Hello all! SugarFree sent me a copy of this to mirror here since he does not really want to fuss with a blog.
I don't have time to go back and find all the linkies where he and his buddies collaborated at Hit & Run, so if someone has those handy please leave in comments or e-mail John and me?
LONEWHACKO: THE NOVEL
It is 8pm in LA, and hard-boiled private dick Lone "Retardo" Whacko, Jr. is hard at work . He takes the last puff from his e-cigarette, throws it to the ground, and snuffs it out with the toe of his MadeInTheUSA black loafer, already looking shabby after a week of use. As he walks back to his one-room apartment he sneers and gestures angrily as he passes a taco cart. The vendor smiles and offers him a free taco, but LoneWhacko slaps it away and smiles with grim satisfaction as the Mexican treat falls to the asphalt and the shell cracks and breaks.
He arrives home and notes with displeasure that his apartment, as always, smells of cheap bourbon, American cheese, and impotent rage, but he can only afford Mexican cleaning ladies. A baby cries down the hall as he shoves the warped door open and then wedges it shut. "Probably an AnchorBaby" he thinks, wishing briefly, wistfully there was something he could do to deport them all. He breaks out a package of Mac & Cheese--more expensive than Ramen Noodles, but at least American--and starts the water boiling, while working the facts of the case through his mind again and again. When he takes out the milk for the cheese sauce, he is struck by its sour odor and realizes the Mexicans have soured his milk once again. He falls to his knees, milk sloshing out of the jug like blood from a severed artery, as he weeps from the injustice of it all.
As he stands, his eyes track to the cork board covered with internet photos that he's crudely nailed to the wall. Nick Gillespie (known Dago), Vicente Fox , Cathy Young, Osama bin Laden, Veroniqe De Rugy ("Collaborator"), Barack Hussein Obama, and a weathered byline picture of Tibor Machan. "How does it all connect?" he mutters as he sops up the spilled milk with a dirty dishtowel.
The stifling apartment air assaults Lonewacko's nostrils in a pungent wave as he squeezes around the mountain of Art Bell transcripts and defiantly mashes the power button on his stained, beige computer tower. Now to the website, he thinks, his lips curling in contempt at the idea; stomach grumbling, he drums his pudgy fingers impatiently waiting for AOL to connect. As the modem whirs and bleeps, Lonewacko's brain petulantly formulates new CamelCase compound words, and he decides that the acidic burning in his gut must be due to Mexican influence. His chattering phone line begins to resemble the cacophonous rhythms of a mariachi band; Lonewacko reaches for his Walker: Texas Ranger promotional Zippo and lights a Virginia Slim 100 with a trembling hand.
His mood is becoming as dark as the black stain now covering his floor, the soot from his never washed dishtowel and the milk were mixing to form an opaque ooze that he couldn't seem to cleanse, much like the painful memories he couldn't seem to get rid of. He clenches the dishtowel tighter in his hand and the same black liquid oozes out and drips on the floor, he's thinking about the time he walked into a Mexican grocery by mistake and tried in vain to find a box of Captain Crunch. "I'll make you pay, by God. I'll make you all pay," he says angrily as he throws the dishtowel at Vicente Fox's picture.
Whacko thinks back on the events of the night before: the Tijuana donkey show, with its powerful scents and sounds of depravity. Why can he only become excited by the things he most despises? Whacko considers seeking professional help. But no, he'll not go the Tony Soprano route. "Therapy is for wops and wetbacks," he thought. It was time to turn his focus to the events at hand, and stop the NAFTASuperHighway before it was too late.
Sticking a fresh tape in his Betamax camcorder, the intrepid journalist double checked the itinerary he had downloaded from the candidate's website earlier that day.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and turned the various knobs of the thirteen locks defending him from the teeming throngs of IllegalAliens.
"This is the day" he muttered to himself as he fumbled with the grapefruit-sized ring of keys. "I've got them right where I want them. I'll ask The Question, and EVERYONE will kneel in awe."
He turned toward the stairs, and as he attempted to juggle the cameras, keys, and various appurtenances of his trade, he stepped awkwardly off the landing. He tried desperately to regain his equilibrium, but to no avail.
Suddenly his antiquated phone rings. "Why do you have a rotary phone?" he imagines people would ask him if someone actually ever visited him. His logic is devastatingly simple: you can't press dos for Espanol on a rotary phone.
He picks up the receiver, hoping that maybe Matt Welch or--hope of hopes, the dreamy Jesse Walker--is calling to answer one of the many questions he has bravely posed on his anonymous website. To his surprise, a clearly cloaked voice asks "is this the Lone Whackoff?"
A tingle runs down his spine and he says "Mr. Lonewhacko to you, but yes. Who is this?"
"This is Hugh Jazz. I'm calling with some information you might like, but I can't just come right out and say it--this line may be bugged. Is your refrigerator running?"
"Of course it is. And with American electricity."
"Then maybe you should go catch it!"
Whacko hears a burst of giggles. The phone disconnects and he stares at it.
"Why?" he wonders aloud, "Why would I have to go catch it? It is setting right here and it's not going anywhere. It can't move on its own."
Whacko gently begins to urinate himself as he turns back to his computer. He sorts through his notes, always taken in a code no Mexican could crack. The box of evidence is full and he is finally ready. Trembling with excitement, he begins the article that will bury La Raza once and for all:
The IllegalMexican plot to poison the American food supply with... CUMIN!