The plot thins! Dick has "ins"!

More murderous news, Dick's views skewed by
affinity with Blues!
The Dick Times: News that Bites!
Dateline Lincoln Square, 28 February year of the post turtle
Neighbor's murder mystery thickens,
detailed outline maybe sickens!
Rated NC 17 ( No Charge! It's free! "And worth it!" Dick )

So Dick went on his bookish way once more
and opened up his most bedeviled store...

The bookmobile swung easily in to the free parking space
created when the window crashing car took out the parking
meter in front, thus slowing the drunk's momentum
and reducing damage to a minimum, if $500 for new plate glass
can be thus minimized ( Dick has a lousy, and cheap, insurance policy ).
We were late today, on account of having made an appointment
with our accountant, this being tax time, on top of all the other
taxing elements now raining in, as Chicago elements often do.

So at a little before one p.m. the lights go on and the register
begins to glow, its tongue hanging out, salivating.
T.V. vans begin to arrange themselves up and down the block,
their remote feed antennas higher than most of the local architecture.
Channel 5, channel 7, no Fox, though, they're out licking Republican
boots in DuPage County, home of the KKK ( knew knights of kristondom ).
Dick leans into the marble topped sales counter, his best Eastwoodish
dare you to buy smirk childishly in place.
He gets bored.
He mosies down the block to Ludwig's Interiors, owner of
the now infamous murder scene apartment, just upstairs on the second floor.
Ludwig the Second is in attendance today, not Mad Ludwig, whom we have
never met.
Yo, Lud, who died and how'd they do it, our no nonsense gambit.
Dick, goes Lud, don't breathe a word of this until you use your
tongue scraper, but my recent tenant was iced by persons unknown
who used a sharp object about thirty times, holes in body-wise.
Name of ( X, pending notification of Sixty Minutes ) and a singer with
the famed Lyric Opera of Chicago!
At this, our operatically inclined ears prick up considerably, wanting to know
if it could have been a Maria Callas fan, and thus perhaps deserving his fate.
He was a singer in the secondary chorus, continues Lud, most accommodatingly.
Friends found him when he failed to show for Saturday's performance.
Dick has still not looked at a Lyric schedule to check that title...maybe a hated
twelve toner or, worse, an early Verdi! Ugh!
So hows come the icing, Lud, we're all, like, going.
Bad vibes, there, Dick, goes Lud. Evil computing stuff has lead to this-
keyboard hijinks of an unknown variety.
With this, Lud shuts off the info tap, and we trekked the fifty paces
back to Dickville, AKA Dick's Famous Books ( Not Its Real Name! )
Soon, in walks Pete, camera man for channel five, warming up before
the big live sidewalk shoot. He buys two Elvis books and we hit it off,
him the owner of - get this- a Paul Reed Smith electric guitar, of
Santana fame. We talk axes for a while but never get around to knives,
him being a cameraman and not a man- tanned live air talent person.
So he splits, promising to return in two weeks with a VCR tape of some
famed Swedish guitarist giving lessons. ( As if! ) I am still in the
dark, dead guy wise, despite the odd coincidence of Streets and
Sanitation having come around with a cherry picker to change street
light bulbs about three p.m. I had to remove my American flag
from its position above the sidewalk so they wouldn't ground on it
and short circuit the whole 'hood.
Then it occurs to me, light bulb-wise!
This guy I know is an opera commentator on a local radio station:
why not buzz him up and look for new dope?
Buzz, I go.
Hello, he goes.
I lay it out on him.
Geez, he's like, tell me more!
Then he jumps on the horn and calls pals at the opera.
High octane dope pours into Dick Central, now becoming for the first time a
conduit of actual fact filled news stuff and not just second hand
hate mongering filter aimed at the disgusting Red Horde which is poised to
to wreck America forever.
So here's the stuff, and do't tell anyone because the cops are probably
keeping a lid on it for purposes of their poking about the sewers without
alerting the rats therein:
This guy, X, is a sex nut, hetero-wise, who can't get enough of it, or maybe
any, through normal channels, whatever they are these days ( Dick is over 60 ).
So he goes on the Net and he's like, hey, honey, here's the money,
where's your bunny?
Electronic solicitation, without fear of short circuits! Well grounded in his
sex site savvy!
So the deal is, his former associates say, he plays the rough trade field,
and it goes bad for him, they now surmise, whore-wise.
Body found with a blanket ( non-security type ) covering it, perhaps
a metaphor of some undiagnosed variety. Hiding it, maybe. Or some
native American thing, tree top burial wise...we may never know.
And I still don't know if I've lost a customer, because the name's
not familiar.."Bud" is the nickname, like on Father Knows Best ( Beast,
in this case ) or like "Hey, bud, where's that C note we agreed on?"

You won't get this on NBC, and it's probably true, courtesy of
The Dick Times: News that Bites!
Dick sez: hate all those typos? You try doing this after a
huge meal of pork tenderloin and baby spinach salad
with pear infused balsamic dressing, liberally (!) washed down
with lots of Australian Shiraz.

http://thedicktimes.blogspot.com

http://chicago.indymedia.org/newswire

Murder most foul!

An unwelcome break from politics!
This note comes hot on the heals of a limited mailing
in which Dick whined about some drunk driving through
his bookstore window on Friday night at 3 a.m.
Okay, so today as the bookmobile swung into Ye Shoppe territory,
it occurred to Dick that there were far too many cop cars
parked on the block. I mean, the car through the
window was a lousy caper, but here we have six
blue and whites, serving and protecting,and seven or eight
of those dark, plain Crown Vics, blackwalls, municipal plates,
shit all over the floors, no Cubs bumper stickers.
Too much heat for one bashed in bookstore,right? So we swing
in to our favorite spot, the semi legal one outside of the metered area
but not prohibited by signage ( and we have successfully appealed
two tickets from that spot, so we know our semi legalities, here ),
and walk across the aptly named Eastwood Street
to the corner at the north end of Dick's Famous Books ( not its real name )
where we confront, first off, the same cop who took our
window crash complaint, it seems like, and was,
only yesterday. He is standing casually in a large knot
of his uniformed confreres, gabbing in cop-ease.
Yo, home, 'sup, we say. What's goin' down, five oh-wise!
Nothing, he says, beat it written all over him.
So I truck on down a few doors to the store, open up,
and wait for neighborhood gossip to fill in the giant gap.
It soon trickles down: an unsolicited assisted departure
from this veil of tears has transpired. Maybe up to
a week or more ago, a tidbit inferred by many who
observed the city employees in attendance all puffing huge stinky cigars,
the air freshening measure of choice with homicide dicks ( no
relation ) who are confronted with not so fresh evidence,
if you get my drift, smoke-wise.
The TV trucks arrive sometime later, but no smiley faces,
of the man-tanned variety, are posed on the sidewalk, for fear of bringing
free publicity to Dick's Books. Just some camera guys who
shoot a few minutes of the three story building, last known address
of Mr. X, whom Dick suspectsof being one of his customers,
but since it's cash only at the store there are not too many names
in the Rollidex.
So who really knows. In any civilized country, the stiff's
image would appear ASAP all over the media,
but here in god's own America we're sensitive.
So I'll never know if it's my guy or a non-reader.
Unless the landlord calls me to come down and clean out the library.
Your humble servant,
Mr. Sensitivity