Taking a Short Break

Dear Everydoggy, Friends and Wonderful Anipals,

J.D. and I will be taking a short break until I am well again.

We hope to be back on Twitter as soon as we are able, when I am feeling much better, and up and about again causing mayhem, as usual.

We will be thinking about you. Keep up the mischief, I'm counting on you!

Love, FABIO & J.D.

What a Knight (Part Three)

(Whatever you do, read Parts One & Two first, and don't lose the plot)

11.30am. City Hall Car Pool.


We pulled into a reserved parking space close to the first floor exit, and I unbuckled my seat belt and sat back, stretching my legs. I started to tell Louey about my plan to get close to Karparov. Looking at him directly was too much for me for a lot of reasons, and besides, the peacock hues of his plaid tux were making me nauseous; so I gazed out of the window and pretended I was checking out the other cars in the lot.

'Louey,' I began, as casually as I could muster, 'today you and I need to work as a team, buddy.' It was a lame attempt to sound matter-of-fact about the whole thing, and I knew as soon as I opened my trap that I'd missed the mark. 'You know,' I faltered, 'only from kind of a distance........so to speak.'

'You mean, we have to keep outa the actual fracas with the Ruskies and the SWAT team, Boss?' He intercepted eagerly. 'The both of us watchin' the takedown through binoculars, sorta?'

'Not quite, Lou." I replied awkwardly. 'The thing is, I'd like you to stay in the car and wait for me.......with the engine running, of course.'

Louey stiffened visibly in his seat. 'No.' He said bluntly. His manner curt. Angry. It took me off guard.

'Louey..........................'

'No.' He repeated firmly. 'You ain't pullin' that one on me, Boss. I'm either with you or close behind you, but I ain't hidin' in any car during the take down. No deal. No way.' He spat back, and looked me straight in the eye. I knew he meant it, and suddenly I knew there was nowhere I could go with this. What's more, that handful of loose change was wreaking havoc in my trouser pocket and making me sound like Julie Andrews. I just had to get out of the car.

Such a brave little sidekick, I thought as I jumped up and down on the concrete, legs akimbo and groaning with relief. Louey -  everyone's favorite clown, but nobody's fool. He'd seen right through me.

Louey looked at me with raised eyebrows. 'Have you got the cramp, Boss?'

'Somethin' like that, Buddy.' I smiled back at him, slapping him on the shoulder.'Check your gun and come with me.

   We walked for 30 seconds in complete silence. I chuckled to myself. Here was Tonto giving the Lone Ranger orders. Now that was a turn up for the books. Today was going to be tough. Deep down I hoped that me and Tonto here could hang on to our friendship for a little while longer.

'Hey, Boss.' Louey quipped as we strode across the tarmac to the main building.'Do you reckon KRISPYSTUFF could beat Bobby Fischer?'

'KARPAROV, Louey. It's KARPAROV!'' I sighed, like helium gas escaping from a birthday balloon.'

'Yeah. Right. I goddit.' He nodded.

'But to answer your question,' I added, straightening my tie and adjusting the silk handkerchief in my jacket pocket, 'I believe so.Yes.'

'Louey leaned in a little closer and whispered in my ear, the lapels on his chequered jacket flapping like the wings on a twin-axle biplane. 'I mean,' he went on, 'if this KRIPPENSTOVE defects and everything turns out okay, do ya think he'll end up playing for Uncle Sam someday?'

My eyes took a somersault down the back of my neck and bounced off my shoulder blades.

' Louey, for crying out loud, it's KARP.......Oh, never mind. Jeez. Right now, melon head, I don't care if he ends up playing for Uncle Remus, Zippedydoodah and the seven dwarves,  I just want to get out of here without a perforated rib cage and my ass in a sling.'

   I grabbed Louey's arm and pushed him up the stone steps to the main door of the building. There were more security guys buzzing around the entrance than blowflies on a three-day-old cheeseburger. I walked to the front of the queue, and flashed my Press Badge at the Head Honcho, and Louey followed my lead. We glided into the foyer like honey over a warm muffin. Deep down, I felt like I had a target painted on my back the size of a trashcan lid, and my jockey shorts had already shimmied their way up to the back of my neck. We took a few steps further in, and slowly merged into the cacophanous throng of expectant chess groupies. Today I knew the game they were going to see would be significantly different. Checkmate? - I hoped not. On this occasion, even in the midst of the battle ahead of us, we were going to avoid killing the King at all costs.


Everyone took their seats in the auditorium around 12.30pm. The lights dimmed and silence fell. A classical trio began playing something whimsical stage left, and after a couple of minutes there was an introduction by the President of the Chess Federation, and the Lady Mayor was presented with flowers. The usual local authority agenda which, to my advantage, gave me time to scan the room and make mental notes. Teddy Hemingway, the US Chess champion, appeared first flanked by two of his minions and three Tournament officials. He bowed briefly to the assembled crowd and took his seat center stage to the left of the table. Above him, there was a huge plasma screen that would broadcast every move of the match to the back of the stalls and the gallery. I looked about me. There were at least sixteen security staff on the floor paced along the rows. I couldn't see Hutchinson anywhere, but perhaps I was being a little premature. Then as the last cough from the audience died into the darkness, Karparov walked on to the stage alone amid rapturous applause.

   He was less than I'd hoped for. Small - about 5'5" with average looks and a nervous shrug that lifted his shoulders to his earlobes every five seconds. He looked surly. Dour even, like a short-order cook from some anonymous diner in rural Pennsylvania; and there was no courtesy or sense of protocol about him from what I could see. It was obvious he had the type of personality that would make an Amish accountant seem interesting. Still, what did I know?  He sat right down opposite Hemingway without preamble. The tension between the two champions immediately becoming claustrophobic. The game was definitely afoot. I glanced briefly stage right and then left. I caught sight of Hutchinson sans his usual shades and chewing gum seated in the second row just as the officials took their positions. I hoped Captain Fantastic had an umbrella in his shorts, because I could see him sweating from across the room.

I settled back into my seat to watch the start of the match, leaning over slightly to my right to whisper some last minute instructions in Louey's ear. I froze. Louey's seat was empty. I glanced frantically further along the row and he was nowhere to be seen. Then it happened. I felt the familiar jab of a gun barrel between my shoulder blades, and the unnerving click of a safety catch being released. It appeared that the game was over all of a sudden. At least for me, that is.

TO BE CONTINUED.... What a Knight (The Finale) - Coming Soon!

What a Knight (Part Two)

(Reading Part One first would be advantageous)

One week later.

It was 10.00am on the day of the Chess Tournament at City Hall.

I had an hour to spare before Louey picked me up. I'd been busy over the past five days, and everything was set to get Karparov out of danger from the Russians during the first half of the Chess match. We'd take out the hit men on the way if we had to. I was prepared for that. I lay back on the bed with my hands behind my head, and began wading through what we had to do. I had a PRESS BADGE tucked into the brim of my hat, and my .38 revolver snug inside my belt. Now I all I needed was to make the plan perfect. I began to drift, and lost concentration momentarily as some loose change in the pocket of my pants bit into my groin making my eyes water. Those quarters could sure injure a person. Jockey shorts are a lot thinner than they used to be. Make no mistake, this was a big job - the biggest so far in my career - but it felt for a moment like I was losing my touch. Since when does a person take a handful of dimes for the parking meter to a stakeout?

   I'd already called Lieutenant Jack Hutchinson at the precinct the day after Louey's phone call. Hutchinson was a hard-boiled detective from the 'old school' Police Academy with no hang ups about roughing up suspects, or searching without a warrant. He owed me a few favors over the years which I'd never bothered to collect. The fact that I had him over a metaphorical barrel hacked him off big-time, but I was too valuable an ally for him to do anything about it. That commendation for bravery he'd been awarded last year following a big heist at City Bank was all down to me. I'd conveniently neglected to mention to the Police Commissioner after the ceremony that Hutchinson was huddled on the back seat of my Buick under a plaid rug during the shoot out, while yours truly took pot shots and whacked the raiders before they even hit the street. Five minutes after it was over, the brave Lieutenant burst into the foyer gun blazing as if he'd been popping ammo in the line of fire all on his own; and that's exactly how he put it to the TV Anchorman and the crew from CBS the following day.

Hutchinson. How I loathed him. One word from me in the right ear and his career was was down the pan. But not just yet. I had a few more plans up my sleeve for him before I was through.

The good Lieutenant - mainly due to his reputation as the new Elliott Ness - had been assigned a SWAT team after a discreet call to the FBI. One thing the Bureau wouldn't risk was a major political incident with such far-reaching consequences - especially with the Russians - a sensitive bunch at the best of times. Louey and I were gonna be in on the whole thing as armed informants. I knew it was never going to be a problem. The Bureau knew my reputation all too well. I was handy under fire. I was informed about the situation. I was street-wise and revered by the public. I was experienced in the field of dangerous criminals, and I also had a little black book about who was on the take from the top down in the force.

Besides, there were going to be no more medals for Hutchinson if he had to rely on his yellow streak without my assistance to make his mark as a hero.


I turned to the window, and could hear Louey parking outside the apartment building in the street below. The exhaust on his 1979 Chevrolet made more noise than a sawn-off blunderbuss at the Alamo. I'd warned him to get the car fixed - no more duct tape keeping the headlamps in place, and no more Band Aids on the tire tubes. I wasn't taking my own car anywhere - I mean, it was still under warranty and all; and I don't think the insurance company claims department would buy any more bullet holes in the bodywork as normal 'Wear and Tear.'
 
   Louey knocked three times and coughed nervously. On the other side of the door I could hear him shuffling his feet, and he sounded like the Avon Lady after a wrong turn somewhere in The Bronx. Jeez. Talk about conspicuous. I'd told him to dress smartly: nothing too noticeable, etc. and he promised me he wouldn't disappoint. I walked across the room and opened the door. He stood out there in the hallway dressed in a blue tweed suit three times too big for him, an apple green polyester shirt WAR ON WANT would send back with a 'Thanks, but No Thanks'  note, and a pair of red suede sneakers with 3-inch rubber soles. He looked like Ronald MacDonald on Prom Night. I shook my head, stood back, and let him in.

'Where did you get that suit, Louey?' I said, as my eyebrows disappeared into my hairline.

'Don't you like it, Boss?' Louey replied looking hurt. "I wore it to my cousin Marty's wedding.'

'Did he get married in Rio during Mardi Gras?' I shot back at him, eyes popping.

Louey's face fell, and he looked down at the floor at his crimson feet.

'Never mind, Louey, let me see what I got in my wardrobe that will fit you.' I said, walking into the bedroom towards my bulging closet.

A couple of minutes later I came out with some pressed cream chinos, a pale blue shirt and a black blazer.

'Here,' I said, throwing them at him, 'wear these; and hurry up, we got work to do.'


It was a slow silent drive down to City Hall. The streets were filled with Saturday shoppers blocking the sidewalk in their haste to empty their pocket books. I could feel the breeze blowing on my face as I glanced my paw over the gun in my belt, and began to crack my knuckles in anticipation of what was to come. Louey had made a reasonable job at fixing the car, and the engine was humming along rather than coughing its heart out. Louey: my little pal from Detroit. I'd let him assume he was gonna stick with me if there was any trouble. I'd tell him to wait in the car when we reached the parking lot at City Hall, as we might need a quick getaway if things didn't go to plan. It was all I could think of to keep him safe. I wasn't going to risk his little furry life because I needed adventure. He'd pull his face, I know: so I'd make it sound as if he was the key man to the whole thing. To me, he always had been: the catalyst to everything I did.

Everybody needs somebody like Louey in their lives - loyal, lovable, reliable and a little stupid. Nothing was ever gonna happen to him: at least, not if I could help it.

Besides, he still owed me ten bucks from that poker game we had last month.

TO BE CONTINUED

What a Knight (Part One)

(The Saga begins.....)

It was 11.45pm on a Saturday night. The Boston Red Sox had played a bummer of a match, I'd lost $20 to Joe Mozza, the smarmy bartender at Benny's Place, and I was feeling low to say the least. I got up from the sofa in my Bart Simpson pajamas just as the phone rang out like a dentist's drill piercing my brain, stopping me in my tracks on the way to the refrigerator for my third slice of bedtime pepperoni pizza. I almost didn't answer it: but, to my immediate chagrin, I did.

Tentatively, I picked up the receiver thinking it can't be Newton's Naturals calling at this time of night to check on my Vitamin C count.

'Hey, big guy! It's me, Louey'. The dulcit tones of my little shitzu informant from Detroit on the other end of the line made my heart sink like a tractor tire in a swamp.

I rolled my one open eye and sighed audibly.

'Do you know what time it is, bullet brain?' I groaned back down the receiver: the one I was squeezing tightly in my tiny mitt wishing it was Louey's throat.

'Hey Boss, take it easy fella. I got something for ya.' Louey wheezed. He sounded anxious and on edge I thought, like he was nineteenth in the queue for the bathroom at the Ball park on Labor day after too many chili dogs and too much root beer.

'No more betting tips Louey, please,' I replied, shaking my little furry cap stand from experience. 'I ended up eating soup crackers for a month after the last nod and a wink on the gee gees you gave me.'

'No. No. Boss. It ain't nuthin' like that,' he chuckled. 'Actually, I've been spending a bit of time looking at some er, movies.' His reply was muffled, although I thought I'd caught most of what he was mumbling at me just as a Fire Truck hurtled past in the street below and the line crackled noisily.

'Some what? What did you say? You've been watching Quorn Movies? Did I hear right? Aren't you taking this vegetarian thing a little too far, Louey?' I asked incredulously. 'I mean, getting your five a day is okay if that's what you want, but taking in veggie videos about it ain't healthy, my friend.' I lashed back at him. 'Is that what you called at this time of night to tell me? Who do you think I am, STING? Jeez.'

'No, Boss. Not QUORN movies. PORN movies.' He yelled back in his defense.

Porn Movies. Screen freeze. Oh, my. His reply sank in with immediate effect. I was rendered speechless. Louey had never struck me as that kind of a guy.

'WHAT? You've been watching dirty movies, Louey? What's gotten into you? Think of your poor Mother - that little old Pekinese lady pooch back in Detroit, standing in galoshes and a threadbare apron, taking in washing and makin' cookies to send you to Little League........... why, she'd be outraged.' I roared at him.

'BOSS, will you pull-eese stop for a minute and listen to me?' He raised his voice a hike and interrupted me mid-rebuke. 'Not Porn movies! as in Porn movies. Jeez. I've been watching PAWN movies. Pawn with a wubbleyoo.'

'Oh, right. I seeeeeeeeee. PAWN movies,' I breathed back softly with a huge sigh of relief. Nothing to worry about there, I thought - pawn with a double U  - that's alright then. The seconds passed by like blows on a dinner gong. One........ Two....... Three.
'Wwwwwwwwwwwwait a minute!' I said as a penny dropped, ' I don't know if that's better or worse. Pawn movies - You mean you're getting your kicks watching a bunch of Rednecks from Idaho selling their banjos and moonshine equipment because they're desperate for cash? How can you do that Louey? Watch poor people lugging Great Aunt Ada's piano across town 'cos they need a few bucks? Shame on you.....................'

'Boss, have you been drinking?' Louey, blurted out at me.

'Me? Drinking? Well, I .....er...had a few Whiskey sours and a couple of bottles of BUD around 9 O'clock.......'

'Boss, please.' Louey groaned: desperation thick in his throat, ' I ain't into nothing like that! You know me. C'mon now. Listen! I've been watching Teach-Yourself-Chess videos. The one that got me started was PAWN MOVES  - A Beginner's World of Chess. I'm really into it right now.'

I was immediately washed over with the golden glow of realization, and all of a sudden I felt as thick as a whale sandwich. He was talking about Pawn moves not Porn Movies. Doh.

'Louey, thank heavens for that! Chess videos? Now that's more like it. But I gotta say your new hobby doesn't warrant a call at Midnight on a Saturday, Buddy. I mean, I'm pleased for you and all, but you gotta get out a little more, fella.' I retorted calmly. 'No offence intended, my friend.' Although I wasn't quite sure if that was completely true.

Louey lowered his voice a few notes, and cupped the receiver with his large fluffy paws. It was at this moment I sensed there was something very wrong, and he'd been trying to tell me just what that was for the past five minutes; and my thick, sleepy head hadn't cottoned on to it.

'Boss,' he whispered, 'I overheard a serious conversation in the bookstore downtown this afternoon.' Louey's voice disappeared into an indiscernable rasp, 'Some famous chess player is gonna get bumped orf at the Chess Tournament next weekend at City Hall.'

What Louey said rang a metaphorical bell inside my head. They'd been advertizing this International Tournament all over the papers for the last month.

Louey continued. 'Some Russian guy named FEELMORE KRAPENUFF or somebody, is gonna be the target - he's the Russian Chess Champion.' He added enthusiastically. 'They reckon he's gonna defect when he's here, and give the CIA some Top Secret information about the Russians, and they're out to stop him.'

'I think you mean VLADIMIR KARPAROV, Louey.' I said, although the semantics were right enough. 'He's the Russian Grand Master. An unbeaten Champion. Are you sure you heard right?' I said to him, hoping to hear he may have made some major mistake.

'I heard right, Boss.' He replied. 'The bookstore I go to is owned by an old Russian guy by the name of Alex Korchev; I know him quite well. He was talking to these two tall, grumpy-looking guys in dark overcoats while I was browsing in an aisle a few feet away from the counter and hidden from view. He looked uneasy and a little scared to be honest; but nodded his head at the information he was being given.They never even knew I was there. I left after they did, when Alex went into the back office and made a telephone call. I heard him say the hit will take place in the first interval around 1.00pm next Saturday. They plan to take out two guards with silencers near the dressing rooms, and pose as part of the security team on duty in that area. They'll smoke KRAPPYLOVE when he hits the rest room.'

'You mean KARPAROV.' I said.

'Yeah. Him too.' Came the reply.

I said a hasty goodnight to Louey, and asked him to ring me at eight the following morning on my cell phone and rang off.  I had some thinking to do. Should I intervene? No question. These Rusky Special Agents and their bully-boy assassins had no place in small town America.

Besides, if anyone was about to upskittle a major Chess Tournament, cause a stir, and hit the headlines in the Nationals, it was gonna be me.

TO BE CONTINUED..........................................

Gullible's Travels

(A Short Story & Diary Entry circumnavigating Romantic Fiction)

J.D.'s love life is driving me nuts at the moment.

He joined a couple of online dating sites a few months ago in his ongoing (and thus far, fruitless) pursuit of finding 'The One,' and his inbox has been deluged with wanton females making irregular requests upon his person and his bank balance. He's spent a fortune on flowers and chocolates in recent weeks, and has taken a few ladies (major eye-roll) out to dinner in various venues ranging from the extremely upmarket Le Cafe de Michel Roux to the local Frankie and Benny's.

   Take Wanda, for example: a cross-eyed redhead from South Portland who was some kind of fashion designer or something. I arrived at this conclusion after reading one email she sent to J.D. where she expressed a desire about 'makin gloves' with him in every room in the house. She sounded extremely forward and unrealistic in her expectations if you ask me; I know for an absolute fact that J.D. has no idea how to make gloves or any other item of apparel. He doesn't even own a sewing kit to my knowledge.

Lola from Vermont was even worse. She stood a foot taller than him at 7' 4", and kept using his baseball cap as an ashtray.  After only one game of ten pin bowling and two buckets of popcorn, she actually moved herself in! Neither she nor J.D. left the bedroom for nearly three days. I was surviving on boxes of dried Hunky Chunks and anything I could get my paws on, while they had Domino's Pizza on speed dial, and J.D. was using his inhaler more than usual. Lola just had to go. I think peeing in her holdall when she was in the shower finally did the trick. She started yelling a lot and called J.D. a few names I can't mention that rhymed with stick. Go figure and bye bye Lola.

Anyway, when my wonderful owner and myself were finally on our own, I suggested that maybe we should take a little trip: a long-overdue vacation to somewhere really nice to do some 'Guys Only' stuff for a change.

He agreed:  Aspen, Colorado here we come! Whoopeeeeeee.

I have, of course, as his dutiful companion and confidante, already packed the essentials we shall need:


2 x large bottles of Jack Daniels
24 x bottles of Bud
A couple of Laplander hats
Some extra-thick socks
An assortment of thermal undies
Fluffy penguin slippers (mine)
2 x hip flasks filled with Creme De Menthe and Diet Sprite
14 x bumper bags of marshmallows
12 x Hershey bars
1 x small set of travel chequers
My new Nintendo 3DS
One dozen emergency flares (Air/Sea Rescue variety, not 70s-style jeans)
2 x Teddy bears (both his)
24 x packets of dry roasted peanuts
The new iPod
2 x pairs Ray Ban shades
4 x large boxes Band Aids
36 x rolls of quilted toilet paper
2 x large bottles Peptobismol
1 x wholesale carton Peppermint Tic Tacs
Listerine
Diarrhea pills
Hair dryer
1 x Sun Screen (Factor 120)
Bed Socks
Incontinence pads

This should take care of everything. J.D. can sort the less important items such as the skis and passports out later.


He is an absolute diamond, I know, but has a lot to learn about women. As a trainee canine gigilo of some worth, I will utilize our time together to educate him regarding the mind games, stealth, cunning and minor violence employed by some females in pursuit of a 3-tier wedding cake dressed in stay-pressed chinos and an Armani watch. I reckon a double Calzone blow out and a few root beers will help him see the error of his ways.


Postcards on request.

The Curse of the Maharajah's Diamonds (Part Two)

(By no means mandatory, but perusing Part One first would be to one's advantage)


The screen door opened with a long, splintering crack, like the folding money compartment in Paul McCartney's wallet. Oozing out from the cavernous gloom of the room beyond the shadow of her back, Mrs. Rickenbacker slowly emerged, and stood less than three feet from me - an imposing figure in wrinkled 200 denier pantyhose and a grimy brown apron with WOODSTOCK 1967 emblazoned across her ample bosom that rested just above her knees.

I swallowed hard.

Lord bless us and save us, I murmured inwardly; my little heart pounding inside my fluffy chest. Rarely in all my doggy years had I seen such a gonad-shrinking sight.

Her graying russet locks - like ageing thatched coconuts - lay bound  in tight curlers along her forhead like tiny tombstones in a hamster cemetery. A few inches below, her tufted eyebrows were knitted into a canopy like a giant hairy caterpillar above the two corroded ball bearings that were embedded in her eye sockets. Even in thick fog, she looked like Hulk Hogan in a frock. To be fair, there was a faint aura of attractiveness beneath the ruddiness of her cheeks and her after-five shadow; and she must have been a good-looking woman in her day, long before the advent of electricity and Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, that is.

I steeled myself, and weakly made an attempt at dialogue.

'Mrs. Rickenbacker.....?' I stammered with both expectation and dread.

She looked right at me and said nothing, holding me in her steely gaze: her only response was to move her right hand slightly and remove a sprig of spinach stuck between her three front teeth with the silencer attached to the barrel of her 12 bore shotgun.

'Mrs. Rickenbacker,' I pressed on, the sweat running in tiny rivulets down my little furry back,  'may I ask you a personal question?'

She shuffled a few inches toward me across the porch, forcing the acrylic tassels on her carpet slippers to quiver slightly (amazingly, this seemed to have the same effect on my bowels), and then slowly and deliberately wiped the back of her gnarled fingers across her dry, papery lips before uttering the testosterone-charged assent that made my little silky ears fold inside out.

'Spit it out, Fido.' She growled.

'Mrs. Rickenbacker, ' I said without missing a beat, 'what would you like me to do about these awful children who keep messing up your lovely garden with their nasty toys?'


                                                                      THE END

The Curse of the Maharajah's Diamonds (Part One)

(The Adventures Begin.....................)

To be honest, I've never been to India: but I had to grab your attention somehow.

Truthfully, although perhaps lacking in exotic location and unimagineable riches, the story I am about to unfold may yet have you riveted to your seat (cough). Although, in order to avoid misleading you further, I have to admit there isn't a Marharajah in sight, nor any mysterious diamonds lurking about in this missive, either. However, to be fair, there is a lot of cursing; and I've replaced the latter, both strategically and euphemistically, with acceptable terms where necessary with terminology such as: Oh my / Pass me that hammer, Sonny / Good Heavens, I seem to have trapped my Tail in the Hinges of Your Gate / God Bless my Boomerang, etc., that may earn a little merit from you, Dear Reader, as your peepers scan the humble offerings below.

Right. Back to this week's attempt at suspense.

A certain Mrs. Marjorie Rickenbacker (widow of mysterious provenance, ardent cookie maker and toxic gossip), who resided in a 50s style, red brick, 3 - bedroomed mausoleum with pink curtains at the end of Idaho Road, was rumored to be stoking fires in her back yard piled high with errant frisbees, tennis balls, stray kites and the like, along with the obligatory disgarded KFC wrappers that had found there way into her billowing flower beds.

In short, there were a lot of angry kids and parents in the neighborhood, and subsequently plenty of grinding axes pointed at Mrs. Rickenbacker's marrow patch and rose-covered porch. In order to prevent an altercation (and a possible lynching), I was tipped off  by my trusted informant, Little Louey, a shitzhu (don't ask) from downtown Detroit to help get to the bottom of the matter.

After much deliberation, I decided I must investigate further to see what I could come up with; hopefully, in the process, turning any results into a potential scoop with a major daily newspaper and lots of dough. Following an adequate lunch of half a Tuna Melt and three Bonios, I Prepared myself to confront the suspect (a la David Caruso) on her front porch dressed modestly in standard army issue fatigues, a skateboard helmet, diving goggles, and Teflon kneepads (me, that is: not Mrs. Rickenbacker), clutching only a Zero Bar (for energy) in one hand, and my trusty dictaphone poised to record the interview in the other.

Breathing steadily, I composed myself and knocked confidently at the screen door, taking only a brief moment to adjust the straps on my chin-guard and bullet-proof vest before, cautiously,  pressing down on the record button.


To be continued...