Uncle Ray

(Note: well, two days into this it pretty much played itself out. I always lost interest in jounals, anyway-- let it stand alone as whatever it is.)


   Now he is whacking bus drivers. Riders in numerous major cities have offered cash and airfare, often first class, for the sniper to come to their city, as well as maps and route schedules of their local buses, sometimes even with work schedules of specific drivers, and rambling suggestions which sometimes turn into pleas and offers of more cash if specific requests are met.

   By the way, he's told them at least twice now he is God. How many more times are they going to need to hear it? In light of the way things are going there is a good chance this is true. God is busy at any specific time whacking tens of thousands of other people in any number of ways while their loved ones chalk it up to His will-- maybe He just wanted to see if there was any limit to what they'd let Him get away with?

10/23/02 A.M.

   Today authorities are pretty sure everything the sniper has told them is a lie, but they're willing to lie to the public (and probably are) about what they might actually know-- they've also implied they'll try to dance the Hokey-Pokey for him in case he should ask, which he might have. The FBI is apparently using petulant customer-support operators from Gateway to field calls from the sniper and they have been putting him on hold and sassing him and hanging up on him-- he has responded by killing people, which everyone else who has been in this situation only dreams about.

   Authorities have let a rather large Other Shoe drop by admitting that they knew a couple days ago he threatened to kill everybody's children. I haven't been a child in a long time but I know this would mean some Time Off, and seize the day.

   Here are some things the sniper might consider: snail mail. It worked for other serial killers. Don't be so goddamn antsy. Nice touch with the dipshit grammar, by the way. Send them a nice note and suggest the following things:

   On Wednesdays I will not shoot anybody wearing a Mr. T pullover.

   On Tuesdays I will not shoot anybody with one shoe off.

   Thursdays are Naked Day.

   Friday is Wild Card day-- you never know.

   And so on. At this point the sniper could probably dictate what garb authorities should wear at the press conferences-- Halloween is just around the corner and what a rat-fuck THAT is going to be-- Charles Moose in some Star Wars get-up while delivering another crypto-plea would be a nice touch.

10/23/02 P.M.

   Jesus Christ, I go to work in the afternoon and when I come home late at night I discover the following things have happened: a tree trunk in Tacoma, Washington has been confiscated from a man's yard and authorities now want to talk to two mooks in a burgundy Chevy with Jersey plates. They also want a search warrant in Alabama. One guy is named John but also goes by Mohammed. The other guy's name is Malvo. Illegal aliens are promised special favors if they'll only come forward with real leads instead of the bum leads the jackasses who live here legally have given them.

   Care to predict tomorrow? A catfish is x-rayed in Davenport, Iowa. A talking dog confesses. The sniper leaves a message by belching all the words. There will be an unfillable void when this is over; no one will cop to this.

   Poor D.C. The real loser yet again: Chandra Levy. The terrorists sat right on her face. Well, first Gary Condit, I guess, then the guy that murdered her THEN Gary Condit, if there is a difference. Then the terrorists. And don't forget the anthrax ninny. Gary Condit is undoubtedly still pissed-- you can hear him: "I TOLD you I wasn't a murderer-- I'm just a selfish, scheming, low-life fuckaround-- I had the perfect job and now you won't let me do it any more."

   And let's retire this phrase right now: "Person of Interest." Fey and menacing at the same time. As in "Howdy, dude, you probably haven't done anything but I'm gonna put thissere great big noose around your neck and give it a little ole' yank now and then til we see what's what-- don't mind me!" Possible suspect number eight trillion: the "Person of Interest" in the anthrax mailings-- he finally blew his gearbox and started croaking people just because they accused him of it a couple billion times-- ruining his life and rendering him unemployable for the next 250 years.

   The chicken who donated the eggs to your breakfast this morning had an interest in it-- but the pig who gave up the ham was the real deal.

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this page created 29 may 01