The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 1

The Baron has read a few thrillers in his day and has begun to notice certain commonalities that seem to span all modern examples. As such, The Baron is pretty sure that he could write his own more awesome thriller with very little effort. This will be an ongoing experiment.

The Baron presents:

The Copenhagen Corollary:

Chapter 1:

Vienna: 3:35Am

Phinneus Corkwald limped painfully down the darkened cobblestone street of an ancient ward of an ancient city. His breath hung heavily in the frozen air, tinged with copious molecules of ethanol. The sweet smell drifted back in his wrinkled face and he snorted it away.

Phineus had spent the evening swilling martini's, vodka shots and gimlets all the while feverishly stroking his member in a vain attempt to achieve erection. He had intended on bagging the plumpest, palest escort he could get his hands on but had failed miserably.

Successful coitus required that his gear was in working order and at 85 years old, getting "Little Phin" rolling was like trying to rip starting a diesel lawnmower in January. Needless to say, his desires had gone unfulfilled for the second night in a row and Phineus was now enraged and nearly 6 sheets to the wind.

The old man emitted a long hissing burp so thick he could almost chew it and grunted in frustration at the cold moon illuminating the paving stones. It was a typical February night in Austria (probably) and the old man's bones ached from the wet cold almost as much as his bone ached for the warm wet.

"Fucking viagra my ass" he hissed, flinging a handful of blue tablets. They skittered along the frozen surface of the snow pack and slid off into the distance like tiny hockey pucks.

Just then Phineus felt a cold prickling on the back of his neck, a feeling he had been trained to appreciate and to heed. Someone was following him. That in and of itself was not unusual, after all this was a crowded European metropolis. Drunks and students were everywhere and it was nearly impossible to walk 3 feet without bumping into one or the other.

But this was different. The presence the old man felt had sinister intent, was trying to conceal its presence. The man, he was sure it was a man, was making every effort to muffle his footsteps, but the pavers and frozen slush made this near impossible.

Phineus' calculating, reptilian mind devised a plan nearly instantaneously. He pretended to be drunker than he was, staggering slightly and splaying his arms wide for balance. He stopped to check the time, examining the right arm first then the left, then his pockets. Without betraying even the slightest suspicion, the old man slipped his leathery palm over the butt of the 40 caliber Glock resting in his interior jacket pocket. He hoped the stalker had not noticed. The next few moments would determine whether he lived or died.

Phineus coughed placed his left hand on his knee as if overcome and then spun around on his heel with the speed of a snake. Halfway round he was already depressing the trigger, the man would have no time to react, let alone draw his own weapon.

With a sharp crack the pistol shot seemed to tear the very night itself as it peeled down the alleyway and was muffled by the snow.

A cruel sneer spread over Phineus's face as he watched the man crumple and fall. The bullet had pierced his chest and no doubt ruptured his heart just as he had intended. An amateur to be sure, the man's hands were still in his pockets. Perhaps he was just a common pick-pocket, grifter or scumbag?

Regardless, Phineus had to make sure the man was really dead. Decades of training and indoctrination came rushing back and he quickly shuffled to where the would be assassin had fallen. Phineus kept his pistol drawn and held at arm's length with an unwavering steadiness that seemed to defy his age.

"Now then, who would be so stupid as to send a whelp against me?" The old man half whispered as he closed the final few feet between himself and the corpse.

"Oh my poor young.....what the shit!"

The man was no assassin! Rather he was a young, drunken idiot, American by the looks of him. His jacket was covered in beer scented vomit...and now blood as well. This was not the presence Phineus had felt earlier. This clod could no more get the drop on the old man than he could pleasure a woman or ride a horse side-saddle.

At that moment a searing dread swept through Phineus. He had been tricked, had let down his guard, and now he was going to die.

A shadow lunged from the alley and pinioned Phineus with a single lightning quick movement. His arthritic shoulders groaned in protest as the stalker wrenched them backwards. A sharp pain swept through his ass and he howled in anger.

"Gah fuck, not like th..!" Phineus' words were overcome by a terrible gurgling sound as veritable geysers of red foam shot from his mouth, nose, eyes, weiner and butthole.

The iron grip released and he sank to the ground, dreaming of huge, saggy boobs that would never be his..

The Baron in Brief: Cars The Baron Can't Believe Anyone Buys

Today's victim is.......the 1998 Cadillac Catera.

Good, koala bear stabbing christ, what in the fuck was Cadillac thinking on this one.

The Catera represents the trifecta of backwards decision making in the automotive industry.

1. Horrible design: Cadillacs are supposed to be nice right? So why does this thing look like a chevy lumina euro edition with a different logo slapped on it? The Baron is pretty sure an exotic retardation virus was sweeping through GM when they approved this eye-sore.

2. Horrible name: Just what the fuck is a catera? Is that supposed to be cute or something? Seriously this name sounds like something that grows on your eyes when you're in the jungle for too long.

A quick web definition search reveals:

The Cadillac Catera was a mid-sized automobile that was largely a rebadged version of the Opel Omega MV6 made in Rüsselsheim, Germany.

and

A badass Cadillac mook car.

The Baron has no idea what a mook even is! (Seems to have been taken from Caribbean English, in which it is (was) used to refer to a gullible person). But an Opel?!! A fucking OPEL!!!!????

3. Just a godawful attempt to get younger people to drive caddies. At this point there was no rapper / rapper-wannabe market for escalades because there were no escalades. Hard to picture some west coast thug 'rolling dirty" in this POS.

There just so happens to be a 1998 catera up for 6000$ at a used car place near Boston. It has 58,000 miles and was garaged. However, don't get too excited. Even the most retarded person will only drive a catera for 10 miles before they abandon it on the side of the road. That means that this car has had 5800 different owners, or has been towed for 57,990 miles. Buyer beware indeed!

The Simultaneous Death of Two of The Baron's Favorite Daily Sights

It is with a heavy heart that The Baron would like to report the death of two of the most beloved features of his daily walk to work.

RIP : Vomity, the unnaturally persistent vomit stain.

Back in mid July, The Baron was surprised and delighted to find an enormous puddle of maroon vomit on the sidewalk on his route to work. The color and the intensity of the stain made a strong impression on The Baron and seemed to speak to the fragility and beauty of life. The next day a strong downpour swept through the metro area and The Baron feared that Vomity had lived up to its ephemeral goals and like a sand castle been lost to the ebb of time.

Amazingly, Vomity survived this assault by that bitch nature, and would endure many more insults over the coming months. Vomity managed to stay vivid red through into September and had only begun to fade by the beginning of October. This morning The Baron nearly skipped up the sidewalk with anticipation of greeting his old friend and was brought to his knees with anguish when he realized that Vomity..........was gone.

RIP : Gully, the seagull carcass.

Imagine The Baron's unbearable grief when he discovered that Vomity's younger sibling, Gully had disappeared in the same hellish evening.

Gully came on the scene more recently as a freshly dead seagull carcass atop a mulch bed mere yards from Vomity. The Baron could never tell how Gully came to be, but suspects he ate some sort of stupid shit, like a plastic bag or a bunch of used condoms. Whatever beautiful forces conspired to place Gully in The Baron's path will never be known.

This morning, fresh off the heart-crushing sorrow of Vomity's transcendence, The Baron looked hopefully to the mulch bed on which Gully had rested so elegantly for some 3 months, only to discover a loose mound and some gull feet sticking out of the ground.

What cruel messenger from the depths of Hades doth managed to bury fair Gully?! Oh the torment! Lo the fiery daggers that do stab at The Baron's fragile heart! If only The Baron t'were permitted to comprehend the evolution of these paired master works it t'would truly be an importune life he lived!

Things The Baron Hates : The Scumbag Hero

Y'all know the type of person The Baron is speaking of. He / she is the assmaster who leaps into action whenever a minor emergency presents itself. They don't even have to be directly involved as long as they can be the first person to let everyone else know about it. These fuckbags actually look forward to the car accident / small fire / CNN catastrophe so that they can reveal their true colors.

These insufferable douchebags love to bark orders at everyone else and quote erroneous medical / disaster response / law enforcement information that they saw on TV. In most cases they will interfere with real experts because they don't want to be excluded from the glory.

And that my friends is what this is really all about. The glory. The Scumbag Hero is a miserable wretch who has made mistake after mistake in planning their life. They derive no satisfaction from their own pathetic sphere and so relish the opportunity to seem important if only for a little while.

Tragically, for those directly involved with the emergency the SH is almost invariably, extremely stupid and will often make a bad situation worse.

Having a heart attack? They'll give you the Heimlich and rupture a lung in the process.

Stroke? They'll have you lay down on the floor and raise your legs while they go an get some cold compresses.

Broken spine? They'll wrench you into a firefighter's carry and roughly deposit you on the grass rendering you permanently incontinent.

So the next time you're engulfed in flames and that mouth breathing idiot who loves fire drills starts running over, do yourself a favor jump out the window so that the experts get first crack at you. Because trust The Baron, he was just going to whack you with a broomstick a bunch of times.

Baron Comics 017

Things The Baron Hates : Fuckles Who Walk on the Wrong Side of the Sidewalk

Got a great, slowly smoldering kind of "The Baron Hates" for you today; the wrong side sidewalk walker. What a mouthful of monkey bust the end of that sentence was eh?

The perpetrator is invariably an old Asian woman or a girl who is decent, but not as hot as she thinks she is and is jabbering incoherently into a cell phone, possibly while listening to an ipod.

These assmasters break the cardinal rule of traffic flow (stay on the right side of the fucking road) on a daily basis and they don't even care. They think:

"I can walk where ever I want! This isn't the street it's a sidewalk."

Well, they're wrong! As wrong as an Armenian man with a testosterone producing tumor who thinks he doesn't need to shave the crap out of his ass hair.

The rules of traffic apply to every part of every day.

Driving a car? Stay on the right side of the road dickass.

Walking? Stay on the right side of the sidewalk fucknuts.

Doing somersaults into the women's room wearing nothing but a cape? Stay on the right side of the sticky, somewhat bleachy smelling tiles.

The Baron thinks that people should be arrested and tazered right in the butthole for violating this sacred trust between commuters.

So the next time you see a tottering old lady hugging the wrong side of the walkway, don't even bother asking whether she has a balance problem and lower your shoulder into her solar plexus, it's the American thing to do.

The Baron is Swamped Word of the Day : Frotteurism

This is one of The Baron's all time favorite words and the scourge of the Boston public transit system.

Frotteurism refers to a paraphilic interest in rubbing, usually one's pelvis or erect penis, against a non-consenting person for sexual gratification. It may involve touching any part of the body including the genital area. A person who practices frotteurism is known as a frotteur. The majority of frotteurs are male and the majority of victims are female although female on male, female on female, and male on male frotteurs exist. This activity is often done in circumstances where the victim cannot easily respond, in a public place such as a crowded train or concert.

The Baron is pretty sure that this word is an onomatopoeia but he can't quite nail down the sound it would make. Probably something like taut corduroy rubbing on a coarse grit sandpaper....