Shaunessy and a Literary Death by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Fall 2017 Regularly Special Issue

The popular notion linking creativity and mental illness Problem: "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia," E.L Doctorow told the Paris Review. He was speaking metaphorically, as creative types do. Right?

Methodology: In the most comprehensive study ever undertaken of this purported phenomenon, 1.3 million researchers at the United

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 303

States Department of Health funded, Karl Marx Institute of Geneva gathered census data representing almost 1.2 million patients with schizoaffective disorder, depression, anxiety syndrome, alcohol abuse, drug abuse, autism, ADHD, anorexia nervosa and suicide; the latter category necessarily based on corroborated tittle-tattle. They then, the 1.3 million researchers at the United States Department of Health funded, Karl Marx Institute of Geneva, that is, looked at the weirdo’s employment in the arts and sciences; ‘creative’ occupations. The control, naturally, was ‘accountant.’

Results: Bipolar disorder was the only diagnosis found to be more prevalent in people with creativity-based careers, who were overall less likely to be diagnosed with the mental illnesses included in the study. An earlier study of this same population had found, though, that families with a history of bipolar or schizophrenia were more likely to produce creative people.

Researchers are still struggling to comprehend what this means, both in terms of contradiction, significance, coherence, and textual accuracy, not necessarily in that order.

When the 1.3 million researchers at the United States Department of Health funded, Karl Marx Institute of Geneva, (hereinafter referred to as 1P3MRUSDOHKMIOG) looked specifically at authors, under the assumption that they, the authors that is, are

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 304

creative, they found that they are overrepresented among people with schizophrenia, depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety syndrome, and substance abuse problems. Authors were also almost twice as likely to commit suicide as the general population, that 83.3% of the suicides were skewed toward indies no one had previously heard of, with their typically average annual income of 228 Swiss Francs. No suicides were noted among authors with reported annual incomes in excess of US$155,000.

Interestingly to someone, the close relatives of people with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, anorexia, and, to a lesser extent, autism, were more likely to be employed in creative fields.

‘In general, being an accountant or a relative of an accountant meant negative or no association to the psychopathologies investigated,’ said Giada Hochstutter, one of the 1P3MRUSDOHKMIOG.

Implications: It may be useful to not always think of mental illness in black and white terms. It may also be even more useful to not think of mental illness at all. Once these nutcases think that they have an ear, they invariably proceed to fill it with all those sad-ass, depressing stories, in an ostensible attempt to ‘share’ what no healthy and rational

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 305

person wants any part of. These findings suggest that some positive outcomes like creativity can be health countered through the study of Accountancy. Such remedial efforts can help to reduce the stigmas surrounding both mental illness and Accountancy, and to some extent, be construed as empowering to the weirdos.

But if I can editorialize for a moment, it's impossible to overstate the importance of not reading too far into results like this, as the significantly increased suicide rate emphatically demonstrates, the reality of mental illness is bleak. It's fine to celebrate people with mental disorders'

contributions to society, but of course that shouldn't stop us from doing everything possible to treat them if they can afford our hourly rates.

The full study, ‘Mental illness, suicide and creativity: 40-Year prospective total population study,’ is published in Dr. Phil’s Britney Spears Memorial Journal of Unlicensed Psychiatric Research.

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit an e-mail to the nonexistent editor or write in 20 words or less, to ltrs@transheat.com, making sure to use the

BrandNewCaesarianRoman font, size 12. Utilization of the

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 306

insertion rather than the cut and paste method is required. If you don’t hear from us in a year, assume that we either didn’t look at it and never will, or that it was too stupid to take seriously. Please don’t bug us in the interim. Thank you.

Lindy Danseur is a former editorial fellow/fellperson at Horror Sleaze Trash Publications – Buttplug Division.”

Connect Twatter.

Margaret freaked, yelling; “Disconnect, disconnect!”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 307

15 – Children of Paradise

The first overnight winds of fall were making their presences known. The cottonwoods were slowly changing their leaf colors from green to yellow and brown. One had to look up to notice, as none of the leaves had yet given up entirely, thereby settling into their inevitable crinkly, mass final resting place where the animal feet would trod and grind. Some lesser, one dimensionally needled evergreens confused this with a bluish sadness, or a desperate attempt to hang on, or whatever dumb mindset was most convenient for misinformed “immortals” to adopt at the particular moment. The needles may have wanted to extend their amusement with the show, at least until the matching repeats repeated and repeated and repeated and ........

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz; they issued a silent, dispassionate “fuck you all, I’m out of here,” if there ever was one. “Set me free, why dontcha babe? Get out my life, why dontcha babe.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 308

Double door and “Don’t Open the Door to Strangers” by Steve Kilbey; property of the author, the former the kind courtesy of Pexels.com modified, the latter under both the “fair use” and

“transformative” doctrines.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 309

Mid-morning, Shaunessy was patrolling alone in his most official town vehicle, any of a series of flashing, multi-colored lights available with the simple push of the right button. It was semi-power, an aphrodisiac full power as seen by those with none; a long playing standard to Shaunessy, best not articulated for fear of stupid questions. To Shaunessy’s delight, Chief Kerry had come to the taxpayer-money-saving conclusion that if his men were to spend their days giving out traffic tickets, there was no need for them to inefficiently ride in the same vehicle. Kerry’s other “men,” Striker was somewhere else in Vista e la Feria, ostensibly in the act of issuing a high priced summons to a speeding rascal with semi-deep pockets when Shaunessy was dispatched to the Bosque; a bordering resident again having called in a report of having heard gunshots there. All previous such reports concluded with an un-evidenced, other than one merely anecdotal, unsubstantiated claim, paperwork tally of an aggregated zero, stated in an artfully euphemistical manner, on the unlikely, but microscopically possible event that one brave soul from the New York Times would still idiotically invoke the difficult-to-invoke “Freedom of Information” act to access and read it, the police optimistically presuming their capability to understand rather than conveniently choose to misinterpret it. This could

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 310

indeed happen when and if the new NYTimes editor is able to broaden his genre palette from its monochromatic fixation on leaf color. In their turn, the leaves are not burdened with such considerations. They don’t even read the Times. When their time comes, they just fall like a de-funded W.H.O. pandemic conspirator.

Primarily in an effort to do the opposite of that, Shaunessy decided to avoid the havens of the well-travelled, mildly comical, deferentials on Vista de la Feria’s main thoroughfare, artfully and cagily named Vista de le Feria Road.

Shaunessy relied upon his specially and officially taken key, a rather large one at that, the size substantially irrelevant, but possibly of interest to the sciency, detail freaks. If there were still any of those around, carrying and paying attention to neither-here-nor-there rulers; the jesting mindset was one of his as yet to be westernly defined nafs. For Shaunessy this flashed through his mind at the speed attributed to that of a yet-to-be proven bot unleashed by one of the heads of goggle, gog, golligog, Barney Goggle with the goo, goo, googly eyes, or some other derivation of such duplicative, ersatz manifestations. It seemed to Shaunessy that it was part and parcel to an old story, indeed an ancient repetitious story yet to be ‘scientifically’ disproven, hidden so well in modern

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 311

garments; ignorance in the sense of indirect and convenient ignoring, that mayhaps the 21st century methodology to un-explain in the one dimensional simplicity incorrectly and handily attributed to long dead Kant, more or less, as in a film

‘representative’ of the foamy, low level approach of the tidal wave; perhaps substantially not recognized as such; the matter none. In certain quarters utilizing “alternative” calendars, Millennial was a very old story; quite funny during its first two tellings.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 312

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 313

Patti Smith and “Higher Learning” by Patti Smith; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Shaunessy used his authority granted keys to gain entrance to the Bosque approaching ditch paths, another green-painted, and locked metal gate at every turn. He took his sweet time to re-lock each of them behind him. The unpaved parallel roads, one at each side of the man managed waterways were still running; the annual shutoff usually performed sometime around November first, when regulatory fears predictably morphed from fire to ice.

After having passed through and re-locked the last gate, he drove his siren-and-potentially-light-flashing vehicle down the dirt path, positioned between the “Clear Ditch;” a tiny waterway which was fed by the Rio Grande River, popular with fishermen,

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 314

and the Bosque trees and bushes which were a natural boundary, on the average three hundred feet deep, between him and the Rio Grande river.

Ditch paths leading to Bosque; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license.

Ahead of him, Shaunessy saw someone with two dogs in tow.

That person stopped and looked back, likely less than thrilled to have had their excursion into borderline nature marred by the smelly vroom-vroom-vroom provided by another intrusion of loud foreign parts on foreign wheels. The smaller dog stood in place, while the larger one pulled at the leash. As Shaunessy’s car closed in, he saw that the person was Emily Crain, her head only half hidden in her dark gray jacket’s attached hood.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 315

Shaunessy got out and said; “Emily?”

Apparently having made less previous note of him than he had of her, she said; “Yes, officer,” with a twinge of overly polite sarcasm mixed with bogus tolerance, like when Lilith was obliged to politely respond to the newcomer, Adam, with whom she had not yet been properly introduced, thereby being unaware of the irritating interloper’s individuation.

“Have you heard any gunshots?”

Emily laughed at something only she knew and found funny and reeled from one foot to the other, almost falling when trying to get back to where she had started the process. She said; “No, you?”

“Had a few?”

“More than a few and there’s no law against that. I’m walking.”

“If you want to get technical about it, there is and you’re weaving.”

“Pesty, useless cops. Can’t detect a killing; more interested in nonexistent gunshots and someone harmlessly walking their dogs. Go ahead and arrest me, jerk.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 316

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Your problem is with your nut neighbors and the jerk Medical Examiner, Harrison Brody III. Not me.”

“Yeah, sure. Keep passing the buck. It’s standard operating procedure. We’ll all continue to be eternally fooled.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 317

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 318

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 319

Funhouse mirror, the reflection uncannily similar to Jeff Bozos, and “Is This Where You Live” by Steve Kilbey; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative”

doctrines.

“Evidently, as apparently you are; and yeah, it is. But in this case it happens to be true. The Medical Examiner, Brody has the legal authority to end any further investigation with a ruling of suicide. It took him less than 48 hours to do that; my complaints to no avail.”

“So, you too think Connor was murdered.”

“That’s not what I said. If you didn’t understand, let me put it another way. I’m saying that there was an inadequate investigation to have made any ruling, and that it should have been further pursued.”

“Oh, now I remember. You were one of the cops there that afternoon. You know, when I left him at 12:30PM, Connor was too drunk to hang himself if he wanted to. He probably wouldn’t even have been able to zip his fly. He was lying on the floor, barely able to move or stay awake.”

“I don’t recall your testimony as having said that; and the time you first stated was 12:45PM as I recall. I couldn’t and didn’t become aware of his .32 blood level alcohol content until I saw Brody’s final, case closing report.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 320

“Whatever. Nobody fucking asked me! What’s the point now?”

“Most likely none. Enjoy your doggie walk.” Shaunessy turned toward his vehicle, disgusted with stupid instructions, cantankerous and impaired witnesses, and misplaced complaints.

Emily Crain blurted a sudden flood of tears, consistent with any of a number of ploys for sympathy to which cops quickly acquire an unspoken immunity, the heart-rending displays most perfected by those in legal jeopardy in search of a “break;” the weak or partially dead pathogen an effective immunity to recurrence.

However, this time Shaunessy must have been himself impaired through a possible neglect in getting his booster shot, resulting in the terminal mistake of hesitation. Filling the ostensible gap, his ears were barraged with drunken Emily’s bar-room-common ramble. Attempting to “heroically” hold back the watery deluge, the only decipherable part took place when she yelled in apparent conclusion; “You wanna know what was really going on, cop?”

Shaunessy’s best instincts told him to decline the desperate ending offer. However, his worst instincts, which considered listening to inebriated bullshit better than going through the boredom of “investigating” phantom gunshots, and then returning to the traffic ticketing of those with the audacity or faulty speedometer to be going 5MPH over the limit

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 321

on Vista de la Feria Road made him freeze, thereby more or less willingly becoming subject to another useless and uninteresting diversion performed by a further “slick operator;” their need to correct their Stage Five lack of an audience; apparently unaware of their having descended into the world of inadvertent self-satire. The back of his head toward the late blooming orator, Shaunessy said; “The entirety of my being anxiously awaits your previously untold story. Isn’t it strange how you can’t see the river from here?”

“Does the entirety of your being prefer the long version or the short? Whether or not you can see it, it’s an ace bet that the river is still there.”

“A sort of eclecticism is at work. Whatever can be well or at least professionally done would suffice.”

“Oh, yes. Yes! As in a tiny, humble strain in Connor James Wheaton’s last bogus effort. One cannot help but expect it to be reviewed favorably by any reviewer of note.”

“My back pages say a hearty and welcoming cheerio. Pray tell your besotted memories. I am all earplugs.”

“Connor and I were lovers. I first met him here one winter morning when he was walking Rusty. We were both bundled up for the cold, with hoods, scarves, and all. So, I didn’t know who he

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 322

was, not that I would have known if he was less bundled, despite me being a lifelong reader. We clicked right away.”

“You were also the last one to see him alive.”

“So the anecdotal ‘evidence’ says.“

“You also had a loud argument with him that morning.

Statistics confirm that the ‘other’ woman is maniacally unhappy with that role.”

“A correction or two, commander. I was the last one to admit to seeing him alive. The killer didn’t feel it wise to say that. And you’re apparently assuming that the ‘other woman’

wants marriage and a common roof over their heads. I have some news for you, Mr. Investigator. Household sharing does not necessarily equate to romance or love; hence ipso and facto, the different words. But since the case is closed, believe whatever the fuck you’d like.” Emily was proud of herself for that one, and celebrated by smiling sarcastically and swaying to the point of an un-coming, potential fall. Her dogs, big Vossillay and little Silly Jody, got a bit of a neck tug. They then eyed each other as if to say; “Same old. Emily is loaded, and it’s tolerable, more or less, considering that.” Feeling as good as the circumstances allowed, she continued, while deferring to an easy slur; “Eventually I was awarded the privilege of seeing

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 323

Connor’s long overdue follow-up to ‘Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.’ He had it tentatively titled as ‘Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,’ and while it was almost the former in discernable quirk, it convincingly fell short of his wordsmith brand of execution. ......... “

“Um, yeah Ms. Lit Maven; but if I found it relevant to see substantially positive, unpublished indie reviews. I can find a zillion of them all over the web.”

“Congratulations, maestro. Your capacity to interrupt is only exceeded by your ‘unique, professional’ ability to equate the overture with the song of the fat lady.”

“Further personal enlightenment is undoubtedly warranted for my cultural perspicacity. Might you kindly refer me to your favorite, fat, female librettist?”

“That request for help is much too vague, and likely indicative of a fundamental misunderstanding; but quite good for a cop. Cheers. As I was trying to say, I immediately noticed that ‘Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,’ was of lesser quality than ‘Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.’ When we became almost completely at ease with each other, reliant on that seeming trust, I broached it to him, still in possession of a mild apprehension that my saying this might offend him; much as

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 324

a certain ‘facts’ upset the unasked for, white supporters of BLM; or worse put him, vis-à-vis me, on the infinitely defensive posture, ultimately a complete loss. .......... “

In continuation of his cop-prick stance, Shaunessy said;

“The intricate dynamics of interpersonal relationships are always so interesting.”

“Shut up and you might learn something about them. Connor was not the least bit offended. He even said that he appreciated it, especially in the wake of on-line reader-reviewers who skim to up their ‘numbers,’ not understanding a thing. He went on to tell me that he had lost interest in the tedium of writing novels, in favor of the less tedious and more lucrative writing of magazine articles. However, since he had already taken an advance to produce ‘Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,’

or some other misnomered derivation thereof, he had engaged the gardener, Rolf Hoffius, to ghost-write it for him. I mean like if that isn’t an ‘I-don’t-give-a-shit’ approach, please tell me what is. There is an infinite supply of ghost-writers, a few reasonably competent. But Connor took this jerk just because he was there, having no interest to even do a goggle search. So, Connor asked me to fix up Hoffius’ stuff, not saying that it was such, and also not out of an interest in topnotch quality, but out of an interest not to be over-obviously caught in a

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 325

subterfuge which might affect the advance he had already spent; and worse that it would prompt avaricious, mistake wifey, Anisette Rhona to barrage him with a never-ending boredom of being required to sit through the ultimate-and-redundantly-unnecessary-expansion-upon-her-one-line ability.”

“I hope Anisette Rhona at least would have occasionally changed the decibel level.”

“You’re kind of naively optimistic for an old cop.”

“Thank you. Please proceed.”

“Rolf Hoffius, also amusingly unknown to the literary world as Dwight N. Creepshun or DNC if you will, self-publisher of three zero sales, pathetic indie books, is a twice convicted felon; armed robbery I believe; hence his late interest in gardening and all-too-encouraged, crap book writing, through easy access to free on-line sources with which one is encouraged to embarrass themselves and family ...........” Emily paused for the breath necessitated by her snicker.

“More or less. As far as I have yet been able to determine on the spiffy web, ‘Rolf Hoffius’ has served some serious time under his birth given name of Lupo Batinado. The gardener is also the self-publisher of three books no one has bought even on

“free” days under the name of Dwight N. Creepshun; ‘Ax Uh Dental

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 326

Murder Charge,’ ‘The Bainsbridge Massacre Patsy,’ and the science fiction/bizarro epic, ‘Snot What You Think.’ Gets tiresome; doesn’t it?”

“Tell me about it. In ostensible mercy, sometimes humorously so, though I must admit that the title ‘Snot What You Think’ gets my difficult-to-contain, conspiratorial brand of interest aroused almost as much as JG Ballard’s ‘Kingdom Come.’

Returning to the lesser note merely at hand, and having vocally expressed my notice of how Connor’s writing had deteriorated from Novel #1 to Perennially Impending Novel #2; Connor persuaded me to edit the crap, as far as editing could be a panacea to a digitally displayed oversupply of chromosomes. I wasn’t the least bit enthused about doing it, ultimately settling for his promise that my name would in no way be associated with the result. The morning of his murder, for the first time Connor told me that he was paying Hoffius. That’s what our yelling argument was about. It’s not as if I minded doing him a favor ......... very much. But, if he was going to pay to have Hoffius do his novel poorly done for him, I should have been paid too.”

“Hear any gunshots?”

“Ha. Not at the time and still none today.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 327

“So, you were his editor?”

“Only on that one unfinished second novel.”

“Tell me. How long had you worked with CJW?”

“That’s funny in a way, dependent upon what you mean by work. When we first met I didn’t know that he was ‘CJW,’ and he didn’t tell me of his ‘lit-world-fame.’ We didn’t even know each other’s names for two months. He was just another person like me, out walking their dog near dawn, hoping to be done before all the others came out.”

“Did you think that he was suicidal?”

“No more than I think you and I are. He survived the grief of his loved Rusty dying.”

“Do you know anything of his prior attempts?”

“Not from him. Only through the blaring, tabloid-type

‘info’ overload.”

“Did Anisette Rhona know of your relationship with CJW?”

“Nobody sent her a greeting card to that effect. But, I don’t see how she could have missed it. Her interests begin and end with cash flow. Both she and publisher Battson are in tune, regardingthat matter.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 328

“If the venue is of preponderance of the evidence, not allowed in cases of a capital crime, dominated by anecdotal testimony, rather than something empirically based, thereby a requisite of beyond all reasonable doubt, I can prove that the teapot is circling the earth based on eyewitness accounts. I can also effectively ‘prove’ that it is not circling through eliminating the credibility of the eye witnesses. It’s kind of a point of view mixed with instinct, ability, and diligence, which the courts, in their assigned power and ‘wisdom,’ require in capital cases.”

“Works well for the Gambino family. Fact. Background – CJW

and Anisette Rhona married later in life. Anisette Rhona, a low income ‘artiste’ of the pigmented, abstractedly expressional, artichoke green strain most liked her perception of increased financial stability. A pre-nup called for the separation of assets and no income re-distribution in the case of divorce.

However, when there is no will in the enchanting land also known as the State of New Mexico, assets go to the surviving spouse.

Connor was not the typical writer in that he sort of fell into it when considering post graduate options. Though this is now conveniently mis-stated in public spots, one would think for the benefit of the faux passionate deifiers of words, his undergraduate majors were math and philosophy, rather than the

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 329

English later concocted. Don’t take my word. This can be checked at whatever school he attended. Upon graduation, he was wondering whether to pursue his masters in math or philosophy when someone gave him a book written by a youthful ‘prodigy.’

Connor read it and concluded; ‘I can easily do better than that,’ thereby going back for a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, which he later said that he recommended to no one. He was quite content to write easy, money-spinning, and absurd magazine articles, though he had contracted with Battson; now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; part of the McVirago group for a second novel, primarily in return for a promise of ‘heavy’ advertising of ‘Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers,’ which was heavily edited. Regarding the promise of advertising, Battson cited the lack of definition of ‘heavy,’ as well as crying the blues over not being able to do more, a supposed function of Farr, Simon, and Moreau being over-ruled by the ‘marketing men’ at the McVirago group. So when Connor was killed, he was already ten years late in delivering numero dos, despite help from his twice felonius Rolf Hoffius paid ghost writer and unpaid me. With the novel near or at completion, Connor was worth more to both Battson and Anisette Rhona, dead than alive; he intending to publish no more CJW novels, and she afraid of cutoff and the possibility of a lawsuit to recover any unfulfilled advance; somewhat prompted by Connor’s telling her,

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 330

with the intention of being distressing, that he was going to tell Battson to ‘go fuck himself’ that last day. Who knows what was in the mind of an untalented, desperate dumbass? Probably Anisette Rhonas’s scrawny excuse for one.” Emily gave hers a slap, and followed it with a wiggle and a breathless giggle.

Shaunessy smiled when he again went off topic and said;

“The Medical Examiner did not look at CJW’s computer at all, leaving it there. The publisher took it back to New York with him.”

“Damn. I hope he didn’t go through all the pictures.”

“You seem suddenly light-hearted.”

“More likely light-headed. I usually follow my infrequent Acker with another reading of ‘The Rosie Project.’”

“Acker?”

“Kidding. Kidding. Just kidding. Really.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 331

16 – Two for the Road

Chief Kerry’s ordered solitary patrol assignment had its advantages. Shaunessy now had full control of the wheel at all times and didn’t have to hear former partner Striker’s asinine comments and “jokes” when he began driving by low-speeding-ticket-priority 977 Camino de Tristeza twice daily. Emily Crain’s more or less impassioned story must have rekindled his enthusiasm for justice at the expense of his acquired sense of contemptuous disgust, though he realized that his opinion of the World Health Obstruction (WHO) authorities still required voluminous, Chinese approved, further study to safely accept any of their non-remedial actions. They thereby had miscarried any of their faux attempts to make much of a dent in either; much like those prone to serial false pregnancies. The WHO and the Center for Disease Continuation (CDC) went off sniffing drainpipes, reciting the alphabet, and being insistent upon more numbers for them to evaluate, revise, re-revise, re-re-revise, etc. etc. Though this was their long term standard operating procedure known to all but the useless participants in the farce, foolish Shaunessy still took note and marveled at how the

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 332

hoary game was still able to take the preponderance of tricks, like a Contract Bridge duo adept at un-observed, under-the-table foot machinations, commonly known as footsies.

Shaunessy was looking for some reason to investigate further himself; to get back in that house now forbidden to him by the Medical Examiner, with the full support of Kerry, and the former petty annoyance of Striker. He thought; “There must have been something I missed.”

When on the road for official or un-official business, Shaunessy never closed the driver-side window in entirety; always leaving a crack, so as to not be sealed off from outside sounds. A full closure shut off one sense and also was too much like the way he imagined his final resting place, and he didn’t think that he required any practice to handle that; as most everyone he had ever heard of had handled it just fine; outside of the buried alive Poe fiction and the decades ‘currently’

popular zombie apocalypse genre; lesser one-hit-wonder-writers, excepting Romero, not worth mentioning even on the miniscule chance that they were still remembered by someone. For this same reason he never played music when driving the police car alone; it being only an occasional attempt at drowning out Striker when they had been “partnered.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 333

Through his crack, Shaunessy easily noted that Camino de Tristeza was “noisy,” like the sound of a metal grinder on the verge of conking out, as is often portrayed by the “affordable”

DeWalt DW840, when it was not out of service, in need of repair; or the standard punk, metal, noise band. Shaunessy heard his official wheels replay the repeat performance of the sound of tires going over the persistent residues of gravel which were dragged out by locally domiciled vehicles from their gritty driveways onto the asphalt. It was a song old enough to be considered a classic, but wasn’t officially recognized as having that “honor,” also known as an invitation to knock off, like intellectual property or bat poo viruses are in polluted and smoky China, more properly and without stigmatization termed some unmemorable series of unrelated letters and numbers, claimed by them to be of assistance to the sciency, nerdy, use-yet-to-be-determined set.

The life-sized Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls still sat together on adjoining chairs of partially hollowed out tree trunks, their accommodations, in the worst possible case no more nature-destructive than the 1,000 book print runs which have taken up permanent residence in its writer’s living room; while a more optimistic thought suggested the finding of a marginal use for a portion of the trunks of full-grown trees which had

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 334

expired of their own volition. They sat at the driveway end or its beginning, point of view obviously essential in that determination, of a house purported to be set well back from the road. The tightly bunched line of mature pines fifty feet back from gravel and asphalt Camino de Tristeza rendered that judgement, if any, highly speculative and entirely un-necessary; or so thought Shaunessy as he smiled while he drove by the cute figures who smiled back at him in likely fortuitous reciprocation. Shaunessy’s Pollyanna side was more comfortable with interpreting that as a grand serendipitous gesture from friends. He wasn’t born a cop, and only did the copping job forty hours a week upon having attained the age in which one was pre-Millennially expected to have some line of work. This and that, and more or less, it was more a sign of disinterest in the numbing repetition attendant to all jobs after the six month learning period would inevitably expire, than anything else, now coupled with an infuriating compulsion to do whatever he did as best he could. No more, no less; or so he thought.

As is the norm for one riding in a police vehicle, all of the pedestrian traffic as well as some of those ensconced in the well-under-the-speed-limit vehicles of their own, did the

“friendly” wave and smile-grimace thing. They apparently were unaware that if the cop car driver returned all of their good

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 335

tidings his arm would soon require regular cortisone treatment, and that any monkey-assed perp in the back seat had his hands cuffed behind his back, couldn’t wave if he wanted to, and was as in the mood for another faux smile, as an umpire who had just missed his last call by a foot.

Number 977 Camino de Tristeza, also or formerly known as the Wheaton-Hunter house, showed a clear evidence of the change Shaunessy sought. What there was of a front, central, tended grass patch was now a foot-long candidate for hay baling, swaying in the breeze. Gardener, ghost, and indie “writer,” Rolf Hoffius had no longer been doing a minimal level of his non-literary chores, while Anisette Rhona had been reluctant to hire a replacement. This struck Shaunessy as strange, indicative of some departure from routine activity which would have been scrutinized by Chief Inspector Maigret or Simenon in Paris, but ridiculously insufficient to obtain a US search warrant.

The silent inactivity at the scene of the official hanging-suicide and the odd, frontally lobed, hay patch became Shaunessy’s most coveted, twice daily salutations on Camino de Tristeza. Its disinterested wave rivalled the warmth induced by the greetings of Walmart’s grimacing door monitors in ersatz cheery search of the items not rung up on the register, which justified their existence on an efficiency expert – management

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 336

consultant, cost accounting basis; and equaled the “Have a nice day” tedium somewhere near the bottom end of the lowest quartile of the surprise quotient. This altered form of stasis continued throughout the fall with all the perseverance of a common carp bottom-fish, brought to the US from Asia and Europe. Shaunessy thought; “While gardening help can be ‘difficult’ to find, if not obnoxious, in Vista de la Feria, it was not yet a task which required months of effort, especially if you let the conveniently misunderstanding Latka Gravas impersonator do ten unrequested things at full hourly rate.” Nonetheless, as winter mildly set in, Shaunessy’s futile trips began providing him with all the expectations of getting as much new evidence and remedies as that provided by a World Health Obstruction (WHO) or Centers for Disease Continuation (CDC) politico in an infectious crisis. Then he saw an old junk car in the Wheaton-Hunter house driveway.

Junker in Wheaton-Hunter house driveway; property of the author.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 337

It was something like one of the four cars Shaunessy almost remembered as being in the driveway the day of the

“investigation,” the hatchback suitable for a gardener-handyman who couldn’t afford a pickup truck. He called in the license plate number and found that the vehicle was registered to Rolf Hoffius. There was no sign of the felon-gardener-handyman-writer, his car’s presence only unusual in that whatever things Rolf was doing there, one of them wasn’t mowing, as the front hay patch was still almost knee high. Shaunessy thought; “Can’t wait to get a look tomorrow. If Rolf and Anisette Rhona have non-gardening ‘business’ to discuss, it might be interesting to find out what that is. She’s not a likely candidate for a romance with low income weinies.”

During Shaunessy’s next few trips to the site, he saw no driveway cars. The only activity he noticed was the long tan shoots caressing each other in the gentle winds. His suspicions of Hoffius’ having non-gardening business with Anisette Rhona was more or less confirmed.

Impatient and desirous of likely un-needed haste, Shaunessy decided that paying a visit to the adjacent winery was in order.

That didn’t directly violate any order or determination he had

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 338

been made aware of. He parked in the driveway at its end and rang the doorbell of the one storied, bronze, stucco structure.

The response was not immediate. On his sixth try the resident owner-worker, Alejandro Montserrat, of the budding “Danza Del Sol Winery” opened the red door just widely enough to get his head outside, saying; “What can I do for you today, officer?”

His sarcastic tone could have been meant to convey a reticence to speak with cops.

Shaunessy was long familiar with the attitude. As a result he had developed a method to counter it which worked most of the time. In the most deferential of voices available to him, he said; “Please excuse me for interrupting you, Mr. Montserrat.

I’m looking for some help.”

Montserrat must have heard that one before, as he mimicked Shaunessy’s timbre, replying; “I’m having some trouble in trying to imagine how that might be. Please enlighten me.”

“Okay, look. You’re operating a commercial enterprise in a residential district. I can have the Zoning Department out here in about five minutes, and they will rip out all of your tender vines and drip watering lines. Can’t we just be friends?”

“As I was saying, I’m always happy to co-operate with the friendly police.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 339

“Good man. My problem is this. You might have noticed my car patrolling this area recently. But, before I get into that, may I come in, friend? It’s a bit cold out here.”

Montserrat turned and called out; “Get in the bedroom!”

After some internal foot shuffling and a door closing, he opened the front one, standing aside, and said; “Please do. My home is yours.”

Shaunessy stepped in, and was gestured to a reseda green armed chair in the “mud” room, the Spanish tradition known to him of having one room with an earthen floor. Montserrat sat across from him in a cardinal red chair both armed and winged.

Shaunessy nodded toward the Spanish blue case piece against the wall, and said; “Nice trastero.”

“Pretty good. A bit on the small side, more often used in kitchens. You know something of old Spanish furniture?”

“Just a little bit. I’ve only been here a year, but I’m renting a little, furnished adobe. Is that an original?”

“No. It’s a reproduction. Almost all of the originals were burned for firewood when the train line came through, giving everyone access to Sears merchandise.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 340

“How do you keep the wood which comes in contact with the floor from rotting?”

Alejandro snorted as he said; “Oil. .......... You sure you’re a cop?”

“No, but the authorities seem to think so.”

“ .................. “

“Okay; my cop hat is back on, Alejandro. As I was saying, you might have noticed my car patrolling this area recently.

I’ve been eyeing the Hunter-Wheaton house next door, looking for any unusual activity. Living here, I thought that you likely were in a better position to have seen some.”

“Unusual? ..... Unusual? ...... Always. What is ‘unusual’

is often the norm.”

“Appreciated. ...... On some level. ...... But, I’m being simple here, to the point of what is likely perceived as stupidity. My solace, insofar as that word indirectly, though popularly, connotes a fictitious, though useful need for understanding and ‘smart’ majority approval, faux deferential, perhaps that partially a result of my unconfirmed belief that it’s not the least bit personal. ...... Sigh. I’m just trying to get the both of us focussed on comings and goings next door vis-

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 341

à-vis before and after Connor James Wheaton’s estivational demise.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you just say so to begin with?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Mind if I bring my wife and kids out. They just hate being sequestered in that small space. High doses of that breed petty insurrection. Besides, they too, might have seen something

‘unusual.’”

“Of course not. You might recall that it wasn’t I who sequestered them.”

“Not directly. That stimulus – anticipated reaction thing can be as tricky as a competent false flag operation.”

“You see me carrying any flags?”

“Come on out here. It’s all right. ...... Come on. The man doesn’t bite.”

Out walked stooping Esmeralda, with Guillermo and Carlotta thigh high in hand. Alejandro said; “Esme, Gil, Carly .... and?”

Shaunessy stood and said; “Shaunessy.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 342

Now unattached, Gil said; “That’s a funny name.” Esme re-attached him, looking his way, but directed at Shaunessy said;

“Gil is having some difficulty in learning his social skills.”

As Gil grimaced at the comment he had heard more than once before, Shaunessy said; “Me too. .... Listen, I’m looking for some help.”

Carly pointed one index finger at her head and said; “Don’t ask Gil. He’s stupid.”

Brushing back her cascading black hair, Esme said; “It’s contagious.”

Turning toward Shaunessy, Alejandro said; “You see? I’m hoping this gets better with age. ... My friend, Shaunessy ....”

Shaunessy interrupted to say; “I don’t think it does. ....

Please pardon me.”

Alejandro sighed visibly and continued; “As I was saying, my friend Shaunessy is interested in finding out about any unusual activity next door,” not calling it the Hunter-Wheaton house.

Gil said; “What do you mean by ‘unusual?’” Shaunessy ineffectively, or accidentally-on-purpose hand covered a smile.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 343

Judging by his tone only, Alejandro’s level of patience seemed to be as rudimentarily tested as the conveniently overlooked thousand times prior, as in which will invariably be displayed in the next “authority” dictated lack of remedy for the “new,” some say “novel,” Chinese BatPoo II Virus to be exported to the west under the One-World-Democrat, ostensibly joking concept of free trade and weak kneed interdependence, that resulting in a feigned frustratingly, “diplomatic”

communication in the absence of any possible resolution, when he said; “Out of the norm, Gil. Out of the norm. You know. The norm. Normal. Estandar.”

Shaunessy quite un-necessarily said; “It might help to think visually.”

Esme said; “You know, Al. Kids have no concept of norms.

They’re kids for Christ’s sake. You really ought to spend more time with them and you might understand that.”

Alejandro’s voice rose a double digit number of decibels when he said: “Making wine is not a matter of just picking grapes. There’s fermentation, bottling, corking and re-corking

...... “

Esme said; “Okay. Okay. Put a cork in it.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 344

Alejandro cleared his throat and said; “My friend, Shaunessy here, would like to know if there’s been any unusual activity next door. I haven’t noticed anything myself. Perhaps someone else can be of some help.”

Carly said; “Well, the gardener has been visiting regularly, but no gardening is getting done.”

Shaunessy said; “Typical gardener. How often does he visit?”

Carly said; “Twice a week lately.”

Shaunessy asked; “Have you seen him?”

Carly said; “Once or twice. I usually just see his bomb car. He no longer works as he used to. He goes right inside and stays only there until he leaves.”

Esme said; “Do you ever hear anything?”

Carly said; “Not often as the windows are closed in the cold. A few times, but nothing unusual, anyway.”

Shaunessy said; “What?”

Carly said; “Just like mom and dad. Yelling about money stuff.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 345

Alejandro opened his mouth to speak, then apparently thought better of it.

Shaunessy half looked at Alejandro, while half-chuckling out; “Generally pretty common stuff. .... I’m told.” He saw that Esme was making duck lips in numerous directions, inclusive of his. He looked to Carly and asked; “Do you remember any specific words?”

Carly giggled and said; “’When will I see some money?’ ’As soon as I do. Complications. Just be patient.’ ‘Blah. Blah.’

‘Blah. Blah.’” She looked at Gil, who had begun to show inadequately concealed signs of early stage attention deficit hyperactivity disorder by standing on the stained, child sized, ladder backed chair near the wall and saying; “Look at me! Look at me!”

Shaunessy went over to him, and picked him up; Gil laughing and blurting indecipherable, happy things. Shaunessy put him in his seated father’s lap, where his happiness continued.

Shaunessy said his thanks and good-bye to all, especially thanking little Carly. He left, now virtually certain of knowing the common relationship between Anisette Rhona and Rolf.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 346

17 – The Labyrinth of the Faun

Southwestern deep winter made its annual presence known through random, sporadic, but seemingly more or less regular flurries, adding short splashes of frozen milk, unrelieved until the approach of each high noon. The transitory greenery had given up its futile resistance, leaving the struggle to their more hardy pine, spruce, fir, and hemlock cousins. The un-tended tan, hay patch residing in front of the Wheaton-Hunter house bent a bit more with each flaked delivery.

It was the pre-dawn morning of February 20th. Shaunessy’s twice daily excursions into the land of tertiary and tacit literary mayhem remained unrewarding, in any case in terms of him acquiring any evidence which might sway Chief Kerry, secondarily Medical Examiner Brody III. He woke and Margaret was not there. That was not unusual, as she often escaped the earthly winter doldrums through a series of short junkets into a heaven, presumably higher as measured both by Fahrenheit and Celsius; the latter’s penchant to consider zero to be some sort of border, while its position was obviously one of neutrality.

He got out of bed, got the coffee machine going, and stared out the window, waiting for the percolation machine to finish its job. The Sandia Mountains were snow covered, just as they

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 347

always were for six months of every year; a coating or cover for the higher elevations, depending upon one’s point of view, even if limited to the blindness induced by the most horrid of overdoses of meta excess in absurd self-importance. He actually had less derision available for that than he did the assuming idiots who thought they had a monopoly on the “real.”

Shaunessy gulped the dark water and drove to the office, intent on finishing off some paperwork he had allowed to lag, fully expectant of the early privacy which would allow him to do so undisturbed. Without this “new” addition to the information overload, the “authorities” might be as confounded as the unqualified gavone at W.H.O. might effectively play at being in the cause of infectious global death. It’s hard to tell with a natural. In the case of tiny Vista de le Fiera, Shaunessy didn’t want the numbers-centric “authorities” to think that there were half as many speeders in town for a week, and consequently that their standardized policies toward speeding infractions were both a panacea and effective deterrent. He didn’t want their

“studies” to come to any further erroneous conclusions, as if they thought that they had gotten it “right” once, it would undoubtedly only encourage them to issue more armchair, statistically flawed, edicts regarding programs aimed at something which might be of greater significance, like what

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 348

degree of capitulation police should exercise in the case of a flying alien invasion. He parked in the headquarters lot and retrieved the one letter huddled in the postal box’ left rear corner.

Shaunessy was just going to drop it on Chief Kerry’s desk, but on his way to the boss’ office his curiosity got the better of him. That the address was hand-written and that “Department”

was spelled “Diportment” proved as un-resistibly intriguing as the latest Bizarro book, trying to milk humor out of un-remediable, late stage incompetence. Using a letter opener, he carefully retrieved the folded contents and found a typed note, apparently the beneficiary of an automated spell-check perusal or some fortuitous accident. His elation knew few bounds when he read it to find that it was possibly of some use.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 349

“Connor James Wheaton was a murdered on the 12th of August. I saw what happened. Anisette Rhona dragged the dead body outside and

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 350

staged the hanging at 1:00PM. You will also find a handwritten note regarding her, from the deceased on page one of his copy of

‘Infinite Jest.’

A friend

{crummy drawing of a hanging)

This is not what happened.”

Shaunessy speedily, chop-chop realized that his reaction was only his own, and that he would still have to convince Chief Kerry that this new information was enough to re-open the Wheaton case. He hurriedly input the prior week’s traffic data, and watched the clock.

Kerry popped in after Shaunessy had to endure fifteen minutes of Striker’s “good old boy” witticisms, inclusive of his pride in having successfully issued a $525 citation to a newcomer, unaware that it was a crime to pass a vehicle stopped to make a left on the single-laned right. “Must have been some smawtass New Yorker, now out five hundred and twenty-five smackers; moving vie-oh-lay-shun,” Striker grinned, receiving none in return. Having recently been “spoiled” by his ability to work alone, Shaunessy would have thought the ordeal to have

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 351

lasted two hours, were it not for the overhead clock. Shaunessy checked it twice to determine if it was still moving, and it was; seemingly in slow motion, but matching the rate displayed by his cheap, Chinese knockoff, “Rolex” wristwatch.

Shaunessy excused himself with a poor imitation of the Mitch McConnell patented “what-can-one-do” goopy face and strode to Kerry’s office, paper and envelope in hand. He said; “I’d like you to see this,” as he deposited the note and envelope in the center of Kerry’s un-cluttered desk.

Kerry looked at the items for a few seconds, and said;

“Don’t tell me. You think this will warrant my authorization to re-open the Wheaton case.”

His intents already pronounced officially unworthy, Shaunessy replied; “Not at all. I was wondering if you’d like to play tic-tac-toe with me. There’s the paper. Got a pen handy?”

“Do you have any idea of how many crank reports I get?”

“Surely not regarding your performance.”

“You may not be aware that at the management level, police work attracts every nut, troll, ‘helpful concerned citizen,’ no-life-asshole with nothing else to do, nerdy kids, as well as

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 352

perps who think their communication will steer the investigation away from themselves.”

“The latter category may hold out the tiniest glitter of promise here.”

“There is no investigation!”

“Perp might not know that.”

“It’s been in all the papers.”

“Maybe he thinks it’s just more fake news, and there’s another category which has temporarily slipped your mind.”

“Such as?”

“Such as? .... Such as? .... Such as someone who belatedly decided that the killer should be punished. He may not be in police management.”

“I believe that Shakespeare covered that somewhere. It was the son, and CJW had no children.”

“On the other hand, ’King Lear’ was more of a family affair, updated by Kurosawa’s ‘Ran.’”

Kerry got up and opened his credenza. He pulled out an overflowing file of papers, and spilled them on his desk. He

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 353

said; “Look. This doesn’t even contain the garbage the nuts send on-line. Not one of these ‘interested’ party communiques has anything to do with the case it claims to address. Most don’t even involve a case; just ‘friendly’ neighbors trying to implicate a neighbor in something illegal. Look for yourself if you don’t believe me! If these things had any validity all of Vista de la Feria would be behind bars.”

“Thought most of them do have DUI warrants outstanding.

That the writer indicated something which is only privy to one with knowledge of CJW’s reading material, shows that the writer is a Wheaton-Hunter insider.”

“You’re jumping to a conclusion, and one that isn’t particularly relevant at that. The writer of this garbage note most likely just made it up. Everyone knows that CJW was a big fan of David Foster Wallace, and ‘Infinite Jest’ is the book to have in that case. More importantly, no judge will issue a search warrant based on an anonymous crank note regarding a

‘crime’ which was determined not to be one half a year prior. Am I incorrect in recalling that your job application stated that you had lengthy previous experience as a cop.”

Shaunessy saw a Kerry dead end regarding the other conjectures he had made and politely declined the offer to

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 354

peruse the bursting junk file with a right hand wave, similar to a stop sign in the wind. He said; “My cop experience was stated accurately, though you may have noted that it was entirely in the regressive backwater sometimes called New York City, or with un-warranted braggadocio, the Big Apple. I think that I might understand your more accomplished position. I suppose you won’t mind me keeping this little piece of nonsense, as your collection is already rather extensive.”

“Be my guest. Start your own artisanal assemblage. It might be valuable someday, and best of all, Mark Leyner would likely approve.”

Considering that as effective a dismissal as any, Shaunessy rose saying; “Left handed compliments are compliments nonetheless,” took his paper and envelope back to his own cubicle, the entrance to which was blocked by Cheshire cat imitative Striker. He curtly said; “Excuse me,” as he brushed by drawing no blood from his former partner, but thereby inducing a broader smile on the grinning mouser.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 355

The Cheshire cat, as drawn in Lewis Carroll’s 1865 “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” public domain, modified.

Striker said; “Couldn’t help hearing what went on in there.”

“Is a smile obligatory or merely personally efficient?”

“Duh?? ................. “

“Thought as much. Here’s an easy one for ya. I want to hang this somewhere. Make yourself useful, and go get me an adjustable frame, pawtner.”

A humdrum ticket day complemented by the now standardized two trips by the Wheaton-Hunter vicinity filled the entirety of Shaunessy’s required work day. Expecting no results from the framing instructions he had given Striker, when he was done ticketing, he took his paper and envelope home.

Margaret said; “You brought me a present?”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 356

“It’s something more of a past.”

Had she appeared, she would have appeared to having been quizzically intrigued.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 357

18 – The Fire This Time

Taking up the slack, Shaunessy said; “Margaret. I see that you’re back from heaven. How was your vacation?”

Distracted from her opened present, Margaret said; “Hi, Tom Shaunessy, landlubber. It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. It’s pretty, but it has a lot of dead spots.”

“Relaxing, I suppose. Nice like Graeme Simsion’s ‘The Rosie Project.’”

“Nowhere near as entertaining and funny. More like Lucy Ellman’s ‘Ducks, Newburyport.’”

“Jeez, can’t be that bad.”

“I was exaggerating in a stylish magical reality posture.”

“Rushdie?”

“The lesser crew.”

“Perfection must have something going for it.”

“Yes and no. You’ll see. The best part is that it eliminates the deferences to the expertocracy.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 358

“You would think that their lack of satisfactory results would do that anywhere. Everything is perfectly equal in death.”

“You would think that? You, of all people, would really think that? After your earth bound, pitiful experience with Brody III and the politics?”

“Ummmnn. Right. My head must be elsewhere right now.”

“’Between Two Worlds’ was an excellent movie.”

“They left out the ‘Two’ in the 2018 re-make.”

“Typical 21st century solipsism. I’d go with the 1944 black and white, myself.”

“Garfield, Henreid, Greenstreet, and Parker. Sure. Can’t miss right there. ....... But, much more than that.”

“Don’t forget 1930’s ‘Outward Bound,’ itself based on a 1924 play.”

“No Fritz Lang?”

“No. You must be kidding.”

“In this case, it’s best to say ‘yes,’ despite the lie. You know, down here things get frustrating ...... “

“If you let them.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 359

“Black lies matter.”

“Serve it in a dozen ways. Take my advice. Nuthin’s eek-onomical as Carolina rice.”

“It’s not only the ‘desire’ thing. It’s also a simple matter of common sense being rendered un-common. Kerry has things ass backwards. He says that I have to have evidence in order to investigate while I say that I have to investigate in order to have evidence.”

“You have to understand the confusing hatred thing. On the broadest of levels it’s not hate at all. It’s merely disagreement, exaggerated to the same degree as in that of an advertisement for a product with waning sales; ‘30% more,’

‘improved,’ ‘50% off,’ and all of that claptrap attendant to unwanted things left on the shelf. Counter that thought with the fact that there are two distinct types of ‘hatred’ on earth; hot and cold, the latter most akin to earth-bound concepts of un-definable love and heavenly perfection. Yes. There really should be two separate words, but that would screw up the misunderstandings which the expertocracy successfully crafts, precisely those sought to be capitalized upon by those laughable wannabees who fancy themselves ‘significant’ or aspiring players as such in the ersatz ‘democracy’ required today. On a lesser

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 360

note, some would also mention the gradations in-between, which are truly the result of equivocations, like those in which one is deluged with in the works of Fenton Foxfussy, and to a much lesser extent in Vollmann. Hot hatred is rarely used in any productive sense, and is most often an indication of the carrier’s unhinged mental status. Like, fuck it, you know. On the other side of the misgauged spectrum, cold hatred can be quite productive. Not always, but can be, in the right hands.

You see, well-placed, cold hatred, like with Burgess and Salinger, Gass on a Dorkey level, or more surreptitiously with Nabakov, can effectively deflate the position of a confused moralist or a purposeful scoundrel. One approach is the negativity of sarcasm. It lures the moralist and scoundrel in, they fatally attracted to the negation; then it proceeds to demonstrate that what they had conveniently taken as sarcasm was not that at all. Rather it was a simple depiction of their stupidity or vice; assuming the two are not different words for the same thing.”

“Yes, circling, a function of the un-coronated, un-elected expertocracy. They have been ‘successful in their attempt to remove the possibility of evaluating their rate of ineffectiveness, as they have no ‘approved’ competition; the majority of the populace too disinterested, gaga worshipful,

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 361

stupid, lazy, or afraid of repercussions to even say that expert results are thereby un-comparative to a damn placebo. They make it much too easy for the purveyors of rarefied, ‘special’

knowledge.”

Margaret considered adding some nuance; but quickly considered it un-necessary under the circumstances. Instead, she glanced at her present and went back to the primary topic at hand, saying; “Regarding the suicide thing; have you noticed how many creative folk, poets, artists, comedians, and even some writers, end up committing suicide?”

“Anecdotally, my ‘study,’ so so sporadic and so so unfocussed. I know Ernest Hemingway and Hunter Thompson did it well into their dotages.”

“Perhaps it's all the hours spent alone writing; or the fact that creative people at too sensitive to cope with life in an insane world.”

“I was thinking more in terms of severely declining sales levels and impotence. You have to remember that back in their day they had not yet invented the Senior Tour or Viagra.”

“Another thought I had about CJW is that he might have been

'On the Spectrum,' with some degree of autism in his make-up.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 362

“He did seem to have great difficulty relating to other people. But, who doesn’t? Bukowski said; ‘It’s not that I don’t like people. It’s just that I feel so much better when they’re not around.’ Most just feel an imposed need to be ‘social’ and develop the skills to mask the natural aversion to the majority.

CJW just kind of openly said; ‘Fuck it. You’re very un-fun and I don’t need you.’”

“The ‘reality’ CJW questions leave me baffled, when I discount the current, likely, always confusing and duplicitous, monetary motivations. A strong suspicion is generated by my knowing that many things which have been left on the web are entirely consistent with a heavy handed intent to further the post-‘suicide, lucrative ‘Saint Connor’ cult. Some are effectively fabricated through editing, and some ‘inconvenient’

items have been totally cut. I first saw the now famous, but increasingly less so, Charlie Rose interview with Fenton Foxfussy, Leyner, and some others years ago. It was longer and CJW got very contentious with both of those with any

‘relevance;’ turning Foxfussy into a babbling jerk in search of the bailout Rose sort of provided, by CJW simply saying a sarcastic; ‘Enlighten me’ when Foxfussy did his usual run-on-

‘explanation’ as if his obvious and protracted banter was anything more than as pedantic as his ‘poetic’ mega hit, ‘Theme

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 363

from an Imaginary Midwestern,’s cancerous growths. A number of times CJW responded to Leyner by saying; ‘I agree with that

............. fifty percent,’ generously smiling at the ‘f’

point. He didn’t have to get in Leyner’s face as Foxfussy was able to handle that. During a long-drawn-out Leyner reply to Charlie Rose’ and every interviewer’s standard question of ‘How do you gauge your audience?’ Foxfussy actually interrupted to say; ‘It’s one or the other. You can’t have it both ways.’

Hehehe. Yeah, even on-the-one-hand-on-the-other-hand Prince Fenton Foxfussy couldn’t stand the fourth round of repetitiveness. Those parts are no longer on the web, and I’m virtually certain that my memory is accurate, as I was put onto it around 2009 by a huge CJW fan and reader, who saw it the same way I did. At the time I’d looked at everything CJW I could find on the web, and sat through the entirety of 70% of it. He took it to the guy on Bookworm, Charlie Rose in a solo appearance, and worst of all the audience who wasn’t laughing enough during his reading of an early essay. My impression at the time was of a brilliant, combative person, with little patience, who didn’t give a fuck. I mean he almost admitted that when he half sarcastically apologized for the ‘advantage’ he had over other writers through getting a fast start out of the gate. After having not watched for a few years, the type of stuff I found recently was more suggestive of an insecure, sensitive person,

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 364

more in line with the increasingly popular ‘Saint Connor’ image the ‘damaged’ relate to. This could be partially chance regarding what I saw and what was available; but not entirely.

Early on in terms of his emergence into the lit world, Connor described himself as a high school jock who for the first time started to get the idea that he was smart in college. I

‘learned’ from one supposed source that his depression was also first diagnosed when he went to college. I was always curious if this went back to grade school. If it’s a biological thing, as the ‘expert’ pill dispensers and chemical imbalance measurers say, it seems as if it should. He also started heavy pot smoking in college, and the possible effects are the subject of numerous academic papers, most rightfully buried on the deep web with the snuff films, none conclusively in opposition nor an advocate, as might be most likely expected. As a personally observed oddity, in most cases there are no negative effects, and there is no unpleasant withdrawal when stopped, which CJW balls up a bit in

‘Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.’ I suppose that pot can increase the degree of introspection, and if the smoker was previously completely unaware of what was in their head, he might get some shocks. But to hear him say and of more significance, demonstrate it, that he was quite fine with writing magazine articles, which on the average pay better than books, and he had a special pal who liked his stuff at Esquire, I think. .........

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 365

It seemed as if he was not yearning to be judged as a significant writer long before the critical reaction to his fourteen hundred pages of goofing disinterest had rendered him one.”

Shaunessy said; “So, bottom line, he was okay with the shit, and just liked to publicly insert a more or less hidden

‘fuck you’ to the shit transmitters when he thought they most called for one?”

“Yeah. Makes sense to me. I mean like who wouldn’t like to get right in the face, wearing a halitosis-resistant-face-mask of course, of that un-coronated and un-elected WHO Director-General Tedros Adhominem Beelzebubus? The dope is an anti-US, pro-terrorist, pro-ISIS, pro-China BatPoo II virus, pro-Palestinian Camel Pox, and pro-Africa flunky. Only the ‘experts’

claim an inability to see that. If the dumbass could hide his obvious agenda somewhat he might receive a modicum of respect.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 366

Bat fried rice, “No thank you”; property of the author.

Shaunessy said; “Anisette Rhona kind of addressed this when she said she was unhappy with his disinterest in writing any more novels, he shrugging contentedly at becoming a ‘pop star.’

Bob Dylan, a strong person, once answered questioners who were unhappy with his abandonment of folk music and going electric, insolently asking ‘What are you now?’ to which he laughingly said; ‘I’m a pop star.’ Dylan also once mocked the posthumously contrived CJW type of personality long before anyone knew Connor James Wheaton’s name. Remember

‘Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously And when bringing her name up

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 367

He speaks of a farewell kiss to me

He's sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all Muttering small talk at the wall while I'm in the hall How can I explain (sarcastic in the voice of little boy lost) It's so hard to get on (sarcastic in the voice of little boy lost)

And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn.

..............................................

The peddler now speaks to the countess who’s pretending to care for him

Saying name me someone who’s not a parasite and I’ll go out and say a prayer for him.’

Sounds as if Bob Dylan had previously met CJW after his death.”

“There is not an infinite supply of architypes. Autistic spectrum disorder is an interesting affliction. It was almost removed from DSM-5 as a disorder 5-6 years ago. Unlike the catatonic extreme of hardcore autism, it can be viewed as merely registering strong preferences for some things and zero interest in others. But, the doctor and managerial types changed their minds. I think we all have it to a certain extent. One of the

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 368

few bits of good advice my mother gave me was; ‘If you ever get stuck talking to a psychiatrist, don’t tell them the truth.’”

“I’m certain that expert management decided that cancelling a ‘disorder’ would have a negative impact on expertocracy income.”

“That is just so cynical, that it must have merit.”

They kissed passionately, pressing their lips against each other urgently, like two innocent, eager teenagers who are not yet practiced in love; impairing some of their pleasure through tension and haste. With this evanescent kiss, he felt as if he was again an adolescent boy, afraid of lingering and possibly being observed by her mother's stern eyes. He made up a sweet song for her in which she was a multi-colored bird flying in a distant dream world, free and more lovely than the others. To him she fit in with that idolatrous, primitive world of toucans and infinite forests. For those with eyes to see, a sequence of winged soaring in heaven blue, above the ocean and the rain was more beautiful and free than the pale, provocative gyrations of a nightclub stripper. Pity the blind, as this vision of love is not written in braille. Her adornment is lilac; cotton with a gelatinous texture. The frill is tight on top and held in at the center by a black leather belt, one notch shy of constriction.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 369

Her skirt was short, though bursting like a terrorist’s best friend. She smiled in the ecstasy of the dance; her full lips puffed out like chili red tulips playfully in bloom, with ellipses of thin butter gold at the edges. How real and beautiful she was. How natural and unaffected. And how for the moment oblivious to the idiotically cynical rabble.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 370

19 - Van Loading Ada

It once again became middle March; though only the eighth according to the periodically adjusted, lunisolar calendar. The stubborn winter doldrums in Vista de la Feria had been battling with early month, measured responses of the irrepressibly impending and overly anxious spring-vernal equinox scheduled for the 19th. Like an outgunned freedom fighter, the newcomer picked its spots, stuttering through bold days of parting cloud wisps and hiding on the days of uniform gray-blue drear. Spring seemed to be utilizing its interpretation of an Obama ass-kissing Joe Biden prepared speech intended to pick up Bernie Sanders’

objecting dropouts, aimed at those who apparently had not yet realized that they had nowhere else to go. Miscalculation ruled the day. Covert guerilla warfare was the best approach when cold still had the guns, but warm had the numbers.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 371

1851 British calendar; public domain, modified.

On the 19th Shaunessy saw a white van parked in the Wheaton-Hunter house’s driveway; not unlike the one driven by Brody, the Medical Examiner; but a coincidence. A perspiring Friar Tuck-crowned and mustachioed man of 40 and 180, plus or minus 10 in the former and inclusive of 30, plus or minus another 10 in his barrel gut was bent into the van’s open back end. Shaunessy parked behind him, and the bender stood and turned toward the

“intrusive” police vehicle. His off-balance, ham-fisted pirouette revealed that he wore a thick, frayed, opera mauve tshirt with an amusing blurred salmon-pink, which in its salad days might have been a chili-red lettered “READ BETWEEN THE

WINES” decked posterior bolstered by a similarly hued, self-congratulatory “I would challenge you to a BATTLE of WITS but I see YOU are UNARMED” front. As Shaunessy had disciplined himself to focus on potential, Shaunessy tried not to think of the indicated Mailer-Vidal marketing farce reprise when he could not help but make note of the sharply contrasted indigo in the sweat-darkened pits. He thought; “At least we’re not indoors, there’s something of a breeze, and its DFW porous at the borders.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 372

Sweatshirt; property of the author.

The perspiring lit maven had been grunting as he was loading cardboard boxes; ostensibly heavy for a gym dilettante.

As these sweatshirts were all the rage in Southern California, Shaunessy broached him with a cordial New Mexican; “Somewhat out of place here, pilgrim?”

“Just business in the boonies,” he replied without bothering to sparkle his dull eyes as in the standard attempts to deflect from an illegality, like a river-wader ensconced in a US sanctuary city, and as if the entreaty was one he had heard a million times prior. Apparently feeling as surly as if he was an aficionado of the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’ high-heeled, feet-in-mouth “issues,” he continued with; “You’re dwelling in the driveway. If there is one, please get to the point.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 373

“Police, fuckhead. Investigating a possible theft. What’s in those boxes?”

“Books I’ve purchased from the owner.”

Shaunessy peeled back the top of one box to view the contents which was haphazardly piled books. He said; “Owner here to verify that?”

“No, man. Look, if I was a thief I wouldn’t be taking out used books. The boxes would be loaded with jewelry, computer equipment, aluminum, and heating pipes.”

“Okay. Okay. Don’t get all overwrought.”

“Thomas. Thomas. Wake up. It’s all right. You’re having a bad dream.”

“Margaret! ....... Maybe a good-bad one.” He glanced down.

At his feet were copies of “Ada” and “Infinite Jest.” He added;

“Tending toward the good, from my point of view.”

“Margaret followed his eyes, and gushed with excitement, saying; “Ooooo, I love ‘Ada.’ I haven’t read it in years.”

“It’s much less popular than some of Nabokov’s others.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 374

“Sure. It upsets the petty rebellious lit set, as it’s a worthy, extremely well-done key, with no apologies. Vladimir Nabokov published ‘Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle’ in 1969.

It was his last.”

“A very appropriate time.”

“’Ada’ began to materialize back in 1959, when Nabokov was flirting with two projects, ‘The Texture of Time’ and ‘Letters from Terra.’ In 1965, he began to see a link between the two ideas, finally composing a unified novel from February 1966 to October 1968. It would become his longest work. I can’t wait to read it again. Good show, Shaunessy.”

“Guess it’s tough on today’s ADD set. Their loss. Funny in a way how ‘Lolita’ became his big one. ...... Maybe not so funny. More disgusting.”

“Nowadays, appealing to the weird, pervert, terminally bookish market insures favorable posthumous reviews, like the typical Goofreads babble. Back when it was published in 1955, only noted authors were allowed to publish such ‘art,’ and that meant an increased sales level. A bit later the lucrative potential movie deal materialized, in this case 1962, as the degenerate sex stuff was considered ‘new’ and ‘exciting’ at the time, as it was just approved for the PG market in the sixties.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 375

After the onslaught of continued sick stuff as well as the bogus reviews prompted by the net, it no longer has any more relevance than any other time capsule. If the readers aren’t totally ignoring, they’re just skimming their favorite pervs, for direction to eighty-eight million sub-genres for the occasional laugh, thinking it signals some sort of sophistication. Ever see anything of that lifetime top rated US, Goofreads reviewer?”

“No, and thanks for the warning.”

“Pitiful degeneration. Funny in a way, as apparently the Byrnes and Ignoble clerk has no idea why her weekly and monthly ratings have fallen faster than a turkey with a case of lethal Chinese Bird Flu, despite her impressive credentials.”

“So, you’ve taken the trouble and pain to notice. You may have noticed that ‘Ada’ is not by herself.”

“Let me take a wild guess. You’re about to enlighten me with your observation that she is with Van, no matter and defiant of the prelude, ultimately exploring all the great cities of Western Europe with Van? What a slut.”

“Slut shaming does not become you. ........ “

“I cast no aspersions, nets, or value judgements.

Ostensibly, the understanding sarcasm is not in your sluttish

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 376

repertoire. In the future, please remind me to keep my crystal visions to myself, referencing only ideas under the belt of the likes of Sanderson, Martin, Card, LeGuin and Rothfuss.”

“That’s cruel. Ostensibly, you are the one with a sarcasm

‘issue.’ But, please don’t curse me. .......... Changing or not changing the subject, I was referring to ‘Ada,’ the book ‘Ada,’

sitting next to the book ‘Infinite Jest.’ Book. Book. Book. Say it with me; Book. Book. Book.”

“Book. Book.”

“Acceptable. More or less.”

“Thank you.”

“Back here on Terra, my twice daily drive-bys of the Wheaton-Hunter residence finally resulted in my seeing a van, small ‘v,’ parked in the driveway, loading boxes. Not the van; the person next to it; that is. The van was just sitting there, more or less, as far as I could determine. Like when you weren’t really in the mood. Anyway, I stopped and found out that wifey Anisette Rhona had sold CJW’s books. I bought the copy of ‘Ada,’

also with the notion of re-seeing it now. But, more importantly, I also bought CJW’s copy of DFW’s ‘Infinite Jest,’ and found his inscription right on page 1, where the anonymous note said it would be. Look.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 377

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 378

CJW’s annotated page one of “Infinite Jest” by David Foster Wallace and paneled office; property of the author, the former under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Margaret said; “Almost too good to be true. Check the handwriting?”

“It was him, all right.”

“Any other notes in the book?”

“Your detective abilities are better than Kerry’s. I don’t know; never checked; and he never asked. Just the usual ‘no.’”

“Coffee, babe?”

“Great. This shows that the note dropped at Police Headquarters had to have been sent by someone who knew CJW

extremely well. The local editor, the gardener, the publisher, the maid, or Anisette Rhona. A chance nut is possible, but not likely. The first is also not likely, as to call further attention to the case if she was the perpetrator of the crime is

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 379

dumb, devoid of some masochistic mental imbalance. The second is not one above the act, but with no obvious motivation. The third is ruled out because the letter was sent locally. The fourth is an unknown, also with no apparent motivation. The fifth is ruled completely out as she would not want to invite the personal scrutiny the note might have prompted. The sixth is like betting on Trump beating Clinton for the Presidency.”

Handing him his steaming cup, Margaret said; “Here you go.

Sounds like the logic doesn’t bring you much further than where you were before seeing the inscription. Did you run it by Brody?”

“If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I’d have farted. A little bit, as if you eliminate the one in a million chance that the note was sent by an outsider, it does show that someone is out to get Anisette Rhona, CJW included. I showed Kerry, who threw ice water on my excitement through being openly annoyed, rather than even pretending to show some interest. That’s not even a decent professional put-off; more like an ‘expert’s’

‘Trust me. I know.’ parallel with results that are obviously non-existent. Kerry’s tired ‘reasoning’ was absent. For one reason, he’s likely afraid to overstep his bounds by seeking agreement from adamant hotshot Brody. The Medical Examiner has the ability to run circles around everyone with his long-winded

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 380

dissertations upon corpse flatulence. But his decision was terse and firm. ...... I wish I could ‘scientifically’ confirm the sender of the note. If only I could tie this note to someone specific.”

“What good do you think that would do?”

“Effective shakedowns have been performed with less than a potential charge of lying to the police. Recall, the writer said that Anisette Rhona was a murderer he-she-it had witnessed.

....... Serious shit which Maigret would have used well.”

“Well, consider the Simenon. Are you certain that the note can’t be traced?”

“It came from a printer, probably attached to a personal computer.”

“Check the web?”

“No, that’s full of useless B.S., not worth the time spent.”

“Try the net, silly. Only 90% of it is bullshit and sales pitches. So if you try ten sites you’ll have an average chance of being well-informed, assuming you have a working bullshit filter. Beides, despite it being B.S., it can be effectively

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 381

used as people believe it when whatever B.S. is written is convenient for them. Think like a Democrat.”

“Devil.”

“Angel. Proven. Obvious, even to a physicist.”

“You can prove anything to one of those quantum-math-God particle guys.”

Precisely why you should search the web. Look, I’ll do it for you. Just grouse over your coffee. ........ Boot. Boot. God, this thing is slow. Welcome yourself. Catchy little ditty. Okay.

Here we go. What should we search?”

“Goggle results not advertised with Goggle.”

“I’m not using Goggle. MSM.”

“That’s why I said that.”

“Oh, you still think of them as competitors?”

“Brothers at arms in the ‘International One World Geek Association.’”

“I’m trying ‘printer trace.’ Bingo! Gadgets&Geeks.org is right on it. An article titled “Printer Signatures” by Dark Twain. Hope it’s not too provocative.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 382

“Last month a CIA document concerning a Russian plan to hack US

loo paper factories and send all the rolls of butt wipes their own way became public. Someone had scanned and shared the document with online publication ‘Red Baboon Ass Lit,’ which printed the document. Only minutes later, a defense intelligence contractor named ‘Rip One’ was arrested for stealing classified information, having been unintentionally outed by ‘Red Baboon Ass Lit,’ who actually thought the document to be an absurdist short story submission. It was later revealed that the CIA traced the leak to ‘Rip One’ through ‘Red Baboon Ass Lit’s’

immediate ‘publishing’ of the document/short story.

How did it happen that a scan of a document was traced back to

‘Rip One?’ Did the Deep State operatives set up ‘Rip One’ for forbidden public flatulence? Is ‘Red Baboon Ass Lit’ a front for the Deep State CIA? Possible, but not very likely, and totes irrelevant to the topic of this article. Like most possible conspiracies the answer is much simpler than would make the story interesting. Does the CIA use some special kind of printer that can be used to trace prints? The answer is no and yes, the word ’special,’ the tricky part. You see, this ‘tracing technology’ is part of most printers, likely yours too.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 383

Shock your nerves, aspiring agent of espionage? This is something pretty well known to your average, nerdy snoop; just not to the general public. All color laser printers print a special pattern of microdots; a tiny grid, small and faint enough that you can't see them with the naked eye. For transmissions unacceptable to government authorities, the Deep State, the Politically Correct Police (PCP), and free-lance trouble makers, it is substantially correct and safest to assume that all color laser printers include some form of tracking information. The tracking isn't necessarily going to identify the user, or the location of the printer, if used at a site not one’s own. But, if the remote site is one at which you can be placed, watch your ass and have an airtight alibi.

Can you be tracked using this? Of course you can. Have you been paying any fucking attention at all? The microdots reveal the exact date and time that the printout was taken, where the printer was purchased and by who; and if the dumb purchaser took the trouble to register it with the manufacturer in a rookie belief that the foreign warranty thereby gained was of any value when the damn thing goes on the fritz, there too.

‘We be instructed police authorities, international to no comment matter this,’ said Maritza Meyer Yahu Epstein of Wuhan, the People’s Republic of China; no provable sarcasm intended. We

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 384

will update this article if any of the other manufacturing companies which have re-located to shithole non-countries respond later.

In the aforementioned CIA case, this allowed the agency to narrow down the non-ink leak to a single printer, and where the copy was made. From there, the CIA didn’t need the services of Julian Assange to further narrow it down to the actual whistleblower. Anyone can track timecode for printer requests, to see who is sending a document to be printed and when.

‘Not that it necessarily adds anything to this article,’

according to Neil B. Bohr, Senior Security Advisor at an undisclosed provider of security services, and longtime friend and contributor to Gadgets&Geeks.org; ‘The information encoded in and around the microdots includes the date and time the document was printed, assuming it had been correctly set, and the serial number of the printer that was used. This information can be used to correlate a printed document with a physical device using logs of printer events, if maintained and available, or comparing the encoded serial number with those contained somewhere. The average user needs to know, albeit belatedly, that this technology has existed for some time and is included in all popular brands of printers. But, chances are if the authorities have not yet come for you, they won’t. Either

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 385

that or you’re on a low priority list or you did a stupid

‘Spartacus’ Booker. This capability was initially added voluntarily by certain printer manufacturers allegedly in response to government pressure to prevent counterfeiting when color laser printers became widely available. The only way to avoiding having microdots printed on your documents is to use a printer that's not known to use this technology, if there are any left.’

This kind of information is just one type of metadata, and for most people, it doesn’t matter. But whistleblowers, bonkers free speech activists, enemies of the Deep State, those doing work where keeping one’s identity secret is of utmost importance, and those who still foolishly value a privacy long dead, could find their privacy, and even their safety, upended by these ‘secret’

signatures.

Beware. They can see all, only blind to the black and white.”

Shaunessy said; “I’ve got to try this. Techno-nosy-nerdism is good.”

Margaret replied; “You’re so gullible, you’re cute. You must have had a big brother.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 386

“I have no interest in that psychological shit right now.

But hang onto that ‘cute’ observation for a while.”

“I’ll try, but past experience strongly suggests that it comes and goes of its own volition.”

“Okay. I’m going to do the thing I most dread; call Brody.”

“I had no idea that you were like that.”

“Yes. I do my best to hide it. But, there are times when the ‘law of the situation’ obliterates all else.”

“Don’t get too worked up. That net report has a 90%

probability of being poppycock.”

“And it was as poorly written and as un-necessarily fluffed as a Vollmann encyclopedia of his 14th century dreams.”

“I thought him less ‘modern’ myself.”

“My assessments tend toward the overly kind. ....... Tarry, I must. Brody is just a poor construct-manifestation of an unreal blockage, Derridians recognize as illusory or paper mache.”

“Foucalt you. Nobody goes there anymore because it’s too crowded.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 387

“Add in signified-signifier somewhere on your list.”

“You started it. Don’t criticize me.”

“Enough, woman. I am using my ‘smart’ to ring Brody III’s

‘smart’ this very instant.”

This sort of became a non-event, other than for the possible those who got into the ringy-dingy excitement; most of the fruitless cacophony ostensibly enjoyed by devotees, perhaps desperate and instructed, of a Matthew McIntosh ‘art installation’ devoid of any notion of the advertised mystery.

Brody was either dead, not inclined to pick up for Shaunessy, or deeply engrossed in a W.H.O.-patented obstruction of health and justice. Being optimistic by nature, he hoped it was the former.

After enduring fifteen rings with no ‘please leave a message’

interruption, Shaunessy clicked off, not sure of whether he was elated, happy, satisfied, mildly disappointed, or totes dissatisfied with the zero results, only ‘of use’ to an ‘expert’

PCP2 virus bean counter.

Shaunessy didn’t want to leave open the opportunity for his detractors to accuse him of having done a slipshod job, so he dialed Brody’s number again, on the chance that his first input was incorrect, perhaps having previously entered the number of the suicide prevention hotline. Believe it or not, shit really

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 388

does happen, and that is not made any more unlikely by everyone’s compulsion to repeatedly and in unison say so. The same thing happened, though just to keep things a tad interesting, Shaunessy this time didn’t cut off the ringy-dingy until it had reached sixteen.

Margaret said; “That was most considerate. Thank you.”

“Pleased to oblige. Frankly, it was easy, not entirely lacking in self-interest, and reminiscent of Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot.”

“Orthodox?”

“Unobtrusively and tranquilly so. You must recall that Hercule was around when the bijou subject now virtually obligatory in books, resulted in banning.”

“Double feature in one eighty.”

“I’m going to try to get one of Brody’s assistants’ numbers from his thing. ............. Whoooo! Worked.”

He found Petersen Beam II listed at the Medical Examiner’s Office. Shaunessy dialed and was greeted with a resolute “Beam speaking.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 389

“Hello, Mr. Beam. This is Shaunessy, one of the cops at the Wheaton ‘suicide.’”

“I’d like to say that I recall, but I was preoccupied with gathering evidence. What can I do for you today?”

“I’ve got a page run off from a computer printer. Can this be traced?”

“Is it in color?”

“Yes.”

“No problem. Bring it over.”

Click.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 390

20 – Pale Fire

Shaunessy said a hurried but excited goodbye to Margaret, took his paper, and drove his Indian red Toyota through the streets of Vista de la Feria and Albuquerque. Halfway there he recalled that since this was a day he was scheduled to be on traffic duty, it was best to call Chief Kerry, and advise him of some excuse as to why he wouldn’t be doing that this day; a stated and un-provably wrong case of the Blue Flu.

His mind wandered a tad, an occupational pandemic these days, and he first thought substantially in visuals.

Cartoon; modified public domain.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 391

That was followed by verbalized thoughts devoid of pretty pictures; “If the BLM folks believe their own bullshit, why do they not first address the fact that 94 percent of black murder victims were killed by other African Americans? In further fact, these high rates of black-on-black killing have been the norm for well over a century. Strange priorities? Why do Democrat politicos and the main stream media worship at the feet of felons, losers, weirdos; inept people never able to attain any level of power or success? Why do Democrat politicos and the main street media attack the police instead? They, who only protect us from these losers? Why do our gutless leaders and the main stream media kiss the losers asses? The police should take the rest of the year off, and just let the losers and leaders kiss each other’s asses, which will undoubtedly result in the obliteration of the Dem ‘leaders.’ ....... Hmmnnn. When I put it that way;’Yay!’"

Shaunessy’s trusty, plastic “smart” phone lie on the passenger seat, on top of the tree-extracted paper “evidence,”

that somehow jogging in him a now amusing, meta non sequitur of the Wheaton case shutdown process. Two warm finger touches and Kerry’s machine was ringing like a vandalized fire alarm on both steroids and viagra.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 392

After three, Shaunessy was pleased to hear; “This is Chief Kerry. I’m unable to come to the phone now,” yadda, yadda, and yada.

Shaunessy replied to his welcomed, synthetic, non-entity;

“Good morning, Chief. I hope I’m not much more than a tiny fraction late in telling you that I won’t be in today. I further hope that my cautiously pessimistic approach to the virus I’ve apparently acquired proves to be preferable in the long term vis-à-vis today’s ticketing of moving and non-moving violators of Vista de la Feria’s rules of the road; substantially from elsewhere. Thank you.”

Before he hung up he heard Kerry’s voice and stifled the

“Oh, shit,“ he was naturally inclined to burst; instead saying;

“Chief. Glad you’re there. I was worried about you.”

“Thanks. Me too. Fine. By the way, I suppose you know that there are no virus treatments available at the Hunter-Wheaton house. You’re aware of that?”

“Numerous ‘expert’ and authoritarian sources have so advised, particularly against the Clorox fumes.”

“Excellent. Wouldn’t want one of my finest men to jeopardize their chances of becoming President.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 393

“Nah. No interest. I get my fair share of abuse in other places.”

“Such as?”

“If you don’t know I can’t tell ya.”

“Get plenty of rest and drink a lot of fluids.”

“Yes sir.”

Click.

Shaunessy almost missed his left off Central Avenue onto Louisiana; his concentration restored when his smart phone began yelling at him; “Next left. NEXT LEFT. NEXT LEFT!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t give yourself an aneurysm, unless you’re another Democrat Presidential hopeful with elephant ears.”

Having turned ostensibly correctly, he then heard: “Your destination is on your left.”

Shaunessy took the word of the machine’s feminine voice and turned his car into the parking lot in the proximity of a nondescript, five storied building. The she machine seemed contented; perhaps just silent. The building, which was sort of

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 394

attached to the lot was apparently constructed of multi-hued concrete and glass mixtures of shatterproof and float in varying degrees, bore no number or logo. Overall, it seemed to be doing whatever it could to avoid attention. He parked in the sparsely populated lot, and approached the structure on foot.

The sign in the empty lobby indicated that the New Mexico Medical Examiner’s office was on the third floor. Shaunessy took the elevator. When the door opened on three, three oppositional, indigo arrows, one curved, were painted on the graying cream wall, each sitting below the words “Office,” “Intake,” and

“Lab.” Shaunessy opted for “Office,” that undoubtedly construed by any of the plethora of dilettante psychologists as perhaps an emblematic indication of his long term aversion to the supposedly “real politik,” when if anything other than a requirement to move in one direction or the other or the other.

While a professional betting man would have taken the 3-1 odds, placing his money on that “Lab,” Shaunessy’s chosen direction was seemed to be more likely, nothing more than the current result or manifestation of a long term aversion to geek science and death, coupled with a pronounced, predictable preference for the pristine.

Shaunessy found the “Office” section to be fronted by an unoccupied receptionist desk dominated by something that looked

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 395

like an old portable television that wasn’t turned on, with more or less wall-to-wall, parking-lot view windows behind it.

Shaunessy rang the tiny bell which invited ringing, “if no one is here to help you,” producing a rather terse and tinny Pelosi-Schiff type dit, dit, ... dit, not destined for the US top forty.

As in a puppet show, out of nowhere popped a masked head attached to an irregularly shaped body, it’s one-size-fits-all, white, triflingly gore stained, knee-length lab coat the likely uniform of the proportionately challenged figure. The

“irregularity” noted was not intended to be a commentary on the cranium’s conceptually connected colonic consistency. It offered a muffled “Good morning,” or something that sounded reasonably like it, though with a tone one uses when they’re thinking;

“Thanks for interrupting me. Thanks so much.”

Shaunessy was focussed on his “important” paper, thereby deaf to any nuance, intentional or not. He said; “Good morning.

I’m Shaunessy. I spoke to someone here about tracing a page run off by a computer printer. ... Color!”

“Oh yes. That was me; Peterson Beam II. Pete. Just cleaning up the remnants of the last corpse to come through. I expect that it will wait. Let’s see what you have.” Pete removed his

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 396

mask, but retained the cover of his gore coat; perhaps out of a religious habit.

Shaunessy handed Beam the document.

Pete said; “Wanna watch?”

“Depends ... “

“Your stomach will be fine. It can be done right here on this computer. You just have to promise to look out the window when I input my secret code.”

“I’m a cop!”

“Yes, you told me. I haven’t yet forgotten.”

“Just checking on security procedures.”

Beam signed on and scanned the document on the floored printer’s lid, then made a series of entries on both the computer and the printer to bring the scan to imagrupluspro.

While he was doing that Shaunessy asked him the whereabouts of Brody.

“He’s out all day on one of his politicking jaunts."

“Politics?” said Shaunessy, only playing a little more stupid than usual.

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 397

“Oh, sure. He probably doesn’t really have to go, but it makes him feel important. For me, I like it when he’s not here.

You may understand that the Medical Examiner is appointed by the New Mexico State Secretary of Health, who in turn is appointed by the Governor. If this crook is put out, so might be Brody.”

“Maybe you too.”

“Maybe. But there are a thousand as many jobs available for Lab Techs than Medical Examiners, most without the repugnant aspect. Clean. ......... Look here. We got an easy hit on first try. This was run off on a Leynmark MC3224dfw Laser Multi-Function Color Printer; a middling product, often avoided in pro, high volume settings; model #40N9O040O, purchased at Walmart store #57208003, right here in Albuquerque on Seven Bar Loop Northwest. Whew, let me catch my breath. ........ on January 12, 2017 for $186.45 including tax, serial #GOSH70372, by one Rolf Hoffius who used Visa card #4037-9402-2017-6331 to effect this purchase, though curiously he paid for the paper in a separate transaction at the same place the same day. At the time Rolf Hoffius lived at 303 Romero Street, Suite 108, Albuquerque, and moved to 9316 Tanoan Drive NE, Albuquerque on December 1, 2019; quite a change, and a definite upgrade.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 398

“Rolf Hoffius,” Shaunessy thought; “An insider, and the one that’s already been convicted of being on the law’s wrong side three times, using the statistics, meaning that he’d committed thirty offenses.” With no deviation from sincerity, he said;

“The amount of information available is absolutely breathtaking.”

“Yes, sir. Why do you think it takes the clerk ten to fifteen minutes to check you out when you buy a computer or a printer? It’s not because the store wants them to go slow. It’s because they are required to. And if the purchaser registered it with the manufacturer they’ll have it too.”

“Required by who?”

“I really don’t know. It’s been rumored that all manufacturers entered a secret agreement with governments to ensure that the output is forensically traceable.”

“How can I find the serial number on the machine itself?”

“You can actually find it four different ways. The easiest is on a plate or sticker somewhere on the machine; in this case it’s a white sticker in the middle. Just open the front cover.”

“What if it’s been removed?”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 399

“It usually isn’t because a legit user doesn’t care and the illegitimate one probably knows there are three other ways to find it, anyway. But, if it’s gone then you have to get a little nerdy. If you’re stuck try the configuration or settings report.

If you can’t do that, then hire a geek.”

“Thanks. You must remember that Rolf Hoffius was one of the people present the day Connor James Wheaton met his maker or totally evaporated, which Brody, despite argument, adamantly ruled to be a suicide. Aren’t you concerned that by giving me this report Brody will be unhappy with you?”

“Actually, I didn’t remember until you said that. But, I don’t care and won’t tell him if you don’t. He doesn’t have the skills to find out any other way. Like I said, this job isn’t exactly the be-all-end-all in my life. If Brody becomes unhappy, that’s not my problem. In fact, I’d find that amusing.”

“Brother geek!”

“Don’t flatter yourself, padron.”

“Please pardon me as I have so few opportunities.”

“That’s a shame. People should have an infinite amount of opportunities in which to embarrass themselves. You must have

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 400

been cursed with a prospective-discomfiture-deficit-disorder.

Come here. You need a cuddle.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Julio baby. Whoa. Some things are best left in their meta state; the physical cure much worse than the disease. ........... It’s not personal. It’s just that the residual gore on your coat sort of ...... sort of ...... ah, you know. ..... It’s probably me. ..... No doubt it’s just me. I mean like ........”

“Okay. Okay. No sweat. Just cut it. I just thought it was more or less mandatory now. That’s all.”

“In some circles of heaven or hell, I’m sure. But, we’re not obliged to go to either place. ...... Right?”

“Of course. Allow me to retreat on the most un-cuddly basis.”

“I mean like, please don’t be offended. It’s not a matter of revulsion or anything like that. ....... Well ...... It could be a lack of attraction. ...... But that doesn’t mean the opposite of attraction, whatever that is.”

“Repulsion, according to Roget. But, that’s just so 19th century; a dancer or a petty criminal, and neither of us are that. Fine.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 401

“I hope you’re not saying that only out of a wish to not broadcast your hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“That’s so brave. .... I’m really sorry.”

“No need to be, ace. I’m quite fine. Okay?”

“When I read between the lines, it bothers me how this might be affecting you. ...... I really like you, ya know?”

“Ugh. Can we just leave this topic already? I assure you that I’m fine. If you’re not, that’s your problem. Damn.”

“Your 180 has been completed, little friend. I understand.

Believe me. Hehehe. Can’t I just say sorry?”

“Are you calling me what I think you’re calling me?”

“That’s impossible to answer on a number of levels. It’s okay by me. All right?”

“Wanna get a punch?”

“Anger is the alternative way of showing hurt. I’m so sorry. If my old legs were what they used to be, I’d take a knee.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 402

“All right. You’re the one making the issue of it? Just stop.”

“Stop what and of what?”

“Calling me a perv cuddler, goddamit. Don’t play that butter-wouldn’t melt-in-my-mouth shit with me.”

“Pardon the fuck out of me. But, I don’t recall having made any reference to your strange, physical, ostensibly oral proclivities.”

“You just destroyed all of your prior bullshit.”

“The apparent condescension detected, rightly or wrongly, was intended as an indication of a kind tolerance. If you have any problem, it is with your overly sensitive, value judgement of my execution, rather than that of my good intent.”

“Okay. ........ Okay.”

“Bought that last shit. Huh? Hehehehe. Sucker.”

“I’m just trying to end this stupid conversation which became tedious ten steps back.”

“You started it.”

“You seem to conveniently think that I started it.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 403

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. You must be fucked up, man.”

“Maybe. But, let’s just conclude by agreeing whatever the problem is, its Brody’s fault.”

“Cool. ........ Little cuddle?”

“No! ...... I mean like it’s not personal. ..... It’s just that ............ “

“You’re so gullible. I was just kidding.”

“Sigh. Can I get a printout of all of this?”

“That will take a few minutes for the software to convert the conversation into print-ready status.”

“I mean the stuff about Rolf Hoffius and his color printer.”

“Hehehe. Certainly. Just let me first set the printer to black and white.”

Shaunessy drove back to Vista de la Feria in a state of exhilaration, running amber lights and coasting through the red signs foolishly insisting upon a hugely unenforced full stop,

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 404

like a ChineaBatPoo II virus, A/K/A known as CBP2, Palestinian CamelPox II, A/K/A PCP2, A/KA Pacampo2, A/K/A Palestian Camel Poo Pox II, the former terms unacceptable in certain anti-US

circles, economic re-opening, boldly right in the face of those who worship at the feet of the “experts,” presently and particularly one of the shit-faced swine named Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus.

Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus; currently the property of Soros and China.

Shaunessy recalled having read; “Prior to Teddy’s failed tenure at the head of the World Health Obstruction (WHO), he served on the executive committee of the Tigray People’s Liberation Front, US classified as a terrorist organization; one of four ethnically based, but somehow not considered racist, political parties making up the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front, the brutal authoritarian regime that has ruled

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 405

Ethiopia with an iron fist from 1991 to the present. When Teddy sought to become WHO Director General in 2017, he met with fierce opposition to his candidacy from the people who best knew him; Ethiopians angry with his service to and defense of the country’s abusive regime. He was ultimately confirmed at WHO

despite having directed the cover-up of three un-necessarily deadly cholera epidemics by simply insisting that they were Acute Watery Diarrhea, apparently hoping to avoid the impact that the public admission of a cholera epidemic might have had on Ethiopian tourism and the image of his party. In retrospect, that episode bears a striking, chilling resemblance to the Teddy led WHO response to the Chinese BatPoo II’s appearance in Wuhan. What makes this totally unforgivable is that the Teddy-led WHO was informed of the truth about the virus at a time when life-saving action could have been taken, and chose to ignore it. On December 31, 2019, scientists in Taiwan, which continues to be excluded from the WHO due to Chinese pressure, notified WHO of evidence of ‘human-to-human’ transmission, but WHO did not pass this information on to other countries. For as long as he could, Teddy ignored Taiwan’s warnings and validated China’s grossly negligent lies and their Western, half-million-strong

‘infected-tourist-exporting’ attack. Despite other future recollections subsequently brought out by anti-Western organizations in his defense, like the main stream media and the

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 406

Democrat party, Teddy clearly said; ‘There is no evy-dense that Chinese BatPoo II is trans-missy-bull from indy-vid-you-all to indy-vid-you-all, and there is no raisin to pleece any res-trick-shuns upon cone-tin-ewed travail,’ which allowed infected Wuhanis, then sequestered in China, to travel to the US and the rest of their hated West, in numbers sufficient to please only the interests of Bozos’ skyrocketing AmawayOnSteroids’ pumped market value. Most viruses, including the 2003 predecessor, Chinese BatPoo I, as well as most viruses in general, are known to be trans-missy-bull from indy-vid-you-all to indy-vid-you-all. So, the question should have obviously been; ‘Why is China BatPoo II any different?’ Why anyone had chosen to pay any attention to the terrorist with an agenda is another question.

But when the world finally began to awaken to the purposely exported threat and reality of CEEBATPO-19, Teddy immediately began blaming the international community for its inaction. Two months later, as the WHO declared that the PCP2 virus, an alternate name adopted by friends of Teddy and the Chinese who find it ‘politically incorrect hate speech’ to stigmatize the perpetrators, had become a global pandemic, Teddy had the gall to say that ‘soam coon-trees are strooggled with a leck of ree-zolv,’ and that the WHO was ‘diply cone-sern .... by the ail-army livails of in-ack-shun,’ and that ‘soam coon-trees are nut app-roaching this threet with the li-vail of po-litick cone-

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 407

mitment need to cone-trol it.’ Who does this terrorist and/or criminally negligent ass think he’s fooling? Ice Cream Bag Nancy Pelosi, Johannesburg Joe Biden in dementia, and/or Airport Croissant Loving Alexandria Occasional-Cortez?”

Non-sequential excerpt from “Mrs. Robinson” by Paul Simon; property of the author under both the

“fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Shaunessy thought; “Having one world is like having a crackless ass,” and suddenly had secondary and tertiary thoughts; the boundless exhilaration gone the way of all measured statements. Above the grrrrrr his tires made upon the

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 408

asphalt, he could hear Kerry say; “Wait. We need more information,” while all of the other information spent months and centuries gathering is now seen as so obviously, incomplete, inaccurate, flawed, and plain old useless that some dare use the anterior word solely. A second ago, Shaunessy had just doubled his collection of CJW-murder-relevant papers, and couldn’t wait to show Chief Kerry. It was only 4:15PM, and if he didn’t get snagged by some overzealous and glorified cop not yet restrained from handing out ticketed infractions, he could reach Kerry with the news before the tired codger packed it in at 4:45. Instead, he decided to drive home and discuss his new information with Margaret. There was no rush as it was now months after the fact and she might know of a better approach. She usually did.

Shaunessy parked in the gravel driveway and let himself in saying; “Margaret, are you here?”

“Sure. I’ve been joyously dancing around and I didn’t even knock over anything.”

“I’ve got a little something I’d like to run by you.”

“Some grief to lay on my ethereal presence, no doubt.

‘Laugh about it. Shout about it when you’ve got to choose. Every way you look at it you lose.’”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 409

“’Look around you. All you see are ‘sympathetic’ eyes. Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes.’”

“I knew there was something I liked about you. Lay it on me.”

“The good news is that I’ve almost confirmed that Rolf Hoffius wrote the note.”

“Almost?”

“Yes. It was run off on a printer he purchased. I have to confirm that he is still in possession of it.”

“So, confirm it.”

“That’s the tricky part. I could go to his place and try to confirm it. But, that would take his co-operation. Since I have no warrant, Hoffius could either refuse my entry, my visit tipping him that something was wrong; or worse, allow it, thereby seeing my interest in his printer, which I cannot seize, and dump it. My only options are to hope that a seasoned criminal gets stupid, or run it through Kerry, and get a warrant, from someone who appears to have no interest in the Wheaton case, and is in fact riled by mine.”

“Easy. Make it in Kerry’s interest to get you the warrant.

Make it appear to be his idea.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 410

“ ....................... “

“Half. Petty details can be quite the bitch.”

“Angel; here on earth that’s all we have. Forgot already?”

“Conscious effort pre-dating my angelhood. Blame me?”

“Pre-existing conditions are covered under the best plans.”

“Excellent. Screw it. If Wheaton was murdered, his murderer is no threat to anyone else anyway.”

“It’s hard to argue with Maigret.”

Margaret resumed her dance, simultaneously singing; “’And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson. Jesus loves you more than you will know.’”

Shaunessy said; “’Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

“Dammit. Stop inflicting me with your obsession. Can’t you just dance?”

“I thought you might have figured that one out by now.

Maybe I overestimated angelic powers of empathy.”

“Not a chance. Look at this.”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death

Page 411

Sad angel welcoming the latest victim; property of the author.

Shaunessy said; “Oooh. That’s not easy to look at. Okay.”

“’Be on my side. I’ll be on your side.’”

Otherworldly cuddles with; “I didn’t know that I had a side.”

“It’s not your fault. ........ Neither is it mine. Look.

Your earth bound particulars often confuse through their mere mass, not substance. On the one hand, Hoffius likely isn’t all that bright; otherwise he wouldn’t be a felonius two time loser.

Approaching him with no authority to do so will probably work.

However, if it doesn’t that’s more than likely the end of your fanatical string. ................. ”

“It’s ‘fanatical’ to seek justice?”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 412

“Whew. The ‘J’ word opens another long, multi-branched decision tree. We don’t want to go there, as some branches are brittle.”

“We fall down, go boom.”

“Like a moralist with a Physics PhD candidates’ point of view.”

“Yes, that bad. Think Wittgenstein slapping children.”

“Ugh. I’d rather think Einstein and Oppenheimer exploding.”

“Just remember that the determination is in turn determined by the determinator’s point of view, that revolving and a prisoner of chance circumstance.”

“Wasn’t that Schwarzenegger?”

“More or less, in particular, but not out of any compelling necessity. Movies never have the depth of books.”

“That is so snobby! Renoir, Kurosawa, Bergman, Welles

...... “

“You could go on. But, as I said, more or less.”

“Yeah, yeah. Can we get back to Kerry?”

Shaunessy and a Literary Death Page 413

“Run it by him. If he balks, you’re no worse off than you were before; possible win; no possible loss. Catch the codger early in the AM before the age-proportionate-fade sets in. After lunch, just fuggedaboudit. Make him feel like he’s extending himself to do something brave and heroic. Virtually all earthlings go for that kind of crap every chance they get. It gets their attention quickly, but starts to fade as soon as they start thinking about the possible risks. Forget the virtual aspect making it totally universal if you can indirectly eliminate his risk, without making that effort obvious. Perhaps, in this particular case, you can convince Kerry that the warrant is necessary to further investigate the filing of a false police report, thereby Hoffius involvement having little or nothing to do with the Wheaton non-case.”

“We must put a stop to this malicious, fake information flow! We’ll make a few examples.”

“Yes! Yes! My excitement would be uncontainable if I were not an angel.”

“Manipulation!”

“Persuasion!”

“Wait a second. Isn’t that ‘angelic’ way of thinking more akin to someone not necessarily as a benevolent spirit?”