The Fat Kid reporting. . .
Columbus – After tolerating several weeks worth of sub-standard reporting, and no article at all last week, I have returned to BZ, even though my nerves are still shot. Mainly I was asked to return to investigate the disappearance of BZ’s priceless Margaret James original. Though I did not locate the centerpiece of BZ’s art collection, I did manage to locate The Shadow – in jail.
The Shadow, pictured here in the visiting room at the Franklin County Correctional Center, at 370 S. Front Street, Columbus, OH 43215.
Those of you who managed to slog through The Third Fictional Reporter’s article from 12/11/11 will recall that The Shadow fucking hates jail (as if the other inmates love it there or something – brilliant observation Third, you incompetent douche) and has been known to go to great lengths to avoid imprisonment. Not so far as to actually stop committing crimes, but, you know, just being really careful about how he commits them. But this time it didn’t matter. The Shadow Humperdink esq. was arrested at 164 W. 17th Avenue where he was caught selling: bootleg DVDs of The Incredible Hulk, nickel bags of weed, replica Coach handbags, and forgeries of the works of Picasso, Jan Vermeer, Billy Chenowith, Fiona Kleinschmidt, William Christenberry, Sam Haskins, Claire Fisher, Bois Larent, Antonio Canova, and Margaret James.
Apparently The Shadow’s super-sasquatch-strength came in handy as he was carting around full-size copies of Antonio Canova’s Psyché ranimée par le baiser de l'Amour. I’d have to, you know, hit the weights a little before I could lift one of these up, but I’d manage. I wonder where he got the marble. . .
FYI, that dangerous and pretentious-as-fuck part of town has long been known as a den of thieves, liars, charlatans, fakers, douche bags, politically correct pussies, and empty-headed know-nothings, and it should be avoided at all costs. Only hardened eight-foot criminals with super strength would be caught dead there – as The Shadow was.
When I visited The Shadow, I recorded the following interview.
TS: Sup, fuck face? Finally get the fuck out of bed and do some work? Be careful that the scary ghosts don’t scare your bitch ass again. A second discussion with them could set you back a decade. Fucking pussy.
FK: Fuck off, dick breath. I know your ass is sore, and you probably are just cranky because you don’t want to sit on that hard metal seat right now, but I have some questions I want to ask you. Like, for instance, what the fuck did you do with our priceless Margaret James original?
TS: Nothing. I mean, I studied it closely and made copies of it, which I then sold for $7,000 each, but that was it. Why?
FK: Because it’s missing, dick breath, and you were the only known felon who had access to it. Plus, you just admitted to getting really close to our MJ, so. . . give it the fuck back.
TS: I don’t fucking have it, retard. I just told you that. If you weren’t too stupid to understand simple English sentences I’d tell you again.
FK: Look, just tell me where the fuck it is, and I’ll let you get back to cleaning out your husband’s cell – because I know he’ll bust that bitch ass of yours if you don’t have all your chores done by lunchtime. [The Shadow does not respond.] Seriously? You’re not going to admit to having it?
TS: I DON’T have it, jerk off. That’s why I SAID I don’t have it. If you run into anyone smart enough to understand that, ask them to translate it into fucktard for you.
FK: OK. For the moment, let’s say I believe you. I guess that since you’ve been in here for however long, you don’t have any idea who DOES have it.
TS: Whoa, fat boy, that’s a pretty sophisticated observation for a fucktard. Is someone feeding you these lines?
FK: What the fuck is your problem today, anyway? Somebody get shanked at the prison rape support group?
TS: What’s my problem? I’m in jail, fucktard. Which pretty much translates to that I’m really unhappy.
FK: Why do you act like it’s more difficult for you in there than it is for everyone else? Jokes aside, you’re eight feet tall. Nobody can really fuck with you in there, can they?
TS: That’s the problem – that I’m eight feet tall. You know how big a jail cell is? 8 by fucking 12 – and you gotta be in there with a cellmate. I can barely fucking move. Look, if you bail me out, I’ll help you find the priceless Margaret James original.
FK: Sorry, dude. I have zero dollars and seven cents.
TS: Seven cents, Vern?
FK: I haven’t found my pennies, yet. Anyway, I guess that’d piss me the fuck off, too. Why don’t you get Danu to bail you out, or break you out, or what the fuck ever a goddess would do?
TS: She’s not even talking to me right now. She said I spent too much time dealing with the ghosts of Chateau 4030 and not enough time killing shit with big-ass rocks, so I could go fuck myself. I call her every fucking day, and every day she tells me to fuck off. Bitch.
FK: Well, yeah, that does kind of suck.
TS: Anyway, what the fuck is YOUR problem today? You’re a fuck of a lot more aggressive than you normally are when I fuck with you.
FK: I don’t know. I’m all fucking agitated all the time. My shrink thinks I have PTSD.
TS: From seeing ghosts. You have PTSD from seeing ghosts?
FK: Yeah.
TS: . . . Pussy.
FK: FUCK you.
TS: Seriously, you’re a pussy. You know what you get PTSD from? Going to Viet Nam, or Afghanistan. Not from seeing some ghosts. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were a little girl.
FK: Fuck off.
TS: But you know what? This is good. Keep it up. It’s an improvement over your normal excuse for a personality.
At this point the guard informed us that visiting hours were over, and I took my bus pass back to the bus stop, where I stood for forty-seven minutes in the freezing fucking cold, waiting for the bus and reliving my vision of hell. Worst of all, we are no closer to solving the mystery of the priceless Margaret James original. The only question is: if The Shadow didn’t take it, who did?
