Bang Gunley rides again.

Once again the unfortunate inspiration strikes to chronicle the Western adventures of Bang Gunly, Western Hero and saddle-sore specialist, as we have done earlier here and here. 

"BANG GUNLY RIDES AGAIN ONCE MORE"

by Frederick Key

Dedicated to Mike "Flangepart" Weller,

who created Bang and deserves the shame credit

Bang Gunly sat on the old hoss he called Irv, looking around to get a feel for the place. It was hot in Arizona territory, blisteringly hot, and dry as an Oxford don's jokes. But Bang was in Nebraska and he was freezing his behindular area off. 

"Hey, you!" came a voice from Bang's left. 

Bang casually put his right hand on his trusty six-shooter and turned to see who was talking. "What you want, mister?" 

"Get off'n that danged horse right now! It's my turn."

"Oh, yeah," said Bang. "Sorry."

Bang dismounted and let the little kid take a turn on Irv. Too bad Bang had run out of quarters. He'd found the mechanical horse soothing on his saddle sores. 

Bang sauntered away from the five-and dime and across the street to the quarter-and-dollar. He'd come to like this place well enough. Gold City, Nebraska, they called it, after the big silver strike that had been found by Herschel Gold. The silver mine petered out fast, but the name of the town kept bringing in prospectors who left their money behind as they ran out into the prairie with new supplies, looking for gold. 

Bang had a feeling that something wasn't right today, though. He'd always had a feel for trouble. And trouble always had a feel for him. It could be embarrassing if anyone saw them.

A yell from several doors down confirmed his hunch. "Help! Help!"

Bang hustled down the sidewalk, his boots galumphing along the wooden planks. His gun filled his hand by the time he arrived. 

It was the boot and shoe store, and the yeller was Lulu LaLou, the young lady who worked for her father, the owner. She was a nice piece of work, a corseted queen as loaded with buttons and bows as could make Bob Hope happy. Bang had been trying to get to meet her, and probably could have, but he was too cheap to buy new boots. "What's wrong, young lady?" he said.

"Trouble's afoot!"

"Yes, I know." Troubles Afoot was the name of the store.

"No, I mean we've been robbed! It's terrible! Someone has grabbed my pa and demanded the combination for the safe! When Pa wouldn't tell them, they dropped him in the outhouse hole!"

"That's terrible!"

"Please get him out!"

"I'll... go for help!"

As Bang arranged a party from the saloon to help with the disgusting rescue, he realized he'd seen this kind of dirty work before. There was one varmint who loved dumping his victims in the outhouse. And that varmint was the one and only Deuce Baggio.

🤠🤠🤠

Bang Gunly was just outside of Gold City, facing a pair of tents, one of whom held the man he wanted to see. He was tempted to just blast them both with his revolver, but he had to make sure. Not like that time in Minneapolis. That was a sticky situation.

"Deuce!" he yelled. "Come on out and say hello, you miserable skunk!"

The flaps on the two tents flew open. In the cold fading sunlight Bang could make out one face--it was Deuce. 

"Is that Bang Gunly I hear?" growled the miserable skunk. "This here's an honor, boys."

"I reckon we need to have a chat, Baggio."

With the clink and clank of spurs and firearms, Deuce Baggio and seven of his men arose from the tents. Bang tried to keep his eyes from bugging out, but he was thinking, How the hell did them fellers all fit in them tents? Maybe it was better not to know. Anyway, they all had guns and rifles out, pointing at Bang, and that seemed a little more urgent.

"How'd you find me, Bang?" asked Deuce through his mangy black beard.  

"Followed the bread crumbs from the bakery. On your way outta town you pinched a loaf."

"I sure did, and it was a good one," said Deuce. 

"You had a busy day," said Bang. "Went by the restaurant and took a dumpster. Find anything?"

"Just some old silverware."

"I heard you did number two."

"Yeah, the whorehouse at number two on Gold Street."

"Then you guys were heaving Havanas on the sidewalk..."

"We all enjoy a nice cigar."

"...saw a man about a horse..."

"Bill Jones, had a gelding named Oswalt."

"...left a floater in the outhouse..."

"I warned LaLou!"

"...released the Kraken..."

"Heh heh, didn't that bronco run wild!"

"...took the Browns to the Super Bowl..."

"And they said it couldn't be done!"

"Well, you've terrorized Gold City enough. You clear out of the county or else!"

"Or else what, Bang? Maybe you ain't noticed that we got twelve guns on you between us."

"And maybe you ain't noticed the fuse that's been burning this whole time."

Deuce Baggio and his men looked around in panic, but it was too late. The fuse had just run down on the dynamite that Bang had planted. Bang dove for cover behind a hillock as the explosion blew Deuce sky-high. Two other scoundrels were blown up a whole lot, one was blown up just a little, and the rest were dazed and blackened like Yosemite Sam on a bad day. They were easy for Bang to tie up and drag back to town for justice. 

The next morning, Bang and Lulu LaLou enjoyed a latte at the Gold City Trattoria and Bait Shop. The headline in the Gold City American Standard said GUNLY DROPS DEUCE.

"How brave, to face all those rapscallions and ruffians on your own!" said Lulu.

"Nuthin' any man with some guts and some dynamite couldn't do," said Bang. "How's yer old man?"

"He's doing well after his harrowing adventure," she said. "He wants to thank you personally!"

"Well, that's kind of him."

"Let's go," Lulu said, rising from the table. "Oh, you'll want one of these when we get to the house." She handed him a clothespin.

"I s'pose," he said, putting it on his nose. "Id's a berfecd fid."

🤠🤠🤠

Tune in next time for another adventure of Bang Gunly. No, I don't know when. We'll alert the media.

Basically the last four years.

 

Constantinople Mostly Peaceful.

AP (Monday, May 29, 1453): CONSTANTINOPLE -- After 55 days of unrest outside the capital of the Byzantine Empire, 80,000 mostly peaceful protesters breached the walls of Constantinople to demonstrate their displeasure with the corrupt officials in charge. Protesters reportedly were accompanied by aquatic dissenters in more than 130 boats of various types. 

The wrangling between Catholic and Orthodox church authorities was considered the responsible cause of the disruption in the city. The protesters, largely of the Ottoman minority, stated their concerns in no small way, feeling compelled ultimately to enter the area in unusual fashion and demand a voice in control of the municipal government.

"This has been a long time in coming," said Mehmed II, speaking to reporters on behalf of his constituents. "We have been patient long enough."

mostly peaceful

Reports that many valuable objects connected with denominational use went missing during the disruption, but it was not clear who if anyone was responsible.

During the mostly peaceful rally, some four thousand cloistered persons with cervices found themselves engaging in involuntary sexual actions, following which their heads were removed, but no group took responsibility for any involvement at press time.

By the end of the day, the city was said to be in control of the protesters, who declared that peace had been restored.

"This has been a great day for the freedom of oppressed people," said Mr. Mehmed II, joined by a young man named Jacob Notaras at the former Hagia Sophia. "They shall sing for many years to come that every gal in Constantinople lives in Istanbul, not Constantinople."

Cluck 'em.

I was thinking about our lovely New York legislature and the fine chap who runs our executive branch, and the mayors and governors of those municipalities that have been encouraging rioters to the detriment of the non-riotous community, and I got to wondering: Has anyone ever really been tarred and feathered? Just a hypothetical.

Well, Dr. Wikipedia is our first stop on this tour of knowledge. 

Tarring and feathering is a form of public humiliation and punishment used to enforce unofficial justice or revenge. It was used in feudal Europe and its colonies in the early modern period, as well as the early American frontier, mostly as a type of mob vengeance.
      The victim would be stripped naked, or stripped to the waist. Wood tar (sometimes hot) was then either poured or painted onto the person while they were immobilized. Then the victim either had feathers thrown on them or was rolled around on a pile of feathers so that they stuck to the tar.

Examples are given of specific times this has been known to have happened, such as the tarring and feathering of British Customs Commissioner John Malcolm in 1774. This was Malcolm's second experience with colonial displeasure. It seems to have gotten a reputation as a real American way to handle the wicked, even that early. 

The Straight Dope is listed as a source for a good deal of information in the article, so let's go see what Cecil has to say: 

Unlike its close cousin lynching, tarring and feathering usually wasn’t fatal. One historian says it was employed chiefly when a mob was feeling “playful.” But the victim usually had a lot less fun than his tormentors. A Tory assaulted by a mob in 1775 was stripped naked and daubed with hot pitch, blistering his skin, then covered with hog dung. In 1912 Ben Reitman, companion of the radical agitator Emma Goldman, was beaten by a mob in San Diego, then tarred and covered with sagebrush. Afterward he spent two hours cleaning off the worst of the gunk with turpentine and tar soap — just the kind of helpful hint we at the Straight Dope pride ourselves in providing. Hope you don’t have occasion to use it.

The question that neither of these articles answers, though, is -- why the feathers? 

Another source cited was from the legendary 1911 edition of the Encylopaedia Britannica:

TARRING AND FEATHERING, a method of punishment at least as old as the Crusades. The head of the culprit was shaved and hot tar poured over it, a bag of feathers being afterwards shaken over him. The earliest mention of the punishment occurs in the orders of Richard Cceur de Lion, issued to his navy on starting for the Holy Land in 1191. "Concerning the lawes and ordinances appointed by King Richard for his navie the forme thereof was this . . . item, a thiefe or felon that hath stolen, being lawfully convicted, shal have his head shorne, and boyling pitch poured upon his head, and feathers or downe strawed upon the same whereby he may be knowen, and so at the first landing-place they shall come to, there to be cast up" (trans, of original statute in Hakluyt's Voyages, ii. 21). A later instance of this penalty being inflicted is given in Notes and Queries (series 4, vol. v.), which quotes one James Howell writing from Madrid, in 1623, of the "boisterous Bishop of Halverstadt," who, "having taken a place where there were two monasteries of nuns and friars, he caused divers feather beds to be ripped, and all the feathers thrown into a great hall, whither the nuns and friars were thrust naked with their bodies oiled and pitched and to tumble among these feathers, which makes them here (Madrid) presage him an ill-death"." In 1696 a London bailiff, who attempted to serve process on a debtor who had taken refuge within the precincts of the Savoy, was tarred and feathered and taken in a wheelbarrow to the Strand, where he was tied to the Maypole which stood by what is now Somerset House. It is probable that the punishment was never regarded as legalized, but was always a type of mob vengeance.

So the feather portion of the program was to make sure everyone knew the thiefe or felon that hath stolen was covered in tar due to his lawlessness. Or so... presage the innocent with an ill-death? You lost me there, E.B. But the point was identification, that the victim be known that this was done on purpose, that he didn't just have a bad day at the tar office. I suppose the feathers also helped keep him from sticking to things that the mob didn't want him to stick to, but that does not seem to have been the main idea. Also, while I guess the treatment could be applied to cowards (rendering them more visibly "chickens"), it doesn't seem to have been done for that reason. 

If I were a leftist and was writing this piece and hinting strongly about a certain Orange Man, I would probably indicate that you could buy a five-gallon drum of roofing tar for $85 and bags of feathers for a five-spot, but neither I nor this blog would ever recommend or condone acts of actual violence on anyone except in defense of self or others. That sort of cute ha-ha-sorry-I-incited-the-mob-I'm-such-a-jokester crap deserves felony indictment but seldom gets it.

It's less violent to run someone out of town on a rail, by the way, but I still don't condone it. However, Lincoln is supposed to have gotten a good gag out of the practice. Lincoln got good stories out of a lot of things.

Riders of the Purple Nurple.

Looks like we're going to have another Western adventure of the one and only Bang Gunly. 

"BANG GUNLY vs. GANG BUNLY"

by Frederick Key

Dedicated to Mike "Flangepart" Weller,
who has no one but himself to blame for this

Bang Gunly rode his loaner horse into town. The sign, hanging by one nail on the left, said Lonesome Ridge. Sounded nice. He needed a spot to rest a spell. This ol' nag wouldn't take him too much farther without it, and the shop said his palomino wouldn't be ready until morning. Naturally all they had on the lot was an ol' three-legged draft horse named Shirley. 

He hoped he could enter Lonesome Ridge without being seen. Guys were always challenging Bang to a gunfight. He was tired of having to kill 'em. Plus, Shirley was kind of embarrassing. At least he was wearing a mask. Since the Chinese Tumbleweed Flu came to the West, the territories all had rules to wear masks to Stop the Spread and Flatten the Curve. What the goldang heck was the curve, anyway?

"That's one strange horse you got there, mister."

Bang looked up. Speaking of curves! Before him was a fine young lady, built like a brick shipyard under government contract. She had an hourglass figure filled with two hours' worth of sand. Indescribably delicious. And her eyes... uh...

"Up here, mister."

Brown. They were brown.

"Good evening, miss," said Bang, alighting from his saddle with a tip of the hat. He spat a bit of 'baccy juice, which was a mistake in his mask. "And what might your name be?" he asked, digging for a tissue.

"Lululubelle," she said. "Lululubelle Horowitz. I own Only Saloon in Lonesome Ridge."

"What's it called?"

"The Only Saloon in Lonesome Ridge."

"But what's it called?"

"The Only -- you know, never mind. This here's Gabby, my bartender."

Gabby, an older man with a big Mexican style hat and a lanyard with his union badge (Gabbys Local 135), said, "Ayup."

"You a gunslinger, stranger?" asked the comely lass.

Bang shifted his weight manfully and said, "Now how might you know that, missy?"

"Oh, the way you carry yourself with a swagger. The way you jump to the ground with your spurs jingling harmoniously in E and A flat. And the two six-guns at your waist, the shotgun on your back, and the Winchester rifle in your boot."

"Don't fergit the Derringer in my hat band."

"Nice touch. I could use a man like you."

"Hey-O!"

"I mean for fightin'." She fluttered her eyelashes flutteringly. "There's a gang terrorizing Lonesome Ridge, a group of bushwackin' sidewinders called Gang Bunly. I'm sick of them shootin' up my place. Can you take 'em?"

"Gang Bunly!" said Bang Gunly. "That's got kind of a familiar ring."

"It should!" came a craggy voice behind him. Bang spun about to see a foursome of desperadoes, armed to the teeth, which were covered by stolen N95 masks. The big one, a fat greaseball with a flowing mustache that threatened to eat his mask, said, "It's me, Bang! Your cousin, Gang Bunly! And this here is my gang I named after myself!"

The gang made evil noises, and farted just to be more evil.

"Three ain't much of a gang, cuz," said Bang.

"We're just gettin' started. It's more'n enough to take a dumbbell like you."

Bang squinted. "Smile when you say that, pardner."

"I am smilin', you dummy! I got this damn mask on is all! Now you better clear outta here or my gang will plug you where you stand, and your three-legged horse!"

"Now you done gone too far!" said Bang. In the blink of a skeeter's eye he whipped out his two six-shooters and blasted eight holes in three bandits. Do the math. Show all work. 

Gang Bunly found himself standing alone. "You're still handy with the irons, Bang," he said.

"Don't you threaten to kill that horse. I'll never get my palomino back."

Gang snarled. "They'll probably blame you fer that dent in her rear."

Bang snorted. "How's yer old man?"

Gang said, "Toler'ble. Bunions acting up. My sister just had a baby. Little boy named Dang."

"That's right nice."

"How's your ma?" Gang said.

"She's fine."

"Glad to hear it," spat the villain. "She's good people. But she's gonna have to bury her third-favorite son if you don't clear out."

"I'm a-stayin," said Bang.

Gang reached for the guns on his belt. "Oh, yeah?"

"This here town ain't big enough for the two of us," Bang growled.

"Ah reckon you're right," sneered Gang. "What town is?"

Bang thought for a moment. "Phoenix?"

Gang nodded. "Okay."

So they moved to Phoenix and each got a nice little place. Bang got a split-level with utilities included, and Bunly got a two-story walkup still under rent control. 

After they were gone, Lululubelle said, "Who was that masked man?"

"Consarn it, Lululu!" yelled her bartender, Gabby. "How in tarnation should I know? We're all wearin' masks!"

Mob Mechanics.

I sent a letter to the editor of Popular Mechanics. I would have liked to send a punch in the nose, but you can't mail that, and besides I'm to busy to face charges. God knows there are a lot of people who would benefit from a punch in the nose, but God also did not appoint me to the job of distributing them.

This is in response to a ghastly story posted to the magazine's site, giving instructions to the mindless know-nothings terrorizing our cities about how best to tear down statues "using science." Because mob rule is allowed to trump civilization if the mob is really, really having a tantrum and can't even, apparently. There is some thought that the piece is satire, but it doesn’t strike me that way — and it’s hard to believe a magazine from Hearst, home of condescending wokeness, would dare satirize the mobs.

Here is what I wrote:

Dear Editor:

Have you absolutely lost your minds?

Popular Mechanics is a magazine about building, about human achievement, and you run a story catering to the mindless mob?

Next up: E-Z Molotov Cocktails! Zip Guns for Children! How to Lay Siege to Government Buildings! Make Your Statement with the McVeigh Method!

You ought to be ashamed, but since you work for Hearst, I suppose that’s impossible.

-Fred Key

If you are inclined to weigh in on the subject, pro or con, I suggest you let the editor know your feelings care of editor@popularmechanics.com. Or you can write to the glass house that Hearst spends its days in near Columbus Circle (soon to be Indigenous Persons Circle, I suppose) in Manhattan:

Gee, nice building. I sure hope
the woke mobs don't decide it's
"problematic." 

Popular Mechanics
300 West 57th Street
New York, NY 10019

I've never worked for that particular magazine, but I've always admired its dedication to the art and science of engineering and tinkering. Now it wants to be on the side of brutal, stupid destruction. The editors have chosen poorly.

Dreary Tunes.

NB: Naughty language.

HOLLYWOOD (June 8) -- Officials at HBO Max announced today some further changes to the new lineup of Looney Tunes cartoons, following last week's announcement that henceforth guns would be removed from all cartoons in an attempt to help the network look like it cares about gun violence in America.

"After much soul-searching, or something like that, we decided we needed to use the unbeatable platform of classic Looney Tunes characters to advance socially progressive causes beyond just not shooting one another with firearms like bitter, swamp-dwelling Bible-clinging yahoos," said Assistant to the Assistant Vice President Van Der Meer Snorglet. "Even characters who are bitter, swamp-dwelling Bible-clinging yahoos will eschew the boomsticks going forward. But that's not enough."

Other changes announced for the famed cartoon characters include:

1) While characters may not use guns against each other, they may use knives, scythes, swords, and so on. This has proved to be a perfectly good trade-off in real-world locations like the United Kingdom.

2) Daffy Duck is hereby known as Duck of Color or a Black Duck and is no longer daffy in any meaningful way.

3) Any character that dresses as another gender for any reason will hereby be considered gender fluid and scripts will be written to reflect this truth.

Cheerleader Samantha

4) Characters may still blow things and one another up, but the explosive fallout will remain in place even after their regeneration to reflect the reality of environmental destruction through use of chemicals.

5) Ableism will have no place in our cartoons; therefore Porky Pig, now Body Positive Pig, will not stutter but have a speech expression difference.

6) Pepe Le Pew is forever banned from any participation in any cartoons of any kind, and this will be the last-ever mention of his horrible full name. #metoopepe

7) Electric or robotic rabbits sent to entrap Bugs will now be composed to appear traditionally male.

8) Future episodes will include references to important cultural touchstones: "Occupy Fudd"; "Broken Food Chain"; "Pronoun Trouble"; and "It's a Regular Riot!"

9) Muttered cursing by characters such as Yosemite Sam and the Tasmanian Devil have long been feared to contain hidden racial insults; therefore they will be replaced by neutral, common non-offensive swear terms like "Fuck you," "Eat shit and die," and "See you in hell, goddamn motherfucker."

"We know our viewers will just love parking their kids in front of our cartoons," added Snorglet. "And our creative staff is thrilled for the challenge. What's freedom of creation when compared to moving society in the proper direction?"

Two fires.

On Friday, the Great Lileks of Minneapolis closed his blog to comments for the first time I can remember since he began allowing comments. He had written a heartfelt entry about the riots racking his beloved city. I think he knows how much his regular gang of Bleatniks feels for him and his town, but I think he didn't want to have to deal with trolls. Maybe he didn't even want to deal with sympathy. When something hurts to a particular degree and there's no means of relief, sometimes you have to endure it in solitude.

Today is Pentecost Sunday.

When the time for Pentecost was fulfilled, they were all in one place together.
And suddenly there came from the sky a noise like a strong driving wind, and it filled the entire house in which they were.
Then there appeared to them tongues as of fire, which parted and came to rest on each one of them.
And they were all filled with the holy Spirit and began to speak in different tongues, as the Spirit enabled them to proclaim.

The description of the visible effect of the Holy Spirit's descent, tongues as of fire, is particularly powerful. Fire burns, but energizes; it gives life; it gives light. Before the nineteenth century we lived in a world lit only by fire. But it is dangerous.

The other fire we see today is lit by rioters who mostly don't care about the initial cause of their anger. I don't think the arsonists just want to see the world burn, although the high spirits of destruction adore that sort of thing. This is the spirit of the other kind of fire, born in hate, not in love as on Pentecost. The kind born in love endures all things, turns the other cheek when struck, forgives its persecutors. The kind born in hate despises its own nation and people, destroys the homes and livelihoods of innocents. The authorities could take a page from those who have us COVID-19 and do a Tienanmen Square on them, but they won't even take reasonable responses let alone unreasonable ones. 

This insane year has seen plenty of fevers, but is now reaching a fever pitch. I think our friend PLWoodstock surmised on Lileks's Thursday page that a lot of this destruction may be fueled by quarantine frustration too, and I agree. Violent, greedy, foolish actions are what we can always expect from a mob, but this is another level, the fire fueled by insanity as well as anarchy. And it started in the state known as the nicest in the country.

I know that people are legitimately angry about the issue that sparked this whole thing, and many may cite the famous but anonymous maxim popular with abolitionists: Fīat jūstitia ruat cælum, "Let justice be done though the heavens fall." But who will dole out justice to those who are burning businesses, homes, low-cost housing that belonged to or was meant for their neighbors?

Nothing much can be done from my desk but pray. Come, Holy Spirit, and renew the face of the earth.

Gunfight at the TP Corral.

I think that current events are making me wacky. I sat down to write and this happened.

"BANG THE GUN GUNLY"

by Frederick Key

Dedicated to Mike "Flangepart" Weller

Bang Gunly rode his palomino into town one morning. It was cold, but dusty; windy, but quiet; clear, but cloudy. The weather was just like the palomino. Gunly was cold but dusty himself, and always windy. He signaled the turn and pulled into the lot of the Costcorral. He tied up the horse and cast a steely-eyed eye around. Gunly was a man with a mission. 

Gunly's spurs tinkled heavily as he paused at the swinging doors of the Costcorral, and then, with a single thrust of his manly arm, he pushed them open. He sauntered in, timing his saunter perfectly with the swing of the doors. For years as a young man he had been smacked by swinging doors mid-saunter, until a dance teacher in El Paso had helped with his timing. Gunly would always remember that he owed Rolf a favor. 

The keeper of the Costcorral was standing at the desk, barely. He had bags under his eyes, bigger than the bags at the checkout line. His tie was loose as Oklahoma City morals, and his hair was sticking out around his eye shade like a poorly trimmed juniper bonsai. Gunly could guess why. The shelves around them were almost empty. Not one can of pork 'n beans, nor porkless beans, nor beanless porks could be seen. Obviously there'd been a run on the stock. Maybe the shopkeeper had made some dollars, but paid with his health.

"Howdy," said Gunly, moseying up to the counter. (Rolf had helped him with that, too, in Advanced Moseying.) "Reckon your place looks picked pretty clean, pardner."

"You reckon right, stranger," said the keeper. "I reckon we're wrecked by reckless wreckers. Folks're panic-buying on account o' the Grody Grippe. We have a little inventory, but not much."

"I'm just a-lookin' for one item that we need back at the camp," said Gunly. 

"Not beans, I hope. We're beanless."

"Nope, plenty o' beans. But that's why we need us some toilet paper. Got any?"

"Let's see." The shopkeeper wearily took himself to the ladder behind the counter, where he climbed up to see the back shelves of the store. "Why, yes, I see we got two megapacks back there, mister, although a lady is picking one up now."

"That's fine," said Gunly. "Me 'n the boys need just one. We recycle."

"Wait!" said the shopkeeper. "There's another cowpoke back there -- and he just knocked the woman down! And he's grabbed both megapacks! And he's a-running this way!"

"Waaaalll, ain't that a rude thing to do," said Gunly.

Sure enough, a second later the varmint emerged from behind the shelves, carrying the two megapacks. He was a big hombre, looked strong and tall, but other details were hidden behind the combined 440 rolls of TP he was bearing in his arms. "Gangway!" the sidewinder growled. "I'm a-needin' this butt paper, and don't no one try to stop me!"

"Help!" cried a slightly bruised lady, rushing after him. She was pretty, with curly brown hair, a big hat, and a blue dress that was tight in the right places and right in the tight places. "That beast knocked me over and stole my hygiene product!"

The shopkeeper tried to get down the ladder quickly, but got his foot caught in the rungs and hit the ground hard, knocking the fight out of him. Gunly alone stood between the bushwhacker and his escape. He calmly spat on the floor, clasped his belt, and said, "You drop the heinie wipes and apologize to the lady pronto, mister."

"Yeah?" growled a voice somewhere behind the 440 rolls. "Who's gonna make me?"

"Name's Gunly. Bang Gunly."

"Well, I don't care if your name is Archduke Franz Ferdinand Carl Ludwig Joseph Maria of Austria, I'm a-headin' out that door!"

"Slap leather!"

"Psaw, Leather don't like that!"

"I mean go for yer gun!"

"How? Now git, you busybody, or I'll stomp you!"

"You been warned. Reach for the sky!"

The rapscallion just barked, "One side! I'm a-swipin' and I'm a-wipin'!"

Calmly, with one fluid motion and two solid motions, Gunly whipped out his six shooter and fired into the rolls. The bandit flew backward off his feet from the force of the .600 bullet, landing on the wooden floor like a sack of pianos. Blood began to flow, quickly sopped up by the toilet paper.

"My hero!" said the brunette, stepping on the varmint's hand as she ran to Gunly.

"Ow," said the varmint, weakly.

"M'am," said Gunly, tipping his hat with his left hand while holstering the pistol with his right. 

She slammed into him like a linebacker, kissing him on his grizzled cheek. "You've saved the orphans! They had not a single piece of toilet paper among them. And the newspaper doesn't come out until Sunday! Thank you, Gang Bunly!"

"Bang Gunly," wheezed Gunly. "Just doin' my job."

"Could someone help me up?" moaned the shopkeeper.

"I think I bled on all the paper," croaked the varmint.

Tune in for another adventure of Bang Gunly... well, maybe never. Who knows with this blog.

But if you DO want to read some more Fred stories, don't forget that TODAY AND TOMORROW ONLY, my novels for Kindle and Kindle software are available FREE FREE FREE from Amazon! Be sure to tune in next week for a special announcement as well. And remember -- no matter how much you want that TP, varmintry does not pay.

Kiss da hand?

My wife got a lovely set of gloves for Christmas, quite glamorous, and enjoyed showing them off to me. She waved her hands in a most ladylike fashion, and I gently took the proffered hand and touched my face toward it, in a most sophisticated way.

"You didn't kiss my hand," she said.

"No, I did not," I said. "I heard long ago that one doesn't actually apply the lips to the hand, but dips the nose down and makes no contact."

I can't believe I knew something about etiquette that she did not. I don't know where I got that tidbit. but it is backed up by no less an authority than Miss Manners, who describes it thus: "the gentleman who kisses the air above a matron's hand (never an unmarried girl's) in the European equivalent of a handshake". In another place (I recall not where) I have read that the nose may tap the back of the hand gently, but I think it best to keep my nose to myself.

All of this brings out my own inner Manners man -- New Yawk Mannahs Guy, who knows how to behave an' stuff.

"Suppose youse just had some wings or sumpin', or maybe a greasy slice from Maroni's, always greasy in there, capisce? You're goin' to a fancy shindig but you think they might have dem little tiny little 'hor dervs,' like baby mouse food on a cracker, and you gotta eat first or you'll be stahvin'. Now ya mout is all sloppy, but you go into the place and meet some classy broad who holds out her glove like you should kiss it, you know? Well, you're not supposed ta go wipin' your mouth off on her like some pig, much as you wanna get the grease off. And you ain't gonna go blowin' your nose or nothin' on it, either. You're a freakin' human bein', not a cocker spaniel, right? Don't go sniffin' or lickin', just nod your head down witout makin' contact and then give back the hand. Don't go tryin' to hold on to it like a souvenir from the boardwalk at Beach Haven. Whadda ya, stupit or sumpin'? You do that and you might wind up kissin' da mat, like you got some other glove in ya face."

Kapow! Right in da mout. 

So as you can see, just because I grew up in the city doesn't mean I don't know anything about manners. I'm still a little shaky on a few things, though. I don't know which fork is supposed to be used to jab the hand of your buddy when he reaches across the table for the bread. The shrimp fork is too small, but the others all seem to work. Any advice?

Death by fruitcake.

Halfway through December I mentioned the danger of springing fruitcake on an unsuspecting public, and commenter Dan (hi, Dan!) noted that he, like us, enjoys fruitcake. We used to get the Freihofer's fruitcake, which is the one my wife used to bring me over to the dark side, but they were bought by Mexican baking giant Bimbo, who proceeded to get rid of Freihofer-branded confectionery goods and concentrate on ruining their breads. So, we started to cast about to either find a good replacement or a good recipe.

Here is the one that we tried last year successfully; King Arthur Flour, which is trying to differentiate itself from the Gold Medals and Pillsburys of the world by spreading misinformation about bleached flour, nevertheless has fine recipes, including this one. The only change we made this year was to up the spice level, add some cardamom, clove, and ginger, and use a layer of pfeffernusse icing rather than syrup for a topping. The finished product:

It is a moist, flavorful cake, loaded with good fruit (none of that weird candied peel or other hard bits), and feels like a dessert, not a chore. You can booze it up, but our version had to be boozeless for a varied audience, so we stuck with cranberry juice as the liquid ingredient. We intend to take some with us to a post-Christmas gathering to help convince the scoffers.

Fruitcake is an interesting substance, as it is one of the few foods that meets my Can It Kill? test. That is, is the object at hand mobile enough and hard enough to kill a guy? This is what comes of growing up watching cop shows and reading mystery stories.

Objects that pass the test include a hammer (hard, mobile), bullet (hard, mobile), Buick (hard, mobile), and knife (hard, mobile). Objects that fail are cookie (soft or brittle), piano (immobile), and bed sheet (gentle). Cheese is debatable; the wheel would have to be very large.

The batter for this cake weighs a ton, but can be lifted by the healthy, and if you dropped the bowl on someone's head I think it might kill him. However, I would suggest that you not hire a mob cannon who specializes in fruitcake murders. That kind of M.O. is easily traced by the cops, and a guy like that is going to sing, I am certain of it.

Besides, good fruitcakes are better for eating than murder. I think if I start a bakery, that will be my slogan.

Protestland!

Hey, folks! Summer’s coming, and soon your little darling will be back from college, ready to confront everybody about whatever social justice issue the kids have been on about in the last five months. Why not give them what they want this summer? Send your snowflake to PROTESTLAND!

Yes, PROTESTLAND, the Protestiest Place on Earth™! All the kids have sads that they were not able to be gassed and firehosed over real civil rights issues in the past. But at PROTESTLAND they can enjoy all the fun of protesting things without any actual risk to their comfortable lifestyles and inflated self-regard! Help them fight the white cis-normative patriarchy in a 100% safe space. Your little adult tots can enjoy themselves while you catch up on their laundry.

Here are just some of the attractions PROTESTLAND has to offer:

👊Wailing Wall: A safe place for kids to scream their little hearts out about everything bad in this bad bad world!

👊Nonthreatening Attack Dog Petting Zoo: Don’t want your child to face real attack dogs, right? With our well-trained attack puppies, they can enjoy the thrill of being hounded for their principles without actual hounds. Protestland Police Pups: Killing… with cuteness!

👊Sugar-Glass Storefront Smash: Breaking storefronts while running amok is dangerous! That broken glass can give you a terrible cut. But our storefronts have completely cut-free sugar glass, so your little revolutionary can crash the party without a bit of harm. Talk about your social justice -- you can even eat detritus! (Note: Objects looted in the raid are added to the price of your child's stay.)

👊Firehose Water Slide: 300 PSI… of fun!

👊Whack-a-Nazi: Who deserves whacking? Nazis! Who’s a Nazi? Whomever we say is a Nazi! The popular Whack-a-Nazi game lets Protestland Pals release some violence on pop-up dummies in brown shirts, white sheets, black shorts, MAGA hats, all kinds of things. But they have to be quick—those Nazis are slick!

👊College Admin Dunk Tank: Prepare them for the return to school with the Dunk Tank, just one of many activities designed to help them keep those college administrators in line. Hey, you can’t have a cultural revolution without breaking some eggs. Also featured: Harass a Dean, Bump a Bursar, and Adjunct Professor Piñata. 

👊Occupy Everything!: While staying at Protestland, guests enjoy wonderful accommodations reminiscent of the storied 2011 Occupy movement, only with working bathrooms and no rape. (Guards standing by discretely.)

👊Bonfire of Inanities: Every evening the kids gather 'round the ol’ fire pit and burn books, art, movies, flags, effigies, and other things that oppress them. Smoke filters above the pit prevent pollution or secondhand smoke.

💣🔥💪😊

Remember, folks, PROTESTLAND is the only amusement park guaranteed not to harm your child in any way, even by the simple exposure to the fact that decent people may have different beliefs. Best of all, you won’t have to deal with them for a couple more weeks!

PROTESTLAND’S A HARMLESS RIOT

WHILE YOU ENJOY THE PEACE AND QUIET

Would you....

This meme and ones like it have been making the rounds, and I thought I'd share my thoughts, or whatever they are.

Fifty million dollars to shoot your best friend in the leg. Seems tempting, especially if you are the kind of person who is not that close to your friends.

Most of the responses I saw to this -- and that's what I get for looking at comments sections -- were along the lines of either "I'll split the money with my friend and he can afford the best doctors" or the more generous "After we get my friend the best medical treatment we'll split the rest."

Some people try to alter the implied context here, assuming perhaps they are dealing with magical fairies who will have to abide by every word of the agreement:

"I'll shoot him... with a BB gun!"
"I'll shoot him... with a Kodak!"
"I'll shoot him... underwater!"
"I'll name a serial killer as my best friend and I won't care if he dies!"
"I'll name the person with all the money my new best friend!"

These people would be paid off in Monopoly money.

To play the game we have to take it on its face value -- say for some reason an evil and eccentric billionaire (let's call him Beff Jezos) decides it would be fun to see if he can bribe people to use deadly force on their closest friends, maybe to prove people will do anything to get rich. We will assume that he's good for the money and will pay off. The meme doesn't specify the type of gun, although the image shows a rifle; clearly it has to be something of a type and caliber that would be seriously dangerous. Further, we can stipulate that the shot would have to be taken at a reasonable distance; people trying to cause a flesh wound from right next to the friend are essentially playing Operation: The Wacky Doctors Game, and again would be paid in toy money.

Most of those writing comments were willing to accept these conditions, which surprised me. Either they knew nothing about guns except what they'd seen on shows like 24, or they had handled firearms and figured they were good shots and could avoid hitting anything serious.

The problem is, with a leg, everything can be serious.

Jack Bauer would plug a guy in the leg to stop him without killing him, but real-life cops know that the word for shooting a guy in a leg is: Kill. Yes, they train to hit the central body mass and not the legs, but that doesn't mean legs are made of Play-Doh. A shot to the femoral artery can be deadly in minutes.

Okay, so you're a great shot. Mr. Jezos ("Beffy" to his pals) hands you a .30-06 and stands your best friend at the 50-yard line and tells you to shoot your BFF in the leg -- take as many shots as you need. And you're thinking, Don't hit the femoral artery or Bill/Joe/Alice/Jezebel could bleed out before help arrives! (Jezos is not paying to have medical staff on hand -- that's not part of the deal.) Here's the location of the femoral artery:

Thanks to Kenhub for the art.

Yeah, I'm sure you'll totally miss it, no problem. And you won't hit the bone either, which could slice the artery, although the femur is the largest bone in the body. And if somehow you cut that huge artery but manage to save your friend's life, you can help him or her pick out a really expensive prosthetic.

And then there are infections, chronic pain, and other fun effects of taking a bullet in the leg. If people survive the injury they may get better, but they surely don't all get well.

For me, what it comes down to is: Why are you letting someone pay you to do something reprehensible? We all do things we don't want to do for money -- that's why it's called work and not play. But we would say we wouldn't want to do anything cruel or evil for money. And here were all these people ready to do just that. How much more would Beffy have to pay for you to not tell your friend about the deal until after the shooting? How much extra to shoot your friend in the arm, too? How much more to shoot your mom in her leg? To shoot a stranger in the head? At this point it's just negotiating the details.

It's fun to think of ways to spend fifty million dollars, but that's the wrong end of the equation. Never let anyone pay you to do something revolting. It does things to us. In this example, the shooter's injuries may wind up more painful and long-lasting than the injuries of the victim.

Snickers satis-fights.

Since I had the worst chocolate ever in yesterday's entry, I thought I'd mention a new and delicious chocolate today, one that inevitably will cause fights.

The new Snickers & Hazelnut bar is terrific, if you like Snickers and if (and that's a large, macho if) you like hazelnuts.

This has become quite the thing, because people who like hazelnuts like them, but people who dislike them HATE them. Why?

In a word: Coffee.

When I was a wee tot, hazelnuts attracted no strong feelings. Brazil nuts were more likely to set brother against brother than hazelnuts. The first time I remember tasting one was in a chocolate candy, and I thought it was great. But that was before hazelnut coffee became a thing.

At one point in the 1980s, flavored coffees became huge across this great land of ours. Many flavors were tried, everything from amaretto to chocolate to orange to mint to sardine (maybe not so much the sardine), but two came to rule the field: vanilla and hazelnut. And hazelnut coffee, unlike vanilla, is extremely pungent.

I don't know why nut scents travel so far, but they do. Anyone who's been in a big city at yuletide when vendors are roasting chestnuts, or been near a nut-roasting place in the mall, knows that you can smell that stuff for half a mile. It's so potent that many people with peanut or nut allergies fear that they can get an allergic reaction from the odor. Fortunately, as Nemours tells us, "allergic reactions just from breathing in small particles of nuts or peanuts are rare because the food needs to be digested to cause a reaction. Most foods with peanuts in them don't allow enough of the protein to escape into the air to cause a reaction. And just the smell of foods containing peanuts won't produce a reaction because the scent does not contain the protein. In very rare cases when people do react to airborne particles, it's usually in an enclosed area (like a restaurant) where lots of peanuts are being cracked from their shells. The person inhales and then swallows the protein, which can lead to a reaction when the protein gets digested." Still, I would expect that the strong nut or peanut smell is disconcerting for those who suffer dangerous allergic reactions.

The backlash against flavored coffees seemed to begin in stores like the A&P and fine coffee establishments where beans were fresh-ground on the premises. Just as a garlic bagel makes all the other bagels in a bag into garlic bagels, so too would a pound of hazelnut coffee beans turn every bean run through the grinder afterward into hazelnut coffee. Hazelnut lovers became the lepers of the coffee world. If it weren't for the invention of the Keurig pod, I think violence might have broken out.

But the Keurig did not magically appear in offices overnight. Which meant that hazelnut fans who used shared coffee facilities once again wore a target on their backs. Because even if you had a dedicated Mr. Coffee for those Hazel Nuts (as I imagine they called themselves), the room would invariably smell like hazelnut coffee.

My wife hates hazelnuts because years ago some idiot burned a pot of hazelnut coffee in her office, leaving the pot on with a little on the bottom and reducing the hazelnut java to a goopy, oily, smoky mess. They almost had to evacuate to get away from the stink. Since then she's hated hazelnuts, hazelnut coffee, and everyone who drinks hazelnut coffee.

I didn't work at that office. I still like hazelnuts, and I really enjoyed this Snickers. I'm not a fan of flavored coffees, though, although I don't feel like throwing punches over them.

But if your garlic bagel gets in the same bag with my cinnamon raisin, things are gonna get fisty.

Rah.

Dads and movies.

We were chatting on Father's Day about dads in movies. especially in modern movies, where they seldom cover themselves in glory. If it's a comedy, you know Dad will be a dumbbell; if it's a drama, Dad will probably be an estranged man who constantly looks at his progeny with a sad, wistful face. Usually George Clooney's face.

If it's an action or adventure picture, Dad typically doesn't exist. I don't think we know anything about the fathers of Rick Blaine or Barry Kane or Jack Burton. Other dads in these films are all bad -- serial killers or evil scientists or those deep into the dark side of the Force.

But we do get to meet some dads in action or adventure movies; let's see how they made out.

Taken, Bryan Mills

It's hard to be a father when you're off killing people for the CIA all day. Bryan misses all his daughter's school plays and birthday parties, but can be counted on to spill all of the blood of her tormentors when needed. He's surprisingly sharp considering that his ex-wife and child seem to be able to bamboozle him at will early on in the film. I guess he's okay, but maybe he wouldn't have had to kill so many people if he just had cultivated different father skills in his career.

"I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are
looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what
I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired 
over a very long career. These include double-entry bookkeeping,
compliance with Internal Revenue Service regulations, lawn mower
maintenance, a bowling  average of 158, and the ability to shave with
a straight razor."

Thor, Odin

You think being a human dad is tough? Try being the immortal father of the Norse gods. The kids never leave the house. And all they ever do is party and fight.

Odin is known as Allwise, the god who famously sacrificed an eye in his quest for wisdom, but you'd hardly know it in this picture. He overreacts to his son being a doofus (like that was something new) and exiles him to earth, a move that will result in all sorts of mayhem and death among the humans, especially in the Avengers picture. Then he takes his little ol' man Odinsleep, not anticipating that his adoptive son Loki, the god of treachery, is going to use beddy-bye time to take over the joint. Didn't see that one coming!

"I do and I do and I do for you kids...."

Maybe you were right in The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul about retirement, Odin.

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Henry Jones

Henry's single-minded pursuit of his goals leads his son into deadly peril, and we can be sure it isn't the first time. Worse, we quickly find out that he shares his son's stupid habit of not preventing Nazis from acquiring enormously powerful religious artifacts. Plus Henry and his son (real name: Henry Jr.) bicker through the whole picture.

They say the Lord works in mysterious ways, but working things so His sacred artifacts had to be rescued by the Jones family could make you wonder about the kindness of Providence.

"He took hish nickname
from the dog! Can you
believe it? My shon ish
an idiot!"

So we see that even when action movie dads are tough, brave, not dead, and possibly competent, they can leave you shaking your head. Maybe next year we'll dissect fathers from Disney movies. I would expect that in real life all those Disney characters would be seeing analysts once or twice a week, minimum.

What shall we fight about in 2017?

The old battles of 2016 are now behind us. Trump/Clinton, Kanye/Taylor, the Rock/Diesel, Kelly/Michael, Putin/Entire World -- we need to let these things go. But what will be the big fights that threaten to tear us to pieces in 2017?

Here are my predictions.

1. Hazelnut vs. Real Coffee

Gonna be a rumble tonight

People like hazelnut coffee. Well, some people do. I mean, some people must. Someone's buying it, right? It wouldn't exist otherwise. And who else has money besides people? Leftover Neanderthals? Martians? Kardashians? Okay, Kardashians have money but they can't be drinking it all.

But the rest of us really dislike hazelnut coffee, even if we like actual hazelnuts, and recoil from it like a stressed vampire on Easter morning. Anyone who ever got a snootful of an old, burned Mr. Coffee pot with a hazelnut grease slick in the bottom of the decanter can remember that smell and recall it in horror.

I think this is the year it all goes violent.

The hazelnutters are far outnumbered on this one, but to keep sucking down the hazelnut coffee in the face of universal disappropriation they must be fanatical in their devotion and willing to put up a strong fight. Watch for this one to break out in March, after a winter of being stuck inside offices with the food and coffee choices of our coworkers reeking (har!) havoc.

2. Underwear vs. Commando 

The fatter and older we get as a nation, the more skin we seem to want to show. This may be considered an error as well as an attack on modesty, not to mention prudence. And this is the year that the commando look becomes a big deal.

What does it matter if others want to run around without underwear? For one thing, we know from the experience of nude beaches that the people who go nudist are almost always the people one would least want to ever, ever see nude. Same here. Those loudest about their lack of underwear will be those whom you would most want to put on extra clothes, just in case the clothing they have on rips. Then you realize you just shook hands with one of them.

Hygiene will be the proper and adequate club used to fight back against the scourge of underwearlessness, but in a world where drunk people make permanent ink-stained errors on their own flesh and pay real money for the privilege, it's still going to be hard sell.

This fight will begin in summer, when people start sweating in earnest.

3. Fluoride vs. No Fluoride

Those Truthers who blamed Bush and Cheney for the 9/11 attacks have gone rather quiet since the man they backed has failed to disclose evidence of such conspiracy after eight years in the White House. Others, who just assume Obama is now in on it, may be getting tired of the topic and want something new to write placards about.

Just gets to be the same ol' same ol' after a while

So what good conspiracy theory can get people brawling? Contrails vs. Chemtrails? Too complicated. Vaxx vs. Anti-Vaxx? Meh, measles is coming back. Fluoride vs. No Fluoride? Hey...

Sure, the American Dental Association claims fluoride in the water supply saves teeth, but they didn't even bother to prove that flossing is good for you. So what does fluoride really do? Makes you docile and easy to control. That's why revolutionary small companies like Tom's of Maine make a fluoride-free toothpaste -- they're helping us break free!

This should start a good screaming match later in the year, especially as reason and evidence only proves to guys like the man shown above that you're part of the conspiracy. (My check is late, by the way, Mr. Illuminati....)

4. Marvel vs. DC

The all-time classic nerd battle, spilling out into the streets this year. In the 1960s, Marvel stole a march on DC by writing comics for more mature kids; in the 1980s, DC struck back; now Marvel has the more successful movies, but DC has the more mature movies and more successful TV shows. With eight DC and Marvel movies coming out this year, expect the geek-out freakout to begin around the release of Justice League in November. Also enjoy the internecine side fights (TV Flash vs. movie Flash, Holland vs. Maguire vs. Garfield as the webhead, etc.).

Well, those are my predictions for this year's big throwdowns. I'm sure we'll find a lot more to argue about, since when you put any two of us in a room you can get a fight.

The Snake in the Glass.

This program contains graphic images and mature subject matter. Viewer discretion is advised.

(EXT: Near the side of the road. Uniformed cops walk and talk, talking into walkie-talkies. CSI folk in lab coats and gloves kneel, pointing at this and that. Detective Bacon, shaking his whiskers, approaches the lead investigator, Peter "PB" Barilotto. It's been a rough year for both of them.)

Detective Bacon: What's the riddle this time, PB? Why did the snake cross the road? 

PB: Or not quite cross it. 

Bacon: Ew.

PB: Pretty brutal. 

Bacon: Hit and run?

Tilden Supporters Riot!

I thought it would be fun to imagine supporters of Samuel Tilden's 1876 presidential campaign going as nuts as supporters of Hillary Clinton's 2016 campaign. Tilden's fight with Rutherford B. Hayes was every bit as contentious as Clinton/Trump, after all. Here's my artist's imagined view of angry Tildenites in the streets:

"No Rest Till Tilden!" would be their slogan.

You know, blocking horse and buggies, trying to block locomotives (unsuccessfully---ew), chanting "Ruther's a Mother!" and so on.

But the more I read about the 1876 election, the more I realized that there wasn't much point to the humorous juxtaposition.

Tilden won the popular vote but not the electoral vote; as far as that goes, it is similar to Clinton's apparent popular victory / electoral loss. It was not the first time that had happened, but rather the second, the first being John Quincy Adams's victory in 1824 over three rivals---even though Adams trailed Andrew Jackson in both the popular and electoral vote. (It was complicated.)

The 1876 election was not a good parallel, though, for several reasons---one being accusations of cheating in the favor of Democrat Tilden, including the massive disenfranchisement of blacks in Southern states. What I'm hearing this year is less yelling about cheating and more disgust with the electoral college.

I'm in favor of the electoral college, which prevents California from voting to pee in Montana's corn flakes (to borrow from Jonah Goldberg). And David French makes a valid point, that the campaigns were run by the rules in place. Were the presidency decided by straight ballot, the campaigns would have been run differently.

Our current discontent, although inflamed by an irresponsible media and misinformation spread at the speed of social media, is not something new. The 1876 election was even closer than the current one, and also had another complication in that Congressional action was not a clear solution: "With control of Congress split between a Democratic House and a Republican Senate, disagreement about exactly who could count the votes produced a constitutional crisis that evoked threats of armed violence from some Democratic quarters."

And yet that did not happen in 1876. It didn't happen in 1888, when Harrison beat Cleveland. It didn't even happen in 2000. Have we fallen so far in 16 years that we're going to have violence in the streets? On behalf of Hillary Clinton? 

Surely two lousy candidates like her and Trump are not worth coming to blows over, let alone jeopardizing lives. We survived four years of such unbearable beasts as Rutherford B. Hayes; we can survive Donald Trump.

'"Harrumph."

Nuts...for MURDER!

This program contains graphic images and mature subject matter. Viewer discretion is advised.

(EXT: Street scene. Police have roped off the area. CSI folk in lab coats and gloves kneel, looking at things. Detective Bacon, shaking his fuzzy little head, approaches the lead investigator, Peter "PB" Barilotto. Several investigators shake their heads in the background. Another death. It's a dirty job.)

Detective Bacon: Great way to start the day, eh, PB?

PB: You might say morning becomes electrified, Bacon. Have a look. 

Bacon: (rearing back) Ew!

PB: Yeah, never get used to it. 

Bacon: Another hit-and-run?

PB: Oh, he was hit, all right, but this squirrel was dead before he landed on the pavement. See that electrical wire up there?

Bacon: Why do these idiot kids think they can run across them and not get hurt?

PB: Well, most of the time it's fine---but not this time. Probably just accidental death from reckless behavior.

Bacon: Maybe---but there's an awful lot of squirrel gang activity around here. I'd like to talk to any witnesses. Especially the one who ran over the body. Sergeant?

Sergeant Twitch: Yes, detective.

Bacon: Anyone see all this... this...

Twitch: Ew.

Bacon: Yeah.

Twitch: We've talked to a few people. Said there was a bunch of squirrels hanging out up on that pole, laughing it up, drinking, you know the way they do. Then one runs across and flash! bam! Freezes up, drops, just as a Chevy was coming along.

Bacon: Any ID on that car?

Twitch: Yeah, light blue Malibu, partial plate.

Bacon: Good. Call it in and see if there're any hits. I'm off.

PB: Where to?

Bacon: Squirrel hunting.

(INT: Pool hall in a squirrel neighborhood. Sign on the window reads NUTS IN THE CORNER POCKET. Bacon enters and the room gets quiet.)

Punk: (holding pool cue) Well, well, well. I thought I smelled a rat. A pig rat.

Bacon: You Nut Zipper?

(Various squirrels gather around, holding pool cues. Punk, stretching to full height, looks down on Bacon.)

Punk: Who wants to know?

Bacon: Detective Bacon. I'm investigating a possible squirrelicide.

Punk: We don't talk to no cops here, rat. So unless you want to be fried Bacon....

(Bacon pulls the cue out of Punk's hand, snaps it over his head, jabs the guys aside him in the sternum with the pieces, swats a fourth guy with the base, bashes a fifth guy's face on the table felt, and flings a 3-ball off camera, from where an "ouch!" is heard.)

Bacon: (lifting Punk by the collar) Squirrel Nut Zipper. Now.

SNZ: (emerging from rear office) That'll do, boys. Leave him alone before he gets angry. (Large albino squirrel enters frame with Bacon) They call me SNZ.

Bacon: I'm Bacon. A squirrel got zapped doing a high wire act early this morning. Some of the locals tell me that a few of these boys were egging him on to cross the wire.

SNZ: Yeah, tragic, huh? Little Jimmy Crackcorn. You know kids and their silly stunts, detective. None of the boys meant any harm. They didn't really think he'd go across the wire. Did you, boys?

(Squirrels all say "No")

Bacon: So it was just a prank that turned bad, huh?

SNZ: If you want to file charges for trespassing, I'll make sure the fines are paid.

Bacon: Oh, there's payments to be made, all right. I'll be back, SNZ.

SNZ: Anytime you like, detective. Maybe we can... shoot a game.

(INT: Police HQ. Bacon at a table in the interrogation room with Kitty Li, an elderly Siamese.)

Kitty: I'm so sorry, detective. I-I just panicked. I know leaving the scene of an accident is illegal, but when I saw all those mean old squirrels...

Bacon: Now, ma'am, please calm down. The fact that you called the precinct before we matched your Malibu to the scene speaks in your favor. Tell me what you saw.

Kitty: Well, as I was driving to work I saw the squirrels running alongside the traffic from post to post, you know? I was hitting lights all the way, so I could see them in the sunrise. Then I saw them start to tussle with one little fellow up ahead. He also crossed on a wire, but he went over the traffic, not alongside it. Just as he reached the transformer on my side there was flash of light, and I closed my eyes and screamed...and then I ran him over.

Bacon: Is this the squirrel you hit? (holds up photo)

Kitty: That's him. Ew.

Bacon: I know.

Kitty: And there was one other fellow I saw, standing near the alley. Dirty old coat, muddy yellow face...

Bacon: A canary?

Kitty: How'd you know?

Bacon: Let's just say... a little bird told me.

(EXT: Alleyway, nighttime. Bacon and Stinky Peep, dressed in his dingy trench coat)

Peep: You'll never get it to stick, you know.

Bacon: (handing over a few bills, folded) Maybe. You're sure this is on the level?

Peep: Yeah, yeah. Crackcorn had made contact with the gang across town, you know, the Westies.

Bacon: Meanest little white dogs I know.

Peep: He was gonna help them take over the squirrels' territory. He went to them offering dates, transactions, contacts, everything. Drugs, gambling, prostitution. Jimmy knew where all the nuts were buried, as they say. The Westies were gonna pay off for him big-time. But somehow Squirrel Nut Zipper finds out about the deal, so they chase him to where they knew there was a fault in the line. Short circuit; no more Jimmy.

Bacon: And if I talk to the Westies, they'd back this up?

Peep: If you ask the right way. But you didn't hear nothin' from me.

Bacon: (handing over some more cash) Never do, Stinky Peep.

(INT: Police station. Bacon and the Chief in the Chief's office.)

Chief: Peep's right, Bacon. We have no proof that there even is a crime, let alone murder.

Bacon: I know. But I have a little idea of my own, if the DA's office thinks it'll work.

Chief: You'll have to convince me first.

Bacon: First I get Peep to spread some news that's not quite kosher...

(EXT: Power line above street. Punk, whose name is Punk, is on the wire facing SNZ and the gang. He is terrified.)

SNZ: So, we hear you asked the Westies to pick up Jimmy's deal, Punk.

Punk: Y-you got this wrong, SNZ. I ain't no turncoat, honest!

SNZ: Time for you to take a little walk across the wire, just like Jimmy.

Punk: No, no, boss! Please!

SNZ: It's very simple, Punk. You just get to that transformer and back alive, and we let you go. Heh heh heh.

Gang: Heh heh heh.

Punk: No way! I helped strip that wire myself! There's no way to touch the transformer from the wire without making a short circuit!

SNZ: Well, then, I guess we won't wait too long for you on the return trip. Now get out there or we'll come up with something even worse for you!

(Floodlights burst on the area; squirrels scream, start to run, but police swarm them from every side. SNZ frowns as he gets cuffed.)

(EXT: On the ground, Chief is on the cell phone; Bacon nearby)

Chief: Good, good. That's all we need. Great job. (clicks off) Bacon, they got it all on video. This gang is done for. And I have a feeling Punk is gonna sing like a canary.

Bacon: Speaking of which, it's gonna cost us a bonus to pay off Peep, who hates to give out phony information, but it'll be worth it.

Chief: Agreed. This is a real feather in your cap, Bacon.

Bacon: Yeah. A canary feather.

(laughs all around)

(Fade)