Shaunessy and a Literary Death by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

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“Not if it does good and you started it anyway. I suppose you haven’t noticed, but it simultaneously opens up the possibility of a reverse, if needed.”

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21 - Persuasion

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

Shaunessy left his house at 8AM; Margaret nowhere in sight or sound. The middle March morning was dodgy, if not out and out cantankerous. The early sun had disappeared behind a low hanging, tightly knit congregation of fluffy gray, indistinguishable obscurities most dismiss as clouds. A drizzle made its minor presence known on Shaunessy’s windshield. He set his wiper to its lowest setting, one-third of the highest; that

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sufficient to maintain his more or less clear view of Vista de la Feria Road. His mind flip-flop wandered back and forth from

“Persuasion” to George Eliot’s, A/K/A Mary Anne Evans’ early late nineteenth century rendition of “Middlemarch,” the title no longer inclusive of its un-remembered first and significant subtitle; “A Study of Provincial Life,” thereby and presumably making it more conducive to the twenty-first century commercial necessity of blurbs, bumper stickers, and t-shirt “recaps,”

directed at “cool” Millennials; highly educated and despite that

“bright,” in full possession of their tedious, “boring,” long, long, short, inane story of the remote provinces.

1871 cover of the first edition of “Middlemarch,” the first volume of eight; public domain.

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Reverie, reverie, music, music, drops, drops, inclusive of, but not necessarily limited to current events, current events; Shaunessy continued to fully agree with Margaret’s recommendation of persuasion regarding Kerry, yet also recognized the need for an effective technique. What persuades one does not inevitably persuade all. The closest to that he could come was his protracted and lingering Middlemarch perception that the best way to make someone want something is to tell them that they can’t have it, more or less.

The drizzle evolved into a light rain, much like a China BatPoo II domestically restricted brand evolved to sprout leather black wings and fly at night, for fear of Bobo dinner consumption, and surreptitiously, under the cover of darkness, migrated west, being aided by WHO, and distributed by market gaining AmawayOnSteroids.com, to everyone else’s loss, consistent with the Bozo policy of performing in the manner in which “a cheetah pursues a sickly gazelle.” Any bat question surmised was purely rhetorical, as it may have not have even been a question. WHO can say with certainty.

Wouldn’t you just know it? Only WHO claims they didn’t. The vision challenging downpour commenced, spreading and testing his

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windshield wipers, just as Shaunessy entered the Vista de la Feria Police parking lot. To avoid a soaking he parked near the entrance, not checking the mailbox near the road. Chief Kerry and Striker’s autos were already there anyway, and he thought that it was only fair that it was someone else’s job to do something other than obstruct and defer to “experts” and give out traffic tickets. He walked to his cubicle and sat, ignoring Striker’s grinning face in the cubby next to his. Striker followed him, sans grin, and said; “You got some kind of problem?”

“You tell me, ace. Did I forget to say my gracious good morning?”

“Okay, I guess this coronavirus thing has gotten us all down. Damn, it’s not as if we’re asking the medical authorities to do anything difficult or creative. Making vaccines have a long term standard operating procedure. Ye get ye some of the dead or barely alive shit, mix it with some juice, and shoot everyone up with it. Duh!! No matter how much time is taken, six months after it is administered there will undoubtedly be a class action lawsuit saying that it made their kids stoopit, hard to deny, and that it gave people purple ass, diarrhea, and some other shit. So the ‘experts’ delay and delay, hoping to

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avoid the lawsuits which always come anyway. What’s new, partner?”

“Good morning, smiley.”

“ .................... “

“Didn’t your folks teach you that it’s impolite to stare?”

“It’s okay as long as your mouth is not open catching flies. Try this, grumpy. What is black and tan and is best on knickers?”

“Can’t imagine.”

“A Doberman Pinscher.”

“Haha. Cute word play.”

“Got one more. Why don’t blacks like country music?”

“I’ll bite.”

“When they hear hoedown, they think their sister has been shot.”

“Laughing out loud.”

Striker said; “Forget it,” and went back to his desk.

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Shaunessy cradled his two documents in his left hand, thinking; “That was easy,” and made his way to Chief Kerry’s office. He used his right to gently rap on the open door, and rather than walking in, stopped and waited for an invitation, willing to settle for an acknowledgement. Kerry took a few seconds to shuffle some papers he had on his desk, breathed deeply as if he was doing Shaunessy some sort of a personal favor to break from his pressing drudgery, and waved him in with the faux stressed, circling flick of someone on traffic duty at a busy, un-lighted, and un-signed intersection.

Traditional games being as long-standingly effective as they are, more or less, mostly because of their being effectively longstanding; despite being as predictable as they are, Shaunessy played into the boilerplate, not wishing to attempt to up his currently un-needed risk level, much in line with a misunderstood Bobby Fischer move saying; “I see that I may have interrupted something important. My apologies. I can come back later. No big thing to either of us either way.”

“No, please. Have a seat. What do you have?”

“A wrap up.” Shaunessy placed his two papers on Kerry’s desk. “That crank note came from Hoffius. Brody’s forensics team confirmed that. Just the words of a felonius nut loser. Might as

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well file this where you keep such things.” Shaunessy rose and said; “Off to traffic duty.”

Kerry asked; “Brody saw this?”

Shaunessy sat back down, saying; “No. One of his team traced it while he was out playing politics. Brody probably doesn’t even know about it. If he did he’d probably have been on your phone complaining already.”

“So, you’re finally done with this.”

“Yes, sir. I was the only one trying to keep the Wheaton case open, and nothing has come of that, other than me pestering people, and finding a few minor details which lead nowhere. Ha.

That’s stuff for conspiracy theorists; not cops or fact based professionals. Sorry for being a pain.”

Kerry’s face seemed quizzical, but any words which might have elaborated upon that were not forthcoming, leaving the Chief with the expression of a parched tree. Feeling that it was his involuntary turn to speak, he said; “Very good. ...... Carry on.”

Shaunessy walked out uncertain as to whether or not his ploy had been effective, but willing to bet on it if given some odds.

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Striker sat in his cubby, his back to any passers-by, pretending that he had heard nothing, which he probably didn’t know was quite true. Shaunessy ducked out while things were good, listening to the “Persuasion” which was playing in his head.

As often happens with the infrequent Southwestern rain, the downpour had exhausted all of what it had in the few minutes he was inside. Sometime while Shaunessy was listening to Striker jokes or in Kerry’s office the sky had transitioned from low and uniformly gray into a general high blue with seamless and a few blurred gradations between the precise colors, interspersed with bulbous white clouds, with thin, lines of gray at their bulb defining, puffed edges. Without the tiny gray lines there would have been no way in which to differentiate one balloon shaped member from the other. Shaunessy was more relaxed and less obsessed than he had been since prior to Connor James Wheaton’s death, and spent the day bestowing cordial, Vista de la Feria moving violators with luxurious and costly summonses. He was enjoying himself so much, he ticketed for two hours longer than he was required, and only realized that it was time to go home when the now indirect and angled sun bestowed the horizon with a beautiful, purple tinge, like that of the most glorious of

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spring mornings or the cover of an old Grateful Dead album.

“Julie catch a rabbit by his hair.”

Late day sky; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license, modified.

Shaunessy drove back to his rented, five room, adobe casita, paying more attention to the firmament than the road. A few times he marginally drifted into the other lane, and received righteously belligerent honks for his lack of consideration for the clearly painted dividing line. He was glad that he was not involved in a fender bender for his minor infractions, that thereby conducive to the continuation of his sky watching.

When he entered, Margaret was doing a writhing sort of dance to something he couldn’t hear. It had to have been something that John Coltrane or Dexter Gordon might have done.

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“One Flight Up” came to mind. She said; “Come on. Dance with me.”

He was in the perfect mood, and Shaunessy did just that, feet moving and both arms extended as if he had his arms around her. Maybe he did. He felt the gentle tap of her fingers on his shoulder, closed his eyes and kept dancing. He felt them again, and he opened them to see that Ramon, his Moongate Road landlord was standing there smiling.

Ramon said; “Dancing with the stars?”

Shaunessy said; “More or less. Ramon comes in on cat’s feet. Good evening, Ramon.”

Margaret said; “When the music’s over.”

Shaunessy said; “When.”

Ramon said; “Right now. Buenas noches. I just saw you come in and followed right behind. .......... Look, I’m not one to make judgements. As long as I get the rent and you don’t mess up the place, do your own thing.” He smiled, though he probably didn’t intend to.

Shaunessy thought that dancing around in private was not the least bit unusual, but to be doing it without music might be

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seen that way by folks lacking in imagination and creativity. He said; “Thank you. What’s on your mind today?”

Margaret laughed and Ramon cleared his throat, saying;

“I’ve got to leave before the next dance starts. I just wanted to advise you that my stucco man, Hector, will be around making some patches. So if you see someone here, no problem, it’s him.

Okay?”

Shaunessy said; “Okay, I love having company.”

Ramon left and Margaret said; “Sorry, I got you in trouble.”

“No trouble, my lady. It’s kind of amusing. I’m in too good a mood to let silly trifles ruin it. This morning I tried playing some persuasive reverse psychology on Kerry, and wound up playing it on myself.”

“These kinds of results should be sent to the mavens at

‘Psychology Today.’”

“Certainly, but not by me. I gave Kerry the flyer and the forensics printout, and said that I was finished with the case/non-case, hoping that he would be his usual contrary self and insist that I pursue it.”

“Dangerous game. Did he do what you expected?”

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“No, I thought at first, but maybe a few minutes later, after I left, for a reason I find to be strange. It’s only in my head. My feigned disinterest became real. My obsession was gone.

I no longer cared, and just enjoyed my frivolous day in the sun.”

“I hope it works out.”

“As far as I can tell, either way, it can’t miss.”

“Anyone who ever played a part, wouldn’t turn around and hate it.”

“Lou Reed. ‘Sweet Jane.’ You know, Wheaton wasn’t the nicest guy in the world. He was openly cheating on his wife. The woman involved was used as an unpaid editor of the garbage Hoffius was actually ghost-writing for a few bucks, under the expectation that he would be openly credited as the co-writer of CJW’s next one, which CJW had no intention of doing. His publisher advanced him a nice sum and was patient for ten years with his lack of production, finally receiving an inferior something belonging on the free self-published lists. This guy screwed everyone. So, why should I care if he was murdered? No one else who knew him does.”

“Emily Crain?”

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“Ah, a horny, old reader, spinster drunkard. I’ve also found that I really don’t like Striker either.”

“You’re on an excellent hate roll. Please continue.”

“Not hate; indifference. Striker is your classical dumb redneck, vicious in his standard grinning way. When we were daily ‘partnering’ in the pole-eece-vee-hick-el, it was obligatory to establish some sort of amicable relationship, as his ass was continually five feet from mine. That wouldn’t even have qualified for the minimal level of social distancing mandated during the Chinese BatPoo II outbreak. He’s just a jerk, who if transported to a big city, would proceed to be unable to cross the big streets without assistance.”

“Joe Buck from ‘Midnight Cowboy?’”

“More like Ratso Rizzo; actually a deficient cross in any direction. Even here in Boonietown, he is destined to be the angry, stupid, un-compensated holder of the league’s bag; not knowing what hit him.”

“My precious lover of all humanity.”

“Haha. That’s poetic.”

“That’s even off-topic by my standards.”

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“New heights! On their side, they probably think that I’m the weird one. What with no bar stool perennially occupied and no friends over after work. No parties, either gauche or sophisticated. Just a job; a severely limited job.”

“Since when do you pay any attention to their assessments?”

“Always did. ........ For five minutes twice a year. I was hoping it was more noticed, as I really don’t want them to think that I was acting this way out of complete ignorance. That might jeopardize my career.”

“You’re fine. Your ignorance level can’t be seen as anything higher than partial .... by a reasonably informed person.”

“The five minute clock ran out.”

“Like a Bobo bat at the slightest of hand movements in the direction of a fork.”

“You’re the greatest. Got you, angel.”

“Best not to tell anyone. My angelic reputation is at stake.”

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Shaunessy felt an embrace and was sure that it was real. He lay on the couch and didn’t care if Ramon was prowling by a peep-providing portal.

Indifferently and diligently arriving as precisely on time as an AmawayOnSteroids.com Prime delivery the following morning, Shaunessy proceeded to his cubicle and futzed with something on his computer that didn’t require any futzing. He was facing away from the opening on the aisle when he heard Striker come in and offer him an ebullient “Good, good morning, my intrepid and thorough partner.” In his head Shaunessy could just see Striker’s obnoxious, grinning, good-old-boy mug, and without turning said; “Mornin’.” He was surprised that Striker knew the word “intrepid,” but quickly dismissed that thought as the net had been providing easy access synonyms to every marginally literate user for two decades. He was reminded of his oft forgotten mental note to look up xenophobic. He got his second surprise of the day when he saw that it wasn’t a fear of xenos, but rather “having or showing a dislike of or prejudice against people from other countries.” Well, either the Oxford Dictionary, or the Bing Translator, or both said so. The source details weren’t exactly crystal clear. But, Shaunessy curtailed his search right there, feeling he had made the reasonably

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required effort, and if the result was wrong, he could always blame Oxford, Bing, or both. He heard Chief Kerry’s voice say;

“I’d like to see you in my office.”

Shaunessy said; “As soon as I sign out of this.” When done he got up to see that Kerry didn’t wait for him. He walked to the Chief’s office and rapped at the door.

Kerry said; “Close it behind you.”

Shaunessy did, while making a Mitch McConnell patented, goopy, “I don’t really want to, but I have no choice,” face, hoping the effort didn’t permanently freeze his own cheeks’

descent into his jowls. He sat and said; “Yes, sir.”

Kerry said; “This is no one else’s business.”

“ ................... “

“Shaunessy, you’ve retreated from pursuing anything more regarding Wheaton’s death.”

“I had lots of encouragement. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“ .................. “

“I’ll always have my thoughts. But, an investigator’s job is not an all-encompassing one. I sometimes forget that.”

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Shaunessy’s scowling, brief, display of teeth opened the possibility that he had meant the opposite.

“You don’t need this job, do you?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Could be the primary determinant of your attitude.”

“Attitude? Attitude? What is your problem with me doing what you have instructed? I like spending my day in the sun, handing out tickets to appreciative, smiley, petty transgressors of trifling road infractions. You might well recall that was my reason for leaving the ugliness of bleak and dreary New York City, and relocating to this sunny ‘Land of Enchantment.’”

“Cut me some slack here. I’m not the bad guy. I just have outwardly imposed boundaries, like everyone else.”

“Brody is quite the cheetah.”

“Inclusive of Brody.”

“Well again, fine with yeztruly. Wheaton may have committed suicide; likely did. And if someone did get away with murder, it won’t be the first time, and it doesn’t appear to be that they were of the serial variety. No one is in imminent danger in

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Vista de la Fiera. So, I’ve finally accepted the verdict and really don’t care. Psychologists find acceptance to be healthy.

I’m following instructions, don’t care to attempt to do anything otherwise, and I’m happy to be distributing sunny tickets.”

“ ................. “

“I don’t get it. I’m feeling as if you find something wrong with whatever I do. I mean, I’m not exactly the President of the United States, as articulated upon by ‘democratic’ social and main stream media.”

“Hahaha. Yeah, huh? Things can be quite the bitch. I’d of thought that a New Yorker would have learned that prior to having attained the advanced age of fifty-five. It seems a necessity or at least an inevitability for any non-zealot paying a modicum of attention.”

“’Social media,’ with its attendant lockstep identity politics have done me in.”

“I called Mr. Brody, and told him about the note and its being traced to Hoffius. I recommended re-opening the investigation and he adamantly refused. It’s obvious to anyone that he’s going to block any possibility of his quick decision being found incorrect.”

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“ ................ “

“However, any detriments to justice are just as well the fault of us. You and me. See, we’ve been operating under the hidden premise that pursuing a murder charge is the only route.”

“That’s what all this is about. No?”

“Yes on a moral level, but no procedurally. Crimes other than murder were committed. If Med Ex Brody’s nerdy ‘science’, and his insecure unwillingness to admit that he might have made a mistake legally precludes us from pursuing Murder One, we can still shake things up by pursuing the other criminality; that worked properly leading us to the murderer at a lesser charge.”

“A hand slap for a capital offense.”

“Not necessarily. Could be a broken arm. Depends a lot on how well it is handled. Look; there are no better options available.”

“Ha. My Chief has no doubt forgotten the comforts provided by the injection of cool, synthesized apathy, right in the face of hot, but inevitably short-lived, terminally boring interest.”

“Choose what you will. It’s yours to do or not. Striker is here to pursue what you won’t. Based on the note and printer verification I’ve obtained a judge’s warrant for Hoffius’

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arrest; the charges numerous; including perjury, the filing of a false police report, tampering with evidence, hindering a police investigation, failure to report a capital crime, defamation of character, slander, libel, and if that’s not enough, add the unauthorized, unpaid postage use of a post office box to deliver, theft of government services, and fraud by way of the fucking US of A mail. ....... Most people would regard this as a stupid annoyance, but a two time felon is likely to piss in his draws. Jerk will probably resist arrest too.”

“Wicked, wicked. I like it. I can seize the printer?”

“Sure. You can even take Striker to assist in the arrest.”

“You had me going for a minute. Ummm ....... How can I politely say? Ummm. ......... I mean we’d be like sitting in the same car for forty-five agonizing minutes; ninety round trip.

That kind of dictates some conversation.”

“You might easily distract him with some Vince Gill Wisconsin, if you just find the station that plays what once passed for ‘outlaw.’ Maybe one of Willie Nelson’s, if he can ever get over his need to go on and on uninterrupted, though that is his best and perhaps only source of a middling level of

‘lucrative’ commerciality. But, aesthetics at a time of impending justice? I’m as shocked and appalled as Chinese

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President Xi Jinping claims to have been when he was told that Bobos are known to eat bats and babies when there is no market for the organs. Let them eat chiroptera and liver, indeed.”

“Yellow peril. Old phrase from pre-enlightened times. ...

Can’t Striker take his own vee-hick-ell and spare me the chit-chat?

“Yeah, I guess. Sure.”

“I’m on my way.”

Shaunessy said; “Striker! You’re coming along with me to pull in Rolf Hoffius. Chief says. Also says for you to take your own car as there is evidence to be confiscated.”

“Is he expected to be armed?”

“Not likely, but be prepared as you never know with the dumb creeps with prior records.”

“I’m set. Let’s go!”

“Relax for just a few minutes. I forgot something at home.”

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22 – The Roundup

Modified 1941 poster of “The Roundup;” property of the author.

Shaunessy returned in twenty minutes and said; “Follow me into Albuquerque. We have jurisdiction because the crimes were committed here in Vista del la Feria.”

Striker said; “You sure of that, boss?”

“No. Matter to you?”

“Not really.”

“9316 Tanoan Drive.”

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“The high rent district.”

“Yep. Hoffius must have recently come into some money.

Let’s go.”

Shaunessy’s lead car meandered through the business and fast food lined semi-highways of Albuquerque’s Northeast with Striker right behind. He had waited this long and was in no particular rush now. His yellow, black, blue, and white complicit surroundings were merging into an indirect re-stating of their originally simple black and white. The surplus of subsequent yadda yadda yadda was just an “expert” assisted attempt at a confusion designed to reward the guilty at the expense of those in no position to resist. It reminded him of how China’s Xi Jinping had colluded with WHO’s Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus, to tell the world that there was no evidence that the Chinese BatPoo II virus could spread from person to person and that no travel bans were necessary, allowing Xi to send 500,000 infected agents all over the globe, concentrating on the West, which had committed the “crime” of bringing his communist nation out its of long term poverty.

Details of statements after the deed was done have relevance only in terms of how long it would take the yellow, biological

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weapon’s infestation to reach exponential growth, and then the entirety of the globe.

WHO’s Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus and China’s Xi Jinping celebrating the success of their scam as shown on the chart behind; property of the author.

But, today was different. Shaunessy was finally being allowed to close in on a Wheaton case insider; one who had nothing discernable to gain from CJW’s death, was never alone with CJW that day, and also had some unknown motivation to point his concealed finger at Anisette Rhona, a formerly clandestine lover of last resort. Their loud arguments were heard by the wine grower’s kids, and might suggest something other than the calm and quiet disinterest attendant to romantic breakups.

Hoffius wasn’t there to argue about his gardening fees, as he hadn’t been doing any since Connor James Wheaton had died.

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The tranquility of the semi-green, semi-populated, sparse, and minorly contoured golf course, apparently designed for the lowest scores and degree of difficulty, took the place of the lube shops, self-storage bins, assemble-it-yourself furniture outlets, and fast food restaurants on his left. Shaunessy put on his left blinker to alert Striker that any second they’d be turning onto Tanoan Drive’s one-way-in-one-way-out road, hoping that Striker was not overly engrossed with the latest version of Willie Nelson’s catchy tune; “On the Road Again.”

They parked in the asphalt driveway of #9316 and raced to the front door, guns in hand. He and Striker positioned at the door’s sides, Shaunesy knocked hard and called out; “Police, open up.” Getting no response, he knocked louder and yelled;

“Police. Open up or we’ll kick it in.” They heard two toilet flushes, and with their first kicks the door opened, Hoffius right behind it faux calmly saying; “Yes, officers. Please pardon my being indisposed. What can I do for you?”

Striker walked right in, spun Hoffius around, and cuffed him from the rear; saying; “Nothing more. That’s it, asshole.”

He patted Mr. Indisposed down, finding nothing except an inky pen knife in the shirt pocket where a nerd-pack once resided. He clicked it open, revealing a four inch blade. “Concealed weapon

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carried by a two time loser. Ummm. Ummm. Ummm. You got some big time ‘splainin’ to do, boy.”

Hoffius’ pen knife, extended above and retracted below; property of the author.

Hoffius was no rookie to the routine, and consequently made no movement or resistance, sighed, and deadpanned; "I write with that. Exactly what am I being charged with?"

Shaunessy said; "Was just about to get to that. You are under arrest for the charges of perjury, filing of a false police report, tampering with evidence, hindering a police investigation, defamation of character, failure to report a capital crime, the unauthorized moving of a dead body, and if that's not enough, add the unauthorized and unpaid postage use of a post office box to deliver, theft of government services, and fraud by way of the fucking US of A mail. Now, let’s add the concealment of a deadly weapon to the mix. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you

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in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

....... Shaunessy had embellished what was on the warrant a bit, but it really didn’t matter beyond the act.

Striker said; “You in some deep doo doo, boy. Ummm, ummm, ummm. The slammer goan be your forever home.”

Hoffius grinned and said; “False arrest; police harassment with financial consequences to be determined through consultation with my attorney and psychiatrist.”

Shaunessy said; “You probably don’t know it, chief. But, we have traced that note you dropped in the police box about Anisette Rhona, straight to you.”

Hoffius said; “ ............ “

Shaunessy went on; “Yes. Most goons don’t know it, but forensics can match output with printer. Please excuse my seizing of your printer. I hope it doesn’t hinder your abilities to communicate. That might be dreadful for a writer so popular.”

Shaunessy went into the sparse living room adjacent to the hall and opened the printer, which sat on the Chinese-assemble-yourself, “affordable,” metal desk. He said; “Wouldn’t you know

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it, Serial #GOSH70372. Sometimes those techies can be absolutely amazing. Wouldn’t you say, chief?”

Hoffius’ look of semi-strained, confident levity dissipated as if there was an epidermal landslide on his face all the way from his brow to his chin. His tint had, more or less, simultaneously adopted a monotone, ashen, pale blanch; consistent with the final stages of a Chinese exported illness, replete with a faulty ventilator foolishly acquired from the sniggering, profit-making source of the sickness. But he was still compelled to defiantly say; “You got doodly-squat; zero; nil; zilch; zip; nada; bubkes. I’ll be out ten minutes after booking.”

Shaunessy said; “A mere bagatelle. Mind if I have a further look around, Mr. N. Creepshun? ...... Never mind racking your brain, Dwight. That was rhetorical. Striker, keep good watch on this desperado.”

Striker said; “Please have a seat, badass,” and directed Hoffius to the spotty, three stretchered, Goodwill or otherwise second-hand, no matter the other gracious nomenclatures available, bentwood chair. He sat with a full weighted thud which disturbed the firmament as much as a 4.5 on the California Richter. Striker showed his concern, asking; “You okay there,

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partner? ...... Wouldn’t want to have one of our guests injured while at our mutual party. ........... Mmmmmmmmmmm. Good. No complaints.”

Shaunessy searched the premises, upstairs, down, low, and above; even checking the yard with a mind toward recent digging.

He came back with a brow furrowed in an odd, John Bolton-like rocking back and forth, and hands gingerly holding two plastic bags at their tips. He said; “In plain sight. In plain sight.

Unbelievable from a man so experienced. An unregistered firearm; an assembly job, and an ounce and a half of contraband, with its contiguous, legal intent to distribute. I’m absolutely shocked.

Shocked. In thirty years on the force I’ve never seen anything this amateur. ...... Striker, my partner, be double careful.

This loser idiot might do anything at this point.” Directed toward Hoffius, he added; “We’ll have to add illegal possession of a firearm, and possession of cannabis with the intent to distribute to your laundry list of infractions. New Mexico statute 30-7-16 prohibits any felon from owning or possessing a gun, and I don’t suspect that you have a card permitting medical use or distribution of marijuana.”

Hoffius said; “No. No way. You planted that. That’s bullshit.”

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Shaunessy retorted; “No. You just forgot to flush and launch from window. Regardless, get a little practical, chief.

Is a jury going to take the word of a twice convicted, armed felon who has also admitted to being an accessory to murder or the word of one of Vista de la Feria’s finest?”

Striker laughed as he slapped Hoffius’ head, saying; “You gone deef or something, boy? The Man asked you a question.”

Hoffius said; “I have nothing to say until I see an attorney.”

Shaunessy said to Striker; “I’ll pile the evidence in mine, and you drive the creepy perp to headquarters. Take good care, as we wouldn’t want the suspect to hurt himself on the way.

Mucho pole-eese problemos. ....... Hope he doesn’t resist arrest. We’ve all got enough problems.”

As Shaunessy loaded the printer, computer, handgun, and pot, into his car, Striker loaded Hoffius into his, making sure that he didn’t hit his head upon entry and strapped him immobile inside the back seat.

Hoffius and the evidence went to Vista de la Feria Police Headquarters. Striker watched him squirm around in his rear view

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mirror, saying; “Ye got yisself some resisting arrest now, boy.”

Smiling, Striker drowned out any replies or complaints with some of that old, good time music.

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Porky Loser, “Carolina Rice” by Anonymous, and “Jemima Surrender” by The Band; property of the author, the latter two under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

When they arrived Striker told Shaunessy of the new charge to add to his list. The two detectives escorted Hoffius into the station, one on each arm, as Chief Kerry was in the process of finalizing a phone call to the District Attorney. Hearing the entry door rudely slam, though that inadvertently dictated by his officers’ arresting situation, he chose to err on the safe side, hung up, and addressed the possible invasion as invasions should be addressed; his gun drawn. Chief Kerry came out of his office, and stared at Hoffius’ face with an expressionless exterior façade, eyes vacant, excepting what was arguably a hint of bemusement, placing his police special back in his belt.

Hoffius responded in kind, as much as was possible devoid of a

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gun, likely thinking; “They’re determined to throw the book at me. No need to try currying any favor.” Kerry said; “Book him.”

Shaunessy did just that; then offered him his one phone call. Hoffius refused it, and said; “I’m a poor man, don’t have an attorney on retainer, and I don't know the Public Defender's number. Perhaps you can make the necessary arrangements."

“Don’t have any friends or relatives either, I guess.”

“Just like you.”

“You overly flatter yourself, like any typical author bio.”

Shaunessy brought him to the cell, which had been specially constructed of cinderblock, so as to not represent a fire hazard to the guests, or at least act as an imperfect retardant. The only window to the outside was tiny, high and barred; only passable by small animals and insects, and only capable of granting visibility to competent winged creatures; momentarily bringing the great Raymond Chandler to mind. The walls were peeling their white paint, exposing the underlying, mottled gray as well as an un-policed Antifa riot. This was the result of some sort of problem yet to be "expertly" determined. The possibilities included surface contamination, surface temperature, that the coating was not compatible with the substrate, that the coating is not compatible with an existing

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coating, age, moisture, and that the surface was too smooth.

While “moisture” intuitively seemed the best choice, and the latter seemed a silly consideration on rough cinderblock, one could only hope that the prisoner was not meaningfully inconvenienced before the “interior paint mavens” made their final determination. Like a protective big brother, Shaunessy told Hoffius; “Don’t eat the chips,” and locked the window barred door.

Shaunessy brought in the evidence and joined Striker and Chief Kerry, who were standing near the chief’s desk in his office. Chief Kerry said; “I’ve just been telling Striker that he did an excellent job.”

Shaunessy said; “Absolutely flawless.”

Chief Kerry said; “I never know when you’re joking.”

Shaunessy said; “If I find out, you’ll be the first one I’ll tell; in high hopes of a warrant.”

Chief Kerry said; “Get out of here. Both of you. Vista de la Feria traffic offenders have been running rampant. .......

Well, what are you waiting for? Expedite the tickets!

Rapidamente! Rapidamente!

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Shaunessy and Striker walked to their cars, Striker saying;

“I don’t know about the Chief. Sometimes I think he’s from smawtass New Yawk.”

Shaunessy said; “Geography irrelevant. When presented with an overwrought situation, the standard safest response is a reciprocal overwrought one.”

Chief Kerry tried to make arrangements with the busy Public Defender, succeeding in being politely invited to leave a message. He did and pressed on with a duplicative texting attempt, his huge fingers an obstacle on the teeny cyber keys.

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23 – Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce

“You have got to be kidding me! You just have to be kidding me!” American Civil Liberties Union Senior Staff Attorney in Albuquerque and Public Defender Lucia Martinez-Sanchez continued with; “All you have on my client is what you planted on him.”

Chief Kerry said; “There was no plant. And in any event, if that was the case the burden of proof would be on you. Come, come. Unfounded allegations do not become you.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “I can’t accept that. Medical Examiner Harrison Brody III’ assistant, Grissom B. Smilowitz, PhD., has found none of my client’s fingerprints on the items; only those of your Detective, Thomas Shaunessy.”

Shaunssy said; “It’s not easy to carry pot and guns with your feet,” while he was wondering what he had touched when at their office.

Chief Kerry said; “Hold on a second, Shaunessy. And Ms.

Martinez-Sanchez; gaining your acceptance is a most worthy goal to which I’m sure we all aspire. But frankly, who will a judge and jury believe? The word of a twice convicted felon or the word given by one of Vista de la Feria’s finest with decades of

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a spotless career in law enforcement? We’re solid here. No

‘negotiation’ on that.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “No drug priors.”

Shaunessy said; “Two serious priors, both including weapons.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Inadmissable.”

Kerry said; “Maybe. Maybe not. Don’t need it, anyway.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “’Perjury, filing of a false police report, tampering with evidence, hindering a police investigation, defamation of character, failure to report a capital crime, the unauthorized moving of a dead body, and the unauthorized and unpaid postage use of a post office box to deliver, theft of government services, and fraud by way of the USA mail.’ I assume this all stems from the flyer received at Police Headquarters, which you allege came from my client.”

Kerry said; “More or less. However, it is not an allegation. Brody’s office has confirmed that this ‘flyer’ came from your client’s printer.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “No one has been brought to court for those kinds of ‘violations’ in this century. Very

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selective enforcement. And, never heard of that kind of tracing ability before.”

Kerry said; “I’ll defer to your legal ‘expertise’ of the 21st century, and take your word that no one has; primarily because it really doesn’t matter to me. Regarding your 21st century tech deficiencies; check with Brody if you don’t believe me. ......... Better yet, check with his assistant, Petersen Beam the second. It’s absolutely amazing how this tech world can convert keypad entries to muddy foot prints.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “I’ll check that. Assuming that is the case, I further suppose that he also proved that my client put it in the box.”

Kerry said; “No, not exactly. Our 24 hour surveillance tapes do. That’s sort of a no brainer.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “I’d like to see that.”

Kerry said; “Consider it done.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Okay. Okay. What I’m not having any success at understanding is two-fold. First, it seems obvious that you are coming down with two lead boots on Hoffius; something usually reserved for the likes of Al Capone. Secondly, why are we even having this conversation? I mean that, if there

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is not going to be any negotiation, why don’t we just proceed to court?”

Kerry said; “I suppose that we could. I do assume that in your job as attorney you are obliged to tell your client that if he loses, he won’t be standing in any sunshine for the rest of his life. That’s quite a risk. So my question to you is what does your client offer to allow us to view his infractions in a better light? Give me a reason to be co-operative.”

Shaunessy said; “Ms. Martinez-Sanchez; we are giving you the opportunity to appear as quite heroic; getting the wicked po-leese to back off their spurious charges, standing up for the poor little man, and all of that. To do so, appearing as

‘revolutionary’ effective, it might even enhance your stature at the ACLU. Your client’s misdeeds are of secondary, or perhaps even tertiary consequence to us. .......... “

Kerry interrupted to yell; “Shaunessy, stop!” Utilizing a lower pitch he turned toward the Public Defender and said; “My sincere apologies for my detective’s outburst. I’d like to assure you that his is not necessarily the opinion of this station’s management.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Apology accepted, but please be assured that I’m used to hearing negative reviews of my chosen

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work, and while the first two or three may have bothered me slightly, since then I have developed some sort of immunity to

‘assessments,’ both asshole and not. You may not get the analogy, but because of tariffs, Communist China unleashed a viral plague on the world, covered it up, and is now trying to blame the US for the whole thing. If that weren’t bad enough, US

corporate political media, some of which are literally paid to run Chinese propaganda, are actively helping that coverup. It’s refreshing to hear the non-party line; no matter how ignorant.

Please proceed, Detective Shaunessy.”

Looking toward Chief Kerry, Shaunessy said; “Con su permiso, el jefe. .... Sin objeciones? ..... Gracias.”

Redirected toward the defending attorney, he said; “Ms.

Martinez-Sanchez; first allow me to say that I share your views concerning assessments. They’re merely the jerk assessor’s attempt to usurp the judgements one should be making for themselves; ostensibly an attempt to make the one who does something dependent upon the continuation of the faux largesse of the one who does nothing, or instill a requirement for him to pretend to do so; no particular derision aimed at the do nothing set. And you’re right. Your analogy, better termed a metaphor, makes no sense to me whatsoever. Point of order; a metaphor is a figure of speech in which a word or phrase is applied to an

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object or action to which it is not literally applicable, especially something abstract; whereas an analogy is a comparison between two things, typically for the purpose of explanation or clarification; to wit 'an analogy between the workings of nature and those of human societies.' Since lay people invariably interchange the terms to no great detriment, I'll stop my 'expert' analysis right here; hopefully serviceably short of bringing in the complications and nuances provided by symbol, allegory, and parable; and to a lesser extent figure of speech, figurative expression, image, trope, comparison, word painting, word picture, conceit, apologue; and the unfairly, in my humble opinion, much overlooked emblem. In fairness, I should point out that your substance or concept is not inconsistent with that of my own view. To the point, Ms. Martinez-Sanchez; your client's note indicates that he is most likely an insignificant part of a much larger picture, but that he might have seen the entirety. He said nothing of the sort during original questioning, but that note suggests that he may have changed his mind for some reason. What matters most to us is what your client may know of Connor James Wheaton’s death. I’m sure that if he has something juicy to spill, all charges could be dropped.” Shaunessy looked away from Ms. Martinez-Sanchez and added; “Correctamundo, el jefe?”

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Kerry shrugged affirmatively, and then mumbled some condition or equivocation, of interest to any mice lurking behind the wall.

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Mr. Shaunessy. You could not imagine how much you have made my day on a number of levels. If I might offer one free but valuable piece of advice, which I think you’ll need for some reason which currently and conveniently escapes me, I’d strongly suggest that one never trust any Bobo baby and bat munchers or any contentious clarifications, regardless of source. One little detail you’ve omitted. Like a dead bat, that resisting arrest charge doesn’t fly. One cannot very well resist arrest while handcuffed in the back of a police vee-hick-ell, even if part of a flied lice takeout, housed in one of those flimsy, left over containers once used to thinly and tattily transport tiny, tropical, thalassic trawl. I’m certain of agreement on that.”

Shaunessy said; “Better you than me.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “My path is clear. You are much too easy.”

“ ................ “

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “I am off.”

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Shaunessy said; “Any ETA of when we’ll be back on?”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Nothing precise, but more or less soon, depending. I’m scheduled for a conference regarding deadly pole-eese encounters with armed, contraband merchants of color in Joe-ja. And I’ve yet to see how co-operative my Huffass client has the capacity to be.”

Shaunessy said; “Hoffius.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Yes. That’s what I thought I had said. But, no matter. I must tarry on to Savannah. Ciao.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez tarried, leaving the chief’s door open.

Shaunessy said; “My hopes are high. This woman felt no need to do anything other than her job. Nor, did she deign to spend any time trying to justify it to those who might sound as if they don’t approve. Secure competence and/or secure incompetence are desirable virtues.”

Kerry said; “I don’t know about that, but I’d suspect that sitting here in solitary stir for a few days won’t hurt Hoffius’

inclination to be co-operative.”

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Shaunessy said; “That’s actually the part of the scenario I fear to be the weakest chain in the link. He might find that not being pestered by others is a quite pleasant relief.”

Kerry said; “I could have him transferred to County. But, he’s adapted to the likes of Central State Prison in Macon twice before.”

Shaunessy said; “Likely, not enough to want to go back to a communal jail. Besides, being here will probably result in Striker playing Igor to his Frankenstein monster. ...... I don’t know; your call.”

Kerry said; “Seems clear. I’m transferring him to County.

By the way, was that gun and pot a plant?”

Shaunessy said; “As far as I know, pot always comes from a plant, but until Brody proves otherwise, guns don’t.”

Kerry said; “I’m being serious.”

Shaunessy said; “I can’t believe you asked that. You know that I’m a good cop.”

Kerry nodded the mildest of possible affirmatives; and Shaunessy, entirely uninterested in providing official limo service for a creepy perp, swiftly exited and resumed Vista del la Fiera traffic duty; possible contamination not an issue. His

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attitude was more one of a disgust, capable of producing horrid, serial barfs. One personally unfamiliar with this sort of motivation might have thought that Shaunessy had gotten a glance at the ridiculously wide, black wingspan of an infected, trained, and flying Chinese bat happily on the loose in the wide open spaces in the US.

An uneventful week passed; Shaunessy passing it in the company of his unkempt moving violations citations book and more or less in the proximity of Vista de la Feria Road, where rushed, petty rogues exceeded the limits to the possible detriment of the curious, sentient, domesticated animals, who their domesticators were once again and thrice again,

‘accidentally’ remiss in their mission, to keep the generally little, but multi-sized at the perimeter, ones more or less safe from hominid, fast lane, ‘progress.’ He considered his role in that effort more worthwhile than a commissioned traffic study.

Rolf Hoffius spent it in the County minimum security dorm alongside frequently visiting meth-heads, DUI’s, video game boosters, parole violators, and those with multi outstanding warrants. When asked by other inmates the standard jail question of what he did to get there, Hoffius cooly slurred; “Moving a

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dead body, possession with intent, and this shit wouldn’t have happened if not for my prior assault convictions.” Like any indie self or small press publishite with more than 500 “sales,”

his status in the minimum stronghold went to list top. He had done his best and was proud of that. The losers didn’t attempt to fuck with him. But still something was missing. It may have been that the only potentially decent paperback available on the table was a ripped copy of Isaac Asimov’s “The Robots of Dawn,”

and it made as much senses as Burroughs. He considered his role worthwhile.

Striker searched Vista de la Fiera Road for the captive audience, with whom he could obtain personally satisfying guffaws for his redneck jokes. The stuck suckers, with asses firmly ensconced in their bucket seats, who thought their feigned sighting of the long played, black comedy routine performed by the likes of non-medical “Dr.” Tedros Adhominem Beelzebubus might alleviate them from the ticket, fine, and its consequent monthly insurance premium upward adjustment. He considered his role worthwhile.

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With no fanfare or particular personal enjoyment, Chief Kerry spent phone hours with one of the Deputy District Attorneys, sometimes referred to as Assistant District Attorney.

He was mostly trying to convince one assigned Takshaak Singh, demi-anorak, that the case would be headline material in step two, gaining him more prominence than his District Attorney boss, Harold Dooley Balotid. Precarious lines were walked wherein Kerry never knew what he had said to prompt it, but on more than one occasion Mr. Singh was compelled to indignantly point out that he did not speak Hindi. Kerry tried to insist, with all the persuasiveness of a pre-recorded iPhone tone that the operative concept at hand was not one of cheap showbiz, but rather one of rarified, high end showbiz. Takshaak’s umbrage vocally waxed increasingly poetic with each such shovel. He considered his role worthwhile.

Seven days anon, Ms. Martinez-Sanchez returned from Joe-Ja, seemingly unscathed in the visible places where those scathey things may be. She might have made good use of “Triderma’s ‘The Genuine Virgin Aloe,’ an everyday bruise relief cream 1oz which provides fast healing and soothing relief for bruises, itching and redness. It helps skin heal after cosmetic, esthetic or surgical procedures. This gentle, yet powerful cream helps

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soothe and heal skin from bruises, redness, skin tightness or dryness. It's the perfect cream to take with you to the dermatologist and to use immediately after laser, waxing, peels, or tar and feathering, to help calm and soothe your skin. It is also ideal for those who bruise easily, have thin skin or heal slowly.” Quite a product, and only she will ever know if she had used it, as if it mattered.

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez marched straight into Kerry’s office, Shaunessy following, and said; “Got us the deal of a lifetime.”

She threw down the document and said; “Read this.”

April 11, 2020

To whom it may concern;

This valuable information is offered in the interest of justice; and justice only. It was not coerced in any manner, shape, or form. Through the word of my attorney, Ms. Lucia Martinez-Sanchez, I am also aware that in return for this valuable document, I am to be granted immunity from any and all charges for which I am being currently held, as well as any charges that might arise from my activities in regard to the event and events surrounding the death of Connor James Wheaton, with the exception of any spurious charges of Murder in the First Degree,

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to which I herein plead not guilty. I hereby represent that I will testify to what follows in any court of law so directed. I further understand that upon signed acceptance of this valuable document, I will be immediately, un-conditionally, and without harm released from County Jail at a time when public transportation is operational; none of that 3AM belligerent, abusive nonsense in the dark, which seems to be the thrill of a screw’s life. If any of these conditions are not met, I didn’t write this; and further, any signatures on this valuable document, purporting to be mine are forgeries.

On August 2, 2019, I, Lupo Batinado, please no China Bat II jokes, most commonly known as Rolf Hoffius, A/K/A Dwight N.

Creepshun, A/K/A DNC, arrived at the Wheaton-Hunter house 10:30AM. It was one of those hot summer days, which the Nulib nutters invariably cite as proof of “global warming;” when in fact it is an offsetting ten degrees cooler than average one hundred miles away. The overnight clouds which had kept in the previous day’s heat, had given way to the dawn’s insistence upon an unobstructed sun, brilliant and deceptive in its stationary existence, which gave the illusion of movement. It wasn’t a matter of being stubborn or willfully fraudulent. Without any prior consultation, God just had stuck him there. Okay? He had done nothing to dispel the sciency geeks saying that he was

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cheerily rotating around the earth, as supposedly did everything, and earth inhabitants seemed to like that notion muchly. That worked well for billions of years, until some loser named Galileo di Vincenzo Bonaulti de Galilei A/K/A Galileo, an illegal alien here in the US, screwed the whole thing up in the 17th century. Now the sciency geeks muddy the waters through saying confusing sophistry such as; “Fixed relative to what?

Moving relative to what? The very essence of fixed vis-à-vis moving is an ocular illusion. It all depends on your frame of reference, and thus it is muy stupido to wonder, and mucho stupido to openly ask if the sun is moving or not. Relative to the galactic center, the sun does indeed move; but we sciency geeks most often use a heliocentric frame of reference in the solar system, and then in that scenario the sun is not moving at all and could use some lessons from South and Central America.

Jeez. It is abundantly clear that it had to have started somewhere, and the sun has filed no objections to our drawings.

Further, our rendition has passed peer review.” Hehehe. On a positive note, this sort of nonsense can actually be sun beneficial, at least in terms of the few reading earthlings with open minds, within the nasty context of a market which rewards clarity and repetition, at the expense of amorphous substance.

...... Be assured that the preceding is no stigmatizing

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reference to Wuhan, China, virus-spreading, or the delicacy of bat consumption.

At any rate, after having provided the central and ascendant essentials of that hot, hot day, I believe it is high time to introduce the specifics of the little story, with which everyone seems overly concerned. I was more or less Connor James Wheaton’s paid ghost writer on his posthumous smash hit,

“Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel.” In order to keep that a secret I also dallied a bit at being the gardener-handyman, and periodically Anisette Rhona’s fornication partner.

My homie, Connor, was well aware of that, and encouraged more, in apparent hope that if Anisette Rhona had something to do, she might get her big booga eyes off of him for a while. Despite the low pay for the easy ghosting and the challenging buggering, I was enthused that I would be granted co-authorship and equal financial share in the next novel Connor got “weinie sap” Henry Battson; publisher; former editor, now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now part of the McVirago group, to shell out for. We had never discussed subject matter, as if that was a resurrection of some archaic requirement, tut, tut; and I settled into the assumed mutual understanding that once a name is branded, accidentally or not, what invariably follows is an

“on-the-one-hand-on-the-other,” “critical” evaluation coupled

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with price enhanced sales initially in lucrative hardback, in actuality ranging from 60-300% of the prior; at the higher end close to being able to give up that day job as well as running those weinie writing seminars, like that pathetic dip, non-medical doctor mouthing off at W.H.O. ....... That was neither rhetorical nor a question of any species.

Please pardon what you likely now see as a digression. While on the one hand it is more of the promotion writers are encouraged to continually supply; on the other, you will soon see that it is all part of the story, if you happen to be as equivalently sentient as a happily, hot, hopping Aussie ‘roo in trifling blazes during the annual Bogan landscaping project.

Frankly, with the novel now finished and the grounds more or less tended, I had no reason to be there unannounced other than to pick up a few bucks for puttering around with and watering the frontal sage. Anisette Rhona was there all morning, while Battson had not yet arrived. While hosing the frontal sage, I heard Emily Crain inside yelling something about “not getting paid,” which made me smirk as she was always yelling about something; and I thought that at least this time she was close to making some kind of sense, though I couldn’t imagine her being any more useful than the typical, recapitulating and

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spoiling, indie Goofreads book reviewer or a Chinese political

“informant” immediately gone missing.

Emily left at about 12:45PM, leaving Anisette Rhona alone inside with CJW. Emily was happily sloshed, another of her usual traits, like the yelling and cockeyed driving. She backed out of the driveway like she had learned to drive a car in Beijing. By 1:00PM Anisette Rhona must have gotten a bright idea. She was kind of overdue. No doubt, she wished that I would have left by that time, but things are never ideal, and there were enough comings and goings, Battson soon expected, to supply any investigator with three suspects with more motivation than her own, hidden financial one if the death was considered a murder, and no problem at all if it was considered the more likely, as advertised, final playout of Connor’s suicidal bent. She went into CJW’s private room, and found him passed out drunk on the floor, hands bound with duct tape, very conveniently in the sense of enabling a murder, but not in the other sense of facilitating the appearance of a suicide. Thinking quickly under her imagined pressure of an imminent pre-nup decided divorce deadline, she must have opted to risk the former, as she had little in the way of options and time, while a ruling of murder wouldn’t detract from her ability to obtain the life insurance proceeds. Wound duct tape on skin takes forever to get off, and

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leaves a mark even if you use Clorox. She took one of his leather belts from a closet in the room and garroted him with it; forced to lift upward, under the circumstances. When finished, she cut it off, as she could not move the heavier body into a hanging position by herself. She nailed the short end to the outside, nearby portal overhead beam, in order to make it be seen as if CJW had been hung there, and that someone, ultimately it turned out to appear to be she, had cut him down.

That was when I came in, about 1:10PM. The noise of the hammer got my attention and I decided to investigate, thinking that some actual work was needed for which I could volunteer and charge them. I soon saw that my potential daily charge as well as my future hopes lay inert on the floor; no co-authorship, not even the chump change for ghost writing; and it was obviously Anisette Rhona’s doing. I mean nobody would have been on a chair hammering some decoration into a portal beam right after they found their husband dead, except in one of those icky, whacked out Danish murder semi-mysteries like “The Tenant.” I was infuriated, but as I do in emergencies, I got totally rational.

Anisette Rhona wasn’t doing well physically, not having the strength to easily move the larger body outside. I checked and it was not breathing. As she was trying to drag the body, I made a quick estimate of the score and made a deal with Anisette

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Rhona; with whom I had been having a reluctant, semi-Mellors-type of relationship, which was “suggested and cheered on” by Connor, presumably as a way to get her away from him. I said that I would forget having seen anything and help her drag the body outside in return for $250,000.

At point I knew that I had her. She’d have agreed to anything; even a million. But, rather than shoot for the moon, I knew that she’d later think about it, and being so monetarily oriented, she’d totally balk. I estimated that she’d short me one-fifty on the two—fifty, but that would be enough to set me right, and I could periodically mau-mau her for subsequent tidbits. Anisette Rhona told me that she didn’t have any money of her own, which I had expected, and that I’d have to wait for payment until Wheaton’s estate was settled. In retrospect I guess that Anisette Rhona quickly agreed as she had no intention of paying me as I couldn’t very well inform the police without implicating myself in a third felony. At that point CJW’s life insurance was still a possibility, only later ruled out by the suicide determination. We dragged the body out to the portal, leaving it on the bricks in the sun, and I told her to wipe the prints off of everything which had been touched. She didn’t remember the hammer, but I caught that. I didn’t need to be owed major money by someone with a long term lease at the Western New Mexico

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Correctional Facility under Vigil. Because of perimeter foliage, the body was not observable by any neighbor; nor from any part of the house other than the door in CJW’s room.

In further retrospect Anisette Rhona must have planned to say she left to run errands at 12:00PM, in hopes of among other things placing me, Battson, or both of us at the scene at the time of the murder and her removed from it. Her testimony did attempt to put Battson in a difficult logistical position, though his motivation was financially middling weak, if not the result of a passionate outburst, which hanging would seem to mollify.

We left the empty house together, but in separate cars at 1:15PM, leaving the front door unlocked for Battson’s appearance or Emily’s re-appearance. Our last minute calls to each other might have drawn the attention of the worker/owner of the vineyard across the street. What could we do? Kill him in the middle of an unsheltered field in broad daylight? He later confirmed our time, but no one was paying any attention.

After a month I came looking for my money, and Anisette Rhona went into her act about how CJW’s estate had complications and was held up in court. Other times she spoke of how surprisingly little was in it, raising some doubts in my mind, because of her

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inability to keep her story straight. There was no way I could check, so I just started to show up every Friday to hear more

“news,” rather than tend to her grass and bushes. I was now a partner in more ways than one.

By February, six months had gone by and I was disgusted. Maybe it was because of the dismal winter. High plains desert regions like Vista de la Fiera and Albuquerque can be so drab in the cold months; gray skies, defoliated bushes and trees, and flatter than all that beer they let go skunky because of that ChinaBatPoo II virus lockdown. I don’t know. Maybe it was because of the times she had given me two injections of $5,000

each. Anisette Rhona told me that the funds came from her own money and were given in ‘good faith.’ I couldn’t know, but hoped that at best, she was just going to drip and drab it out to me, as I had the goods on her. Then the money stopped, and my visits resulted in yelling sessions. After I had left a few of those, further reflection led me to the thought that rather than the $10,000 making me the slightest bit optimistic, it told me that she had collected the CJW estate money, and that was all Anisette Rhona thought my silence to be worth. After pondering the situation one more particularly dismal late winter day in Tanoan, with the flurries that can’t decide to snow, and with the rent coming due, I decided to put an end to the BS, and

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anonymously drop off that flyer in the Police mail box, including the reference to that annotation in the David Foster Wallace book. I knew this would give it the credibility one assigns to an insider, and was sufficiently irked to risk it bringing some attention my way. No matter the temporary inconvenience an investigation would cost me, I expected to prevail as I was the only one with absolutely no motivation to kill Connor James Wheaton.

Justice arrives every spring when the pint-sized lizards ascend desert dwellings with the sun on their backs and the warmth in their bellies.

Lupo Batinado

A/K/A Rolf Hoffius

A/K/A Dwight N. Creepshun

A/K/A DNC

Shaunessy said; “A tad maximalist and repetitious. But picks up nicely toward the end. Wouldn’t you say?”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “He probably was open to some editing, ostensibly unlike Matthew McIntosh in theMystery.doc

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and wasn’t compelled to add pictures and blank pages. But, on second thought I felt that it had a pleasant natural flow.

Eyedeekay.”

Shaunessy said; “Eyedeekay?”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Works better in written form.”

Shaunessy said; “I assure you I had no intent to be critical. People all too often mistakenly take a benign characterization the wrong way.”

Kerry said; “The supposedly benign characterizers often say that, while fully understanding how their remark will be interpreted. Keep it in this room, but that effort is probably the worst attempted rat-out effort I’ve yet seen.”

With an edge of defensiveness in her tone, Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “You couldn’t say that if you understood it to be a transcending literary effort.”

Shaunessy said; “Yes. I especially liked the poetic ending about the bat poo and the lizards. I am now enlightened.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Wasn’t the opening compelling?”

Shaunessy said; “I’ll have to recuse myself from commenting on the weather report, as I was there that day and have an

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alternative recollection. Not substantial mind you; but a nuance or three. .... In the interest of keeping your client out of future trouble, he might do well to pitch the idea of writing the Wheaton-Hunter story to Battson.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Focusing on technicalities rather than substance prompts me to question why you didn’t pursue a career in law. I’ll mention your suggested pitch. He’ll be able to skip over the grades one through four readers. And his purple manner of writing will not disturb the economic possibilities when the subject matter interests the public.”

Shaunessy said; “I thought I did. In your case, with your penchant for bogus drama, I’m prompted to wonder why you didn’t pursue fiction. Regarding Hoffius, maybe he could even get Emily Crain to edit.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “She’d likely insist upon up-front payment this time around, and I don’t believe that my client can afford it.”

Shaunessy said; “This document serves its purpose. We can black out the extraneous parts for the minimalist readers.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Diabolical! My compliments. We all know that will only make the readers lust after what has been made unavailable to them.”

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Shaunessy said; “No Mephistophelian intent, I assure you.

Just considering methodologies to comply with possibly ingrained reader tastes, fancies, and limitations. It’s created for their and only their judgement, you know. Perhaps we could supply them with both products, the edited one first. If dissatisfied they could merely flip to the second account. But, thanks all the same.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Use your felt tip as you will.

My only interest here is getting my client out of jail. Not wanting to boast you should know that it was like pulling a wisdom tooth to get this.”

Kerry said; “Enough! We have what we need here. We are at a point of mutual agreement, though some of us are not recognizing the overlap of the concentric circles. Whichever is page one and page two, the deemed innocuous parts can be skimmed by the reader if so desired. That inevitably happens anyway.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “You are playing with me or us.

We all know that concentric circles are circles that share a midpoint, such as an archery target or a dartboard. Your statement suggests the sharing of only a mutual periphery.

Please visualize that the circles, though different size, all have the same bullseye. Regular polygons, regular polyhedra, and

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spheres can also be described as concentric as they all share the same center.”

Shaunessy said; “I’ll admit that after seeing your fine results I was just playing, like when DFW speaks with a forked tongue.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “Me similar, though my play was more akin to that of Joelle Van Dyne; Madame Psychosis to some.”

Shaunessy said; “I think I may comprehend. If you change the beginning, which no one else saw, you automatically change the mass perception of the end.”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “If you insist upon bringing in Pynchon, I reserve the right to start all over.”

Shaunessy said; “No objection whatsoever, if I am allowed a brief period of recuperation.”

Kerry said; “This two-sided menage a tois is hereby concluded. Threes are always difficult. If you two have issues, please take them outside. I have business; a dirty informant to be released, a dirtier perp to put behind bars, and a guardedly obtuse, but pliably ambitious Deputy District Attorney to keep convinced that doing things my way are actually his way, and in his own best self-interest.”

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Ms. Martinez-Sanchez said; “That’s so ....... “

Kerry said; “Out!”

Shaunessy said; “Double twist when ........ “

Kerry said; “Out, I said! I’m not kidding! I tell you that I can start reading passages from a Mark Leyner book; his mama giving long, long remembrances of his youth to an empty mall in its empty food court with yesterday’s dried and hard Chinese dumplings on every cheap seat. Don’t push me!”

Ms. Martinez-Sanchez rose and went for the door.

Shaunessy did the same while muttering something or other about there not being any need to go ballistic.

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24 – Crime and Accusation

It had to have had been early April; the all too short but abundant and lovely, white apple blossom time in New Mexico for a few days. On this particular day, the blossoms were still clinging to the wide trees which had lost their central leader.

The tiny white flowers were so delicate that a modest breeze could, and soon would throw them to the ground, where they would be presented with no other choice than to join up with last season’s Malus domestica dried up fruit remains. The trees themselves were rumored to have been once part of a huge Vista de la Feria farm; the apples picked, packed, sold, and eaten by consumers all over the great southwestern part of the USA. Or so the toothless old gappers say at every opportunity. Now the originating trees have been either cut down or exist as an ornamental oddity in a suburban yard or an adjoining field not yet plundered by the carriers of nail guns, screw guns, Home Depot seconds, and previously presumptuously prepared, pending purveyors of “progress.” It was truly amazing how the field residing bearers of flowers and fruit had survived devoid of human caretaking, which ‘experts’ deem an absolute and

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painstaking necessity. Now the little flowers are welcomed as a sure sign that the cold weather had passed. That may not be entirely true. But soon the toothless old gappers in training will be saying that at every opportunity, so convincingly, that one would think that they actually believed it, as much as one believes what pours from the “Black Lies Matter” lips of W.H.O.’s Teddy.

Apple blossoms; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license; modified.

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Chief Kerry and Deputy District Attorney Takshaak Singh had worked out the details of the charges to be filed and an arrest warrant was issued by the Honorable Magistrate Ambrose Bierce for Anisette Rhona Hunter and/or Anisette Rhona Hunter-Wheaton.

Shaunessy arrived at work early that morning. Striker was not in attendance, but Kerry was already there. He seemed excited and called to Shaunessy the moment the front door banged behind him;

“We have an arrest warrant!”

For his part, Shaunessy was tempted to rejoice, but caught himself, finding it practical to avoid the likely letdown or

“joke” soon to follow curt, cryptic, and “joyous” announcements, and wait for the further details in the small print. He was sufficiently aged to know from experience that unfounded expectations breed morose disappointment better than Beijing could worldwide breed the China BatPoo II virus, even with the conspiratorial aid of terrorist and non-medical-doctor Teddy (Lips) Adhominem Beelzebubus, current head of the West-hating, and also West-funded W.H.O. Some dunce-cap-wearing dogs have a seemingly irrational penchant to bite the only hand which feeds them. Perhaps this is the “diplomatically understandable” result of having had an existence wholly dependent upon being a standardized staple in part of an endangered species

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indifferent, coarse, Chinese Bobo cuisine. Hey, if that’s not exactly right, Bobos know what Bobos know.

The warrant, which seemed to push many, if not all, of Kerry’s shifting enthusiasm buttons could well have been for some ‘bad-ass’ scofflaw who had not paid his traffic ticket by its due date, who had also refused to turn down his no-taxpaying, Willy Nelson station during his offensive and battery draining encounter with an authorized representative of the much too simple, hidden, and plebian law; the latter further hindered at his own peril, but not choice, through the Libtard imposition which required police daintiness when dealing with a belligerent, armed, multi-time felon. A mistake could cost one their job, and even worse, a uniform banishment from social media.

Through effortlessly being primarily focused on how much time had passed since the last entry in the Wheaton-Hunter diary, one might more or less say that the most expected approach of a natural bloke cognizant of an undocumented, but far from outspoken ‘foreign’ cousin climbing up walls in the wings, Shaunessy nonplussed; “A resolute goose step and a cheers, mon capitan. ...... Please excuse my thighs’ seeming reticence. It’s merely due to their having been enjoying a rest for much too long.”

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Like one striving to oblige a teasingly reticent fart, Chief Kerry grimaced while shifting the weight in his chair from left to right and said; “The warrant is for the arrest of Anisette Rhona Hunter. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Well, sure. Just give me a minute to check what else might be on my compelling schedule. I’m sure I can fit it in somewhere; if not today, then tomorrow. Please correct me if I am wrong in the view that it has become obvious that time is not of the essence.” He retrieved his scruffy and unruly, mixed-dogs-eared book from his back pocket and fanned the pages, pretending to be reading the contents like any book reviewer doing a volume. “Good gosh and consarned golly. How about right now?”

“Good show. But Striker isn’t in yet.” Kerry slid the document toward Shaunessy.

“I don’t need any help from Striker. I think that I can pull in this woman on my own, and actually I’d prefer to do the routine that way.”

“Your efficiency is not only admirable. It is also Vista de la Feria Police Department budget conducive. Why, Striker can give out $1,000 worth of traffic tickets in that time.”

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“You’re to be commended for your continual efficient insight. As obvious as the least bit of scrutiny would provide, most never attain the capacity to realize that everything comes or goes in packages. I’m on my way, Chief.” Shaunessy took the warrant and left the office, headed for his sanctioned patrol vehicle; the one with all the impressive options for red and blue light flashing and ear-splitting sirens available with a diminutive click of the right button. It seemed appropriate, and much more “official” than his personal means of transport. When the engine more or less semi-purred after his insertion of the thingy with the three magical symbols, he aimed the car toward the untended, gently greening hay in residence at the front yard of 977 Camino de Tristeza; that same hay much like a homeless and tatty Los Angelean sleeping on Hollywood Boulevard’s “Walk of Fame” or a manipulating abuser ready to pounce.

At the same time, in an unknowing mimic of the copyright violating performance of the many residents of the Wuhan Province, terrified, potential informants, Anisette Rhona, for her part, nervously stood by her front window, using both hands to firmly grip the empty, multi-hued and multi-fonted “Sarcastic exaggeration is the best thing ever” coffee cup, more or less in expectation of the arrival of a horde of infected bats. If it had been one moment later; or even if it might have been an

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hour; the nascent sun sailed into a patch of clouded sky and the woman feeling as yet an un-hunted woman, that not particularly conducive with her semi-twisted desire to be otherwise, saw that visible quintessence of rule lift an errant billow to indicate a spot notably toward, yet still beyond her. Quite the conundrum it might have been had she seen the reflection.

Her clouded reverie ended quicker than the attempt to make a TV film of Fenton Foxfussy’s ‘Theme from an Imaginary Midwestern,’ or for that matter any other severely over budget, un-filmable, internal monologue with pretensions to aquatic action here and there, but mostly neither here nor there, noticed to be as such on day two of inspection, when Anisette Rhona saw and heard Shaunessy’s police car enter her driveway in extraordinarily moving, state-of-the-art cinematography and seemingly Blu-ray based surround sound, perhaps enhanced by the digitized special effects provided by the remastering of the recalcitrant, coerced, and disinterested gravel which had taken up boisterous residence on its tires, much like the self-appointed Ministers of Information trying to explain away the gang-related violence, everyone else expected in the cop-free nirvana, commonly referred to as CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT.

For two moments she congratulated and comforted herself in imagining that she understood a cheap alternative stage

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production of the mid-19th century story; Fyodor Dostoevsky’s

“Crime and Punishment” with Rodion Raskolnikov (Rascally Rodent or vice-versa), flip-flopping midway; apparently more or less gravitating toward the uncaring safety of guilt denied; like any modern, sufficiently popular to attract an advertiser or two.

Turning her back to her righteously boring captor-on-the-way, she walked submissively away in the direction of her front door, looking to neither the right nor the left; hardly daring to breathe, her head and back actually aching with the simple

“prophecy” of a scattered terrorist’s explosion; like a well-planned New York City outbreak of China BatPoo II, hidden in the

“artful” graffiti, deftly executed with all the precision of a spray can. Perhaps, in utilizing the standing-room-only popularity of the subway venue, like a George Saunders series of shorts makes use of “The New Yorker” and the converse but also simultaneously reciprocal play-out of the ancient story’s old words derided in “new” and clever words, while ostensibly unaware that the subject idea is totally non-existent in any form of reality, outside of the cyber-based, fantasy genre as shown by any of a number of Goofreads, feral, and indie reviewer’s “reader considerate reviews.” To say that this is redundant and boring is precluded by that statement being ultimately just another redundant, boring, and useless

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reflection upon the Goofreads play book; the derivative always unable to exceed the stature of their source.

Soon upon arriving there, Anisette Rhona Hunter-Wheaton had fully returned to her solipsistic rationality, her thoughts

“This fuck is bothering me.” She opened the door, Shaunessy still a few steps away, but packing. Anisette Rhona said; “I’ve been expecting you. What took so long?” She thought that she was being sarcastically witty, and by her standards she was.

Shaunessy said; “’Scientific’ interference. The ‘experts’

are running as rampant these days as looters disguised as peaceful protestors. Haven’t noticed?” He cuffed her flailing arms and added; “You are under arrest for 1) attempted murder, 2) assault with a deadly weapon, 3) unauthorized transport of a dead body, 4) tampering with evidence, 5) conspiracy to conceal an attempted murder, 6) perjury, 7) suspicion of first-degree murder, 8) conspiracy to commit murder, 9)aiding, advising, or encouraging suicide, 10) gross negligence in not properly monitoring one you have already testified as to having been on

‘suicide watch,’ 11) aiding and abetting a suicide, 12) tampering with a crime scene, 13) conspiring to tamper with a crime scene 14) leaving the scene of a crime and 15) obstruction of a police non-investigation.” Shaunessy couldn’t help but,

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very un-professionally and very un-expertly laugh out loud at the last charge.

Envisioning her immediate near-future almost as well as a de-funded criminal from W.H.O., Anisette Rhona put on a brave front, and said; “That is atrocious. Not only is the writing uninterestingly plebian and as poorly worded as an Asimov information dump, it is redundant in at least three places. No doubt it would get poor reviews from the Goofreads indie book

‘mavens,’ if they had taken the trouble to read prior to spouting like a beached whale.”

Shaunessy had a number of ‘clever’ responses at his disposal, including that in this case that he was the reader rather than the writer or editor, and was thereby obviously totally blameless in the shoddy construction of the excerpted passage, as well as some BatPoo about the degree of importance she had assigned to the Goofreads crowd source. But, rather than risk saying anything this horrid woman might construe to be agreement, he countered with a matter-of-fact; “Hey, bitch. No one edits me. Got some problem with that? Take up a fucking petition and then shove the results up your skinny ass.”

Shaunessy found it mildly amusing to watch and hear the captured, petite mercenary attempt to reverse a field in the

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midst of a broken play that the Boselli God would have been overly “challenged” to fix on a crummy, hundred yard gridiron, when guilty-and-useless-as-a-meant-to-be-clandestinely-anti-US-W.H.O.-pronouncent-by-way-of-China-Xi’s-approval, Anisette Rhona said almost, but not quite confessionally; “Two time felon’s word against mine. You lose.”

“The jury just might not like your face. I would say that the odds are.”

Anisette Rhona kicked each of Shaunessy’s shins, to which he responded; “Thank you. We will now be adding assault on a police officer and resisting arrest to your list.” After having given all of a second’s thought about using his foot to kick her offending legs out from under her, and humorously enjoying the tit for tat as she fell, he thought it the best thing to do.

Reverting from being justified to a needed practicality, he surmised that there was a high probability that some nerd-Lib-anti-police weinie probably had a camera on the event, to be displayed later sans the first kicks. Sometimes it is best, while also professional and practical, to defer fun when dealt a losing hand, and wait for the inevitable winner.

“This is bullshit. The Medical Examiner has absolved me, screamed Anisette Rhona. “My lawyer will have me out quicker

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than a copyright challenged Chinaman can steal a US Batman movie, and you’ll be up on harassment charges.”

“Imprisoning Capone on tax evasion was bullshit too. But, if you had asked Al, he seemed to think that it worked. ....

Harassment? Moi? Dear lady, I am merely executing the warrant-issuing judge’s order. You might do better to try ‘scaring’

him.” Shaunessy led her to the car by her frontal manacles, almost sorry for bringing in someone so pathetic and deluded.

Almost. But not quite. With a protecting hand on her head, he made sure that she didn’t damage it further during her descent into the back seat.

Subsequent to making a verbal ruckus in the sound-proofed backseat; at the station, Anisette Rhona became stoic and quiet.

She was booked and allowed her one call, which she wisely made to her attorney; one Robert Weinstein, who worked out of Albuquerque, more or less right next door to Vista de la Feria.

Shaunessy was amused that she had chosen a lawyer who specialized in defending pedophiles and/or illegal immigrants; nay, undocumented ....... something or others, that determination apparently a function of the day of the week. He kept his visions to himself.

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At questioning, Anisette Rhona said nothing but; “Any comments will be made through my attorney.” Shaunessy was actually glad of that, as it minimized the amount of time he was required to spend alone with her in a small room, jotting down her boring lies, while inundated with enough stale perfume to gag a banquet sized, Chinese bat in the Province of Wuhan, with short, but vicious eyes.

She was taken to the same cell recently occupied by Rolf Hoffius. It had not been tidied after his relatively recent departure. Small towns are constrained by small budgets, though that seemed fitting in a “poetic” sense. Left alone, after the door clanked shut, Anisette Rhona Hunter Wheaton sat on the hard, black, leatherette, pop down bed/couch staring at the unreachably high window, wishing that someone might have at least had attended to the cobwebs and grime, apparently not realizing how hilarious it was to be a cynic expecting a display of some sort of optimism.

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25 – Zabriskie Point

Zabriskie Point” ; property of the author.

“Hey, hey babe. Job done. It’s all over. I’m back.

Freedom!”

"Good gracious!" said Margaret, "I do believe I'm inside a happy ending! Well, let me see, for future reference I shall write down the title and the date I heard it on my account at Goofreads. That must be ‘Shaunessy and a Literary Death’ and today. Would you please explain the plot and the overall point."

"You must know by now. There is no plot," said Shaunessy unhelpfully. “And there is no point."

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"The book, most heavily when in proximity of or alluding to the denouement, breaks as much new ground as an immigrant gardener not aware of being under surveillance, unintentionally evading easy delegation to any recognized, existing, standard genre or subgenre. It simultaneously anticipates; through grudging respect and a simultaneously derisive mock, the

‘humorous’ falsetto of the elevated and inconsequential, as well as the pedantic drone of the truncated and popular, as undoubtedly would have come from both the Gaddis pumpers at the ostensible self-proclaimed, high end to the devotees of Bukowski at the other, had Charlie been understood by them as having found something worthwhile beyond the stupor, had the author not herein registered his anticipatory anticipation, in full expectation of the two-faced majority to find solace in their ability to defy, rather than their elusive, some might say inability to outdo anything. The book demonstrates the fragmented relationship between the signifier and the signified without calling attention to the still viewed as solid, but nonetheless definitely ancient semi-trope; like a Nobel Prize winning, Yasser Arafat’s accumulation of billions ‘in the cause’

of the perennially caged Palestinians in the era of the Palestine Liberation Organization through and beyond the adjustments dictated by the Second Intifada. Deconstruction of meaning and the rationality of thought are as given as the Lewis

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Carroll penchant for jabberwocky. The prior is not meant to overstate the relative importance of the ending, as we could not have one of those without an attendant beginning and middle, silly. It just happened to be there, that’s all. When the clownishness of one is divided by naught, it is the mathematically defined source of infinite jest.”

“Who said that? It didn’t sound like Ramon.” said Shaunessy.

“Said what?” said Margaret, “And what’s a Ramon?”

“That overly simplistic ramble, of course. And that little man in the window who wasn’t there.”

"Whatever does that mean?" asked Margaret.

"Why is a Derrida like a derrière?"

"Eyedeekay."

"Eyedeekay either. The first five letters just happened to be there, that’s all, I should think.”

"It would be reasonable", said Margaret in a firmer than usual tone “for you to explain what the book is about, so that I can put that in my Goofreads review."

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Shaunessy sighed heavily and said; "A review is not a synopsis, no matter what Kirkus may say. ........ Except on those spoiler-filled babbles the indie ‘reviewers’ install on Goofreads. On a technical level, it would seem to be reasonable to expect a compelling succession of non-contradictory circumstances in a Tana French attempt at a mystery, but don't expect that you'll find any. Besides, it is the reviewer’s responsibility to write the review, not the author’s. The reviewer sees the bag of words as they see it; no further instruction called for. In the absence of understanding, a half-baked synopsis is provided. No matter, excepting the spoilers laid on potential future readers. The writer’s job has ended; which is where I believe we started."

Margaret couldn't think of anything interesting to reply to this, and she really didn’t want to write another silly review-synopsis on Goofreads, partially because no one reads them anyway, but mostly because a true reader is not a writer. She just thought that Shaunessy would like that, and wanted to be nice. “It’s the intent which most counts,” she had heard rumored. So she spoke not another word. ............. After a lull which seemed to rival “Artamène ou le Grand Cyrus,” by Madeleine de Scudéry, in both length and comprehensibility, she

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heard Shaunessy say; “Would you like to hear of my take on that one?”

She said an emphatic “No!”

Shaunessy was taken aback, like a shipped Chinese assembly-required bistro table which defies assemblage, as what he really had said was; “Would you like to hear of my next one?” He could not have known how Margaret’s mind was occupied with its shifting between the two worlds of un-desired niceties and Long Ms. Scudery. Since Shaunessy had more or less taken pleasure in his long relationship with the lady, and was convinced that the feeling was mutual, he concluded that something must be temporarily askew and amiss, and tread softly on with; “I’ll be back to those relaxing speeding stops sans my former partner Striker again.”

Margaret said; “That should take the edge off.”

“Yes. Especially since we’ll be on opposite ends of town.

On the way back here I ran across a good funny. No, not on the net. Kind of ‘of course’ on that anticipated silly thought. It was in the free ’Albuquerque Alibi.’ I picked it up in Walmart’s entrance way right next to the noblessely obliging ‘Have-a-nice-day,’ grimacing woman enthroned on her purple, plastic, patio pulpit, presiding over the exit with the ‘heart rending’

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insertion up her snotting old nose. You know the one; can’t miss

‘em; the replacements, if any, are always an ‘oh so sad’ mirror image. Nowadays they only ask to see your receipt if you’re white. Also couldn’t miss the letter, it being adjacent to the

‘Horny Women Seeking One Night Stands with Hard men’ columns.

Odd coincidence. Huh? The letter from the purportedly local Sad Sack began went something like this;

‘Dear editor;

I sincerely hope you’ll print this. Not for me, but because I’m certain that many unspoken others have experienced this type of neglect. It is time to put our collective feets down and insist upon fair and equal treatment.

I called ‘Suicide Prevention Lifeline and Ancillary Services’

and they put me on hold again. After ten minutes of Nine Inch Nails musaak, a voice came back with a question.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit. Figured. ......... Look, you’ve already used up your month’s allocation of ten free chats and you’re living on borrowed time. An unlimited subscription is available for $39.99

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per month plus tax, 12 months payable up front. Got your credit card handy?’

‘Yeah, but that plastic debt is one of my depressing problems.

Won’t this make it worse?’

‘Don’t worry. Look at the bright side for a change. If you kill yourself you won’t have to pay it.’

‘Cool. Never thought of that.’

‘Hold the line for the next available suicide intake counsellor.’

‘Suicide is painless. It brings on many changes ......’ blandly musaaked in my ear, seemingly knocked off by the Rolling Stones during their recent Geriatric Tour, interspersed with mellow voices which extolled the virtues and cost efficiencies of

‘above ground lawn ‘burial,’ carcass composting, and its environmental friendliness; especially conducive to the flourishing of popular purple raspberries.’

It was a catchy tune, despite what that baboon at the WHO zoo says, and thoughts of those raspberries get one’s butt moving.

............. ‘Da da da da dee dum. Is anyone ever going to pick this fucking thing up? I got the gun in my fucking mouth, man.’

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‘This is Katrina; your personal suicide architect. This call is being monitored for quality control purposes. How may I help you today?’

‘Glub, glub, prashit.’

‘Is that Hindi? You’ll have to spell it for my translator.’

‘No. It’s broken English. I had the gun in my mouth and I knocked out three of my front teeth.’

‘Did you know that the funeral parlors rip you off on that irrelevant cosmetic stuff?’

‘Not really.’

‘Yes. Unless it is otherwise specified by the decedent they standardly perform all sorts of superficial ‘beautifying’

services at the highest of rates, while in just a matter of a few days you’ll be getting your face eaten by worms. Total waste. For $10.99 plus tax per month, payable 12 months in advance, we’ll send you and whoever you designate for burial obligations information which will save thousands of dollars, with monthly updates. May we charge that to your card?’

‘No, godammit. When the fuck is someone going to start to talk me out of committing suicide?’

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‘There’s no reason to use bad words. We’re professionals just trying to help. Secondly, I’m not here to talk you out of suicide. I’m here to help facilitate it in the most expeditious and affordable manner possible.’

‘I want to be prevented; not facilitated!’

‘Well, you just navigated yourself into the wrong department.

Didn’t you? Please hold while I switch you to Prevention. .... I didn’t hear a thank you.’

‘Thank you? I’m supposed to be paying for this shit and I’m getting farted around. This is the Suicide Prevention hot line.

Is it not?’

‘And Ancillary Services. We’ve expanded. I can also connect you with a horny babe who talks dirty. That’ll probably take care of all your problems. We’re having a special on that, right now; just $5.99 plus tax per ten minutes, 3 hours payable in advance.’

‘I’m having some trouble doing the math in my head.’ ..... ”

Margaret interrupted to say; “That’s absolutely atrocious, Thomas. I’m surprised at you.”

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“Sorry, Margaret. Investigating these murder-suicide cases has some bad effects. Just a little attempt at a joke. Glad this CJW business is over. Celebration. Justice was almost done.

........... No sarcasm intended. That’s pretty good when trying to unravel a situation which emanates from the standardized motivations of love, money, revenge, self-importance, blackmail, incorrect ‘expert’ findings, and true deceit complicated by perceived deceit, the oddities of legalities, misrepresentation, procrastination, laziness, disinterest, the false public image demanded of a pop star, unexpected opportunity compromised, and a completely chance page conveniently considered ‘useful’ added with humorous intent at the very end. I don’t think that anyone else has the whole story, but that doesn’t really matter. Each segment has sufficient understanding of the events to adequately proceed with their end of the deal and Anisette Rhona will be punished, if not criminally, then on a civil basis. The only one who consistently told the whole truth as it applied to that particular day was the publisher who absconded with CJW’s computer, and that statement probably requires the caveat that this was because he didn’t know anything better under the circumstances, and/or that one must first comprehend that there is a required general need for businesslike, profit oriented entities to ‘create’ a public image which is designed to maximize revenue. First, let me supply the background. ...... ”

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“Second, let me find a comfortable seat with a soft pillow.”

“Comfy?”

“As much as one can be when about to attempt to politely and with feigned interest, as indicated by lip machinations at appropriate moments, sit through the maximalist version of the old story.”

“Well, if you really don’t want to hear it?”

“No. No. Don’t be so sensitive. Amuse me. Amuse us. The only thing on TV is ‘The Mandalorian’ anyway, ‘Star Wars’ fan fiction; playing repeats already. ......... Uhmmnn. How can I politely say? This will be less than ninety minutes. Correct?”

“Much less, but longer than one attention challenged

‘Mandalorian’ fangirl might desire.”

“My unfaltering lover now equivocates and simultaneously chides?”

“You’re getting extremely off topic.”

“Half off topic.”

“You say that so resolutely.”

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“Just proceed with the damn ‘amusing’ long story already.

Okay?”

“No problem, sweets. First, it’s best to understand where the victim, CJW, is coming from. Everything else is derivative of him. .............. ”

“You sexist pig!”

“May I ‘just proceed’ as you demanded?”

“Negotiably requested is a better description.”

“I will ignore Webster’s hampered meaning of words right here as a deference to you, my love. ......... “

“Please, yes. Saint Shaunessy has such a nice ring to it.”

“I’ll ignore that too. What was I talking about?”

“CJW’s ‘primacy’ in your extended and time-consuming story which no one understands.”

“Got it. It’s actually quite easy to follow using the particulars; much more difficult when a generalization is attempted.”

“Particularize away.”

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“Okay. Thank you. CJW is moving around somewhere on the autistic spectrum disorder chart as is graphically shown in DSM-5; as are we all. Five or six years ago, the ‘experts’ were positioned to remove this from the manual, thinking it merely a strong indication of preference when within the mathematically normal distribution regions, rather than a ‘disorder’ which negates recognition or the appearance of recognition. People get all kinds of insulted when no one pays attention to them, as if anyone ever paid attention to anyone else. ......... You’re not supposed to say that under the penalty of BarneyGoggle, subsidiary, and affiliate lifetime banishment. ...... So, CJW is minutiae seen as difficult, because he sometimes contradicted what he had previously said, and popularly difficult because some people didn’t understand what he wrote and because of his penchant to issue disdainful rebukes to anyone sufficiently foolish to risk a public confrontation. ...... ”

“If I might interject, ....... “

“I’ll save us the tedium. Not then. His contradictions were more the result of an attempted and more or less effective

‘Battson and Hunter management’ of his filmed interviews, coupled with a feigned, long term tedium brought about through being required by the business people who paid the penthouse bills for him to effect the most lovable, popular Millennial

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stance; sidestepping their net-age, standardized money, power, communications control, and ultimately fascistic lust.”

“The transition from ‘artiste’ to pop star.”

“Yes, from his point of view of their point of view. From his point of view alone, he was likely always tending toward the pop star. He most often handled that quite well, but sometimes resisted as too much of a farce from both his and theirs.”

“Yes, the most moronic are still unable to differentiate Laurence Olivier from Richard III; whether in book form, stage production, movie, or further ‘artistic’ derivation.”

“Yes. Same wavelength, babe! ‘The Entertainer’ and I’d just like to add what you stopped short of specifying; that differentiation is anathema to box office. ....... You do realize that these diversions are extending the story.”

“Some extensions are worth extending.”

“I knew that you were not only an excellent cuddlebug, but also a genius demon.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Can it make flesh of the ethereal?”

“That’s a good question.”

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“Where was I?”

“I don’t know. Start over.”

“Sure. Rather than repeat what I’ve already said, I’ll take another direction. Through business management and the not infrequent blurbs issued by his mercenary wife of four years, Anisette Rhona Hunter, CJW is popularly viewed as this depressed, tortured person, with an unshakable need to write

‘meaningful’ literature. He wasn’t that at all; at least no more than anyone who was aware of having had some sort of choice, ultimately never of any prior significance. Rather, he satisfied any possible need to do that when twelve years ago he published to both high sales levels and critical acclaim ‘Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.’ Its writing was the result of three years of tedious work, as he would say; ‘very un-fun, and paying enough to live modestly for three years,’ and then he was required to have it ‘edited’ by very commercially oriented Henry Battson; his formerly assigned editor, more or less, and now President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; now the most profitable part of the McVirago group. The net result was the elimination of somewhere between 133,000 and 200,000 words; retaining and minorly repositioning the remaining 485,000.

......... ”

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“Oooooh, that must be so frustrating for a writer.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But that’s irrelevant in a way as CJW

was not condemned to that limitation the vast majority of the time. However, it also had to have been a first-hand experience of what he expected through his long-term attraction to the joke of the absurdist form. He had evidenced no particular interest in writing until his post-graduate days when he was trying to decide what his Masters would be in. Upon being presented with and having read a book by a ‘prodigy,’ he said; ‘I can do better than that.’ His undergraduate double major of Math and Philosophy, was later to be restated as Philosophy and ‘English’

as part of the Anisette Rhona Hunter and Henry Battson led; Farr, Simon, and Moreau marketing plan which took precedence in the eyes of the willingly and happily duped public. Meanwhile CJW was raking in easy money from writing magazine articles and doing television appearances. That actually pays more than the writing of any book which doesn’t become a major Hollywood movie. Easy five figures for an expense paid trip and three pages or an expense paid trip with one page; plus both of which also gave him an excuse to be away from Anisette Rhona.”

“That does require some explanation.”

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“Well, CJW and Anisette Rhona married later in life, more out of a Connor James Wheaton wish to not be alone than anything romantic. Anisette Rhona, a low income ‘artist,’ liked the financial stability. A pre-nup .......... “

“No. No. I well understand that part. It’s the magazine pay which throws me.”

“Hmmnn. I was getting ahead of myself anyway. When a high circulation magazine cover says it contains something from a popular star, their sales level goes up another 20%. Make a few ballpark assumptions and do some simple math. On one video CJW

was doing a reading of one of his old articles. The audience was laughing and a few times he followed the laughter by saying;

‘And I only got $15,000 for this.’ High circulation magazines are more lucrative than books; which are deemed ‘best sellers’

at less than an 8,000 sales level. CJ was quite happy, but had made two mistakes. He was in love with Emily Crain, more or less, a local avid reader, who was editing what was tentatively and finally called ‘Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,’

which he had rashly contracted with Battson to do, for a pretty penny I might add, right after ‘Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers’

hit the charts. He soon found that he had no interest in writing it, exacerbated by his subsequently discovered observation that doing so would sequester him in the house with Anisette Rhona

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all day; who he had taken a few years to settle in on seeing her as the cold, untalented, and money grubbing parasite she is. I mean within a week of his death, the ‘artiste’ no one had ever heard of prior to her also late life marriage to him, who I might add was trying to sell ten poor quality, seemingly dashed off paintings commemorating him for $20,000 apiece.”

“Her agenda seems so obvious.”

“To us, because we’re lovers. To suckers, leeches, parasites, and mercenary investors, otherwise. On primarily a business level, the crux of CJ’s problem was that he had engaged the two time convicted felon, gardener, Rolf Hoffius, to write the book for him at $10 per page; generously assessed. Rolf didn’t have many economic options and had already fancied himself some sort of writer as the result of self-publishing three stinkers which sold less than fifty in total. Rolf’s literary endeavor had a less than obvious degree of similarity to CJ’s entrée into the world of letters, in that it’s prime motivation was pragmatic and plodding, rather than the usual author-espoused, lifelong love of books. For Rolf, writing was merely an alternative to either a lifetime of gardening or risking a lifetime of incarceration; like most, encouraged by the removal of the gate keepers introduced by free on-line publishing, and their attendant sellers of services

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‘guarantying’ mega sales for a fee. Being an experienced crook, his problem wasn’t that he believed the bullshit. His problem was that like most everyone unable to see themselves, he wasn’t very good at it and did not have the funds available to advertise his stuff into a recognized ‘brand.’ So while he was helped by the small change he was picking up from CJW, he had greater aspirations toward being openly listed as co-author of the next CJW book, thereby having his name ‘established.’ It worked well for Sanderson. For his part, CJW didn’t mind fulfilling his already late obligation to Battson and Farr, Simon, and Moreau with a bogus book, especially as he didn’t feel adequately compensated for the best seller he had already given them. His only reticence was in granting Rolf his requested co-authorship, as he feared that could throw legal nuances into his and his alone, contractual obligation to produce a book and keep the advance. While he had promised Rolf co-authorship of the next one, he had no definite plans of there ever being a next one, though there might, depending on how much Battson would non-refundably advance. Typical business, and if one doesn’t understand it, one would best stay away. Experienced writers will universally tell you that all you will ever get is the advance, and that after you pay your agent and invest in promotion, there isn’t all that much left over. On a financial basis, writing books alone is either an exercise in hope of

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movie interest, the unknown revelation of a fragile ego, too much idle time, and/or a masochistic wish for poverty.

Connor came to see that Rolf was more technically horrible than he felt comfortable with in the ghost’s trying to pass off as humorous, the atrocious writing, oh so obviously a joke missed by plebian trodders in the mud of high end lit, without any demonstrated ability to simultaneously show that the retardation proffered was not the upside limit of his repertoire. Sure, the likes of Crapaton Milkwart and Keen had gotten away with it on a modest basis; but it was not a good bet for someone with an established reputation, more or less, capable of main stream television appearances and high circulation magazine articles.

When his new lover, Emily Crain, got sufficiently secure to say that ‘Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel’ didn’t sound at all like him, CJW first spoke of his frenzied life and lack of desired relationship with Anisette Rhona; both true insofar as an incomplete short story may be. Upon short reflection, he invited her to edit it, and as expected, she was flattered.

There was no discussion of pay and CJW particularly refrained from saying that Rolf had written it, on fear of what she might say or do in the advent of another vicious end to a liaison.

With the book ready on the morning of Battson’s visit, he

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decided to come clean with Emily, and the vociferous shit landed in the fan like the kungflu.”

“Didn’t Anisette Rhona know about Emily?”

“In terms of being lovers, sure she did. But Anisette Rhona’s concerns were purely and all too predictably financial; as she only thought of romantic considerations to the extent to which they could affect her money interest. In fact, Anisette Rhona would have been quite happy even if Emily moved in, as long as she continued to receive the benefits of CJW’s writing income. Their pre-nup called for the separation of assets and no income re-distribution in the case of divorce. Anisette Rhona was totally screwed in the case of divorce, but found out that under New Mexico law if a person dies without a will their assets go to the surviving spouse and the children; and in this particular case there was none of the latter. So Anisette Rhona made a choice based on her motivation and the cards she was dealt.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Why didn’t CJW have a will?”

“I don’t know. Expectations of immortality, I suppose.

That’s the default position. Never got to ask him. But I can take a few more specific guesses at the commonly repetitive details. He was only 46. He was having a good time and like most

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that age, had no thoughts of death. Or he was busy as he wanted to be with other stuff. Or he didn’t want to even think about it. Thought it bad luck. It’s something that died when he did.

Anyway, from Anisette Rhona’s point of view it became obvious not only that this marriage wasn’t working, but that CJ had found her replacement part, when he met Emily while both were out early morning dog walking. While he had what was sort of contracted for in having 500 pages of something called

‘Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel’ ready for Battson’s visit, he chose to scare Anisette Rhona in her largest fear place by telling her that the novel was nowhere near ready and that he was going to tell Battson to ‘fuck himself,’ because of how Battson had butchered his masterpiece; ‘Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers.’ It was a perfect punch as if Anisette Rhona was paying attention to anything other than her now Gucci pocketbook, she’d have known that CJ didn’t give a flying fornication about anything in the BS literary world other than its ability to give him a four figure hourly rate for whatever he felt like writing after attending some all-expense-paid event. A modicum of attention would have quickly told anyone that CJW was not the typical writer in that he sort of fell into it when considering post graduate options. He majored in math and philosophy, rather than the English later concocted; the first semi-big book being written when he went back for post-

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graduate English study. The attention, though small, that this book got actually embarrassed him and he shied away from speaking of it, as he only wrote it ‘to get a good grade in the course, using the style the professor favored,’ – kind of a Dorkey, thesaurusly flecked, petty lack of story, cohesive narrative, or personal interest. Immediately thereafter adopted by the Dorkey geeks, he proceeded to fill a few of their endless cyber pages with prolonged, incomprehensible (to them) book reviews, interviews and essays, which to him were a total goof, especially in that these geeks who prided themselves on having some sort of rare, unique brilliance gave no indication that they had any inkling of being preposterously-over-the-top, nonsensical put ons, ostensibly unintentioal. Upon outset CJW

found this a micro niche market populated by the pretentious those who gave their blessings to the obscure, tedious, and overly difficult; any reversal of those ‘special’ traits grounds for banishment from their Eden to the Nodding world which vulgarly and asininely mingled with ‘lessers’ necessitating the faking of the universally objectionable traits of relative popularity and its attendant abomination of breadth. CJW did recognize that with only a handful of statistically insignificant exceptions, it was necessary to hunker down and play in the T-ball and Little League prior to playing in the Majors. However, the goof rich Dorkey excursion soon gave way,

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because of the literary and market acceptance of ‘Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers’ 10,000 sales during its first month, 300 in autographed and fruitless, happy faced hardcover to a recognition and invitation into a realm which actually bestowed its awards through providing the needed coin of the realm. The litmags, and semi-litmags such as ‘Esquire,’ flocked to his door like chickens two hours late for their thrown Healthy Harvest Non-GMO, 17% Layered Pellets, Chicken Feed, or a pitiable, weak, and needy Dorkey poseur attempting to hawk bogus and overpriced scratchings on Goofreads. CJW was quite content to write easy and absurd magazine articles, though he had taken the opportunity to also again contract with Farr, Simon, and Moreau’s Battson to do one more novel, which literally became

‘Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel,’ feeling it long term magazine-writing-necessary to turn out something which was seen as too difficult for critics to dare criticize, and also sufficiently semi-accessible enough for other than the most avid of Dorkey readers to purchase, if not read or appreciate. Had he seen it, he would have surprised himself more than anyone else when his intended non-participatory joke resonated through a rather broad segment and was one of three finalists for the Pulitzer Award for Fiction, though the award was not granted that year, one must suspect that the voting panel may have noticed something unusual. At any rate after “Interminal Gibbet

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Loop Capers’ was released, he soon came to his senses and saw that he had attained his ‘credential’ required goals, and the next step was to attempt to differentiate and socially distance himself from the Dorkey chained geeks.

Let me get off CJW for a moment. His YouTube stated approaches to lit contained contradictions and I could circle around forever. I suspect that this emanated from his original desire to make an outstanding living, which he later redefined in methodology after the unexpected heralding of ‘Interminal Gibbet Loop Capers’ coupled with it having earned him ‘enough to live modestly for three years,’ while the easy magazine and TV

short excursions provided much, much more. Like most everyone Anisette Rhona assumed the opposite; also noticing that CJW had spent sufficient time with Emily Crain for her to consider the gravy train days numbered.

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Shoreline and “Row Jimmy” by Garcia and Hunter; property of the author, the latter under both the

“fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

Anisette Rhona actually had plenty of time to think about staging a suicide, giving her all the rights and cash flow. CJ’s public image had been commercially managed, changing his appearance radically, from that of a rather ordinary looking

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young man to a disordered substance dependent suicide candidate, under the tutelage of Henry Battson. Battson knew that eccentric looking writers sell more books than the nondescript, especially in Farr, Simon, and Moreau’s high lit niche. CJW once wryly smiled when saying; ‘I’m not supposed to say this, but it’s an acquired taste.’ When the opportunity not infrequently presented itself to Anisette Rhona, she reinforced that, at the same time very aware that any death with some suicide earmarks would be casually treated as the fulfillment of a widespread expectation.

She was more than the usual degree of worried when CJW told her he’d be having a bit of a row with Battson over the incomplete book, bringing to mind the possibility of a lawsuit to recover the advance. She decided that this was the day; and just in case the authorities concluded murder, the house would be full of other possible candidates, and she directly tried to point her finger at Battson. Here’s a reconstructed timeline based on what we now ‘know’ based on adjusted reports which do not negate or necessarily contradict each other, as did the earlier ones.

August 12, 2019

9:25AM – Emily Crain arrived. She was let into the house by sneering Anisette Rhona. That being long established standard

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operating procedure, decades prior ‘learned’ through contact with scores of other never-was’s, who in pitiful attempts at blocking, apparently the thrill of their pathetic lives, succeeded only in temporarily occupying a portion of her path.

Emily merely made a tight lipped, dull eyed ‘smile,’ passed Anisette Rhona by, and joined CJW in his private ‘writing’ room.

She closed the door behind her; their privacy aided and abetted through the inside push of the clicky little button thing on the circular housing which also enveloped the handle. They ignored the neatly stacked and printed ruins of ‘Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel.’ They drank and carried on, as lovers will.

Well of spirit, CJ decided to tell her the truth regarding the book being written by Rolf Hoffius, who he had paid. Emily initially reacted terribly, now feeling cheated both romantically and financially. She yelled incoherently, but at a decibel level capable of reaching the winery across the street.

Soon, the inebriated lovers proceeded to kissy-kissy make up.

They intermittently got further sotted and made up more, though with a bit of an edge wherein at approximately 12:40PM Emily

‘playfully’ bound CJ’s hands with duct tape, ostensibly a needed show of power which CJ recognized and half-jokingly complied with. Emily left five minutes later. How she managed to walk and drive home without having played bumper cars will forever be a mystery. CJ’s constrained hands did not prevent him from pouring

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and downing a few more shots of straight Jack Daniels; at that point the burgundy as effective and interesting as tap water.

That irresistible warm glow pervaded his room; and he gave into its seduction, laid on the carpeted floor, using his recently departed dog Drone’s errant towel bed as a pillow. He contentedly closed his eyes, scenting his Drone. His pleasant dreamy state evolved to one of passed out nothingness; the last thing he would ever know.

10:30AM – Ghost writer, gardener-handyman, Anisette Rhona semi-loving, and of most personal significance, twice convicted, felonius and in desperate need of an income which would not risk an unforgiving third, Rolf Hoffius, A/K/A Dwight N. Creepshun, arrived. ‘Boundless Monotony – a Chucklesome Novel’ now finished and the grounds more or less tended he had no reason to be there unannounced other than to pick up a few bucks for puttering around with and watering the sage. He continually said that he left at 1:10PM, seeing no one, and worked only in the front yard; the first assertion true. His statement was at best incomplete in that he heard Emily yelling, did some unplanned

‘work’ in the back, saw and left at the same 1:15PM time as his partner, Anisette Rhona who had gotten his attention when she hammered in the nails; after assisting her in the dragging of

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CJ’s dead body and providing unrequested technical advice, which was followed.

1:00PM – Seeing her opportunity, Anisette Rhona got an idea. She wished that Rolf Hoffius would have left by then, but she knew that things are never quite ideal, and a moment not exploited is just a moment passed. She went into CJW’s private room, and found him passed out drunk on the floor, wrists bound with duct tape. She took one of his leather belts from the closet and strangled him with it; lifting upward to make the neck marks appear to be consistent with those of a hanging. When done, she cut the belt off, and nailed the short end into the outside, but nearby portal overhead beam, to make it appear as if CJW hung himself and that someone, by chance eventually to be seen as she, cut him down, as she didn’t have the strength to lift the body and stage a ‘proper’ hanging. As she was struggling with CJW’s much heavier corpse, trying to drag the body outside and under the nailed belt cut-off, the felonius Rolf Hoffius found her as he had heard the hammering noises and came back to investigate. Immediately assessing the score and seeing his dreams of co-authorship money washed away, he made a deal with Anisette Rhona, with whom he had an as-seen-by-her a Mellors-Lady Chatterly type of relationship, that he had seen nothing in return for a silencing payment of $250,000. Anisette

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Rhona quickly agreed as she had no intention of paying him and that he couldn’t very well inform the police without implicating himself in a third felony. In order to buy some time to allow him to rationally think about it, and also because she didn’t personally have access to the sum, she added the proviso that he’d have to wait until the CJW estate was settled. Hoffius’

calculation differed in concluding expectations and options. She intended to say that she left to run errands at 12:00PM, in hopes of among other things placing Hoffius and/or Battson alone or together, it didn’t really matter to her, at the scene and her being most importantly removed from it. Hoffius helped her drag the body out the door to the sun-drenched portal under the nailed belt fragment and gave cover-up advice which was taken.

1:15PM – Leaving the front door open, Anisette Rhona and Rolf Hoffius left, each in their own car, drawing the attention of the worker/owner at the vineyard across the street, who later confirmed this. This was before Henry Battson arrived, Anisette Rhona’s prime objective to place him alone with the dead body, as a backup plan, in case the authorities did not rule the death a suicide. CJW’s body was left lying in the baking sun, which made it impossible for the Medical Examiner to establish the precise time of death, or so he said, and the body was not

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observable from any part of the house other than through the glassed door in CJW’s room.

1:20PM – Henry Battson, President and Publisher at Farr, Simon, and Moreau; arrived and let himself in. After twenty minutes of couch sitting silence, he left to have a few more beers at the famous Indigo Crow, where he had been since noon.

He didn’t feel comfortable exploring the possibly empty house, and further, if CJW was there he didn’t want to risk disturbing and ‘provoking’ an argument with the volatile writer, especially in the expected contentious discussion of the very late book.

2:10PM - Henry Battson left the Indigo Crow and drove back to the Wheaton-Hunter residence. None of the employees of the establishment could later confirm this; ostensibly as Battson was a rather nondescript business-type the artsy oriented sommeliers des vin of the waterhole almost tolerated when not ignoring or serving with ‘cool’ eyeless contact. Besides, being seen as one seen capable of consorting and cooperating with the

‘pig’ police, that possibility risked an incalculably huge impairment to a waiter’s career. At 2:20PM Battson once again let himself in the front door, this time unobtrusively annoyed with the empty house, but still reticent to disturb cantankerous CJW. He groused under his breath while sitting on the couch in the open living room, mentally trying to decide whether he was

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‘buzz’ maddened by the inattention granted one of his stature, or ‘buzz’ amused with the flouncing artistes he had once again glimpsed, this time in ‘remote’ New Mexico’s Indigo Crow; the standardized archetype apparently universal; but for the costumes worn. Anisette Rhona re-entered at 2:25PM and after perfunctory cordialities offered to ‘graciously’ find and produce CJW for him. Excusing herself, she diverted around a bit. After the appropriate delay, she ‘found’ the body on the portal and began screaming; ‘What have you done to him?’ Battson followed her sound, eventually seeing the carcass, and rather than worrying about any legal implications, thought; ‘Oh, shit.

There goes the fucking book and the advance is out the window.’

.......... Ummagumma. Retraction. Whether or not a CJW effort, put something out with his deceased name on it, and you have a financial, award winning smash. I mean ‘What else can a poor boy do, other than try to make the best out of a situation he was handed, while devoid of resurrectional abilities? It’s really such a shame that the liar is dead.’

2:35PM – ‘Frantic’ Anisette Rhona called 911, sufficiently

‘incoherent’ to induce the recording machine to register decibels with a highly fluctuating range.

2:45-2:50PM – Emily Crain and Rolf Hoffius popped back in for no particularly discernable reason; she maybe in search of

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some more of the bottled ecstasy her empty pockets could not obtain, and he attempting to keep an eye on his only investment.

Emily seemed as shocked as an alcohol induced numbing rationality allows; an initial gasp which quickly settles into one of those dazing recognitions propelled by 20-20 hindsight.

More ‘alert’ Hoffius probably just kept an eye on the

‘developing’ events.

3:00PM – Striker and I arrived at the house and sat outside waiting for the Medical Examiner, as instructed. I saw the winery worker, who turned out to be the resident owner, working in the overbearing heat.

3:45PM – The Medical Examiner arrived with his team of two assistants. We saw the corpse, and ‘allowing’ me the privilege of sitting in, Harrison Brody III questioned the four people there, in what seemed to be a cursory manner. Based on what they said, I made my first timeline and left.

The following day, I got lucky when Striker called in sick.

Not having any impediment, I did some investigating of my own.

The winery worker/owner told me that yesterday had been an unusual day at the normally quiet Wheaton-Hunter house as he heard a loud argument in the morning, the number of visitors was much more than ordinary, cars coming and going, and Hoffius and

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Anisette Rhona leaving together at 1:00PM, which was inconsequentially imprecise and understandable in terms of his lack of a timepiece and testimony later given when the passed event was not initially seen as being of any significance, other than their leaving together, a distinct improvement over most web postings. It was actually 1:15PM, and Alejandro did say that they were exchanging some indecipherable conversation, to which their tones assigned a seeming importance. Nobody else in the area saw anything. I visited CJW’s psychiatrist who said that she had not prescribed any anti-depressants, as he wasn’t depressed. Rather he was having some trouble in trying to cope with the false image Battson, his agent, and Anisette Rhona had pressured him to effect, as well as guilt feelings he had in being unable to tell Anisette Rhona that he didn’t love her, and thereby proceeding to a divorce. Given the ‘money primacy’ he had experienced with Anisette Rhona as well as other prior women, he was in no rush to get into the same potential trap with ‘sweet’ Emily Crain. I went back to the residence and Anisette Rhona not there, I was let in by the maid, who had cleaned up the area, as well as the rest of the house. She said that one of her duties was to watch CJW when Anisette Rhona was away. This was my first indication of his needing to be watched, though I noted that it was also based on instructions from Anisette Rhona. ............ “

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Margaret caught Shaunessy at a brief pause, saying; “Is this almost over?”

Shaunessy, used to years of the same comment/question, acted as if he was not put off by it, calmly replying; “I’m not sure. This ramble does not emanate from any sort of outline or story board. Do you have anything else compelling to do at the moment?”

“I was strongly considering another net scan. ......

Improvement seems inevitable, and if not present you can just click it off.”

“Multi- tasking challenged?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I can always start over from the beginning, if you’d like.

It can be easily abbreviated as in CHAZ-CHOP-CHIT.”

“No! .... I mean, not necessary. I think I’m getting the gist as well or better than your average skimmer.”

“Hmmnn. .... Two days after the death, and without any further investigation of the four people present that day, neighbors, or CJW’s psychiatrist, Brody issued his final report, concluding that it was a suicide, effectively putting an end to

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the case. He noted a .32 blood alcohol level and the decedent’s

‘well known’ disposition toward suicide.

November 30 – When finally not any longer saddled with Striker and his incessant one liners from before the flood, like on former, less efficient, days of traffic duty, I began driving by the Wheaton-Hunter house two or three times daily, in hopes of seeing something unusual.

December 11 - My daily drive-bys resulted in seeing an ersatz red hatchback junk car parked in the driveway, not much unlike the one there on the first day of ‘investigation.’ It was registered to Rolf Hoffius though he was nowhere to be seen and the lawn had not been tended for months.

December 15 – I spoke with the owner of the adjacent winery. His kids told me that the reddish junker was somewhat of a semi-regular attendee of the Wheaton-Hunter driveway, and of having heard some indecipherable yelling the last few times it was.

February 20 – A note stating that Anisette Rhona had performed the murder of CJW was received at Police Headquarters, also making reference to a handwritten note CJW had put in one of his books, stating that if he is found dead, check on Anisette Rhona. I requested Chief Kerry to re-open the case. He

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refused, saying that ‘prank’ mail is common. I continued my daily excursions.

March 8 – I saw a white van parked in the driveway; not unlike the one driven by the Medical Examiner; but a coincidence. A perspiring Friar Tuck-crowned and mustachioed man of 45 and 180, the latter inclusive of the 40 in his gut, in an amusingly sweated shirt with a ‘READ BETWEEN THE WINES,’

posterior bolstered by a self-congratulatory ‘I would challenge you to a BATTLE of WITS but I see YOU are UNARMED;’ opera mauve up front, which sharply contrasted in the darkened pits. He was grunting as he was loading cardboard boxes into the back of the van; they ostensibly being heavy for a gym dilettante. As these sweatshirts were all the rage in Southern California, I broached him with a cordial New Mexican; ‘Somewhat out of place here?’

‘Just business,’ he replied without looking up, and as if the entreaty was one he had heard a million times prior.

............”

“You’re dwelling in the driveway,” said Margaret. “If there is one, get to the point.”

“Sure. Just testing that you hadn’t fallen asleep. I found out that Anisette Rhona had sold CJW’s books, many with allegedly handwritten notes, these especially valuable in re-

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sale to those of the ‘literati’ who seek to have physical evidence of their being special.”

“Thomas!! My word!”

“All right. All right. I bought the copy of ‘Infinite Jest,” and saw the handwritten note exactly where the

‘anonymous’ police informant said it would be. I concluded that the original note had to have been sent by someone who knew CJW

extremely well. Of the four, only Anisette Rhona was entirely ruled out. As you know, the note was traced to Hoffius’

computer. The following day Kerry finally got more or less on board, though Brody still balked. We arrested Hoffius on some BS, and dropped the charges in return for his co-operation in laying some other ‘experimental’ charges on Anisette Rhona, with the Deputy DA and Judge’s approval, the former totally sold on Kerry’s story of how this case would advance his career.”

Margaret said; “Vonnegut’s very conveniently misunderstood, pro-capitalism ‘God Bless you, Mr. Rosewater.’ It worked for me, but what might you say to those who choose to say that the ending was rushed and confusing?”

“To those for whom I have little respect; ‘Ah, can’t please everyone, and everyone’s a critic. I am saddened and humbled,’

while making my best attempt to hide the laughter. To those I do

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respect, I say; ‘Thanks for noticing. Really; that you noticed is a personal honor I’ll always warmly cherish more than a low IQ, ISIS bomber cherishes the backward rules of Sharia and the fifty virgins he soon expects to meat. Addressing the specific, the deficiency, if any, was entirely the fault of my loved wife Margaret. She indirectly compelled me to do that, with an absolute plethora of strong hints. Sorry. Any textually lacking interpretations of a hidden ‘Hehe’ is solely within the sick mind of the misinterpreter and/or the misinterpreted. Hehe.”

“So, no one here is entirely innocent.”

“I’m not sure that follows, and I’m also not sure which

‘here’ to which you refer. But sticking with the Reader’s Digest condensed book, no. Everyone including Connor, was scamming somebody or disregarding prior commitments in differing degrees.

.... Except me, you know.”

“Yes, that ‘precocious’ halo is overwhelming and to some blinding.”

“Aaaargh. So what would you have had me do?”

“Well, I could offer some long detail regarding your poor relationship with Brody.”

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“He’s a ridiculously self-important prick! I might add, with all the mental capacity of octagenarial Joe Biden.”

“ ................. “

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Assorted pictures and “Here at the Western World” by W. Becker and D. Fagen; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

“ ................... “

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“Don’t obsess. You can only do what the law allows you to do.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking about. I wanted to come to a place like this and give out traffic tickets in peace. That already bores the hell out of me. I find I’m interested in investigating the big, ugly cases I left New York to escape.

Maybe I’ll wrap my career up right now.”

“What? And then mope around the house all day bothering me?

I won’t have it. Look, just be a little patient. More big, ugly will soon pop out in this ‘Land of Enchantment.’ Guaranteed.

None of these bastards are totally innocent. Never were, never will be. And someone has to catch them. This time Connor James Wheaton paid the full price for a trifling infraction and Anisette Rhona Hunter might not be paying much anything for the most significant one. If left alone this particular subsection of the rabble brand would all kill each other off. Without any outside interference they would naturally and unknowingly in their ‘sophisticated’ intrigues make the world into a better place for the rest of us.”

“As usual, you’re right Margaret. Love ya, babe. I don’t know. They make it so that to make a living you’re required to, at a minimum, convincingly pretend commitment to a well-paying

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job. Eventually the act blends with the initial tendency, leaving a gap of sorts, totally reliant on a series of contradictory books.”

“Not up here. You’ll see. Love ya, babe.”

“The problem down here is that things are easy to break.

Any idiot can do it. And they’re virtually impossible to fix.

Love ya, babe.”

The duo dashed off somewhere out of computer eye view, apparently having better things to do than bother to take the required ten seconds to turn it off, leaving it to play for no one.

Precisely three minutes and 8,846,782 bytes later, the ignored laptop screen did a swirly, blanked, blued, and then flashed; “We interrupt this program to bring you momentous news just posted by Reuters.”

“Fresh Hope from China on the ChinaBatPoo II Virus

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Sunney Xie, director of Baoding University Advance Innovate Center for Genome, reveal that “anti- ChinaBatPoo II” drug been success at more or less human test stage.

‘We inject neutralize antibody into infect African in Guang Zoo.

After five day poo load reduce by factor 2,500,’ said Xie.

‘Mean drug therapute.’

Drug use neutralize antibody; produce by human immune system to prevent virus infect cell; which Xie's team isolate from blood of sixty recover Africa Zoo patient.

‘Cost West plenty yuan. Hehe.’

Truly good and competent science doesn’t get you left out of it. Truly good and competent science gets you right in it.

[Osteosensibly]

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Playful bear” ; property of the author.

Prepared kitten” ; property of the author.

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All’s Well That Ends Well

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