The musings of a madman...

       When we left you , I had done a little footwork for our pal Detective Ramsbottom. I had gone into the probable scene of the alleged crime and done some reconnaissance as to the source of the illicit dingaling pills. In my “research,” I had gained some suspicion that the owner of this store or someone close to him was behind the whole shit.      What I had not noticed until I had a chance to sit down and relax, however, was that there was no UPC bar code on the back of the package. This suggests FOR SURE that this is someone’s basement/garage operation, perhaps as a “fake it til you make it” kinda deal where one goes into business under the radar until they have a proven winner and then they go legit. The problem here is that they ain’t painting houses, they are out here giving people heart attacks with unregulated wee-wee products. I made a phonecall Ramsbottom: “I thought you told me I was gonna have to do some policing?” Me: “Don’t use my...

       I would love the opportunity to say that “y’know, shit has been kinda quiet here lately,” but my life just isn’t set up for things to go that smoothly. While I would love to be able to take solace in no one ringing my phone as much as I DETEST phone conversations with anyone other than my brother, I legitimately hate unannounced pop-up visitors more than I do phone calls. I mean, I work from home and don’t get fully dressed most days so I tend to make it so most people don’t even know where I actually live whenever possible.      You know who does know where I live, whether I like it or not? Greensboro Police Department. Not because I am personally some kind of criminal – Moe Phillips is none of their fucking business – but due to a weird series of prior interactions that have been documented here in pages of True Story©…      That said, I am minding the business that ACTUALLY pays me in my bottom-front room facing my drive...