Surveillance Pelicana Chapter Twenty-Seven: ‘Savior of Suriname’

SURVEILLANCE PELICANA

BY

DAN WEISMAN

The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:

Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)

Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)

Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Mac discusses his visit to the beach.

Tyger and Armor’s talk about environmentalism and abortion

rights. Tyger investigates a topless club owner and others in

Morgan City. Then, the most amazing revelations concerning the

Mildred Baker case become public knowledge thereby solving many

of the riddles in the case and creating additional puzzles. Tyger

is acknowledged as the savior of Suriname. Upon revelation of the

fate of Armor’s cats, Sandy Alexander organizes a final

disposition of their fate.

 

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“Fun fun in the summer time. Fun fun in the summer time.

Ooh-Ahh-Ooh-Doh-Ooh-Ooh-Aahhhh … ”

“And those are the Beachy Balls, all you summer bummers out

there. This is the Mighty Tool. WTUL-FM N’awlins and I am not

telling you who I am.”

Tyger, sitting at Mac’s house on Tuesday July 19, 1988;

turns the radio heat up a notch. “I know who yo·u are asshole,”

Tyger informs the black boom box. “And I know where you live.”

“Oh what the hey line. You have reached the fun zone. I

am Mr. Milty to those uninitiated coming right at you babies.

You remember Captain Lockheed and the Starfighters album, I am

sure.

“Here goes Robert Calvert again with something more

appropriate to the heat wave that never ends. Viking aryans on

surfboards doing their worst Beach Boys imitation. It is noon and

I am out-a-here.”

So that is where Milty has been. He was hiding out in

plain sight at the least likely of places, ye olde public

airwaves.

“I have some good news and some bad news about our trip to

Pensacola Beach,” Mac tells Tyger.

“Good news first,” Tyger says.

“I simply live for the good news.”

 

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“The good news is Sarah and I went to the Dainty Del

Restaurant and had the best Oysters Rockefeller in the free world.

Then, we went to the beach all day and had an incredible amount

of fun.

“We swam to the sand bar for a starfish and rum. We danced

to the B-52’s. We barbecued on the beach. Everyone was jealous

that two people could have so much fun. It was great.”

“Ah, and the bad news?” “We decided to sleep on the beach

and had a bottle of liquid acid, maybe 60 hits worth. But we got

so loaded on rum drinks that we forgot all about it and swallowed

nearly the whole bottle.”

“That’s the bad news?” “That is bad news. We wasted

so much good clean ‘L’, but that is not the worst news.”

“The wind that was blowing in from the Gulf all day suddenly

died about midnight. We were attacked by swarms of killer

mosquitoes, biggest damn mosquitoes I ever has seen. We had to

run for dear life away from the beach to the car hitting

ourselves with towels.

“I must have been stung a million times. And it was just

when we were coming on to the megadose. Oooh. Hurts still to

think about.”

“Maybe you ought to file an insurance claim, haha,” Tyger

notes. “You probably had too much fun. What goes up must come

down. Primary principle of ars fortuna.”

 

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“Remind me not to hang around there when the wind dies,” Mac says.

“Put a damper on the evening. Oh well, we are going back to the beach next weekend.

Good to see Mac taking full advantage of the summer.

Armor’s, however, has been acting a bit stranger than usual

following the departure of Igor for the Big Apple.

Perhaps Armor’s feels the shallowness of the Big Easy’s cultural shores and has become a little antsy.

Maybe the heat is getting to him. Armor’s, like Tyger, takes a macho approach to the summer inferno.

Neither uses air conditioning at home.

Both have large fans set up in their respective spaces.

They sneer at the weaklings who must chill out constantly

in artificial cool-down mode; or as Henry Miller noted on a trip to New Orleans,

the air conditioned nightmare.

Tyger drops by Armor’s on Wednesday July 20 during visiting hours.

He engages the dear lad in friendly discourse over a couple of cups of blended espresso.

They definitely strike the sweet spot.

Number one point made during the ensuing conversation:

 

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Those assholes are destroying the ozone layer for future

generations just so they can feel temporarily comfortable.

Mention that to them. They pretend you are crazy.

Number two point: They use

hardly any electricity, but the surrounding pigs use so much in

their artificial cool-house environment that the horrible NOPSI

Nazi system constantly overloads causing frequent brown and black

outs.

(One little piggy with a Ray-Gun/Shrub bumper sticker on her

Japanese minivan said between puffs on a “You’ve come a long way

baby” Virginia Slims cancer death-shtick “Why don’t you run your

air conditioner? You are only hateful because you’re overheated.

That stuff about the ozone layer is a bunch of lies from

liberals.”

Armor’s had only one reply to make. “Liberal this bitch,”

flipping her a bird as she flew away horrified at his “rude”

behavior.)

Yeah, and it isn’t too rude to ruin everything for future

generations. Like the Louis Armstrong song relates, “I’ll be glad

when you’re dead you rascal you.”

 

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Unfortunately, it is not soon enough to save the planetary

environment. All we can do is our best for as long as possible to

keep from losing it completely.

Number three point: In a related topic of discussion, the

subject of the recent sit-in by anti-abortion hotheads at the

Delta Women’s Clinic on St. Charles Avenue.

Those pigs won’t let women go in for abortions and have to

be dragged away from the clinic entrance by the storm troopers,

for once on the side of natural law as well as order.

Armor’s makes the salient point that they give a shit until

the unwanted baby pops out and then their attitude is “I am out

of here. Yeah. They care about the unborn, but the born are

another matter.”

(“That damn crime and those shiftless negroes,” an antiabortion

fruit-and-nut-cake states in another persona on

Eyewitless News-Fake playing at Armor’s. “They are the reason

everything is disgusting here.”)

Armor’s fiddles around the shotgun apartment, producing

interesting items for Tyger’s approval. One is a detailed hand

 

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drawn map of the Pinnacles National Monument where he wants to go

for a while.

Another is a flyer from the Earth First! “environmental

freedom fighters.”

Armor’s wants to join an Oregon sit-in to stop the pig

commercial Ray-Gun commercial bulldozer buddies from destroying

trees harboring the wise and wonderful endangered Northern

Spotted Owl population.

The rape of the Spotted Owl is repeated throughout America

during the waning ye”rs of the Ray-Gun rip-off scam. It is the

same in the Sportsman’s Paradise, hahaha, of Lousyana where the

beautiful and ancient sea turtle is threatened by the wide nets

of brain dead commercial redneck fish exploiters.

Which would you prefer in your face — owls, turtles and

natural wonders; or assholes, losers and a scorched earth for

eternity? Tough choice.

Tell the fishermen to get a real job that does not harm

innocent wildlife to feed their fat consumptive lofe-style. They

are not after a decent living but an easy living.

Tyger walks into the kitchen area to grab a little skim milk

for his black chicory coffee that the boys have graduated to from

 

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the first espresso course.

He innocently opens the freezer compartment.

Two unusual brown paper objects sit in the back of the freezer.

Tyger looks with the eyes of a child not thinking too much of them.

He returns to the main room.

“Hey Armor’s,” Tyger mentions, oh by the way.

“You eating gourmet now? What are those wrapped objects in the back of the freezer?

They look like Cornish hen wannabees or something.

Planning a special super supper.”

“Ahhh,” Armor’s sudden eloquence concerning the environment

dissipates with this line of questioning.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, the things that are wrapped and look like cornish hens,” Tyer says.

Taste like chicken, eh?”

“Oh those,” Armor”s hesitates a one-two-three spell,

then blurts out missing information.

“Those are the kittens.”

Tyger does not quite grasp the moment.

“The kittens? What kittens?”

“The kittens from MacLand.” (Tyger spit take.)

What? Tyger had completely forgotten about the cute little kitties

Armor’s took under his wings all those months previously

for what turned out be some kind of keeping.

“You have the kittens wrapped up in the freezer?” Tyger asks at long pointed last.

“Ahh yeah,” Armor’s replies. “I had to. Remember that real cold spell in February?”

“Yeah.”

“They caught a horrible fever, cat pneumonia or something,

 

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died suddenly. I put them in the freezer,

so they would keep until I could bury them properly.”

“Why don’t you bury them right now? We’ll go out in the yard.”

“No, Can’t bury them.”

“Why not?”

Pregnant pause by Sir Armor’s Tungsten, performance artist,

before delivering the ultimate punch line.

“Don’t have a shovel.”

Ka-boom! Knock out.

Tyger takes under advisement this bizarre turn of events finally disclosed.

Strange behavior by Armor’s true, but dead kittens

will keep a bit longer lying in frozen state. They’re not going anywhere.

The investigative merry-go round is a different matter entirely.

Tyger goes to Lockport in Lafourche Parish on Thursday, July 22.

He sets up the system in a very nice location

about 30 yards away from the Albert Indelicato

green with white stripe house trailer.

Thank goodness. The trailer is set aside in a large dirt and gravel area,

no inconvenient nay-bores. What’s more,

a small pleasant cafe sits about 50 yards away from the trailer.

It has a large glass window fronting the big picture.

Looks like Tyger can spend much of the surveillance

 

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pelicana experience inside the cafe drinking coffee, yet

keep a close eye on subby-poo.

The frozen kittens in the freezer inspire Tyger

to order up  the luncheon special,

a very tasty barbecued chicken entree. What

is with that Armor’s anyway, Tyger considers while munching

lunch, watching the wonderful wide world of Indelicato.

Subject, white male, 30 years old, 5’11”, 190 pounds —

dimensions similar to the investigator — tinkers around the

trailer proper for a while, exhibiting no particular signs of the

debilitating right knee injury he claims. Tyger runs the system

for three hours as authorized before calling it a day.

Two days later on Saturday July 23, Tyger visits Morgan City

in the oil patch where he conducts a background investigation of

one James Nelson Norton; lately of the Honeymooners, right?

Wrong, Jackie Gleason breath.

Turns out the good Norton is a well known local “club”

owner. The clubs, in his case, are exotic dancer lounges at the

edge of town on Highway 90. Check, please, maitre-d’.

Norton’s most recent entrepreneurial venture is named,

appropriately, the “Hot Stuff Lounge.” Like the other four strip

joints at Morgan City’s red light district, Hot Stuff is a small

nondescript one-room shack hosted by an Oriental babe

looks Filipino — in short slit dress.

Tyger tells her the truth in this instance.

He is a poor old investigator gu

 

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just doing his routine job, conducting a background check of the owner.

He can’t say why because he doesn’t know himself.

No one knows anything about anything, of course. Tyger goes

about the vicinity performing his duties in a perfunctory

fashion. This isn’t really his cup of java.

Besides, not to belabor the all too obvious, the very name

“Hot Stuff Lounge,” more or less says it all.

In a nutshell, Tyger determines Norton had two similar clubs

that both mysteriously burned to the ground. He has been telling

associates he plans to open a new improved version of the Hot

Stuff in the near future, receiving the money.

but won’t say from where it comes from.

The only clues Norton has furnished associates is that the

money is coming from unnamed silent investors. Yeah right,

probably by the name of Mutual Insurance Corporation’s fire

protection fund.

Norton also has told a nearby car repair shop owner that the

Hot Stuff has been losing money which does not matter because he

is living on a tidy, but vague “allowance.”

Tyger concludes his investigation. He files a report to that

effect through the U.S. mail to Dorothy. He hope it gets there by

the end of the World Series.

 

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Ensues the usual weekend frolicking, baseball viewing and lifestyle functions.

No more sleazy strip show clubs, thank you very not

Then on a day like any other day except

for it being officially designated for our purposes as Tuesday, July 26, 1988,

Tyger continues in the usual way.

First stop after morning dress rehearsal,

an out of business real estate office down the street

where for some bizarre and inexplicable the reason

the Slimes-Picayune delivery person continues to leave a newspaper.

Tyger, good boy, retrieves it, then hikes around Audubon Park.

He returns home abut 10:40 a.m.

 

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At 11:15 a.m. “subject”  pours a cup of coffee,

sits down at his table watching aa Saturday Night Live re-run.

Hmm, it is from one of the good SNL’s.

Jesse Jackson hosts. Hahaha.

At 11:19 a.m. Tyger unwraps the newspaper rubber band,

removes the front section which he then unfolds.

At 11:20 a.m., glancing down Page One,

Te usual pack of lies beginning with

smiley yellow sun forecasting sunny skies,

temps in the mid-90s.

Considering fake is real, that can only mean

torrential rains. Forewarned

Today’s top story, man bites dog,

“Hansen’s Sno-Bliz great for summer.”

At 11:22 a.m., Tyger army half-notices a photograph.

It is the tattooed man from Mildred Bakers apartment.

Tyger sips some coffee.

‘Wait, what!!!

Stop the presses!

THE TATTOOED MAN FROM MILDRED BAKER’S APARTMENT. Ugh.

 

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Forget about the how for now.

This is the who, what, where, when, and why of all time.

Larry Bob Henley, 45,  of Senatobia, Mississippi,

is identified as the tattooed man as revealed by the Slimes-Picayune.

Is this some kind of sick joke?

Tyger motor controls his full attention span

to the inside story of insane explication now introduced for your consideration:

The picture hows Henley along with “James Michael Baker, 17, of New Orleans East”

being taken from a Ford minivan with Mississippi plates

at the Bogue Falaya Commercial Airfield near Hammond, Louisiana.

Two burly U.S. federal marshals escort our good buddies

An additional notation is appended: see story, Metro B-1.

D’uh. Seen.

Henley and Cook are among 14 persons charged in an alleged plot

to overthrow the government of Suriname.

Suriname? What the hell is that? Pancake syrup?

“Suriname is on the northeast coast of South America.

It gained independence from the Netherlands in 1975,

and is governed by Lt. Col. Desi Bouterse

who came to power in a 1980 coup.

He has been the target of four overthrow attempts.”

Fair enough. But what the hey-line.

 

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“All but one of the 14 were arrested July 25 on their way to

the Hammond airport where they were to board a plane for Suriname

to overthrow the military government, according to an indictment

filed by the U.S. Attorney at New Orleans.

Five men along with alleged ring leader Henley were charged

with conspiracy to violate the U.S. Neutrality Act which bars

United States citizens from invading countries with which the

U.S. is at peace.

They are also charged with conspiracy to carry a concealed

and deadly weapon onto an airplane, a misdemeanor that carries a

maximum of one year in prison and a $10,000 fine.

Evidence against the group consists of videotape recordings

and wiretaps of recorded conversations, as well as statements by

undercover agents and some of the defendants themselves upon

their arrest.”

Videotape recordings? Videotape recordings? Videotape

recordings? Yeah, right.

A lot of what Tyger witnessed during those three weeks in

June suddenly make a whole lot more sense. Like the meetings.

Like the weird redneck guys. Like the insane comings and going.

But one part of the story doesn’t yet jibe.

Mildred Baker’s connection?

And now, comrades, as Paul Harvey says, for the rest of the

story.

 

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The Marx Brothers, Three Stooges, aided

and abetted by Laurel and Hardy; Lewis and Martin,

Bozo the Clown, W.C. Fields and Buster Keaton

attempt to invade a bizarre Third World kleptocracy.

Tat-Man to Baker’s Rob-in, came up naturally enough

with a no-brainer. He intended to launch an all-out

night assault using mercenaries recruited through

Soldier of Fortune Magazine.

What could possible go right?

Henley’s Dutch oil executive overlords

planned to arrange a meeting with

— pease refrain from snickering —

the Surinamese Minister of Finance

to discuss instituting a Swiss-style

banking system with super-secret

confidential numbered accounts.

Henley’s mercenaries would pose as

— stop us if you heard of this before —

financiers.

They then would bring Bouterse into the meeting

Take him hostage or liquidate him

and voila’ Suriname at your pleasure, sir.

 

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Not one to rest on his dubious laurels,

Henley signed contracts with other private

individuals and foundations, including the Ansus Foundation of

the Netherlands, that would pay him a large amount of money if

the plan were successful. Or maybe it was the Anus Foundation

which would have been more appropriate to this mission.)

Henley also planned to bring in-country a large yacht filled

with Miskito Indians from Nicaragua who would act as support

troops. Those are the same Miskitos that fought alongside the

Contras.

The coup leader promised $500 a week for those Americans who

helped him in the operation with a $1 million bonus for any who

stayed to see it through. Maybe he had watched one too many reruns

of the movie “Walker,” or something.

Tyger had seen “Walker” plus the as yet not released version

of the Larry Henley show, live on tape from Morrison Road. One

might even consider the Tygermeister to be the world’s leading

expert on that particular score.

Henley true to American democratic values or a desire to

max out on looting planned to hold elections shortly after

taking over and install a Surinamese puppet official who would

follow his orders.

 

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Henley had lifted a play out of the Gipper’s Grenada game plan.

How fitting in the age of Ray-Gun with the great leader

urging Americans to take private initiative.

Yep, Henley figured he had it made in the shade.

Suriname would become his personal piggy bank.

And what an opportunity.

Consider the tale of the tape:

Suriname had 480,000 residents,

63,037-square miles,

slightly larger than the state of Georgia.

Guyana, a former British colony, to the west;

Brazil to the south, Atlantic Ocean to the north,

French Guiana, former home of Devil’s Island,

due west.

Suriname’s coast is flat where dikes permit agriculture.

Inland is a rain forest built with about 75 percent of the country

consisting of unexplored areas.

About one-third of the population

live in the capital city of Paramaribo.

The small nation’s wealth consists of

offshore oil and inland bauxite

attracting considerable interest and attention.

Not aiding the political security of the indigenous Creole­East Indian-Bush Negro populace

was the fact that Bouterse sought to keep all the wealth at home,

that is to say in his and associates’ pockets while international interests

wanted a shall we say — larger piece of the cake.

 

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Talk about a bad trade, sports fans. You thought the

Cubs made some losers. Consider the origins of Suriname.

The Netherlands acquired the property in 1667 from Britain

in exchange for that well known slice of pie from Hell’s Kitchen

drum roll please —

New Netherlands, known currently as New York City.

That’s right. Believe it or nuts. A straight-up one-for-one

transaction  –Suriname for the Big Apple.

No doubt still smarting from that apparent bad bad bad deal,

20th Century Dutch descendant uncles finally succeeded in forcing

the reluctant Surinamese into independence on Tuesday November 25, 1975.

Nearly 40 percent of the colony’s nationals then fled the new nation and the rest,

as they say, is history.

Kind of makes one misty-eyed, don’t you think?

The next day’s follow-up story, rudely pushed inside by the

evil newspaper demigods to Metro Section Page B-3, provided the

final missing pieces in the Mildred Baker jigsaw puzzle.

Baker was charged with conspiracy and violation of the

Neutrality Act and arrested at her Morrison Road apartment.

She claimed no knowledge of a plot.

Root a toot hoot. Knew nothing, her fat ass.

 

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The conspirators were meeting all that time at

Baker’s apartment. She was using insurance company

money to finance the revolution. Or something like that.

After all, comrades, an infinite possibility of conspiracy

theories were available. Joe Fine was a former member of the

Israeli Defense Forces. Could they be involved? What was Joe Fine

actually, insurance investigator or spy under cover?

Maybe the FBI was somehow involved in the set-up, or the CIA

working with Dutch interests to remove a hostile foreign

government in this hemisphere? (Reports had circulated recently

that the erratic Bouterse, a non-commissioned officer before

leading the coup, might go so far as to ally with Cuba.)

Or, these persons could just be complete loons, buffoons,

and fools. Otherwise known as occam’s razor.

Best available explanation of the scenario was that Baker

first decided to fake the injury.

Tyger’s tapes were part of the evidence of a three-pronged

 

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investigation that also used wiretaps and informants culminating

in the arrest of the Baker’s dozen cum 14. Hmmm.

That type of situation directly harked back to Joe Fine’s

explanation of the use of ghosts.

Tyger is merely happy his name has in no way been associated

publicly with any aspect of the investigation. He feels confident

the authorities want to grab all the credit, so they will never

mention his contribution.

While being the sub rosa the savior of Suriname

might be a very nice honor to enjoy,

those efforts had saved the evil Bouterse who continued

to oppress his people and steal the nation blind.

Oh well, comrades, can’t have everything. Tyger was a

mere technician hired under pretense.

He was only following orders.

In the final analysis, however, one might conclude Tyger had

performed a good deed after all. He saved the poor unwitting

citizens of Suriname from a fate possibly worse even than the

horrible Bouterse, a government of Mississippi rednecks

masterminded by the incredibly moronic Larry Bob Henley.

 

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Like these idiots ever were going to overthrow a

Third World nation. They couldn’t even tie their shoelaces, or

apparently keep Mrs. Baker in line.

(The final footnote comrades in “Dragnet”: They all pleaded

no contest to the charges. Nine of the 14 received suspended

three year sentences, three years probation, and small fines.

The young Baker was placed on 30 months probation with no fine.

Henley was slapped with two concurrent 30 month prison terms

and $10,000 fine.

Mrs. Baker was sentenced to one year and one day in prison

and placed on three year probation.

U.S. District Judge Lansing Mitchell was ”particularly angry

with Baker because she involved her 17-year-old son in the plot.”

“I’ve been on the bench for 20 years,” Mitchell said,

“this is about as far out a case as I’ve heard.”)

No shit, Sherlock.

(But you know what they say about unstable Third World

military governments. The sixth coup attempt is the charm.

 

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Bouterse was toppled the next try by a

successful coup plot.

Following 11 years in a Dutch prison, he

eventually resurrected his drug smuggling and political career

returning to the presidency by election from 2010 to 2020. )

The phone rang soon after the initial discovery of the

public side of Larry Bob’s tattooed activities. Dorothy was on

the line discussing the amazing details.

“Well, what do you know?” she said. “By the way, Joe gave

your tapes to the FBI. That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah. No problem. At least I understand the Baker case.

I sure didn’t last month.”

“And oh by the way, Joe needs the equipment back. Said

something about fine tuning, but I have the feeling there won’t

be any jobs for a while. Joe has been acting kind of funny

again.”

“Funnier than usual?” Tyger asks innocently. “Yeah funniest

ever,” Dorothy notes. “I think we can get him back to work. He

just needs a little rest. He is having a mid-life crisis or something.”

Say no more.

 

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I’ll bring the system back tomorrow,” Tyger said.

Understandably, Tyger is excited by the current news fake items

concerning his Mildred Baker adventure.

He drives by Sandy Alexander’s house to share

the latest in eye-witless new up-fakes,

in this rare case the real fake real item.

Sandy, cat and dog front door greet.

Sandy is watching the Braves-Expos game.

“Don’t blame me,” he says. “I’m from Atlanta.”

Details, details. Mulling over the Surinamese news.

In an unrelated news item, Tyger drops a mention

of what was discovered in Armor’s freezer.

Sandy plays aghast.

“Hold that thought,” he says, walking towards a closet.

“I got a shovel right here. Let’s go.”

 

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We got to bury those pussies.

This can’t hold. They had faces.”

Word. Sandy transports Tyger and

shovel toot sweetly to Armor’s pad. A sleepy keeper of the frozen

kitty mausoleum eventually answers the loud pounding of the grim

burial reapers on his door.

“We have come to bury those cats,” Sandy notes, bristling

with righteous outrage. “Uhhh, uhhh,” Armor’s stutters while

wiping nappy-time cobwebs from his opening eyes.

“Don’t have a shovel.”

“You do now,” Sandy says. “Where the kittens?”

Missing information.

“Uhh, in the freezer.” “Good.” Sandy followed by Tyger followed by Armor’s

second line in funereal procession march to freezer doorward.

Sandy flings open the metal door, retrieving the shrouded kittens.

“What were their names?” he asks in order to provide a brief

ceremonial eulogy.

“Didn’t have names,” Armor’s replies. “They died before I

could name them.”

“Fine.”

Sandy leads the processional outdoors to the weed overgrown

yard. He digs a three foot wide, four foot deep, hole in the

 

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sad black dirt.

“Why don’t we say a few words,” Sandy directs.

Armor’s watches from the nearby back porch in silence.

“For you the noble unnamed two who are about to meet your,

and our, maker,” Sandy reverentially observe. “We salute you.

Good luck and appropriate karma in all that inevitably follows.

Amen.”

Tyger and Armor’s agree with “ahem,” “ahem,”and the tall

thin lover of truth covers dead kittens with the rich Cajun Creole

soil.

“Thank God,” Sandy says as the three mourners return indoors.

“Couldn’t have slept knowing about this.”

Let us conclude this chapter, therefore, with the elevated

hope that perhaps a higher force considers our ultimate wellbeing

from cradle to grave.

Sandy took care of kitten disposal as such a higher power.

Perhaps powers higher even than Sandy Alexander, Tyger Williams,

and Armor’s Tungsten, to name but three poor wandering souls,

will take care of their earthly disposal and heavenly disposition.

At least, we can pray for as much, and let the chips fall

where they may.

Say hey.

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