All Entries Tagged With: "Rockies"

LIAR’S POKER

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

Scanning the files 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 that 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’s wearing too much cologne and he looks a little rough at the edges. Should I send him in?”

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 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 a batch of half-broken yellow and 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 very 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 goose and 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 visit. It said simply that the authorities were reopening the Jack Jameson case. Apparently the epic rantings of an elderly convict were not those of a madman after all. His relentless chatter had led to the recovery of a bound body, deep at the bottom of Buffalo Bill reservoir in the foothills.

She called a friend that she had worked with in homicide. He verified that new evidence had emerged and that the cops had already dredged the lake and netted a male body. From early indications the victim had been executed and thrown weighted into the lake about six months ago. 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.

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 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 two booze benefactors and speed away.

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

 

 

Mother Nature Reclaiming Vast Segments of Suburban Sprawl

(Levittown) The planet earth is coming back with a vengeance recovering enormous swaths of land once thought to be beyond resuscitation. The march of aggressive vegetation, revived jungle, and the increased rumbling from the planet’s core have resulted in a restoration once thought impossible.

Nature is in the midst of a revival not seen since the Renaissance according to botanists and geologists monitoring the spontaneous reinstatement of natural law in areas surrounding major population centers. Sociologists have long pinpointed these often-affluent communities for the worst abuses.

“The planet is winning back acres and acres at an alarming rate throwing man’s progress to the four or five winds,” said Dr. Efram Pennywhistle of the Rolling Hills Institute in Parma, Ohio. Even asphalt and concrete are no match for an angry mother where the relentless, powerful march of green growth and geothermal energy are measured.”

Pennywhistle, who often speaks through a straw, reminded readers that fracking, fossil fuel emissions, pesticides, chemical fertilizer and constant oil spills by negligent petroleum capitalists remain a grave threat to life on earth. He said he hoped that when Mother Nature is finished with the suburban housecleaning she will roll up her sleeves and turn her attention to these environmental disasters.

“A lot of us here at the institute have come to realize that the current effort is just a test run, a dress rehearsal for bigger and better things to come. We expect that in a few months we will observe the utter destruction of hydraulic fracturing sites, the sinking of oil tankers, the termination of gasoline-powered cars and the embrace of organic fertilizers even by the heartless corporate sector. These changes will not come due to a new-found altruism on the part of humans but rather by stepped up angry natural disasters and the might of the natural world against these choking technologies.”

Pennywhistle suggests that at the current rate (step-in-step with polar ice melt still denied by throwbacks in Congress) there may be no more suburbs at all by 2040. Poorly constructed shopping malls ma go first followed by the crumbling of ticky-tacky neighborhoods that have grown up around them.

Countless experts in the field have warned of the coming doom. One noted climatologist, Professor Myra “Bunny” Hopwilder, the inventor of Kind Pesticide, a brave, new notion that simply puts pests in a “state of swooning well-being”, rendering them harmless, has this to say:

“Prematurely cracked sidewalks, statues tumbled to the ground, scrambled communities draped in flat humdrum walls and ceilings steeped in sameness, carnivorous plants eating small rodents and insect for now. What will they do when the food supply runs out? Melting asphalt from above and below, plants growing to four and five times their normal size. Culture smothered and overpowered as nature chokes off whatever inhabits her sinister path.”

Whether this floral gentrification is a cure or remedy depends on the value placed on vapid architecture and human existence, according to Hopwilder.

“When the deed is done and the earth returns to an agrarian paradise, free of man’s convoluted meanderings, will we still be a welcome here? Will we learn to live in harmony with the world around him or simply begin the devastation again?”

Meanwhile governments from Nairobi to Nanking are encouraging people to take precaution.

“Keep all children and pets indoors and all cars in garages when available. Secure all lawn furniture, barbecues, fencing, lawn tools and sheds. Don’t overwater existing foliage. If you have an old bomb shelter this might be a good time to muck it out and stock it with canned goods. Otherwise you are on your own.

For related story turn to Wind Turns Violent at US Congressional Palace on Page 56 

– Arlene Fukushima

 

CANE LICENSE DEADLINE LOOMS

Montrose) People carrying canes have until Thursday to procure licenses for same or face stiff fines. Whether a citizen is using the cane as a tool, a crutch, a walking stick or simply an accessory, he must comply with the new regulation.

Critics of the law say it is just another agist step toward a national ID card. They say that although the card is presented as necessary security against illegal aliens and terrorists it is just another attempt by the federal control freaks to look up your dress/down your shorts.

“I’d prefer trainloads of illegal immigrants in my backyard rather than have an ID number stenciled on my forehead,” said Rocky Flats, a semi-retired atomic scientist and frequent cane user from Olathe. “I’m gonna use my cane and I’m not gonna buy no damn license. Them that gets in my way wanting to see credentials will get a close up look at my walking stick, you betcha.”

A free-lance gov’ment source defended the action.

“We don’t want to get involved in people’s personal lives, no sireee…We just want to defuse a potentially explosive scenario before it becomes a life threatening situation,” smiled Suzanne Compost of the Committee for Public Safety. “What with all those baby boomers hitting senior status we expect to see more people using canes. In fact, we estimate that cane use will all but double by the year 2020.”

Compost went on to deny rumors that the authorities will patrol older neighborhoods checking paperwork, observing suspicious behavior and kicking canes out from under elderly people who choose to ignore the law.

“That’s ridiculous,” she quipped. “Some of those old farts carry mace, bite and have mean cats. Why would we jeopardize the safety of our people? Our policy is to wait till these criminals take a nap on a park bench, lay their canes down at the local cafeteria or go to pick up their sociable security checks at the mailbox, then we simply the seize the illegal cane.”

The AARP, the ACLU, Reader’s Digest, the manufacturers of Viagra and several prune juice processing plants have promised to appeal the new legislation.

– Manuel Flushe

Imaginary Friend Population on the Rise

(Denver) The number of imaginary friends claimed by residents of the Confront Range has almost doubled since this time last year. Experts say the jump is the result of growing disenchantment and constant stress experienced in higher population areas.

Imaginary friends, defined as anyone from a fantasy pal to an invisible advisor, tend to surface when real people just don’t cut the mustard. They are, in turn, attracted to lonely people who find themselves the victim of the 21st Century—People who constantly breathe bad air, people who spend their lives stuck in traffic or crammed into the cheery suburbs.

“These are not to be confused with guardian angels,” explains Dr. Efram Pennywhistle of the Lookout Mountain Helicopter Traffic Brown Cloud Symposium. “They cannot be claimed as dependents on tax returns and are not recorded on the national census.”

Pennywhistle says guardian angels are good spirits while imaginary friends run the gamut from helpful to destructive. He adds that a pretend passenger can be of great worth while negotiating I-25 at rush hour or on the ol’ riding mower at dusk.

“We had one joker up here in Golden who claimed his imaginary friend bought him cheap vodka and made him drink it while driving up Clear Creek to the Central City casinos. Upon arrival the imaginary friend allegedly made him gamble away his paycheck and later threaten security personnel. When police arrived, and arrested the man,” quipped Pennywhistle, “the imaginary friend was nowhere to be seen.”

Up till now most urban planners and social scientists have chosen to ignore the existence of these others preferring to focus on logistical problems having to do with physical matter and space.

“It was bad enough trying to create housing for the first string (living, breathing humans) without worrying about these imagined individuals,” said one planner. “Now we have to build imaginary interstate highways, locate imaginary low income housing, develop imaginary neighborhoods and even maintain imaginary schools for their children. The impact on social services is astounding. We still haven’t figured out how to tax them and sell them licenses but that day is coming.”

In private, many sociologists resent the imaginary friends whom they say are parasites at best out only for a good time. Most feel humans would be better dealing directly with trauma rather than creating beefed-up linemen to do their blocking for them.

“Any way that modern man can deal with the bombardment of stimuli is acceptable,” explained Jorge Thorwell, a professor of Latter Day Metaphysics at Cal Amari University (Compton Fire Base). “These poor unfortunates in washed cars live life at a blow by blow pace traveling the robot highway in a world turned to bad science fiction. The road noise alone drives most slowly insane.”

At press time the number of imaginary friends living between Ft. Collins and Trinidad is estimated at about 500,000. While most have assimilated into ancient Colorado culture (they are Bronco fans) their presence is a constant threat to the fragile peace and harmony along that stretch of Colorful Colorado. – Fred Zeppelin

 

Quiet Observations

Martian Travel Benefit: Apollo National Park on the Moon

With the establishment of the new Apollo National Park on the Moon it should be easier to travel to Mars according to Jetpack Carriers, a pioneer transport service specializing in all-inclusive cosmic ventures into the great beyond. Jetpack, which will begin full service flights to Mars in November, says the preliminary taming of the lunar orbit satellite, will give travelers a host of options when cruising outer space.

“The trip to Mars can be exhausting and tremendously tedious if a person is not prepared for the experience. The opening of a National Park on the moon offers a safety net or failsafe where people can get out of the shuttle, stretch their legs and have a look around.”

The round-trip cost for the journey starts at $1.3 million, which includes chemical meals in clever packaging and in-flight films. Interest in one-way trips has spiked recently with many potential passengers eager to “get off the grid and rid themselves of the stress of earth-bound routines” according to Jetpack.

 

Kim Jong-un Having Trouble Getting Dates

(Pyongyang) Korean news sources intimate that Dear Leader, Kim Jong-un has been experiencing a downturn in his social life after ordering the execution of a former girlfriend, Hyon Song-wol, a well-known Korean performer with the Unhasu Orchestra. Hyon, who was accused of breaking domestic pornography laws, was the victim of a firing squad that took an estimated dozen lives. Most of the others killed were members of the Wanghaesan Light Music Band.

Whether Kim will rebound from his social snafu was not discussed however many here say he will be back on the dating trail by the weekend. Many potential partners are afraid to say no to the Korean dictator and don’t dare answer the phone. Others reportedly dream of a date so as to get a decent meal in the starving country. The sources did not dwell on the leader’s charms, calling him “quite a catch” even though he is currently married to Ri Sol-ju, who had objected to the high profile of the ex-girlfriend.

“It is not known if these murders will undermine the dapper god-king’s efforts to woo the women of North Korea,” said one South Korean mouthpiece, “but it certainly can’t help come Saturday night.”

 

Many Zombies Sticking Around After Film

(Montrose) An alarming number of zombies and assorted extras say they are planning to relocate to Montrose after a positive experience filming the movie “I Am Alone” in the Western Colorado city. Of the 50 or so zombies taking part in the filming most told The Horseshoe that they hope to stay here.

“It all comes down to jobs and there aren’t all that many good ones to be had,” said one of the Walking Dead, sipping a zombie downtown yesterday. “Sometimes quality of life is more important than money and we have a powerful support group quickly forming in these environs.

Zombies, thought to be corpses brought back to life by witchcraft, generally led productive lives and often blend in with the local population. Many are attracted to the shadows of the urban arena yet others prefer the wide-open spaces.

The city of Montrose, in keeping with bullying practices toward small business within its confines, has announced that it will hire 200 more police officers to head-off disturbances. Readers may recall an upsurge in the zombie population in Delta after Attack of the Vegan Zombies was shot there in 1997. After marked concern on the part of authorities there it became apparent that zombies and regular humans could co-exist even though compatibility was in question when the days grew shorter.

– Jack Spratt 

 

Starter Colonies Anticipated in Cyberspace

(Hotchkiss) Scientists attached to the Roger’s Mesa Alien Study Institute at Lazear say they expect starter colonies in cyberspace by 2010. Crowded conditions and the lack of farmland on earth were cited as the major reason for human relocation to the otherwise uncharted terrain.

At present, research indicates that cyberspace is ready to support inhabitants and sustain life forms such as animals and plants.

“Most of us fall into one of those categories,” laughed Dr. Laura Borealis, Director of the Institute that was established to counsel dogs and monkeys sent into outer space in the 50s.

According to a host of filed reports cyberspace is endless enough since asphalt, tacky subdivisions and mindless sprawl, are still illegal within those environs. Although oxygen levels fluctuate and gravitational concerns have yet to be undressed, the scientists have given a firm thumbs up to the more than 200 potential homesteaders who have applied for high speed trip permits and thousands of dotcom caches up to 80 acres.

“Cyberspace pioneers may feel like a one-eyed cat in a henhouse or even a dog on three legs right now,” said Borealis, “but they are a resilient group in search of a better life for their children where clean air and water are the rule and all is in sync with nature. Sure, things are mellow around here but that is not the case on most of the planet.”

Conflicts with the Hotchkiss National Fish Hatchery have been blown out of proportion, according to the director who emphasized that there is a place for trout, as well as kokanee salmon in cyberspace. Principles at the hatchery have repeatedly accused the alien study institute of mollycoddling recovering space travelers and secretly housing refugees from Aspen.

“I’ve pretty much had it up to the gills with these fishwits,” winked Borealis. We have always been careful not to muddy the water or observe the trout during intimate spawning moments. Any moron can tell you that mixing trout with the aliens, galaxy-challenged chimps, stressed out doggie astronauts and even our technicians is bad medicine.”

Borealis added that the fish hatchery people were simply jealous in that they are not allowed to send clients into space.

In a related development, NASA is calling agricultural experiments on the Martian surface “a dismal failure” in that tomatoes grown and picked green there before shipment to markets on earth taste like plastic.

“Even though they are all shined up and look exactly like tomatoes they taste like cardboard,” said one genetically altered NASA investigator. “They just ain’t maters.”

– Suzie Compost