It Sounded Good

From A Body: In Three Parts, a reading I did on May 2, 2009 with Doug Nufer, Mortimur K, and Eric Greenwalt. Each writer's piece had to mention a corpse, rain, a dinner party, and NPR. One point I'd like to make is that I decided to rewrite the entire story starting at 2 am on May 2, 2009. A side note, I'd also been drinking on an empty stomach. With that said…

It Sounded Good

First of all, I’d just like to throw out a general apology to everybody involved in this terrible incident, just a universal “my bad.” Mistakes were certainly made, terrible, horrible, unforgivable decisions, and I definitely deserve my portion of the blame. Having had the time over the last couple months to think about it, I believe my part of the blame comes out to about 4 percent. But now is not the time to discuss how little at fault I am, because in the end, I shouldn’t have done what I did, I shouldn’t have listened. It’s just that she made it all sound so good.

I thought that every word that came out of Marisol Blithington-Ort’s mouth was a little, delightful present. She was the voice of KUOW and made Terri Gross, Sylvia Pajoli, and other public radio people sound like butter knives shoved into paper shredders. When Marisol spoke, nobody doubted that what she was saying was reasonable and knowledgeable and true. It didn’t have to be reasonable, knowledgeable, or true, and it rarely was any of the three, but nobody cared. That was Marisol’s magic.

As a coworker of hers at KUOW, I can attest to her amazing ability to make even the worst ideas sound great. That’s how she talked the station into letting her host the only public radio show dedicated to murder and local dining, the terribly conceived Homicide Dish.

This special talent of Marisol’s was also how we came to be there the night in question, broadcasting live from the home of the last victim of the Tote Bag Killer.

Let me just read from Marisol’s introduction to that night’s show.

"Doris Kimmelwick had the life choked out of her in this very house, in the very chair I’m sitting in. Or at least within 20 feet radius of where I’m sitting. Probably. Why was she killed? Because she was arranging a séance that was going to reveal the identity of the Tote Bag Killer. On tonight’s Homicide Dish we’ll discuss the bloody trail of sickly death that’s been cut through the Capitol Hill neighborhood of Seattle by the Killer. We’ll also take time to dig up information on some of the victims with the people who knew them best. All that and we’ve got a great recipe for flan. Support for KUOW comes from the Jazz-nasium, where you can shed pounds and inhibitions to the intermittent sounds of improvisational jazz. We’ll be right back.”

To me, that night, it all sounded reasonable. I remember how pleased Marisol looked at that moment, as she leaned back from the microphone, rain falling against the French doors behind her. Then, she punctuated her words with a lightning bolt sound effect, just to make everything sound a little bit cooler. Typically on a Friday night, Marisol and her guests would sit in the studio and discuss the worst details of horrific area slayings and swap brocollini recipes. Ratings showed that the show was extraordinarily popular with the slightly deranged, the inappropriately snacky, and the housebound or those in home detention. The plan for the Capitol Hill show was not supposed to be any different, it was just being broadcast live from a house covered in police tape. Marisol, using her gift, had convinced the police that by ducking under the police tape, or in her case, busting through it like an Olympic runner, she could “enlarge the discussion” and “help focus the spotlight of truth” on the Tote Bag Killer case. Don’t get me wrong, I might sound a little doubtful now but when she brought up the idea of a location show, I was all for it, especially the truth spotlight, which sounded awesome.

Station management agreed with Marisol that it was important to reach out to the Capitol Hill neighborhood, especially since, as everybody knows, every one of the victims of the Tote Bag Killer was from the neighborhood and had been strangled with a KUOW tote bag. The other connection among all the victims, besides the tote bags over their heads, was the fact that they were all previous donors who had not given to the station this year. Of course when this information was made public, people were falling over themselves to donate as life had suddenly become a public radio premium, at least at KUOW. 150 bucks for a handy travel mug and your continued survival seemed like a small price to pay. Of course, people needed the Tote Bag Killer to know they gave, so shows that had been sponsored by the Creskie-Bortwood Foundation and the Center for Continued Research were now brought to listeners by, "James Hillman, his slightly paunchier life partner, Eric, and their miniature schnauzer-collie, Nuggy, who currently reside at 1806 Prospect Street, the little blue house with the cream-colored shutters."

As a employee of the station, I’ve got to tell you that with the exception of the brutal deaths of long-time listeners, KUOW had never been in better shape.

But I’m getting off track. Let me just read another part of the transcript of that night.

"Doris Kimmelwick was strangled with a tote bag commemorating the 47th anniversary of the Benny Hill radio show. One can only imagine that the last thing that poor woman saw before the onset of complete darkness or God, if you’re one of those nuts, was the reverse image of Benny Hill frantically patting a small bald policeman's head. And that is not funny. If you’re laughing at home, I’m going to have to ask you to stop. Moving on, I’m sitting here with some people who were close to the four victims to discuss their terrible losses and enjoy a delicious submarine sandwich donated by our friends at Hazel’s No-Hate Sandwich Center located on the eastside of Green Lake."

I think these words prove that Marisol’s relationship to reality was never really a strong one. In fact, that’s why I was at the house with Marisol and Stevie the Sound Engineer, to help write an apology, if needed, at the end of the show. In this case, the victim's name was actually Cybil Kerning, she was found in her garage during a sunny day, and the life had been choked out of her by a Golden Age of the Three Stooges bag. I guessed that the last thing she ever saw in life was Larry Fine losing a little bit more self-respect as another hunk of hair was ripped from his scalp. Also, police reports said that Ms. Kerning was preparing for a dinner party, not a séance, in fact the table we were sitting at was still set for dinner.

As far as Marisol’s guests, who were eating a six-foot sub on a dead woman’s finest china, they were not exactly close to the victims. Sensibly, families and friends of the deceased had refused to come on. So, Marisol had gotten the people who weren’t so close, like one victim’s Pottery Coach, another’s Dog Walker, and a man whose business card said that he was an Organic Composting Czar. Of course, what bothered me most was Marisol saying Cybil Kerning was the fourth victim. As you now know, Ms. Kerning was the third victim of the Tote Bag Killer, the fourth was, at that point, wedged in the hall closet of the Kerning house, behind the vacuum cleaner.

Why would we hide a body in the hall closet? I really wish I had a better answer for you, but when we found that poor man on the porch earlier that afternoon, strangled by an “Alan Alda Reads The Dead Sea Scrolls” tote bag, Marisol said that the closet was the logical place to put him, because he would “keep better.” I’m just trying to get you to understand the power of Marisol’s words and exceedingly poor decision-making skills coupled with my inability to say no. So when I insisted that we call the police and she told me that we couldn’t because the police would ruin her plan, it seemed like a reasonable request. And when Marisol told me that tonight was the night she was going to enact an elaborate plan to catch the Tote Bag Killer it seemed completely plausible to me. If a normal person had said the same kind of things, in their broken clown horn of a voice, there would have been no question these were bad ideas, very, very bad ideas.

In my defense, I originally refused to help move the body, but then Marisol, blaming a bad back and wet stairs and a slight breeze created by a passing UPS truck, dropped the body down the stairs. Only then did I help Stevie the Sound Engineer pick him up, and as Marisol convinced me, the closet was only a few steps further.

Let me tell you, I now know that was the wrong thing to do. Moving a dead body is unacceptable, except if it’s about to be run over by a train or lying on top of you. Also, I go forward with the knowledge that damaging a corpse is a felony. Lesson learned. Believe me, the sound of that body’s head bouncing down the stairs will haunt me every time I hear a melon or pumpkin fall.

I’m sure that you’re thinking that I’m crazy to let all of this happen. But I was powerless against her words. I’ve already told you how great she sounded on the radio, but in person her voice was all good things. It was the verbal equivalent of pizza parties, unicorn posters, hand jobs, and Sweet Tart-flavored alcohol, all at the same time. Her words were like velvet dipped in ether. Once I'd made the mistake of listening to the show while driving home late. According to accident reports, my Honda left the interstate and plowed through seven acres of corn before, ironically, running out of ethanol. I was awakened the next day by migrant workers screaming and making stabbing motions at me with ears of corn. Their anger can be explained by the fact that I passed their sub-standard poorly-insulated mobile housing unit the night before going 110 miles per hour.

But I digress. You are probably wondering if I had a sexual attraction to Marisol. Certainly, every time she spoke I felt a yearning to put my Mr. Happy in her baby window, but again it all comes back to her voice. It certainly wasn’t her hair that appeared to be styled by one of her pet ferrets or that dress that looked like it had been wrestled off a thrift store mannequin or her misshapen men's plaid jacket that was last worn without irony in the 1960s. It definitely wasn’t her personality. I should have listened when a deaf coworker told me that she was an Amazonian dipped in hate and roofing nails.

It’s only when Marisol decided to take a bathroom break and silence ensued, that I realized the entire situation was not ideal.

For example, the closet corpse being covered in blood, even though it had been strangled. I can explain that. Namely, Stevie the Sound Engineer and I had different interpretations of the “On 3!” count. I pre-lifting without his assistance, accidentally fell over the body, driving my knee heavily into the corpse’s tote-covered head breaking the nose of a dead man.
Stevie can tell you how remorseful I was, even before blood started to leak out of the tote bag. I just want you to know that it was Marisol’s decision to stuff cocktail onions up the corpse’s nose to stop the bleeding. Let me throw in an extra apology for that now, too. There is no dignity is death, and even less with onions up your nose.


But back to that moment of Marisol’s absence and the fog of her words had momentarily cleared. And that the Tote Bag Killer was close. Why did I not use this moment to call the police? Well, I decided that the corpse was already in the past tense person-wise and I felt my best chance at survival was to call the pledge line instead of the police.

I understand there is a recording of my call to the pledge line, which only makes sense. You’ve got to understand that when I pledged one million dollars and demanded that they mention my name on the air, it was a donation fueled by fear and confusion. No, I didn’t have the money, but I really, really didn’t want to die. And when the Operator told me that the station did not accept checks, it was my mortality I was considering when I started yelling. That woman did not deserve to be called a “douche waffle” or a “fuck tractor.” In my defense, I will say that while these are cruel words, I really don’t know what they meant, so I think that discounts a bit of the venom with which I said them.

As far as the crying and the bargaining, I don’t think anybody sounds good haggling. I offered 20 dollars, the Operator offered to mention my name in the next 36 hours. I moved up to 30 bucks, she said she could fit me in 35 hours. I called her an awful, awful whore and she said she was going to hang up. As you can hear, we finally agreed to the 75 dollar level, they would mention my first initial and full last name will be mentioned during the next pledge break. Plus, I would receive a CD of the Comprehensive Audio History of Belgium program along with a handsome matching tote bag. I asked her to keep the tote bag, but she told me that it was not an option before hanging up.

As I’m sure you’ve listened a tape of the rest of the show, you know that the first hour or so of the program was for the most part typical Homicide Dish fare. Marisol discussed the people who had died, relating that the first victim, a Mr. Mung was found face down on 14th and Prospect, being dragged by his leashed herd of little, white, fluffy dogs, his head covered with a tote bag advertising Ken Burn's radio documentary on the history of bread. She spent a great amount of time talking about how Diane Vlasic was strangled with a Chairobics: Sit Your Way to Fitness tote bag and left lounging in her Lazy-Boy. Sure, none of this was true, but, as I keep telling you, when Marisol said it, it certainly sounded like the truth. Then she spent ten minutes describing the correct consistency of flan.

Was there a point during the flan discussion where I began to lose confidence in Marisol’s plan? Psychologically, no. Physiologically, I had started suffering the symptoms of what I thought might be a heart attack.

That’s the moment she pounded her fist on the table, startling her guests and shaking me out of my coronary incident fog. "By the way," she announced. "This is a trap. One of the people sitting at this table is the Tote Bag Killer.”

It’s also the instant that we all discovered that Marisol had brought a gun. Actually it seemed like she had brought a selection of guns, because she rifled around in her bag before pulling it out. She began shaking it back and forth, like a drunk with a cigarette, demanding that one of her guests confess to being the Killer. The gun, apparently, was the “elaborate plan” of which she had spoken of earlier.

Should I have said something as she pointed the gun at her guests? Certainly, getting “involved” in the situation is one school of thought. However, in this case, I thought my best course of action was to pretend that nothing was happening. Plus, I just thought that her 1970s detective show reasoning that the killer always returns to the scene of the crime sounded logical.

Marisol seemed unconcerned that it was revealed within 45 seconds that none of her suspects could have done it. The Dog Walker had just been released from the hospital after a traumatic surprise Irish Setter humping, the Composting Czar had spent the last two weeks at a Horrors of Composting conference, and the Pottery Coach’s clay-addled carpal-tunneled hands could barely make a shallow ashtray, much less strangle the life out a person. That’s the moment when things started going downhill a little faster.

As you know, the Dog Walker decided to make a run for it. Unfortunately, she picked the wrong door and ran into the hall closet. Even though I knew at the moment she turned that doorknob that a bruised pants-less corpse with onions up its nose was going to somersault out of the closet and knock her to the floor, I still shrieked.

Marisol, of course, pretended that this was the first time she had seen the corpse. Shoving everybody back, she picked up the arm of a person she knew was dead and looking at the space on her own arm where a watch would typically be, pretended to take his pulse. Then she asked which one of them had killed him.

It was the Composting Czar who suggested that since there was no tote bag on the deceased’s head, so it couldn’t have been the work of the Tote Bag Killer.

The Dog Walker, probably still flashing back to her traumatic dog humping and even more recent corpse entanglement, claimed it must have been some sort of bizarre sex crime since the corpse was wearing a shirt, but no pants. “Donald Ducking-it,” I think is the term she used.

Again, let’s take a step back and I’ll explain why we decided to wash the tote bag and my pants, as well as why I was currently wearing the deceased’s pants. Because Marisol told me to. That's all I needed.

Just a quick side note, it’s when we were moving the corpse over to the dining table that I pulled off his finger. I can only say that I assume corpse fingers are like bananas, the longer the body ripens the more likely they are to pop right off. I definitely did not “pull” or “yank violently” as some have suggested since.

Anyway, that’s when Marisol went back on the air.

"If we reach the $3,000 level before we the end of this hour, I will reveal the true identity of the Tote Bag Killer. If not, well, that’s a whole different story. You are listening to the Homicide Dish on KUOW. The time is 7:46."

Did I know she was going to do this? No. Did it sound like a bad idea to me? How many times can I tell you people no? I was on the Marisol train and that’s also why I did not question her decision to waterboard her three suspects in the kitchen sink. I think I understood as I dragged the Composting Czar towards the kitchen sink that none of them was the Tote Bag Killer. It’s simply that we reached a point where we needed one of them to be the Tote Bag Killer.

And that’s when Stevie the Sound Engineer announced that the Tote Bag Killer was on the line. I can still hear that distorted voice come over the speakers demanding to know where the body was and claiming that it was about to kill again. I find no shame in starting to weep inconsolably. I just wish it wasn’t so loud on the recording. You’ve got to realize that I thought my life was going to end shortly. Additionally, I had just pulled a man’s finger off.

Despite the Tote Bag Killer being on the phone, Marisol was not convinced. She, using her reasoning skills that had been so evident that night, decided that one or more of her guests/suspects/hostages was a ventriloquist.

Finally, the French doors behind Marisol wrenched open to reveal a small woman, water dripping from her dark bangs on to the carpet and a Comprehensive Audio History of Belgium tote bag that she clutched in her right fist.

“It's me,” she said exasperated, in a familiar voice.
That’s when I screamed “The Operator!”

I wouldn’t say that Marisol was angry, so much as she refused that somebody outside her suspect pool could have done it. In fact, she ignored the fact that I was being chased around the dining table by an Asian woman wielding a tote bag like a butterfly net. You can hear the Operator screaming “Your credit card was declined! Put on your premium!” and that’s me yelling “I don’t want it. I don’t want it” over and over again, as I tried to put an uncooperative Stevie the Sound Engineer between the Operator and me.

I would assume it takes a lot to shock a psychopath and when I saw The Operator turn and get a glimpse of the pantless, bruised, dry blood-encrusted corpse, I think that was enough. I don’t know if she noticed the missing finger, but her face fell. That’s her on the tape asking, “Dear lord, what did you do to Kenny’s body?”
“Well, at least we have a name for a corpse” and “I hope she doesn’t realize that I’m wearing his pants” were the two things I was thinking when Marisol shot her.

Thinking back on it, did I think that Marisol would shoot somebody? In retrospect, looking back at the night, I find it hard to imagine her not shooting somebody.

Of course, the Operator could not just die. No, she had to lay dramatically dying on the carpet as rain poured in the French doors, demanding to tell us and the radio audience why she did what she did. I really had no interest, but Marisol held up the microphone to her mouth.

As it turns out, the Operator had volunteered for the pledge drive for years. Her love for public programming was similar to my devotion to Marisol’s voice. Apparently, all you needed to do was look at the back of her Volvo or every gardening t-shirt she owned to know how much KUOW meant to her. So when neighbors didn’t contribute, it hurt her deeply. And when they kept listening for free, it killed something inside. So when her neighbor, Diane Vlasic told her that she didn’t need any more tote bags, she brought one more over. My declined credit card could not have helped.

“I loved public programming so much,” the Operator said, coughing up blood. “I couldn't stop myself. Have you ever listened to Car Talk?”

I’m not proud that the next voice you hear, which is me saying, “Shoot her again!” That’s really not the type of person I am.

Anyway, that’s about it, I think the rest is public record. The police arrived and were a little angry at first, especially a certain bicycle cop who kept telling me to “shut my hole” as he fished rubber gloves out of his crime-fighting fanny pack. But then they talked to Marisol talk about she’d caught the Tote Bag Killer using the techniques of the Scooby-Doo gang mixed in with a little Bronson Deathwish. They even gave her a Junior Detective Badge normally reserved for easily-impressed children, which I thought was a little tacky considering that the Operator was getting her heart massaged at the time.

Since then, I’ve gotten out of jail and have been asked by my state to testify against Marisol in her case. And I thought about it, because as I’ve said, there were terrible mistakes made that night. It’s just that Marisol left a message on my voice mail explaining why that was a bad idea. I listened to her message about 20 times, masturbated to it three amazingly pleasurable times, and I’ve come to the realization that what she says makes a whole lot of sense.

I wordled (Wordle.net) my latest story. I'll be posting it soon.

All a Loan

"Hello," the loan officer said coldly, straining across her desk to shake my hand. Her hand, in my opinion, was too bony and slightly frigid. But I assumed that was perfect for someone with her job. I attempted to not be so ham-handed with my return shake as my hand enveloped her raccoon paw of a hand. She half-smiled and I sat, trying to remember if you are supposed to unbutton your jacket when you sit down.
"What can I do for you?" she said, placing her palms palm-down on her orderly desk. Behind her a tan, sea foam, and sky blue seascape did its best not to be noticeable.
"I'd like to apply for a loan to fight monsters," I said unbuttoning my jacket and then, on second thought, re-buttoning it.
"Well," she said, chuckling, "you've already applied, so you can chalk that up as a success. This meeting is to determine if we give you that money."
She smiled, but it still felt like she just shoved me toward a cliff, poking me in the kidneys with a broomstick.
"Monsters, as you know, are the number one threat to our area," I explained, starting into my pitch.
"When you say monsters, you mean like the ones that disemboweled the high school cross-country team and ate the mayor's legs?"
"Yes, in fact those particular monsters are first on my list to kill, with financial assistance from your bank."
"OK, are you currently employed in the monster hunting profession?" she asked, opening up a file.
"No, but I have had extensive contact with monsters."
She looked up from the file, "But not fighting them?"
"I have opposed monsters, mostly verbally. I wouldn't say that I fought them. I've have thrown things at them from a distance."
"Things?" She questioned.
"Rocks and garbage, mostly," I replied. "Once, dog crap."
The loan officer nodded several times and then took her time writing something down. She continued well past a point that I thought was well mannered. Finally, she looked up and half-smiled, "What, then, makes you think that you are qualified to fight monsters? What makes you special?"
"Well, I don't think I'm particularly special," I said to the growing frown on her face. "But I don't see anybody else answering the bell."
"The newspaper has written some nasty anti-monster editorials, but for the most part, what you are saying is true," she agreed, still writing. "Do you have a plan?"
"That I do." I handed her the business plan that I'd put together with the help of my Internet business class. I also offered her the headphones to my iPod. "There's music to go with the plan."
Unfazed by the request, she put on the headphones and I hit PLAY. She listened for about 10 seconds before pulling them back off.
"Is this Kansas?" she asked.
I nodded, as it was indeed. She put the headphones back on again.
In my Internet class, they called this, "Achieving an Emotion." Not only was the loan officer reading about decapitating monsters, but her emotional connection to what she was reading was heightened by Carry On Wayward Son. Then as the song from Top Gun kicked in, I saw her smile. I know I'd hooked her. She finally took off the headphones.
"While you music is completely awesome, your plan is barely comprehensible," she sighed.
"Well, I tend to disagree with my word processor program's spellchecker. But you didn't even appreciate the charts?"
"There's only one pie chart and all it says is that you are 95 percent ass kicker and 5 percent human lover."
"I think love is essential when you're protecting humanity," I said sincerely.
"Plus, you don't conceal the fact that you have absolutely no experience killing monsters."
"Ah, but I do have the instincts to do it."
"How am I supposed to calculate instincts?" she asked, flipping through my business plan.
"Fair question," I replied. "Pretend you're a monster."
"That doesn't sound like something a bank officer should be doing," she said. "But OK, RAWrrr!"
She stood up behind her desk and raised her arms above her head, monster-style. I saw a look of complete malice come over her face. It could have also been slight bemusement.
Instantly, my monster-killing instincts kicked in and I grabbed her desktop organizer tray and whipped it at her, Frisbee-style. The tray hit her in the face, pens and paper clips exploding in all directions. It there had been a look of bemusement on her face, it was now gone.
"Sorry, that's what instinct looks like up close," I said, as the gash on her forehead started to drip blood.
"Alright, what if I were, let's say, an electric monster?" She asked as she calmly ripped the cord out of her desk lamp and separating the wires. But stepping toward me, the short cord pulled out of the wall.
"Even if you had an extension cord, I still have water balloons and a squirt gun in here. You wouldn't have a chance," I said, indicating my utility plastic shopping bag that contained all my monster-fighting materials.
She sat down on her desk and took a long swig of the Diet Coke that was sitting on her desk. "Whu if I wuh a poson sputtun monstuh?"
"A poison-spitting monster?" I asked, at the same moment she spit out the soda and I clicked open my utility bag umbrella, deflecting the Diet Coke. I was steeling myself for a potential scotch tape attack when the lights went out. Suddenly, in the complete darkness, I heard the door lock.
"Of course," the loan officer's voice came from behind. "Electric and poison monsters are just your run-of-the-mill enemies. Common monsters." She spat the word "common" like it was a cat hair in her mouth.
"You greatest threat," she continued, her voice now up and to the left, "is creatures from the other side, that emerge from the darkness to eat your very soul. Just setting an eye on them will plunge you into an eternity of madness. What's your plan then, monster hunter?"
"That's a valid question and one I am almost prepared to answer…" I started, before what I assume was the neutrally-colored seascape was smashed over my skull. Then she was on me, one leg over the back of my shoulder, her other foot kicking for a foothold on the back of my pants. Her arms wrapped around my head, her fingernails dug into my temples.
I started spinning, hoping that centrifugal force would plaster her wall like cooked spaghetti, but her fingernails only scratched deeper and she bit the top of my head hard.
"I'm eating your brain, fuck-nugget!" She screeched, kneeing me in the spine.
I tried backing toward the wall, or where I thought the wall was, to knock her off, at the same time as I reached for my utility bag that held the camping shovel I planned to hit her with. There was nothing there. I dropped to my knees and crawled around on the floor, patting around the broken glass. Still nothing.
"Did someone steal your magic bag?" The loan officer, one hand ripping at my scalp, rode me like a monkey on a sheep. I tried to buck her, but her heels cut into my thighs.
I started praying, "Oh ominous domino…"
"I'm a creature from another dimension, moron," she yelled, slightly hysterical, as she stapled the top of my ear to my head, "Monotheism probably doesn't even exist where I'm from, so your mangled Latin prayers aren't going to do anything."
I straightened out on the floor and tried rolling, but in the darkness, and with unseen chairs and desk, I was humiliatingly only able to lurch back and forth slightly.
"You're going to die here, ass-waffle," she screeched. "In the dark. Alone. Loanless."
"Argh, get your finger out of my eye!" I shouted.
"That's a tentacle. I'm a monster with thousands of tentacles! And one giant eye! If I were to turn on the lights right now, you would scrape your eyes out with a dull spoon to punish them for beholding the horror of my existence," the loan officer hissed, laughing evilly. "Are you ready to quit?"
"I'll tell you this," I panted. "I can't comprehend everything that you could do to me, the horror that you could perpetrate on my sanity and genitals. But I do know two things, you aren't welcome in the third dimension, if in fact, that is where we are currently located, and I never give up, even when it's reasonable to do so. Until the moment you kill me, I'm just going to keep getting up, even if I'm insane and eyeless, and coming right for you with the penknife and Cyalume lightstick I've got duct-taped to my hairy ankle and I am going to f your s up."
The loan officer pulled her heel out of my ear and climbed off my back. She turned the light back on and dropped what looked like a crudely fashioned pantyhose garrote.
"Well, everything looks in order," she said. "How much are you going to need?"

The Story of Crouchmas, Seattle 1883: A Very Special Holiday Story

1883 was, as they all had been, a rainy December in Seattle. Swivulets of frigid rain came down like tangled fishing line on any sucker daft enough to step outside, the weather ensuring its victim hours of cold misery. Cold, bitter drops fell on exposed necks, enlightening their victims on the inevitability of suffering.

In respect to the people and dogs of Seattle, this kind of kind of weather was not unusual; they had always been neck deep in watery depression. It was into this wretched environment, this distressed city where a woman could get her boot sucked off by syrupy mud in the morning and not realize until she tried to take off her shoes at night, that the poorly conceived story of Crouchmas was created.

During the first week of December, 1883, Helen Molder-Phosphate, editor, publisher, and sole contributor of the "Phosphate Illuminator" wrote an editorial entitled, "Yes, Helen Molder-Phosphate, there is a Borpo Crouch!" in which she described, in great detail, the legend of Borpo Crouch, a Seattle-specific Saint Nicholas-type figure. According to Molder-Phosphate, during December nights, Crouch would unscrew the hinges on Seattleite's doors and do odd jobs around their houses, as well as leave fried sweets and other food. She also mentioned that, in a very Seattle-like twist of pessimism, Crouch always left some sort of household hazard behind. This latter supposedly some sort of lesson, though the meaning of this lesson was not explained by Molder-Phosphate. This kind of half-assed, sparsely-facted story was typical of the Illuminator.

Surprisingly in a city mired in communal depression, the legend of Borpo Crouch caught on like a mudslide. Instead of believing in a day when it wouldn't rain (a date that would not occur for another seven years), Seattleites decided to put their faith in a person who did odd jobs. It seemed like a minor-enough miracle to happen in Seattle.

It should be said that all of this excitement came as a great surprise to Mrs. Molder-Phosphate's neighbor, Borpo Crouch.

Crouch had not read Molder-Phosphate's article, but when he started receiving scraps of paper with instructions on where the outhouse needed to move and what kind of roofing tin to bring, he decided to seek out the newspaperwoman. A few days later, when he found himself walking next to Helen Molder-Phosphate in the street, the two of them dumbly staring into the distance and tempting pneumonia, he asked her where the idea had come from.

"I was sleeping peacefully," Molder-Phosphate explained to him, "which is extraordinary because typically the holes above my bed make it feel like Christ is crying on me, and I thought to myself, 'Helen, did someone fix your roof?'

I seized upon this idea and I thought everyone should experience this kind of selflessness. That's why I wrote the editorial. As it turned out, an unconscious raccoon had fallen on my roof that night, plugging the typically open holes with its wet, burglarous body. The next night I returned to misery as Jesus wept. Anyway, I chose you because you made me a leek, scallion, and onion pie last October when I was laid up with the Hacking Cough. I thought to myself, 'Helen, wouldn't it be wonderful if somebody did something nice for all these people? And I thought, yes, since you don't have time Helen, I think Borpo is your man.'"

Borpo was confused by a mention of pie, and rightfully so, because Helen's other neighbor, Elijah Jesperson had made the pie. But Jesperson, a fisherman with an unfortunate fear of fog horns and buoy bells, was in equal parts generous and anonymous, so no more mention need be made of him in this account.

Borpo Crouch moved to Seattle in the way many other people had, he and his wagon of "masculine anti-chaffing ointments" had become mired in the mud and his mules were smart enough not to risk pulling their ass muscles in the outrage that was Seattle streets. Since becoming bogged down, Borpo had worked jobs that were easily wandered away from, drank beer, and sulked. A hulk of a man, he was not a bad person, but he was also not a generous or patient man. For several days after talking to Molder-Phosphate, Crouch decided to approach the story in a way that was familiar to all Seattleites: avoid eye contact and hope it, whatever it is, would all blow over.

Then one drizzly afternoon while drinking, an idea began to ferment within Borpo like a poorly cooked salmon. He realized that he wanted to be loved by Seattle, he needed to be loved, because with love came favors such as people fixing your wagon wheel or lending you their slightly more enthusiastic mules. Crouchmas and a reasonable road surface could be his ticket out of Seattle.

The next evening, Borpo inaugurated Crouchmas with a visit to the Kefferniki's, a Finnish family of Lapp heritage celebrating the traditional Feast of Humility, where the men in a family went trouserless for the day and the rest of the family was allowed to throw items on the floor and demand that they be picked up. After taking the large part of an hour to get the Kefferniki's door off its hinges, Borpo walked into the house, dourly took notice of the Feast, and started the family's requested task: sanding down their floors as the wonders of humility bobbed past at eye level. His mood soured considerably when the family performed a traditional Lapp dance for him. Borpo began to throw hard candy at them, but unfortunately for him, this was just something new for the Kefferniki menfolk to stoop over for. Intending to visit five or six homes an evening, Borpo decided instead that the Keffernikis would be enough for the first day and, as a household hazard, left their door off its hinges.

On the second night of Crouchmas, Borpo's difficulty getting the screws off the Linus-Salk's door was made worse by the sounds of snickering children inside. Not a patient man to start, things only deteriorated when Borpo grabbed an axe and started to hack at the door. Knocking out a chunk large enough to put his arm through and reach around for the lock, he was deterred by the Linus-Salk children who giggled as they beat on his hand with wooden spoons. Borpo put his face through the hole, "I'm bringing a holiday miracle into your home and there is nothing you can do to stop me. I'm Borpo Crouch!" This statement immediately preceded the moment he was struck across the forehead by a broomstick.

When conscious again, a frustrated Borpo chopped at the window with his axe, making much quicker progress through the glass than he had through wood. The Linus-Salks, newly aware to the seriousness with which their visitor undertook Crouchmas, huddled behind a bed crying as Borpo angrily scoured their pot-bellied stove, ducking when he threw hard peppermints at them. The Linus-Salk's household hazard was a kerosene-soaked outhouse burning odiferously despite the steady downpour.

At the next home, Borpo kicked at the door and yelled, "You know why I'm here!"

Unfortunately, the Sylvester family did not know why he was there and moved a china cabinet in front of the door. Much more unfortunate for them was that even a blockaded door was not enough to hold back Borpo Crouch, who climbed up on the roof to go down the Sylvester's chimney. He only got madder when he slid off the rain-slicked roof, and again decided to come through the window.

Coming to the Sylvesters was a clerical error on Borpo's part, but they were loathe to tell him that when he stood dripping in their sitting room, axe in hand, and demanding to be given a Crouchmas job. Thinking that a simple task might pacify him, Ellen Sylvester requested a single scrambled egg. She would regret this choice an hour later when her kitchen was filled with the unnatural squawks of chickens and Borpo howling, his sleeve was on fire and the kitchen pervaded with acrid smoke. Even worse, he insisted he watch her eat his culinary abomination. Ellen Sylvester would never voluntarily eat eggs again. His household hazard for the Sylvester family was an out-of-control grease fire.

Crouchmas continued to go downhill as a furious Borpo was increasingly in the sharing spirit. The horrors of his reign of giving cannot be overstated: dogs were milked; creepy foot massages were forced on the weak; floors were swept, but not mopped; a cookie called the Satan's Turd was created; children were glued together; a potato imploded; an unwilling woman was given a piggyback ride; onions were peeled into nothingness; a young man was knocked out by a thrown spittoon; family portraits were hung askew; windows were painted shut; a house slid into Puget Sound; a small boat hit a tree and inexplicably exploded; rugs were bruised, but not beaten; a duck was forced to sit on a perverted pirate's shoulder; and innocent goats were exorcised.

Seattleites tried to hide as best they could, scrambling out back doors and windows at the sound of Borpo struggling with their door's hinges. For weeks, most spent their nights in the woods or remained as quiet as possible under the floorboards of their homes. Crouchmas finally ended when Borpo, who was French braiding a mule's tail because he couldn't find 9-year old Cecilie Moot, was kicked through a barn wall and hitching post by the aggravated mule. The people of Seattle seeing that Borpo had been knocked out, briefly celebrated and decided that it was truly a holiday miracle. Then they beat him with sticks, stuffed his body into a black burlap sack, and shipped him to a non-existent post office box in Estonia. Which is why to this very day, every December night you can find Estonians trembling in their homes and listening for the sound of a poorly-utilized screwdriver on hinges, still fearful of the story of Crouchmas (Though the Estonians call it "Pieliektiemas" and Borpo Crouch is represented by an enraged talking burlap sack that is traditionally beaten with a 2x4).

The White Elephant in the room: My hypothetical conversation with you, in which I convince you to buy my book

Dave: I need people to buy my book.

You: Why? Didn't you already get paid, Dave?

Dave: Yes, I did, but the better "Make the Bible Work for You" sells, the more likely a publisher will want to put out another book of mine. And I've got great ideas for the next book, ideas such as "How to Fight Zoo Animals" and "Which Animal Hates Me Most: A child's guide to the zoo."

You: I have always wondered how best to defend myself at the zoo. Those animals give you such hateful looks.

Dave: Exactly. So, I need to ask you a favor.

You: You can't borrow my car. It still has burn marks on it from the last time you borrowed it.

Dave: I'm sorry, I ran out of gas and I panicked.

You: The time before that, you tried to drive it into the lake.

Dave: I couldn't figure out how to get AM stations. Don't worry, this has nothing to do with your car.

You: Then what?

Dave: I would like you to help me turn "Make the Bible Work for You" into THE white elephant gift of the holiday season.

You: You certainly put a lot of emphasis on the word "the."

Dave: Yes, I did. I hope I didn't alarm you.

You: No, I tend to look perpetually astonished. But why make your book a white elephant gift? Why not just a holiday gift?

Dave: Amazingly perceptive question, my friend. I think that the more people who see the book, the more that might purchase it. And what better place for a lot of people to see the book than a white elephant gift exchange?

You: Dammit, Dave, that's a tremendous idea.

Dave: Thanks. So, I would ask you to seriously consider purchasing "Make the Bible Work for Me" and then gifting it away.

You: Well, I don't want to be in a jerk, but I have to ask, what's in it for me?

Dave: That's a fair question and I've got three answers for you. Number one, it makes economic sense.

You: What the f?

Dave: Think of it this way. Let's say you go to a novelty store and buy some crappy plastic gun that shoots little plastic sheep.

You: Unless you want me to throw this wind-up fire-breathing nun in the direction of your face, you won't further belittle novelty stores.

Dave: I'm not, I'm just saying that your sheep gun present is going to get two possible laughs. Once, when it's opened. And the second time when somebody at work accidentally gets shot in the eye.

You: I can't argue with your analysis. Go on.

Dave: There are 160 different humor-style entries in "Make the Bible Work for You." That gives people more than 150 chances to read something that they think is funny, even more if they have poor short-term memory or have a concussion.

You: Hmm, I'm looking at my calculator watch and your numbers don't lie.

Dave: Secondly, it will give people something to look at, rather than at each other. Holiday parties can be orgasmic jamborees of awkwardness, where coworkers desperately try to find something in common beyond workplace proximity. The more people are looking at my book, the less they're talking to each other.

You: Yes, I can see how that could be valuable. And number three?

Dave: Nothing is more fun to talk about at holiday parties than religion.

You: OK, you've sold me. Your arguments are well reasoned and compelling. Anything else I should know?

Dave: One more thing, when you're talking to friends in the next month and they're complaining about having to find a white elephant gift, why don't you mention "Make the Bible Work for You" to them? You can tell them that it's going to be THE white elephant gift of the season.

You: I asked you to stop shouting "the."

Dave: Sorry. By the way, you smell terrific.

My reviews of book reviews of my book "Make the Bible Work for You."

"Make the Bible Work For You…is a slender -- and hugely diverting -- volume devoted to using the Bible to justify our worst behaviour. A must-have for a small book stand next to the toilet paper." The National Post (Canada)

- An accurate and well-conceived review. I also give the author kudos for the classy spelling of behavior. Just a sidenote, the books I keep in my bathroom are The Catcher in the Rye and a first-edition of Milton's Paradise Lost.

"A tongue-in-cheek guide to 'justifying your bad behavior through specially chosen biblical quotations.' The Reverend Hellenback actually is Seattle humorist Dave Johnston." The Seattle Times

- I'm actually very touched to be referred to as a humorist and a regionally-attached humorist, at that. Hopefully this means I will no longer have to cheapen myself by continually yelling "Wokka wokka!"

"Funny, yes." Sacramento Book Review

- What I say: Thank you, Sacramento. I enjoy your dry climate.

Make the Bible Work for You, my first book, is out!

In bookstores and book websites as of today, my first book Make the Bible Work for You. Do me a favor and the next time you're in a bookstore, pick it up and take a look. There's nothing wrong with looking and there is definitely nothing wrong with buying. Buying is your right as a citizen of whatever country you're a citizen of, so exercise your rights. Here's a link to the book at Amazon, if that helps.