the recovered body and the new status of the investigation. He had hoped to earn a few dollars for his information.

     The cartel had wondered what loose ends might be dragging and had already flexed some muscle on the street.

     “He mentioned Sam Moonsie and Peg-leg O’Sullivan and said he knew who ordered the killing. ‘Said he knew Jameson from the I-70 operation. He was talking to some knockout babe in the bar who didn’t look like she belonged with him.”

     “We should done him years ago but nobody thought he was worth a bullet,” said one bow-tied boss in red suspenders . “Tell me, Raffini, where can I find the little stoolie? Where does he hang out these days? Maybe it’s time we shut the door on Callow and his big mouth.”

* * *

     The phone rang heavy on Sunday morning Polly Shell’s apartment. It was her friend in homicide who told her about Callow. He had been run over in the alley behind Brennan’s. Patrons said he had been in the company of two large men who bought him drinks then sat in a booth with him while he drank them. All seemed cordial enough but something just wasn’t kosher.

     The barflies told the police they then saw another man follow Callow out the back door of the tavern into the pitch black night. Then they heard a tires squealing and a loud thump. It had been Peg-leg O’Sullivan behind the wheel. One of the patrons identified him from a police photo. Another claims he saw the hit and run and watched Callow’s listless body fly up in the air and come crashing down. He said he then saw O’Sullivan jump into a car with Callow’s booze benefactors and speed away.b

     O’Sullivan was arrested the next day and after hours of interrogation he fingered the boss in the red suspenders and several other hoodlums associated with the murder of Leche Callow and Jack Jameson. He confessed that he had been the killer, had helped dump Jameson’s body and led the cops to the original murder weapon that he had chucked down a mineshaft at Idaho Springs.

    “It looks like we nailed the bad guys,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. Your conversation with Callow was the catalyst. We found your name and address scrawled on a pad in Peg-leg’s pocket. I’m afraid you were next. These scumbags were dialed in all right.”

     “Too bad about that little fella though,” said the detective “He may have been a lying punk but he turned out to be Jack Jameson’s best friend in the end. – Kevin Haley

Keeping the fun in marriage

with Dr. Evelyn “Muffy” Hollandaise, MSW, PhD, ASAP, LSMFT

Part 16 – Creative Disagreement — Keeping It Civil

     As my fifth husband always used to say: “If you can’t fight standing up how do you expect to make love lying down.” While many of us here in the business are not clear as to what he means we will go to the wall to defend his rite of common passage. Given: Everyone, with the possible exception of white doves, hermits, the dead and laudanum addicts locks horns sometimes. Nowhere is this phenomenon more interesting than within the sacred bondage of marital harmony.

     You may ask: How then Dr. Muffy can two people learn to tolerate each other when the green grasses of secularism beckon and the chains monogamy rattle throughout the night. The answer: Don’t just sit there like a rusty old war memorial. Kick up some dust of your own. Here’s how to do it:

    Most people would agree that it’s far easier watching someone else explode than to hit the ceiling yourself. That’s our first direction: Shut the hell up. Sure, it’s tough but generally your opponent will continue to hold the floor at least until they have exuded all primary hostility. Everyone thinks they know what they are talking about but no one has a clue. Blah, blah, blah…and so on.

     During this peripheral exchange be sure to keep a serious look on your face (laughing will only succeed in making matters worse), don’t make eye contact (it is often seen as a sign of aggression and yet can simultaneously denote fear ), back away slowly attempting to make yourself seem larger and more formidable (running will convince the predator that you are food). While surfing the primrose path it is wise to make lots of noise so as not to startle your mate, especially if he or she is traveling with cubs (off-spring).

     When the confrontation reaches phase two — the actual dialogue it may help to circulate a print-out to the participating parties. This helpful sheet can provide guidelines, parameters and information that will be covered during the brawl. This way nobody feels blindsided by issues introduced in the heat of battle. Hint: Always hold back just a little in case back stabbing is the only recourse. For example: Personal attacks on in-laws and personal hygiene are good while implications as to the lack of integrity and/or obesity are less effective.

     Always take time to choose a setting that benefits both sides. The kitchen is often better than the bedroom even though that’s where the knives are housed. The garden may work well for the combatants but what about the tomato plants? Squash can be very sensitive to upheavals and often wilts on the vine in the face of entanglement. (And that says nothing of endive and/or periwinkle). Referring to the set as the battleground does not carry with it the indication that one is serious about solutions. Waiting for the other partner to be drunk is not a good idea as one runs the risk that he or she will pass out during the good part.

     Timing is important too. She should throw out a contentious line during, say, the final game of the NBA Playoffs. He could do well waiting until the VISA bill arrives, unless of course he is the big spender. Bringing up an old mate is a valid approach only when he is in jail or her hair is falling out.

     Never presume that you are a better lover unless you were actually present during their tender moments. Don’t accept guilt connected to such evangelical surprises as: “After failing at several suicide attempts she joined a cloistered order and was hit by a bolt of lightning while on her way to vespers; he passed away after contracting leprosy, you know, working with the poor in India; or the old standby he jumped into a small bucket of chilled white table wine from a squat piñon tree atop lover’s leap and it’s your fault!”

     Along with the setting one should consider the general ambiance. The sound of a distant lawn mower or chain saw can be relaxing. The sound of a dog barking can lead to further frustration. Make sure no faucets are dripping or digital beeping is present as distraction can cause breakdowns of the communicative process.

     Music is very important. Country and Western works well, especially compared to the annoying repetitions sometimes inherent in progressive jazz. Rap is not a beneficial option since it is often loud, repetitive, crude and violent. Love songs may not be appropriate either. Save them for the making up part, if it comes.

     Body language should not be a consideration and physical response isn’t a solution, even for lower primates. The habit of repeating verbatim every sentence uttered by your opponent is childish and can provoke further duress.

     At some point in the proceedings there should be a period of dead air when everyone is finally exhausted. This is the right time to terminate the argument. The best way to do so is to throw your arms around your partner and hug them till they turn blue. Most people find this extension less attractive than facing a bayonet but moments after the initial fear of rejection is conquered anger is usually replaced by relief. Never leave during an argument since it can be taken as a retreat and you may have to go through this discussion process all over again.

     Now that the argument has come to a halt it is time to start gathering ammunition for the next big fight which we will undress in the next episode. Too-DA-loo…

Dr. Hollandaise graduated from some school back east & uses a lot of words she doesn’t understand. She can’t cook, has over 40 mirrors in her abode and is lousy in bed, according to her last five husbands .

China To Send Plumbers

(Canton) As part of an innovative foreign policy exchange the People’s Republic of Chain has agreed to send some 500 plumbers to the United States in return for assorted data software projectiles and vegan space technology.

     The plumbers, none of whom speak English, are expected to arrive in Colorado first in a pilot program and then spread out to other parts of the country before the holidays. According to organizers of the swap the plumbers are needed here since it is impossible to arrange for these important and traditional services locally.

     “Plumbers here are far too busy with the boom to service the average Joe,” said Myrna Flo, of the Snake Department. “These Chinese plumbers are hungry for work and will even crawl under existing structures and, in emergency situations, even show up on Sunday. The data we are exchanging is three years old and not worth all that much to us. It’s clear we’re getting the best of the deal.”

     China has recently been building bridges and basic infrastructure in Southeast Asia as part of a friendly neighbor approach to diplomacy while the U.S. has continued to bully allies and opponents alike, invading countries, tampering in elections and breaking treaties.

     “We’re spending a boatload of cash to get nowhere while the Chinese are making friends all over the world,” said Flo. “Maybe it’s time we reevaluate our economic strategy.”

     At the height of the exchange the US expects to see some 1000 Chinese plumbers in the country legally. Backlogs suggest that they will be here for quite some time and can apply for citizenship since they perform tasks related to national security. Although not particularly known for plumbing prowess the Chinese are seen as hard workers anxious to make a dollar.

     “We don’t think the language barrier will be insurmountable despite the fact that only 11 people in Western Colorado speak or write Chinese,” added Flowe. “What’s important is that general plumbing standards in this country do not dip below what is accepted as developed and that frozen pipes are attended to within 24 hours.”

     The Chinese specialize in space module plumbing and computerized septic systems which has critics worried for the future. Most have never seen a functioning commode.

     “These Asian philosophies have yet to be accredited and the theories behind Chinese plumbing are mere postulates at this point. To hell with the trade deficit. We’re not giving away the farm here,” said Flo, “since most of that acreage has already been sold off for subdivisions and shopping malls.”

– Kashmir Horseshoe

     

Add to my rambling notes and create your own story:

Go ahead. It may be a more amusing way to spend an hour than shoveling any of the muddied snow that comes your way. Please do not send us your stories if they are in slow burn mode.

The Discovery of Fire Part III

“Witches,” they said. Ya sure Cavemen buy the program and High Priest condemns fire – his perceived loss of power. “Witches! Witches “cooked my britches in the cauldron of covens!” says the Spanish Bishop pulling up his breeches.   Ref: to Eating hot peppers from Peruvian silver mines, still several millennia away…

Cave men High Priest hierarchy/ talking about creating gods here for the people to worship and tithe.   “They are afraid. It will be easy.”

Then came a full eclipse of the sun and the holy man shenanigans…nothing. More ritual, maybe even human sacrifice like in the industrialized world. Nothing still and then like a miracle the dark lifted and the people rejoiced worshipping the new gods of the self-proclaimed and promoted Holy Man, now living in the nicest cave in town.

****

LET THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT FINANCE YOUR NEXT MARTINI BREAKFAST MEETING. Call for more information. Dial 7 and be sutre to pay your taxes so EEUU can build more bombs.