As I've mentioned more than once, the situation in which we find ourselves, while not unprecedented, is somewhat unusual especially in a year, like this one, when the effort required to maintain a grip on likely outcomes is a grotesque undertaking. When my crew chief was confronted on the second of February at about 3:16 AM at the Shaker Heights Billiard Hall by a 'gentleman' sporting a classic Van Dyke and a dyed lime green widow's peak, he was at a loss as to the proper way to respond to what can only be regarded as a vile incitement to civic unrest in our time. He walked calmly to his wife's automobile, since his own car was in the shop for a transmission repair. When I was notified by Detective Osmer Dunphy later that morning, it was all I could do to not laugh till I cried, so ridiculous was what came out of the Detective's mouth. Since it was a telephone conversation, the objects emitted by his mouth became known to me only later via a third party review process that most would regard as a waste of time at best.
It was with a barely concealed composure that I bristled at the suggestion that either I or my people were responsible for the atrocious summaries of a series of false reports circulated widely in the gutter press. If anyone had notified me, whether by email or text message, that a seemingly trivial event during prime viewing hours would lead to a catastrophic cascade of unenviable emotions, I would have exercised all due diligence and harbored a wrongly convicted felon all of whose hair had turned white with stress.
Due to a high fat diet and a restriction placed on allowable sound profiles, I believe it's only in the best interests of society-at-large to forgo a barely digestible hourly supplement in the slack hour just before dawn, at least as fishing season winds down. What is a person to do who's had a reputation to defend and a sustaining partnership to avoid, if a locally sourced sourdough bread scandal rears it ugly head and the best and brightest are typically blamed for a plan gone up in smoke?
In fact, if you yourself do still smoke, we have a plan for you. It involves a negative reinforcement regime, and we're quite sure you won't like what we've found out about your early years. Everything is still safe but not for long. As much as we will try to stand athwart the tides of history and shout 'Stop!', the ultimate dénoument does not appear to be in doubt. The comb you credit with saving your remaining hair is evidence in a sensational wireless fraud case in which not less than forty five of your inelegant neighbors are implicated. There's a name that sounds like the one you wish you had. It's only by the grace of God that you haven't been approached yet. What's keeping you awake at night?, is what we want to know. Try to have it on my desk by tomorrow morning. I'll do what I can. I can't do anything. Why? Because I'm paralyzed from the eyelids down, as if you didn't know. Don't play stupid, you moron!
Look, I've got to go. My wife is waiting in a bar for a Yugoslavian diplomat to lose his cookies. Then she'll make her move. It's the only thing that will save her. That and her oceanography degree. And her monogrammed handkerchief collection. And her sense of 'the unusual'. And the colorful way she talks about the Living God. That gets 'em every time. If only I'd known her before I went to prison. That would have been sweet!
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