Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 5
Zurich, 4:45pm
Roy Gimbel sat in a hard metal chair with no padding and no arms in front of a glaring, red faced Swiss Poliz Detective.
"So, Mr.Gimbel is it?"
"You know it is."
"Hey my main man, no need to get huffy." He responded with a small, shit eating smirk on his shiny Swiss face.
"Let's start over, shall we Mr. Gimbel."
" I already told you everything I know. Yes I had sex with that woman, yes I was drinking, and no, I did not kill her."
"Mmm hmm, mmm hmm. And when did you strangle her?" He said placing the tip of his pencil in his mouth, a quizzical expression upon his face.
"I fucking told you I didn't kill that fat bitch!" Roy screamed in exasperation.
"Slow down there, my main man. I understand why you would want to kill her, but I just need to hear your reason." He tented his thick sausage like Swiss fingers.
"Listen, I don't know how that woman ended up in my bathtub, but I was passed out drunk all night." Roy said, placing his right hand to his throbbing temple.
"Hmm, let me tell you what Mr. Gimbel, Mr. American boy. You think you can just waltz into Switzerland, get drunk on our wonderful liquor, murder Ms. Schweizmann and get away with it?!"
"Wait miss who?"
"Schweismann."
"Who?"
"Mr. Gimbel, you killed Viceroy Schweismann's daughter."
Roy hazily recalled Gimbel corps foreign adviser telling him about this Viceroy character before a previous business trip. Apparently the Swiss had some kind of candy land monarchy in place. They had a whole series of ranks and titles almost as impenetrable as a Swiss prostitute. Roy wasn't sure what a Viceroy was but it sounded as important as it did gay.
"Now you see, my main man, you are as the Swiss would say, up fuck-river without a goat."
There was a sharp rapping at the door, and a gigantic man in a white lab coat entered. He pulled a small cart behind him. The shelves were filled with many strange and bulbous looking metal instruments.
"What the hell is that?" Roy demanded.
"Ah, we need to take your prints for processing through the Interpol data base."
"Don't you just need an inkpad and some paper for that?"
"Guess again Mr. Gimbel. The European Union has perfected the art of Colo-Rectal Assisted Morphometry or CRAM as we like to call it."
"That better not be what I think it is." Roy replied timidly.
"Don't worry Mr.Gimbel, it's no more painful than being raped by a bear. Siegfried, you may begin."
The large man pulled on a pair of elbow length rubber gloves, squeezed a softball sized dollop of lubricant into the palm of his hands, and sneered as he rubbed it up and down his gigantic forearms.
*****************************
Vienna, 8pm
Ally Rivera was standing at a white board in a brightly lit task room in in the Austrian National Affairs Investigatory Office (hmmm, thought that would have the acronym ANUS, ah well, try and try again eh?). The marker was half dry, you know that irritating state where they seem to erase as much as they write?
"Goddamn piece of shit marker!" Ally yelled as she hurled the offending object across the room.
She scanned the crowd of four police officers, two detectives and two administrative records men to see if anyone disapproved of the display. Her hair twirled deliciously about her perfect, mocha colored face in a saucy and sextastic manner.
Everyone looked bored and tired, except for one of the police officers. His eyes seemed fixated on her luscious ass, dancing to and fro in their sockets, a queer smile was upon his face.
Ally had learned how to deal with these types early on in her career. The trick was to strongly correct the behavior. If she failed to act now, she would lose the respect of the gathered group of men. This was just the way it was in the boys club of law enforcement.
Without so much as a word, Ally strode across the conference room, stopped directly in front of the leering officer, and stepped roughly on his crotch, twisting her heel for maximum effect. He yelped in surprise and agony and crumpled from his chair.
"Do the rest of you want to pay attention to something other than my ass?" She inquired, panning about the audience to make sure everyone was listening. She saw only shocked faces. They had gotten the point.
"Jesus Christ Agent Rivera, why in the hell did you do that?"
"Mr. Busy eyes was looking me up and down like a complete perv."
"Ma'am, that's just the way Ruteger is, he has a problem with his eyes, can't stop them from roving all over the place."
"I..well..."
Ally glanced at Ruteger, he was doubled over clutching his crotch and moaning. His googly eyes were frantically pivoting about focusing on nothing in particular.
"I'm, I'm sorry Ruteger, I didn't know."
"Happens....all....the...time." Ruteger said between gasps.
"Well let's get back to the case at hand, shall we?" Ally offered. "What did the coroner indicate as the cause of death for Mr. Corkwald?"
A stocky agent with a huge, angry looking handlebar mustache cleared his throat and began.
"The official report states that a Mr. Corkwald died from thrombocytopenia induced hemorrhaging into the cerebral vascular space. The occult blood found in the victims orifices, holes if you like, was from the strain induced by a massive gran mal seizure which was induced by the cerebral bleed."
"So, let me get this straight Herr Mostac, the victim died from bleeding in his brain caused by a lack of platelets."
"That's correct ma'am."
"So why is homicide involved in this investigation." Ally asked, raising one eyebrow in an adorable manner.
"We were hoping you could tell us Agent Rivera."
Just as she thought. These men had been told nothing about the case. The Director was as cagey as ever. Perhaps it was better this way. Ally was free to conduct an unbiased investigation without the bumbling Austrian authorities getting their grubby fingers all over everything. She'd throw them a bone for now, get them started.
"Well, Mr.Corkwald had no history of clotting disorders. In fact he had been given a clean bill of health as recently as 2 months prior to his death by a trusted physician."
"He was an old man ma'am, old people can get sick pretty fast. My own grandmother was in perfect health until the day she was hit by a Citroen and died of a broken heart."
"Err...nevermind. The suspicious part of the victim's autopsy report is not that Mr.Corkwald died of a previously undiagnosed clotting disorder. Strangely, the victim was massively sodomized mere moments before his death."
"So he was a pickle sniffer out for a little back-alley sausage." Ruteger replied, seemingly recovered from his testicle smashing.
"It's a good thought Ruteger" Ally replied "but we actually think that the anus was the route of administration for some kind of toxin."
"Why not just use a needle? All you have to do is find a hidden vein, like on your feet, or the back of your scrotum, some place where your parole officer won't look..." the mustachioed man quipped.
Ally thought carefully about the question, subconsciously kneading the right side of her narrow waist.
"Normally I'd agree with you herr detective, but we're obviously dealing with professionals. They know we'd find a needle mark during a routine work up. But, no pun intended, the colon has a tremendous blood flow and a large absorptive capacity and is an ideal route of administration because any marks will be all smeared over with crap, nearly undetectable. If a suitable toxin were delivered there, say in a few ounces of warm, sticky fluid, a large dose could be delivered almost instantaneously to the circulation."
The men looked confused and uncomfortable. Ruteger's crazy eyes seemed to reflect the internal conflict each of these men must be feeling. Killed by being poisoned in the ass. What a way to go. Only Agent Mostac seemed unfazed.
"I want y'all to come up with a list of poisons that could have this rapid of an effect. We'll meet back here in the morning. Dismissed."
The men shuffled from the room, Ruteger limping the whole way. Only Agent Mostac remained behind.
"Yes detective?"
"Agent Rivera, maybe you didn't hear this from me, but I've seen a man killed like this before."
"Where? Who?"
"Back in the service, during the cold war, a guy in my unit."
"Go on..."
"I don't want to say anything more here. Meet me for dinner over at the Elk's Shaft on Austria Street in an hour."
"I want to assure you Agent Mostac, you can trust me."
"It's not you I'm worried about."
"Oh?"
"This is a dangerous business Ms. Rivera, you can't be too careful.
No indeed, Ally thought to herself. Suddenly her nipples were extremely erect.
Roy Gimbel sat in a hard metal chair with no padding and no arms in front of a glaring, red faced Swiss Poliz Detective.
"So, Mr.Gimbel is it?"
"You know it is."
"Hey my main man, no need to get huffy." He responded with a small, shit eating smirk on his shiny Swiss face.
"Let's start over, shall we Mr. Gimbel."
" I already told you everything I know. Yes I had sex with that woman, yes I was drinking, and no, I did not kill her."
"Mmm hmm, mmm hmm. And when did you strangle her?" He said placing the tip of his pencil in his mouth, a quizzical expression upon his face.
"I fucking told you I didn't kill that fat bitch!" Roy screamed in exasperation.
"Slow down there, my main man. I understand why you would want to kill her, but I just need to hear your reason." He tented his thick sausage like Swiss fingers.
"Listen, I don't know how that woman ended up in my bathtub, but I was passed out drunk all night." Roy said, placing his right hand to his throbbing temple.
"Hmm, let me tell you what Mr. Gimbel, Mr. American boy. You think you can just waltz into Switzerland, get drunk on our wonderful liquor, murder Ms. Schweizmann and get away with it?!"
"Wait miss who?"
"Schweismann."
"Who?"
"Mr. Gimbel, you killed Viceroy Schweismann's daughter."
Roy hazily recalled Gimbel corps foreign adviser telling him about this Viceroy character before a previous business trip. Apparently the Swiss had some kind of candy land monarchy in place. They had a whole series of ranks and titles almost as impenetrable as a Swiss prostitute. Roy wasn't sure what a Viceroy was but it sounded as important as it did gay.
"Now you see, my main man, you are as the Swiss would say, up fuck-river without a goat."
There was a sharp rapping at the door, and a gigantic man in a white lab coat entered. He pulled a small cart behind him. The shelves were filled with many strange and bulbous looking metal instruments.
"What the hell is that?" Roy demanded.
"Ah, we need to take your prints for processing through the Interpol data base."
"Don't you just need an inkpad and some paper for that?"
"Guess again Mr. Gimbel. The European Union has perfected the art of Colo-Rectal Assisted Morphometry or CRAM as we like to call it."
"That better not be what I think it is." Roy replied timidly.
"Don't worry Mr.Gimbel, it's no more painful than being raped by a bear. Siegfried, you may begin."
The large man pulled on a pair of elbow length rubber gloves, squeezed a softball sized dollop of lubricant into the palm of his hands, and sneered as he rubbed it up and down his gigantic forearms.
*****************************
Vienna, 8pm
Ally Rivera was standing at a white board in a brightly lit task room in in the Austrian National Affairs Investigatory Office (hmmm, thought that would have the acronym ANUS, ah well, try and try again eh?). The marker was half dry, you know that irritating state where they seem to erase as much as they write?
"Goddamn piece of shit marker!" Ally yelled as she hurled the offending object across the room.
She scanned the crowd of four police officers, two detectives and two administrative records men to see if anyone disapproved of the display. Her hair twirled deliciously about her perfect, mocha colored face in a saucy and sextastic manner.
Everyone looked bored and tired, except for one of the police officers. His eyes seemed fixated on her luscious ass, dancing to and fro in their sockets, a queer smile was upon his face.
Ally had learned how to deal with these types early on in her career. The trick was to strongly correct the behavior. If she failed to act now, she would lose the respect of the gathered group of men. This was just the way it was in the boys club of law enforcement.
Without so much as a word, Ally strode across the conference room, stopped directly in front of the leering officer, and stepped roughly on his crotch, twisting her heel for maximum effect. He yelped in surprise and agony and crumpled from his chair.
"Do the rest of you want to pay attention to something other than my ass?" She inquired, panning about the audience to make sure everyone was listening. She saw only shocked faces. They had gotten the point.
"Jesus Christ Agent Rivera, why in the hell did you do that?"
"Mr. Busy eyes was looking me up and down like a complete perv."
"Ma'am, that's just the way Ruteger is, he has a problem with his eyes, can't stop them from roving all over the place."
"I..well..."
Ally glanced at Ruteger, he was doubled over clutching his crotch and moaning. His googly eyes were frantically pivoting about focusing on nothing in particular.
"I'm, I'm sorry Ruteger, I didn't know."
"Happens....all....the...time." Ruteger said between gasps.
"Well let's get back to the case at hand, shall we?" Ally offered. "What did the coroner indicate as the cause of death for Mr. Corkwald?"
A stocky agent with a huge, angry looking handlebar mustache cleared his throat and began.
"The official report states that a Mr. Corkwald died from thrombocytopenia induced hemorrhaging into the cerebral vascular space. The occult blood found in the victims orifices, holes if you like, was from the strain induced by a massive gran mal seizure which was induced by the cerebral bleed."
"So, let me get this straight Herr Mostac, the victim died from bleeding in his brain caused by a lack of platelets."
"That's correct ma'am."
"So why is homicide involved in this investigation." Ally asked, raising one eyebrow in an adorable manner.
"We were hoping you could tell us Agent Rivera."
Just as she thought. These men had been told nothing about the case. The Director was as cagey as ever. Perhaps it was better this way. Ally was free to conduct an unbiased investigation without the bumbling Austrian authorities getting their grubby fingers all over everything. She'd throw them a bone for now, get them started.
"Well, Mr.Corkwald had no history of clotting disorders. In fact he had been given a clean bill of health as recently as 2 months prior to his death by a trusted physician."
"He was an old man ma'am, old people can get sick pretty fast. My own grandmother was in perfect health until the day she was hit by a Citroen and died of a broken heart."
"Err...nevermind. The suspicious part of the victim's autopsy report is not that Mr.Corkwald died of a previously undiagnosed clotting disorder. Strangely, the victim was massively sodomized mere moments before his death."
"So he was a pickle sniffer out for a little back-alley sausage." Ruteger replied, seemingly recovered from his testicle smashing.
"It's a good thought Ruteger" Ally replied "but we actually think that the anus was the route of administration for some kind of toxin."
"Why not just use a needle? All you have to do is find a hidden vein, like on your feet, or the back of your scrotum, some place where your parole officer won't look..." the mustachioed man quipped.
Ally thought carefully about the question, subconsciously kneading the right side of her narrow waist.
"Normally I'd agree with you herr detective, but we're obviously dealing with professionals. They know we'd find a needle mark during a routine work up. But, no pun intended, the colon has a tremendous blood flow and a large absorptive capacity and is an ideal route of administration because any marks will be all smeared over with crap, nearly undetectable. If a suitable toxin were delivered there, say in a few ounces of warm, sticky fluid, a large dose could be delivered almost instantaneously to the circulation."
The men looked confused and uncomfortable. Ruteger's crazy eyes seemed to reflect the internal conflict each of these men must be feeling. Killed by being poisoned in the ass. What a way to go. Only Agent Mostac seemed unfazed.
"I want y'all to come up with a list of poisons that could have this rapid of an effect. We'll meet back here in the morning. Dismissed."
The men shuffled from the room, Ruteger limping the whole way. Only Agent Mostac remained behind.
"Yes detective?"
"Agent Rivera, maybe you didn't hear this from me, but I've seen a man killed like this before."
"Where? Who?"
"Back in the service, during the cold war, a guy in my unit."
"Go on..."
"I don't want to say anything more here. Meet me for dinner over at the Elk's Shaft on Austria Street in an hour."
"I want to assure you Agent Mostac, you can trust me."
"It's not you I'm worried about."
"Oh?"
"This is a dangerous business Ms. Rivera, you can't be too careful.
No indeed, Ally thought to herself. Suddenly her nipples were extremely erect.
Friday, December 18, 2009
What a Glorious Morning! Saab is Going out of Business!!
Good day to you all on this splenderific morning on the happiest little rock ball in the swankiest part of the classiest galaxy in the universe!
Why all the good cheer you ask? Isn't The Baron normally disgruntled, crass and furious? Why yes, yes he is.
But today a miracle happened. One wish in a list of thousands that The Baron demands god, satan or the colossal earth turtle grant him each day has come to pass!
Saab is going out of business!!! These rolling shit boxes have been offending The Baron's sensibilities (Blurgh!) for nigh on 27 years and in the glorious annum of 2009 they will be swept from the earth forever!!
The feeling, oh the feeling this wonderful news causes in the cockles of The Baron's balls! The Baron is 13 again, poking around AOL chat rooms and for the first time discovering the weirdos, scumbags and future felons would send him pornography for a song. Oh the joy, oh the preposterous felicity rubbing itself across The Baron's face like a pert set of hooters.
Now The Baron would like to lead his massive audience (which pushes upwards of 7 people on a good day!) in a collective, derisive laugh at the expense of anyone who was stupid enough to buy a saab. HAHA!!!
And, if you happen to own one of those boot-mobiles, The Baron would like to offer two condolences, the first for making a retarded large ticket purchase and the second because your "vehicle" has just lost half of it's resale value.
What a festive and magical season!!
Why all the good cheer you ask? Isn't The Baron normally disgruntled, crass and furious? Why yes, yes he is.
But today a miracle happened. One wish in a list of thousands that The Baron demands god, satan or the colossal earth turtle grant him each day has come to pass!
Saab is going out of business!!! These rolling shit boxes have been offending The Baron's sensibilities (Blurgh!) for nigh on 27 years and in the glorious annum of 2009 they will be swept from the earth forever!!
The feeling, oh the feeling this wonderful news causes in the cockles of The Baron's balls! The Baron is 13 again, poking around AOL chat rooms and for the first time discovering the weirdos, scumbags and future felons would send him pornography for a song. Oh the joy, oh the preposterous felicity rubbing itself across The Baron's face like a pert set of hooters.
Now The Baron would like to lead his massive audience (which pushes upwards of 7 people on a good day!) in a collective, derisive laugh at the expense of anyone who was stupid enough to buy a saab. HAHA!!!
And, if you happen to own one of those boot-mobiles, The Baron would like to offer two condolences, the first for making a retarded large ticket purchase and the second because your "vehicle" has just lost half of it's resale value.
What a festive and magical season!!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
2 Words You Can't Say Without Sounding Like an Asshole
It's time again to enter The Baron's vocabulary rodeo, this time to talk about 2 of the most irritating words in the english language. These are foul strings of letters which when uttered aloud are punishable by a swift kick to the pussy / hog.
Juxtaposition:
User : A filthy hippy with long greasy hair and a tangled beard. May be wearing a poncho. Often encountered in english or creative writing classes.
Alternate user: A hipster douchebag with mac glasses who won't even look up from his apple product to respond to questions such as "what the fuck is wrong with you" and "Do you realize you look like a cock in a sock?"
Dictionary definition: Something about the superimposition of two things. E.g the concepts might be fucking.
Who the fuck does this word think it is? It looks stupid, it sounds stupid, it makes people sound stupid when they say it. If you were to supplicate yourself before The Baron on his flying zepplin fortress and tell him that his shipping crate full of asian supermodels had arrived on the same day as his rocket-hovercraft and said it was a juxtaposition of sexiness and awesomeness, he would bone all the women, ride the hovercraft around for a few hours and then come to your house and kill you with a devastating backhand.
The word should be changed to : Fuxtaphallition
Rococo:
User: a fat disgusting mess of a history teacher.
Alternate user: again, hipsters. What is it about hipsters that everything they do enrages The Baron in a sureal fuxtaphallition of white hot malice and bitter contempt?
Dictionary Definition: Really fucking stupid looking artwork or architecture or some other type of shit from one of the supremely boring periods of European history.
People who use this word sound like gibbering retards. Why the fuck are there all those "O" sounds in there? Did they intentionally make the word ridiculous sounding? The Baron dares you to say this word to one of your non-hipster friends. Go ahead and try it....They'll murder you where you stand though.....
The word should be changed to : Baroque-plus, you don't even know what you're getting with rococo.
Juxtaposition:
User : A filthy hippy with long greasy hair and a tangled beard. May be wearing a poncho. Often encountered in english or creative writing classes.
Alternate user: A hipster douchebag with mac glasses who won't even look up from his apple product to respond to questions such as "what the fuck is wrong with you" and "Do you realize you look like a cock in a sock?"
Dictionary definition: Something about the superimposition of two things. E.g the concepts might be fucking.
Who the fuck does this word think it is? It looks stupid, it sounds stupid, it makes people sound stupid when they say it. If you were to supplicate yourself before The Baron on his flying zepplin fortress and tell him that his shipping crate full of asian supermodels had arrived on the same day as his rocket-hovercraft and said it was a juxtaposition of sexiness and awesomeness, he would bone all the women, ride the hovercraft around for a few hours and then come to your house and kill you with a devastating backhand.
The word should be changed to : Fuxtaphallition
Rococo:
User: a fat disgusting mess of a history teacher.
Alternate user: again, hipsters. What is it about hipsters that everything they do enrages The Baron in a sureal fuxtaphallition of white hot malice and bitter contempt?
Dictionary Definition: Really fucking stupid looking artwork or architecture or some other type of shit from one of the supremely boring periods of European history.
People who use this word sound like gibbering retards. Why the fuck are there all those "O" sounds in there? Did they intentionally make the word ridiculous sounding? The Baron dares you to say this word to one of your non-hipster friends. Go ahead and try it....They'll murder you where you stand though.....
The word should be changed to : Baroque-plus, you don't even know what you're getting with rococo.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 4
Dulles International Airport, Dullestown, 11:37am.
It was a bitterly cold morning in some shithole winter month. The airport was crowded. So crowded that a person could easily fade into the background with minimal effort...well, maybe not if their dick was out, but you get the picture.
At the magazine rack stood a dark man, with a dark heart and a dark purpose.......hold on a sec that's from Aladdin isn't it? Hmm, let me rephrase:
At the magazine rack stood a dark man, disgusted by the markups for popular titles and name brand snack items. Also he was wearing a fish hat, like that one the little shithead wears in the sandlot.
The man watched as a beautiful latasian woman presented her boarding pass and strode purposefully down the jetway. Her butt jiggled and sprang from side to side like two legless cats fighting in a tight satin bag.
"Where do you think you're going?" The man perhaps thought, perhaps mumbled.
No response.
"The game is afoot and you're running away without any explanation? How very rude my sensuous Ms. Rivera."
The man was holding a twinkie for some reason, he squeezed it and created a disgusting symbol which would be shown in extreme closeup if this were a movie.
**************
Roy awoke with a gasp.
He was sprawled across an unfamiliar bed in some dank flop house in what he could only assume was Zurich. The sheets had been pulled akimbo and lay at an odd angle so that Roy's lower legs were completely uncovered.
The room stank of cheap hooch, cheap hookers and hand sanitizer. Roy groaned as wave after wave of intense hangover swept through his wrecked body.
"What the fuck was I thinking?" He croaked.
Roy rolled onto his side with considerable effort. As his eyes adjusted to the morning glare he beheld a sight so horrifying that he nearly pooped. Filling entirely one half of the bed surface was the largest pile of vomit Roy had ever seen. It looked like some oaf had dumped an entire wheelbarrow full of old beef stroganoff onto the comforter and then smoothed it out with a trowel.
Bile came to Roy's mouth and he nearly vomited again, although judging by the size of the reeking pile, there would be very little left in his stomach.
"Oh....ohh fuck."
The night's activities suddenly flooded back into Roy's head and he groaned with displeasure. He had taken his father's death rather harder than expected.
The family doctor had been rushed to the compound after Roy alerted security to his grisly find. It was in the best interests of Roy and indeed the entire bra 'n' tamps industry to keep Robert's death under wraps. That Gimbel corp was now without its venerated president could send shock waves through the global financial markets as commodities traders rushed to dump unsold bales of tampons and bushels of hooter slings.
In all respects his father appeared to have suffered a violent end. The bloody foam was everywhere and his body was contracted into an awful reverse facing crescent shape. Roy had been in shock, just standing there next to his father's desk tearing at a small slip of paper he had found in his pocket. Roy didn't even acknowledge when a security man handed him a stiff glass of cognac.
When Doctor Siegler had finally shown up he was aghast at the state of his patient's body.
"My god....." he had exclaimed, clutching the chest of his white coat.
Roy finally snapped out of it and demanded answers, gesticulating so wildly that his drink flew free of its glass and stained the rug beneath their feet. His father had always been healthy as a horse. Why had he now been felled by some mystery ailment in the golden years of his life? It didn't make sense, wasn't fair.
Dr. Siegler had tried to reassure him, but his words were mere platitudes.
"Son....these things happen....it appears that your father developed a clotting disorder, had a seizure and died from hemorrhage..." Dr. Siegler began ..."Now I don't want to distress you but Robert's death must have been unbearable, an orgy of blood and trashing about on the carpet like a fish in a boat. It's truly a miracle that he didn't shit his pants."
"Doctor, I know my father respected you for your frankness, but for fuck's sake!"
"I understand Roy. Everyone grieves differently. Some people get roundly plastered and cry into a hooker's rack, some people keep popping pills until their legs don't work anymore and some people just snap and murder a random fish-monger on the shores of the Caspian Sea during the summer of 1957....."
Dr. Siegler trailed off, continuing to stare Roy full in the face for an uncomfortably long amount of time.
"Um, thanks...?"
"You're welcome my boy now let's get this stiff bagged up and trucked over to my offices for autopsy."
Roy had remained long after the corpse was removed just staring at the huge maroon stain where his father's body had lain. The sword cane remained on the spot it had fallen as the doctor roughly shoved Robert's corpse into a heavy black bag. Roy reached down and grasped the weapon by its hilt, tossed it from hand to hand, examining its impressive heft.
The old man carried this cane wherever he went to "keep those damnable tramps from finking my goddamn wallet" but Roy had never seen it unsheathed before. Like a dog's red rocket, it glistened in the dimming light. No doubt Robert had kept it well oiled to prevent tarnishing. He had always been a persnickety neat freak.
"I don't like disorder in my life, or in the world in general." He told Roy when he was 13. "That's why I started this business. I can't stand by idly while a huge pair of flappy j's jangles all over the damned place any more than I can tolerate a sink full of dirty dishes."
Dr. Siegler thought it likely that the old man had ripped the blade from its scabbard during his convulsions as the other half had been flung nearly across the room.
Roy reassembled the cane and left it leaning up against the mantle on the far wall. He grabbed a large decanter of some godawful gut rot liquor from his father's desk and had swilled nearly half the contents by the time he reached the garage level.
Roy had staggered from bar to bar all that night lusting after any woman who so much as farted within earshot. Eventually he settled on a hooker of some kind.
Now, you would think that a Zurich hooker would be a very well organized, somewhat conservative looking woman, and you'd be right. But Roy didn't pick a tight wad 1000 euro a night Zurichian.
Rather, he stumbled across a huge moon-faced mess of a woman who could have easily been 50 years old. He wasn't even sure she was a hooker, but that had a lot to do with the copious quantity of brandy Roy had downed at the last bar of the evening.
Sitting in the vomit soaked bed, Roy remembered grimly, and clumsily plowing that sow before passing out, and evidently producing 40lbs of yak.
He slowly rose to his feet, but it was no use. A massive bolus of blood rushed to his brain and a headache of biblical proportions began to rasp at the inside of his skull.
Roy's stomach turned and he staggered to the bathroom, reaching the sink just in time to divest himself of another few liters of stomach juice.
He wiped his mouth, spit out some chunks of what tasted like beef and glanced up to examine his face in the mirror.
Roy let out an involuntary yelp as he realized there was a person in the bathtub behind him. He spun on his heel and beheld with rising horror the pale, bloated corpse of the enormous whale he had pile-driven during the night. Her lifeless body filled nearly the entire tub. A nylon cord was wound tightly around her bruised neck.
"Fucking shit!" Roy hissed
How in the fuck had this happened? What the fuck was he supposed to do? How long did he have to figure it out?
As if to answer his questions loud banging sounded from the entryway. With an angry splintering sound, the door flew from its frame and landed flat on the carpet. There was a considerable commotion of footfalls as if a large group of people were fighting to get to the center of the room. Then conspicuous silence.
Roy peeked carefully out of the bathroom and saw four Swiss Poliz Commandos rapidly securing the room. The lead member caught sight of Roy, raised his ridiculous looking European machine gun and shouted..
"Get down on the floor now!" In some sort of trashy accent.
If Roy hadn't already puked up his whole dinner he would have shit his pants, instead he meekly complied.
It was a bitterly cold morning in some shithole winter month. The airport was crowded. So crowded that a person could easily fade into the background with minimal effort...well, maybe not if their dick was out, but you get the picture.
At the magazine rack stood a dark man, with a dark heart and a dark purpose.......hold on a sec that's from Aladdin isn't it? Hmm, let me rephrase:
At the magazine rack stood a dark man, disgusted by the markups for popular titles and name brand snack items. Also he was wearing a fish hat, like that one the little shithead wears in the sandlot.
The man watched as a beautiful latasian woman presented her boarding pass and strode purposefully down the jetway. Her butt jiggled and sprang from side to side like two legless cats fighting in a tight satin bag.
"Where do you think you're going?" The man perhaps thought, perhaps mumbled.
No response.
"The game is afoot and you're running away without any explanation? How very rude my sensuous Ms. Rivera."
The man was holding a twinkie for some reason, he squeezed it and created a disgusting symbol which would be shown in extreme closeup if this were a movie.
**************
Roy awoke with a gasp.
He was sprawled across an unfamiliar bed in some dank flop house in what he could only assume was Zurich. The sheets had been pulled akimbo and lay at an odd angle so that Roy's lower legs were completely uncovered.
The room stank of cheap hooch, cheap hookers and hand sanitizer. Roy groaned as wave after wave of intense hangover swept through his wrecked body.
"What the fuck was I thinking?" He croaked.
Roy rolled onto his side with considerable effort. As his eyes adjusted to the morning glare he beheld a sight so horrifying that he nearly pooped. Filling entirely one half of the bed surface was the largest pile of vomit Roy had ever seen. It looked like some oaf had dumped an entire wheelbarrow full of old beef stroganoff onto the comforter and then smoothed it out with a trowel.
Bile came to Roy's mouth and he nearly vomited again, although judging by the size of the reeking pile, there would be very little left in his stomach.
"Oh....ohh fuck."
The night's activities suddenly flooded back into Roy's head and he groaned with displeasure. He had taken his father's death rather harder than expected.
The family doctor had been rushed to the compound after Roy alerted security to his grisly find. It was in the best interests of Roy and indeed the entire bra 'n' tamps industry to keep Robert's death under wraps. That Gimbel corp was now without its venerated president could send shock waves through the global financial markets as commodities traders rushed to dump unsold bales of tampons and bushels of hooter slings.
In all respects his father appeared to have suffered a violent end. The bloody foam was everywhere and his body was contracted into an awful reverse facing crescent shape. Roy had been in shock, just standing there next to his father's desk tearing at a small slip of paper he had found in his pocket. Roy didn't even acknowledge when a security man handed him a stiff glass of cognac.
When Doctor Siegler had finally shown up he was aghast at the state of his patient's body.
"My god....." he had exclaimed, clutching the chest of his white coat.
Roy finally snapped out of it and demanded answers, gesticulating so wildly that his drink flew free of its glass and stained the rug beneath their feet. His father had always been healthy as a horse. Why had he now been felled by some mystery ailment in the golden years of his life? It didn't make sense, wasn't fair.
Dr. Siegler had tried to reassure him, but his words were mere platitudes.
"Son....these things happen....it appears that your father developed a clotting disorder, had a seizure and died from hemorrhage..." Dr. Siegler began ..."Now I don't want to distress you but Robert's death must have been unbearable, an orgy of blood and trashing about on the carpet like a fish in a boat. It's truly a miracle that he didn't shit his pants."
"Doctor, I know my father respected you for your frankness, but for fuck's sake!"
"I understand Roy. Everyone grieves differently. Some people get roundly plastered and cry into a hooker's rack, some people keep popping pills until their legs don't work anymore and some people just snap and murder a random fish-monger on the shores of the Caspian Sea during the summer of 1957....."
Dr. Siegler trailed off, continuing to stare Roy full in the face for an uncomfortably long amount of time.
"Um, thanks...?"
"You're welcome my boy now let's get this stiff bagged up and trucked over to my offices for autopsy."
Roy had remained long after the corpse was removed just staring at the huge maroon stain where his father's body had lain. The sword cane remained on the spot it had fallen as the doctor roughly shoved Robert's corpse into a heavy black bag. Roy reached down and grasped the weapon by its hilt, tossed it from hand to hand, examining its impressive heft.
The old man carried this cane wherever he went to "keep those damnable tramps from finking my goddamn wallet" but Roy had never seen it unsheathed before. Like a dog's red rocket, it glistened in the dimming light. No doubt Robert had kept it well oiled to prevent tarnishing. He had always been a persnickety neat freak.
"I don't like disorder in my life, or in the world in general." He told Roy when he was 13. "That's why I started this business. I can't stand by idly while a huge pair of flappy j's jangles all over the damned place any more than I can tolerate a sink full of dirty dishes."
Dr. Siegler thought it likely that the old man had ripped the blade from its scabbard during his convulsions as the other half had been flung nearly across the room.
Roy reassembled the cane and left it leaning up against the mantle on the far wall. He grabbed a large decanter of some godawful gut rot liquor from his father's desk and had swilled nearly half the contents by the time he reached the garage level.
Roy had staggered from bar to bar all that night lusting after any woman who so much as farted within earshot. Eventually he settled on a hooker of some kind.
Now, you would think that a Zurich hooker would be a very well organized, somewhat conservative looking woman, and you'd be right. But Roy didn't pick a tight wad 1000 euro a night Zurichian.
Rather, he stumbled across a huge moon-faced mess of a woman who could have easily been 50 years old. He wasn't even sure she was a hooker, but that had a lot to do with the copious quantity of brandy Roy had downed at the last bar of the evening.
Sitting in the vomit soaked bed, Roy remembered grimly, and clumsily plowing that sow before passing out, and evidently producing 40lbs of yak.
He slowly rose to his feet, but it was no use. A massive bolus of blood rushed to his brain and a headache of biblical proportions began to rasp at the inside of his skull.
Roy's stomach turned and he staggered to the bathroom, reaching the sink just in time to divest himself of another few liters of stomach juice.
He wiped his mouth, spit out some chunks of what tasted like beef and glanced up to examine his face in the mirror.
Roy let out an involuntary yelp as he realized there was a person in the bathtub behind him. He spun on his heel and beheld with rising horror the pale, bloated corpse of the enormous whale he had pile-driven during the night. Her lifeless body filled nearly the entire tub. A nylon cord was wound tightly around her bruised neck.
"Fucking shit!" Roy hissed
How in the fuck had this happened? What the fuck was he supposed to do? How long did he have to figure it out?
As if to answer his questions loud banging sounded from the entryway. With an angry splintering sound, the door flew from its frame and landed flat on the carpet. There was a considerable commotion of footfalls as if a large group of people were fighting to get to the center of the room. Then conspicuous silence.
Roy peeked carefully out of the bathroom and saw four Swiss Poliz Commandos rapidly securing the room. The lead member caught sight of Roy, raised his ridiculous looking European machine gun and shouted..
"Get down on the floor now!" In some sort of trashy accent.
If Roy hadn't already puked up his whole dinner he would have shit his pants, instead he meekly complied.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
There is no God!
Munk yourself? Is that supposed to be sexual?
Just when The Baron was starting to feel like humanity wasn't careening through a senseless void of cold gas and deadly, deadly radiation, constantly clinging to a rocky ball full of cruelty and violence, 20th century Fox had to go and pull this shit.
The first live action / animated chipmunks movie was a theatrical abortion of hackneyed jokes and nauseating levels of topical humor. That there will be a sequel to this abomination is unequivocal proof that there is no guiding principal in the universe (or that he/she's a complete asshole).
The 80's cartoon version of the chipmunk franchise was a boner stroking shit-fest of biblical proportions. Even as a child, The Baron was bored by their predictable antics and terrible voice acting. The show was certainly no GI-JOE or Transformers or even Heathcliff. Alvin and the Chipmunks was a tired, poorly animated cluster-fuck about some singing rodents and their exploitative "father".
It is implied but never explicitly stated that Dave raped and killed the chipmunks' mother while they watched and then conscripted them into a traveling musical group so that he could blow the profits on cheap hookers and gas-station biker meth. That he made them wear shirts with no pants speaks to a probable pederastic relationship between the struggling musician and his young prisoners.
That there will be two recent movies based off this wildly inappropriate material is an injustice to the movie going population and indeed all sentient life in the universe.
At least The Baroness hasn't netflixed this shit yet.....
Just when The Baron was starting to feel like humanity wasn't careening through a senseless void of cold gas and deadly, deadly radiation, constantly clinging to a rocky ball full of cruelty and violence, 20th century Fox had to go and pull this shit.
The first live action / animated chipmunks movie was a theatrical abortion of hackneyed jokes and nauseating levels of topical humor. That there will be a sequel to this abomination is unequivocal proof that there is no guiding principal in the universe (or that he/she's a complete asshole).
The 80's cartoon version of the chipmunk franchise was a boner stroking shit-fest of biblical proportions. Even as a child, The Baron was bored by their predictable antics and terrible voice acting. The show was certainly no GI-JOE or Transformers or even Heathcliff. Alvin and the Chipmunks was a tired, poorly animated cluster-fuck about some singing rodents and their exploitative "father".
It is implied but never explicitly stated that Dave raped and killed the chipmunks' mother while they watched and then conscripted them into a traveling musical group so that he could blow the profits on cheap hookers and gas-station biker meth. That he made them wear shirts with no pants speaks to a probable pederastic relationship between the struggling musician and his young prisoners.
That there will be two recent movies based off this wildly inappropriate material is an injustice to the movie going population and indeed all sentient life in the universe.
At least The Baroness hasn't netflixed this shit yet.....
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Barontastic Comment
The Baron just received a Barontastic comment on the previous post that he would like to share with everyone: Warning! You must be 18!
"wtf is wrong with that janitor? if he had two brain cells to rub together he would have either quietly watched while slowly stroking his member, gone in and joined, or gone in and blackmailed the two teachers into letting him do one or both of the previously mentioned plans on a weekly basis. the real news story here is "janitor wins biggest dumbass of the year award."
Well put sir. Witty, concise and slightly vulgar.
But, is it not possible that the janitor was a lady? That would explain everything. Because as everyone knows, women are wet blankets and they hate it when other people are having fun, especially other women.
"wtf is wrong with that janitor? if he had two brain cells to rub together he would have either quietly watched while slowly stroking his member, gone in and joined, or gone in and blackmailed the two teachers into letting him do one or both of the previously mentioned plans on a weekly basis. the real news story here is "janitor wins biggest dumbass of the year award."
Well put sir. Witty, concise and slightly vulgar.
But, is it not possible that the janitor was a lady? That would explain everything. Because as everyone knows, women are wet blankets and they hate it when other people are having fun, especially other women.
The Baron is Swamped Awesome News Story
Sexy Time (SFW)
Feast your eyes on that!
What a story! The Baron is predicting with 100% certainty that this will be one of the banner articles on the evening news tonite and with good cause!
Where the hell were these naked, young lady teachers when The Baron was in high school? As he recalls it was all dowdy old fat dudes with gout and gross sows who had to roophie men to get laid.
Lamentations aside, The Baron has selected a few golden quotes from this article that read like a letter to Penthouse and that he cannot believe made it into a serious publication.
"Now you guys wished we installed cameras in our classrooms after all hmm?" wrote one student.
This kid is a fucking hero. While The Baron doesn't approve of the hmm (it's superfluous as "after all" implies the same thing) the quotee is a high school student after all hmm?
"She dressed like a teenage girl....you could see that she was the type of person who would flirt."
HAHAHAHA. Now that's some grade A character assassination. The Baron likes how this guy used the same justification a rapist would. Come to think of it, they better watch out for that guy, working at a high school with all sorts of vulnerable coeds.
"She's pretty" said one 17 year old who took French with her "Mrs. Brito was good looking, Oh Yeah!"
Wow, another latter day saint. This kid is either the man, or a big, fat sketchy mess with a porn addiction. The Baron, nonetheless, has awarded him 10 points extra credit for the "Oh yeah!"
"She usually dresses elegant, looks smart" he said "and she was friendly, not flirty, just friendly"
Well, well well "he" if that is your real name, The Baron can see right through your defense of the hot lady teacher. To the uneducated eye this might simply appear to be an honest appraisal by a good student, a dork if you will. However, The Baron's years of investigative experience, especially in matters concerning lady teachers boning things, has led him to an alternate and undoubtedly correct explanation. This kid is so eager to defend the nubile Mrs.Brito because she's fucking his brains out. That is really the only explanation. At the moment he's feeling both hurt and intrigued. He's wondering how he can parlay this latest news into a Grammar School Sex Rodeo with his weiner the focal point of a pair of bicurious professorettes. Play your cards right son and you could be a legend in the
What a marvelous day!
P.s. The Baron apologizes for no comic this week. Has been hectic at the blimp factory.
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 3
Virginia:
Ally Rivera sat stooped over a flickering computer monitor in the sub-basement of the FBI headquarters in whatever city the FBI headquarters are in. It was 2Am and she hadn't moved from the threadbare rolly chair in 4 hours. Her fingers rapped on the sticky, beige keys in the slow cadence indicative of exhaustion.
She was a monstrously obese 28 year old woman, with puffy bags beneath her eyes and dark stains in the armpits of her tent sized blouse. She gave off a perpetual odor of sweat and sour milk. Her eyes were a milky blue and had the unfocused sheen of a cow's. Her buttocks were titanic hams pressed uncomfortably into the hard seat and overflowing from the edges like waterfalls of cold molasses. Her abdominal fat shield fell far below her genitals and was constantly itchy....
....wait a second, how can this sow be the protagonist's love interest? We need to rework this shit right now. Ok, go!
Ally Rivera slowly massaged her taut thigh muscles to bring the circulation back. She was still sore from that morning's Ass-Blasters-Aerobics workout at the gym where she went every day except Sunday. The cleft between her perfect butt cheeks gripped the chair so tightly that the upholstery made soft ripping sounds as she shifted from one side to the other as if a cat were sharpening its claws. Her abdominal muscles were lightly defined giving an alluring shape to her athletic frame. Soft, dark waves of aromatic hair fell just to the level of her perky C-cup breasts which smelled slightly of sandalwood. Also her nipples were the perfect size and color without a hint of saucerism, but you'll have to take my word for it if you know what I mean......I fucked her.
Ally was of latin heritage...wait, no....Ally was of Asian heritage....hmmm, that won't do....Ally was a beautiful young Latasian woman born of the best stock of ancient handsome families including the Hapsburgs and Romanoffs but not the hemophiliac ones. Her keen, dark eyes burned with an intense desire to ravage (sexually) a business mogul made vulnerable by the stress of being pursued by a faceless secret society of assassins.
Ally belched slightly...rather she sneezed adorably as the results of her latest data mining search returned.
"Aha!" She exclaimed, in a soft, sultry voice.
The pattern was starting to come together nicely; a disturbing net of suspicious killings throughout the United States. The Mosaic Killer certainly had done a thorough job of covering his tracks, making sure to strike at random geographic locations to foil investigators. After reviewing the latest data Ally was certain that this killer, this monster, was far more prolific than the media, nay the entire justice system had given him credit for.
He, Ally assumed the killer was a man, was called the Mosaic because of the strange way he presented his victims. Always multiple, always naked, always cut into many pieces and always assembled into a collage of sorts which depicted scenes from nature. A disturbed individual to be sure, yet he was clearly a talented artist and anatomist.
Ally had to inform her superior of these findings. Apprehending the Mosaic Killer had become the top priority of the agency due to the recent media frenzy surrounding his bizarre crimes. Director Adams would be immensely pleased with her work, she was sure of it. This was just the break they had been waiting for. Ally had compiled a complete record of the victims' locations and now sophisticated computer algorithms could be put to work to identify the killers home range just like in that show Numb3s that no one ever watches.
Ally trotted to the elevator, her butt rippling beneath a tight black skirt, stepped through the open doors and pressed the button for the top floor. The creaky old car whirred and clanked for what seemed like an interminably long time finally opening on the 8th floor.
Ally paced down the carpeted hallway on her dainty feet and rapped softly on Director Adam's door.
"Come in." Came the irritated sounding reply.
"Uh, sir" Ally said slowly pushing the door open "I have some new information on MK."
"Well then let's hear it already!" He snapped.
He was a small man with dark locks, dark eyes and copious body hair. His frame was thin and wiry like a jack rabbit. Ally doubted that he weighed 120 pounds soaking wet and yet this man was legendary for his tenacity and brutality during confrontations with suspects. The stories from his Special Agent days were so shocking in some cases that new agents refused to believe them...that is until they saw the hamburger faced perps' mug shots.
Director Rupert Adams had soared through the ranks of the FBI at an astonishing pace, even despite his unfortunate first name. Starting as a Special Agent in 1992, he had clambered his way to the head of the Homicide Section at a blistering pace. His work was reknowned for it's thoroughness and very few criminals had escaped his hawk like gaze.
Now this intimidating little man was glaring at Ally, daring her to waste his time. Thankfully, today, she had excellent information.
"I finished searching the database for Mosaic-like killings, and it looks like his reach is far more extensive than we had anticipated."
"How so?"
"Well, my findings suggest that he is not limited to the southeast."
"How bad does it look?" He replied in his typical, terse manner.
"Well counting all murders which show his characteristic style, including suspected early killings, before he matured.....we're looking at the entire contiguous United States and parts of Southern Canada. A total of 92 victims"
"Jesus frog fucking Christ!" Adams shouted. "This fucker is one sick puppy! Excellent work Agent Rivera. I'll put the tracking boys on this ASAP. Effective immediately, you're being reassigned."
"But sir, I mean for Christ's sake, I've been working on this case since day one!" Ally nearly screamed. How the fuck could this little weasel of a man screw her out of the conclusion of the MK case?
"And you've done an admirable job but your skills are needed elsewhere."
"This is bullshit!"
"I suggest you watch your tone agent. This is the way the agency works, whether you like it or not."
"Is it because I'm a woman? You don't think I can cut it in the field? Is that it?" Ally was almost sure that is was. She'd been discriminated against since her academy days all because of her vagina, her tight, perfect vagina. Now she was going to get screwed out of the glory again so some dickwad could take the MK.
"To the contrary Agent Rivera. Your new assignment is a foreign field operation of the most dangerous kind."
"Oh..?" She cocked her head adorably, somewhat disarmed.
"You're being deployed to Austria to investigate a bizarre murder."
"May I ask who the victim was?"
"He was a special ops commando named Phinneus Corkwald. One of our top agents in the early days of the cold war." Director Adams swiveled his chair toward the window and tented his small, thick fingers. A look of deep contemplation upon his face. It was almost as if he knew something, something he wouldn't reveal for dozens, perhaps hundreds of pages.
"And the manner of his death?"
"Well that's just it..." Adams said, perking up slightly "We haven't the slightest idea how he was killed. You're going to to have to read up on the case file on the flight over."
"I'm on it sir. When do I leave?"
"Immediately. You can claim your travel documents from Agent Miller."
Ally turned to leave the office, her cute butt seeming to shimmer in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
"One more thing Agent Rivera."
She turned and faced Adams, his expression was grim, deadly serious.
"Be careful. Corkwald was one of the most experienced and dare I say deadly operatives in the world. The people who took him out are of the highest caliber."
"I'm always careful sir." Ally replied as she stepped into the narrow corridor.
Ally Rivera sat stooped over a flickering computer monitor in the sub-basement of the FBI headquarters in whatever city the FBI headquarters are in. It was 2Am and she hadn't moved from the threadbare rolly chair in 4 hours. Her fingers rapped on the sticky, beige keys in the slow cadence indicative of exhaustion.
She was a monstrously obese 28 year old woman, with puffy bags beneath her eyes and dark stains in the armpits of her tent sized blouse. She gave off a perpetual odor of sweat and sour milk. Her eyes were a milky blue and had the unfocused sheen of a cow's. Her buttocks were titanic hams pressed uncomfortably into the hard seat and overflowing from the edges like waterfalls of cold molasses. Her abdominal fat shield fell far below her genitals and was constantly itchy....
....wait a second, how can this sow be the protagonist's love interest? We need to rework this shit right now. Ok, go!
Ally Rivera slowly massaged her taut thigh muscles to bring the circulation back. She was still sore from that morning's Ass-Blasters-Aerobics workout at the gym where she went every day except Sunday. The cleft between her perfect butt cheeks gripped the chair so tightly that the upholstery made soft ripping sounds as she shifted from one side to the other as if a cat were sharpening its claws. Her abdominal muscles were lightly defined giving an alluring shape to her athletic frame. Soft, dark waves of aromatic hair fell just to the level of her perky C-cup breasts which smelled slightly of sandalwood. Also her nipples were the perfect size and color without a hint of saucerism, but you'll have to take my word for it if you know what I mean......I fucked her.
Ally was of latin heritage...wait, no....Ally was of Asian heritage....hmmm, that won't do....Ally was a beautiful young Latasian woman born of the best stock of ancient handsome families including the Hapsburgs and Romanoffs but not the hemophiliac ones. Her keen, dark eyes burned with an intense desire to ravage (sexually) a business mogul made vulnerable by the stress of being pursued by a faceless secret society of assassins.
Ally belched slightly...rather she sneezed adorably as the results of her latest data mining search returned.
"Aha!" She exclaimed, in a soft, sultry voice.
The pattern was starting to come together nicely; a disturbing net of suspicious killings throughout the United States. The Mosaic Killer certainly had done a thorough job of covering his tracks, making sure to strike at random geographic locations to foil investigators. After reviewing the latest data Ally was certain that this killer, this monster, was far more prolific than the media, nay the entire justice system had given him credit for.
He, Ally assumed the killer was a man, was called the Mosaic because of the strange way he presented his victims. Always multiple, always naked, always cut into many pieces and always assembled into a collage of sorts which depicted scenes from nature. A disturbed individual to be sure, yet he was clearly a talented artist and anatomist.
Ally had to inform her superior of these findings. Apprehending the Mosaic Killer had become the top priority of the agency due to the recent media frenzy surrounding his bizarre crimes. Director Adams would be immensely pleased with her work, she was sure of it. This was just the break they had been waiting for. Ally had compiled a complete record of the victims' locations and now sophisticated computer algorithms could be put to work to identify the killers home range just like in that show Numb3s that no one ever watches.
Ally trotted to the elevator, her butt rippling beneath a tight black skirt, stepped through the open doors and pressed the button for the top floor. The creaky old car whirred and clanked for what seemed like an interminably long time finally opening on the 8th floor.
Ally paced down the carpeted hallway on her dainty feet and rapped softly on Director Adam's door.
"Come in." Came the irritated sounding reply.
"Uh, sir" Ally said slowly pushing the door open "I have some new information on MK."
"Well then let's hear it already!" He snapped.
He was a small man with dark locks, dark eyes and copious body hair. His frame was thin and wiry like a jack rabbit. Ally doubted that he weighed 120 pounds soaking wet and yet this man was legendary for his tenacity and brutality during confrontations with suspects. The stories from his Special Agent days were so shocking in some cases that new agents refused to believe them...that is until they saw the hamburger faced perps' mug shots.
Director Rupert Adams had soared through the ranks of the FBI at an astonishing pace, even despite his unfortunate first name. Starting as a Special Agent in 1992, he had clambered his way to the head of the Homicide Section at a blistering pace. His work was reknowned for it's thoroughness and very few criminals had escaped his hawk like gaze.
Now this intimidating little man was glaring at Ally, daring her to waste his time. Thankfully, today, she had excellent information.
"I finished searching the database for Mosaic-like killings, and it looks like his reach is far more extensive than we had anticipated."
"How so?"
"Well, my findings suggest that he is not limited to the southeast."
"How bad does it look?" He replied in his typical, terse manner.
"Well counting all murders which show his characteristic style, including suspected early killings, before he matured.....we're looking at the entire contiguous United States and parts of Southern Canada. A total of 92 victims"
"Jesus frog fucking Christ!" Adams shouted. "This fucker is one sick puppy! Excellent work Agent Rivera. I'll put the tracking boys on this ASAP. Effective immediately, you're being reassigned."
"But sir, I mean for Christ's sake, I've been working on this case since day one!" Ally nearly screamed. How the fuck could this little weasel of a man screw her out of the conclusion of the MK case?
"And you've done an admirable job but your skills are needed elsewhere."
"This is bullshit!"
"I suggest you watch your tone agent. This is the way the agency works, whether you like it or not."
"Is it because I'm a woman? You don't think I can cut it in the field? Is that it?" Ally was almost sure that is was. She'd been discriminated against since her academy days all because of her vagina, her tight, perfect vagina. Now she was going to get screwed out of the glory again so some dickwad could take the MK.
"To the contrary Agent Rivera. Your new assignment is a foreign field operation of the most dangerous kind."
"Oh..?" She cocked her head adorably, somewhat disarmed.
"You're being deployed to Austria to investigate a bizarre murder."
"May I ask who the victim was?"
"He was a special ops commando named Phinneus Corkwald. One of our top agents in the early days of the cold war." Director Adams swiveled his chair toward the window and tented his small, thick fingers. A look of deep contemplation upon his face. It was almost as if he knew something, something he wouldn't reveal for dozens, perhaps hundreds of pages.
"And the manner of his death?"
"Well that's just it..." Adams said, perking up slightly "We haven't the slightest idea how he was killed. You're going to to have to read up on the case file on the flight over."
"I'm on it sir. When do I leave?"
"Immediately. You can claim your travel documents from Agent Miller."
Ally turned to leave the office, her cute butt seeming to shimmer in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
"One more thing Agent Rivera."
She turned and faced Adams, his expression was grim, deadly serious.
"Be careful. Corkwald was one of the most experienced and dare I say deadly operatives in the world. The people who took him out are of the highest caliber."
"I'm always careful sir." Ally replied as she stepped into the narrow corridor.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Celtic Pride is the Worst Movie in the History of the World
Ok folks, this is going to be a brief one because The Baron is up to his testicles in work today.
Seriously though, for a movie that is almost always mentioned favorably, Celtic Pride was a huge shitpile! The Baron felt a combination of embarrassed, ashamed, guilty and vomity throughout the entire film.
Just in case it isn't obvious to actors, producers and writers, if test audiences feel intensely sorry for the characters in your movie, perhaps it's time to toss it in the dumpster. Evidently whoever shat out Celtic Pride was consumed by hubris and ignored the advice of everyone who had anything to do with it because JESUS RAPEOSAUR RIDING CHRIST!
Dan Akroyd and Marv should be fucking ashamed of themselves! I mean did either one of them read the fucking script?
Sure Dan's career was over decades ago, but poor Marv! He was flying high after Home Alone and Home Alone le Deuce and then this leaky bag of diarrhea soup landed in his lap and he latched on like a remora on a particularly badassed shark.
It's not like Marv was going places anyway, but he could have at least banged out a few decent comedies and socked away a little cash for his brood of hideous children before he committed career suicide.
The really baffling thing about this whole scenario is that The Baron knows people who love this movie. How the fuck can that be? I mean how many of y'all Celtic Pride lovers have been kicked in the head by a mule? The odds are staggering.
And another thing. The Baron doesn't blame Damon Wayans for this movie. His entire career is based off movies so abysmally bad that even a retarded, shit-covered chimp would refuse to watch for all the bananas in Panama. Even so, just like a dung beetle, Damon manages to make a life out of shit and The Baron simply cannot fault the man for successfully exploiting his niche.
Seriously though, for a movie that is almost always mentioned favorably, Celtic Pride was a huge shitpile! The Baron felt a combination of embarrassed, ashamed, guilty and vomity throughout the entire film.
Just in case it isn't obvious to actors, producers and writers, if test audiences feel intensely sorry for the characters in your movie, perhaps it's time to toss it in the dumpster. Evidently whoever shat out Celtic Pride was consumed by hubris and ignored the advice of everyone who had anything to do with it because JESUS RAPEOSAUR RIDING CHRIST!
Dan Akroyd and Marv should be fucking ashamed of themselves! I mean did either one of them read the fucking script?
Sure Dan's career was over decades ago, but poor Marv! He was flying high after Home Alone and Home Alone le Deuce and then this leaky bag of diarrhea soup landed in his lap and he latched on like a remora on a particularly badassed shark.
It's not like Marv was going places anyway, but he could have at least banged out a few decent comedies and socked away a little cash for his brood of hideous children before he committed career suicide.
The really baffling thing about this whole scenario is that The Baron knows people who love this movie. How the fuck can that be? I mean how many of y'all Celtic Pride lovers have been kicked in the head by a mule? The odds are staggering.
And another thing. The Baron doesn't blame Damon Wayans for this movie. His entire career is based off movies so abysmally bad that even a retarded, shit-covered chimp would refuse to watch for all the bananas in Panama. Even so, just like a dung beetle, Damon manages to make a life out of shit and The Baron simply cannot fault the man for successfully exploiting his niche.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Some of Those New Butt Toning Shoe Commercials Are Aimed Squarely at Men and The Baron can Prove it!!
The Baron and The Little Baron are huge fans of the new Reebok butt toning shoe commercials, emphasis on huge. This miracle product promises to tone a lady's butt while she walks around in them with no additional effort! For all butt the fattest, laziest and most handicapped women this presents the perfect scenario: possibly a better looking pooper without doing anything thfey don't normally do all the time.
Now, it would seem that the ads for these shoes target solely women, butt...BUTT, The Baron has found evidence to support a heavy skewing towards penis-bearing individuals and not just females, shemales and trannys.
At first this appears to be a poor move, after all, giving a woman a pair of shoes that are supposed to make her butt look better might seem like Indian Giving. E.g. the man in question would be giving himself a gift (if he were involved in a plow-friendly relationship with said woman), for as the age old parable says : Man who give ass improving shoes to lady rewarded with taut ass in face and grinding on lap.
In addition, The Baron has heard that women become murderously angry when anyone so much as insinuates that their body isn't a work of art on permanent lease to god's foyer. Namely, giving ass enhancing shoes to a lady is a catch-22: Women desperately want to have better butts, butt they'll kill anyone who tries to help them augment said asses.
With that long winded explanation aside, The Baron will present his evidence that in spite of the danger, the reebok assass-in sneakers are advertised, at least partially to men.
So the first frame contains hooters. Everyone loves hooters, particularly The Baron. Butt these aren't ordinary hooters, they're talking hooters. Although men can appreciate the heft of a nice set of jugs, the cheekiness of these fun-bags and the matter of fact way they speak to each other is definitely meant to appeal to women. In addition, the milk-bar is collectively jealous of the lady's ass. Jealousy is one of the emotions that women have perfected over the millennia along with, spitefulness, nagginess, and naggicity.
In the next frame we get our first look at the ass of the hour. Don't get The Baron wrong, it looks like a fine ass, butt the full coverage bloomers this broad is wearing seem to scream "there's something wrong with the rest of my ass." Perhaps that something is assne, perhaps it's a huge patch of roadrash or really bony, gazelle-like hip bones, we don't know. Butt, The Baron does know one audience that will appreciate the less-than gratuitous crack shot. Ladies.
Then we get to the final, critical frame where The Baron's theory is proven. Now, if you've been doing your homework, you'll recognize that final shot as the fabled Peak-a-Boo-Growler-Surprise (Buttastic) ((You may also notice that The Baron spoke in the first person way back then)). There is simply no way in hell that this PBGS made it past the lady screeners without getting flagged. The PBGS is as blatant a wink to men as if a fat bearded guy shoved his face on frame, winked, gave a thumbs up and then smelled the lady's butt a little while making an expression of ecstasy.
In conclusion, The Baron has been proven right for the millionth time in matters where lady butts are concerned, so don't ever cross him again.......
The word Butt used 16X
The word Ass used 11X
Now, it would seem that the ads for these shoes target solely women, butt...BUTT, The Baron has found evidence to support a heavy skewing towards penis-bearing individuals and not just females, shemales and trannys.
At first this appears to be a poor move, after all, giving a woman a pair of shoes that are supposed to make her butt look better might seem like Indian Giving. E.g. the man in question would be giving himself a gift (if he were involved in a plow-friendly relationship with said woman), for as the age old parable says : Man who give ass improving shoes to lady rewarded with taut ass in face and grinding on lap.
In addition, The Baron has heard that women become murderously angry when anyone so much as insinuates that their body isn't a work of art on permanent lease to god's foyer. Namely, giving ass enhancing shoes to a lady is a catch-22: Women desperately want to have better butts, butt they'll kill anyone who tries to help them augment said asses.
With that long winded explanation aside, The Baron will present his evidence that in spite of the danger, the reebok assass-in sneakers are advertised, at least partially to men.
So the first frame contains hooters. Everyone loves hooters, particularly The Baron. Butt these aren't ordinary hooters, they're talking hooters. Although men can appreciate the heft of a nice set of jugs, the cheekiness of these fun-bags and the matter of fact way they speak to each other is definitely meant to appeal to women. In addition, the milk-bar is collectively jealous of the lady's ass. Jealousy is one of the emotions that women have perfected over the millennia along with, spitefulness, nagginess, and naggicity.
In the next frame we get our first look at the ass of the hour. Don't get The Baron wrong, it looks like a fine ass, butt the full coverage bloomers this broad is wearing seem to scream "there's something wrong with the rest of my ass." Perhaps that something is assne, perhaps it's a huge patch of roadrash or really bony, gazelle-like hip bones, we don't know. Butt, The Baron does know one audience that will appreciate the less-than gratuitous crack shot. Ladies.
Then we get to the final, critical frame where The Baron's theory is proven. Now, if you've been doing your homework, you'll recognize that final shot as the fabled Peak-a-Boo-Growler-Surprise (Buttastic) ((You may also notice that The Baron spoke in the first person way back then)). There is simply no way in hell that this PBGS made it past the lady screeners without getting flagged. The PBGS is as blatant a wink to men as if a fat bearded guy shoved his face on frame, winked, gave a thumbs up and then smelled the lady's butt a little while making an expression of ecstasy.
In conclusion, The Baron has been proven right for the millionth time in matters where lady butts are concerned, so don't ever cross him again.......The word Butt used 16X
The word Ass used 11X
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 2
Zurich, Switzerland:
Roy Gimbel was slouched as far down in his chair as he could possibly go without being completely horizontal. He was seated at the head of a large oval conference table made of some dark colored, glistening wood. A short roundish man was extolling the virtues of the latest Gimbel company product with feigned enthusiasm and too many hand gestures.
Roy yawned and continued doodling in his ledger.
"..and that is why Gimbel's new lineup will shock, literally shock our competitors."
The portly man had actually thrashed like he was being tasered to emphasize his point.
Roy sighed heavily and interjected.
"That'll do for now Chris, have a seat."
"There's a few more slides sir...."
"I get the picture. That'll do."
The man scowled slightly and sat down.
Roy struggled to an upright position, stood and began pacing the head of the table. He was an athletic man with a strong resemblance to Don Draper from Mad Men, or whatever the hell young people are into these days. Roy's eyes were a bottomless black, framed by heavy brows and a shock of close cropped brown hair. His body was lean, but not overly muscular in the manner of someone who exercises for fun rather than to stay in shape.
There was something about his demeanor and gait that seemed to exude an air of being able to deftly scramble around a handful of European cities while being constantly shot at, and this was what the women of his life found most alluring.
Roy came to a stop, and gripped the high back of his chair shooting an icy gaze over the collected executives.
"Gimble's is a proud company with a dedicated customer base and a product that people can't do without. We don't need to constantly challenge the status quo, rather we should be reinforcing it."
The gathered board members and sales managers looked slightly perturbed.
"Listen folks, I'm not saying we forget about progress and keep selling the exact same products forever. We just need to be cautious and implement changes gradually over time so as not spook our loyal customers."
"Mr. Gimbel, we just want to make sure that your company isn't left in the dust when Feminara delivers on the omni-brief."
Roy gripped the bridge of his nose and sighed in exasperation.
"Bob, I don't care what your market research shows, women are not going to want to wear panties with a built in tampon. Gimbel's sells the highest quality bras and feminine hygiene products and we're not about to be usurped by lady's diapers."
Gimbel corp had been in the business for nearly 50 years, back to the days when tampons were called shame-plugs and bras were pointy cones made of starched linen. Roy's father, Robert had summed up their business model with a simple sentence:
"The only thing on Gimbel corp's mind is jugs and plugs boys, jugs and plugs."
Now as Roy sat in the lavish boardroom of their European headquarters in Zurich he was dismayed by what he saw.
Chris wanted to revolutionize the way women related to their undercarriage....by introducing chemically treated panties that changed color at the slightest hint of blood.
Bob was a strong proponent of the omni-rect brassier, an underwire cup with built in erect nipples in a variety of sizes.
The CFO, Elias, didn't give a shit what the company sold so long as they turned a profit.
It was hopeless. This trip had been a waste. Roy could have stayed at home trolling the clubs of New York city for vulnerable young actresses and university students. Instead he was trapped in fucking Switzerland like some douche-bag backpacker with a scruffy beard and a Phish t-shirt.
"This meeting is over. We'll reconvene in 4 weeks time. By then I want to see some solid ideas for products that women will actually want to wear or shove in themselves. Dismissed."
His father was right, the company was in dire trouble. Gimbel corp needed a top to bottom restructuring and an influx of young talent if it had any hope of survival. Of course, women would always need to support their breasts, except the filthy hippies, and they needed something to stanch the monthly curse, except the filthy hippies, but Roy was worried nonetheless. There were breakthroughs happening every day in the fields of period prevention and hooter modification. It was only a matter of time before science murdered auntie flow and created a superior milk bar which was perky enough that it no longer needed support at all.
Roy sighed heavily, closed his ledger and made for the door. He stepped into the dimly lit hallway and strode purposefully to the private elevator at the end of the corridor. This was his father's private lift and it could only be activated by finger-print and iris scan. It stopped on 3 floors within the Gimbel complex. The garage where his father's vintage Dodge Shadow was parked, the executive floor where Roy was now, and Robert's private office on the observation deck.
Roy quickly swiped his finger tip across the flat reader plate and stood motionless as a tiny camera scanned his eye. The machine emitted a soft tone and the doors opened.
The elevator smelled terrible, like someone had cut a huge fart right before getting off. Roy wasn't all that surprised. After all, his father was pushing 80 years old at this point and he couldn't control his bodily functions as well as he once had. The old man had probably tooted his way from the parking garage on up to his office.
Roy pressed a large, brushed steel plate. It was unlabeled, but there were only three options after all.
The elevator whirred slightly and then ascended with impressive speed. Roy barely had time to lament the heinous fart hanging thickly in the air by the time he reached Robert's office.
The doors slid open slowly unveiling a scene of pure carnage. Roy gasped involuntarily as he beheld the crumpled form of his father, soaked in red metallic smelling foam and gripping the pommel of his sword cane in a blanched fist.
Roy Gimbel was slouched as far down in his chair as he could possibly go without being completely horizontal. He was seated at the head of a large oval conference table made of some dark colored, glistening wood. A short roundish man was extolling the virtues of the latest Gimbel company product with feigned enthusiasm and too many hand gestures.
Roy yawned and continued doodling in his ledger.
"..and that is why Gimbel's new lineup will shock, literally shock our competitors."
The portly man had actually thrashed like he was being tasered to emphasize his point.
Roy sighed heavily and interjected.
"That'll do for now Chris, have a seat."
"There's a few more slides sir...."
"I get the picture. That'll do."
The man scowled slightly and sat down.
Roy struggled to an upright position, stood and began pacing the head of the table. He was an athletic man with a strong resemblance to Don Draper from Mad Men, or whatever the hell young people are into these days. Roy's eyes were a bottomless black, framed by heavy brows and a shock of close cropped brown hair. His body was lean, but not overly muscular in the manner of someone who exercises for fun rather than to stay in shape.
There was something about his demeanor and gait that seemed to exude an air of being able to deftly scramble around a handful of European cities while being constantly shot at, and this was what the women of his life found most alluring.
Roy came to a stop, and gripped the high back of his chair shooting an icy gaze over the collected executives.
"Gimble's is a proud company with a dedicated customer base and a product that people can't do without. We don't need to constantly challenge the status quo, rather we should be reinforcing it."
The gathered board members and sales managers looked slightly perturbed.
"Listen folks, I'm not saying we forget about progress and keep selling the exact same products forever. We just need to be cautious and implement changes gradually over time so as not spook our loyal customers."
"Mr. Gimbel, we just want to make sure that your company isn't left in the dust when Feminara delivers on the omni-brief."
Roy gripped the bridge of his nose and sighed in exasperation.
"Bob, I don't care what your market research shows, women are not going to want to wear panties with a built in tampon. Gimbel's sells the highest quality bras and feminine hygiene products and we're not about to be usurped by lady's diapers."
Gimbel corp had been in the business for nearly 50 years, back to the days when tampons were called shame-plugs and bras were pointy cones made of starched linen. Roy's father, Robert had summed up their business model with a simple sentence:
"The only thing on Gimbel corp's mind is jugs and plugs boys, jugs and plugs."
Now as Roy sat in the lavish boardroom of their European headquarters in Zurich he was dismayed by what he saw.
Chris wanted to revolutionize the way women related to their undercarriage....by introducing chemically treated panties that changed color at the slightest hint of blood.
Bob was a strong proponent of the omni-rect brassier, an underwire cup with built in erect nipples in a variety of sizes.
The CFO, Elias, didn't give a shit what the company sold so long as they turned a profit.
It was hopeless. This trip had been a waste. Roy could have stayed at home trolling the clubs of New York city for vulnerable young actresses and university students. Instead he was trapped in fucking Switzerland like some douche-bag backpacker with a scruffy beard and a Phish t-shirt.
"This meeting is over. We'll reconvene in 4 weeks time. By then I want to see some solid ideas for products that women will actually want to wear or shove in themselves. Dismissed."
His father was right, the company was in dire trouble. Gimbel corp needed a top to bottom restructuring and an influx of young talent if it had any hope of survival. Of course, women would always need to support their breasts, except the filthy hippies, and they needed something to stanch the monthly curse, except the filthy hippies, but Roy was worried nonetheless. There were breakthroughs happening every day in the fields of period prevention and hooter modification. It was only a matter of time before science murdered auntie flow and created a superior milk bar which was perky enough that it no longer needed support at all.
Roy sighed heavily, closed his ledger and made for the door. He stepped into the dimly lit hallway and strode purposefully to the private elevator at the end of the corridor. This was his father's private lift and it could only be activated by finger-print and iris scan. It stopped on 3 floors within the Gimbel complex. The garage where his father's vintage Dodge Shadow was parked, the executive floor where Roy was now, and Robert's private office on the observation deck.
Roy quickly swiped his finger tip across the flat reader plate and stood motionless as a tiny camera scanned his eye. The machine emitted a soft tone and the doors opened.
The elevator smelled terrible, like someone had cut a huge fart right before getting off. Roy wasn't all that surprised. After all, his father was pushing 80 years old at this point and he couldn't control his bodily functions as well as he once had. The old man had probably tooted his way from the parking garage on up to his office.
Roy pressed a large, brushed steel plate. It was unlabeled, but there were only three options after all.
The elevator whirred slightly and then ascended with impressive speed. Roy barely had time to lament the heinous fart hanging thickly in the air by the time he reached Robert's office.
The doors slid open slowly unveiling a scene of pure carnage. Roy gasped involuntarily as he beheld the crumpled form of his father, soaked in red metallic smelling foam and gripping the pommel of his sword cane in a blanched fist.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
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