MacHaffie Murder Mystery

[rogfulton]

Is a shot time the time it takes to drink a shot, or the time a shot takes from exiting the barrel until it hist the target?

Neither. It's the opposite of a log time.

Pay your fine before you leave for the day.

[Deep Knight]

Is a shot time the time it takes to drink a shot, or the time a shot takes from exiting the barrel until it hist the target?

Closer to the second, in layman's terms the time it takes between well-placed sniper rounds, adjusted in competition based on accuracy and grouping but not histing, of course. But I see that wasn't your real question, you wanted to torment Gregg over his typo. I suggest you watch yourself, not only could his Illuminati Air Force drop a bomb on you, his main squeeze, agent "Chili Dog," is well known and feared in the wet work community (assassinations in bathrooms, spas and water parks). Her shot time is 1.8 seconds, good enough to take last year's live-target regionals. It would be wise to back off a bit, a couple of months in Terra del Fuego or Tibet might be enough.

Neither. It's the opposite of a log time.

Don't get me started. The amount of time we spend logging on to log our time into the Illuminati online time log is getting ridiculous. And having the helpdesk halfway around the world doesn't help enough by half. I would much rather spend my time on something useful, like killing or general mayhem.

[Deep Knight]

Erasmus of America claims descent from secret branches of all of the royal families of Europe, and it was our mistake to forget that Bavaria used to be an independent kingdom. And, if you think about it, being closely related to “Mad” King Ludwig II is something he wouldn’t be bad at pulling off. Also, there are surprisingly many royalists who think they should return to their old status and put a king back on the throne. Enough to supply a hoard of lederhosened armed thugs converging on our position. Luckily, their aim wasn’t any better than Rassy’s writing, and my wife and I are trained professionals, so we were able to eliminate most of them in a running gun battle that went from one end of the terminal to the other. It did make immigration, baggage claim, and customs a bit of a problem (the looks on their faces), but by the time we reached the limo Rassy and his few surviving minions had given up the chase.

Knowing that Erasmus of America knew that the Hotel Konigshof was an Illuminati hangout (we get a substantial discount), it should be the last place we would stay, so of course we did. Reverse psychology, and besides, the wife watches every dollar and I mentioned the discount. And there are a lot of convenient exits if things got too hot, it’s right next to an U-Bahn station (Subway), and only a few minutes by foot away from the München Hauptbahnhof (Central Train Station) and Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung (Speed Limit). We checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and contacted our alternate contact who rushed to our suite.

“Ihre Mutter säugt Schweine,” he said in way of an apology when I complained about our reception, “Vee haft no idea zat Ee-Ratz-Moos vas hier! Und besides, alles ist vell zat endz vell, ja?” I made a note to have him marked for human sacrifice, and then got down to plans. It was obvious that Erasmus had a mole in the organization, probably one of the thousands of Illuminati agents whose wives had slept with me during a supermodel past (we bad boys get ALL the hot women) and was consumed by jealousy. Occupational hazard. What we needed to do was to disappear into the fabric of Europe without the benefit of our NWO safety net, a daunting task given that neither of us spoke any language but English and were unware of local customs. But I had done the impossible before, just look at the rate at which I used to process and discard lovers. First we had to leave where we were as quickly as possible, but not before some Strudel and coffee.

We made it look like we were turning in for the night, letting the campfires burn down and unrolling the bedrolls, but our plan was to sneak down a brush-choked ravine to the train station. Unfortunately our luggage’s wheels made a lot of noise as we dragged them over the cobblestones, waking any of Rassy’s agents that might have fallen asleep, but we made it onto a night express to Vienna without incident. Once there, it was only a hop, skip, and jump to Eastern Europe, where the food was even stranger and movements harder to trace.

In our luxurious stateroom we finally got to relax and appreciate the romance of Europe. That was our first mistake. Luckily I heard the sputtering of the fuse and got us and our luggage out before the explosion ripped the high-speed train car in half.

[Deep Knight]

With my ears still ringing from the explosion, I deftly made my way to the front of the now-reduced-in-size train and literally put a gun to the engineers head. Stopping now would be a fatal mistake, and besides, the blast had removed most of the trailing cars, actually making the train faster. For a mad moment I considered making the engineer turn the train around and going to France or something, but decided this would not be the wisest course. Not only would it require a change in story plotline, but train aficionados would object to this impossible maneuver, and you cross them at your own peril. As it was, we arrived hours early, before Gassy Rassy knew we had survived the explosion or could gather his forces in Vienna, which for some odd reason the locals call Wien and they pronounce “Veen.” Go figure.

I had a clever plan to get lost in the city, based on the fact that Erasmus of America wouldn’t know about my friend, “The Third Man,” who I had known there right after the war. For one, Harry Lime was supposed to be dead, and for another, this happened before I was born. I never knew the old Vienna before the war with its Strauss music, its glamour and easy charm. Constantinople suited me better. I really got to know it in the classic period of the black market. We'd run anything if people wanted it enough and had the money to pay. Of course a situation like that does tempt amateurs, but, well, you know, they can't stay the course like a professional.

Velna and I went to the dark black & white section of town and met Harry in a quiet basement bar. We spoke in hushed tones, our voices being covered by annoying zither music that never seemed to end or change.

Harry, true to form, made absolutely no sense. “You know, I never feel comfortable on these sort of things. Victims? Don't be melodramatic. Look down there. Tell me. Would you really feel any pity if one of those dots stopped moving forever? If I offered you twenty thousand pounds for every dot that stopped, would you really, old man, tell me to keep my money, or would you calculate how many dots you could afford to spare? Free of income tax, old man. Free of income tax - the only way you can save money nowadays. “

I was tired, jet-lagged, and impatient, so I slapped him. “Snap out of it, Harry! I’ve got a crazed idiot who spent 11 calendar years in military academies on my tail and no room for error. The last thing I’m worried about is your taxes.”

An intense look of fear passed over Harry’s face. “You didn’t mention Erasmus of America. And just look at the time, I have to get up early tomorrow and wash my hair. Be seeing you.”

My wife grabbed Harry where it really hurt and encouraged him to return to his seat. I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “I know you serve no wine before its time, but time is something I’m running out of. I need you to arrange for us to cross the wall and go behind the Iron Curtain. And none of your excuses about it being gone for 25 years, this is deadly serious.”

Harry looked at me quizzically and for some reason responded as if my name was “Holly,” “What did you want me to do? Be reasonable. You didn't expect me to give myself up... 'It's a far, far better thing that I do.' The old limelight. The fall of the curtain. Oh, Holly, you and I aren't heroes. The world doesn't make any heroes outside of your stories.”

My wife made a grab for Harry’s sensitive location again, but I stopped her. It was obvious the years had made his negative fade, and no level of restoration would fix that. “But you can get up into the Eastern Zone, right Harry? You could do that for me, good ol’ Holly, right?”

Harry slowly got up and motioned to the zither player. “My friend will take you across. Just make sure he returns in one piece, with all his fingers and toes.” I smiled knowing that Velna was as annoyed by the music as I was, and owed absolutely nothing to Harry. His was one zither that would soon be forgotten, and if Harry didn’t like it he could bite me. After all, what about being an evil Illuminatus didn’t he understand?

[Deep Knight]

The Wall. State Police. Iron Curtain. Checkpoint Charlie. Desperate refugees with baby carriages tunneling under the border to an uncertain future. Ah, the good old days. Kids don’t know what they’re missing when they just “drive” across uncontrolled borders. Sure it’s convenient, but it doesn’t have the same flavor when the sadistic border guards can’t search you on a whim and then shoot you. The drawbacks of modern life.

We parted ways with our guide at the next rest stop on the highway. His lifeless body was intertwined with his zither in a way that would provide mute warning to others of his persuasion. Several Viennese tourists stopped to express their gratitude. But there we were, behind the Iron Curtain, a bit rusty but still a great place to get lost. We had freshly-acquired passports showing our new look as redheads with glasses, and plenty of cash, none of it in Dinars. With luck, we could stay under the radar long enough to find out who really killed MacHaffie, and that of course meant talking to the one person who would certainly know, Vladimir Putin.

So, how to get from the border to Moscow without being noticed. One legacy of communism is good public transportation, so we figured that if we kept to trolleys, local commuter trains, and busses, traveling no more than 50 km on one single line, no one would be able to track us. And we hadn’t seen Gassy Rassy in over a day, and I knew that would please my readers, so I felt pretty good. But it was the calm before the storm.

We took a tram to Køęnøpiště and then hiked through the Zřądní Bavħĵńęrský Pųtzer forest to Třibřicĥŷ where were spent the night, posing as humble woodcutters. From there we went to Qĝȫȥǔ, and after many transfers ended up in Ǣǿȼɉɏ. I know it’s popular and a bit of a zoo, but the wife figured there would be safety in numbers, and besides she had always wanted to try riding a ȝȗȳɶn. From there through the Ukrainian war zone and a bunch of towns I couldn’t begin to spell, much less pronounce, and up the Volga by barge to Moscow. On the way we met these Volga boatmen who sang this really cool song, a bit repetitive but it got that damn zither melody out of my head. Next, finding a way to meet with the most heavily guarded man on the planet without an appointment. Never mind the fact that he had promised to kill me the next time he saw me (how was I to know it was his wife?), that was a minor detail. What was important now was to find a restaurant that served something not made from potatoes.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r8jN1treRKQ

[Burnaby49]

Damn you DK, DAMN YOU! I thought that link was to something about potatoes. Maybe the perfect garlic mashed potato recipe. Instead I got suckered into opening a youtube video of Austrian zither music. If Erasmus doesn't find you I will!

[Deep Knight]

This has gotten deadly serious. Not only am I on the run (it's that Russian food), MacHaffie's minion Freewill has taken to taunting my wife and trying to convince her to kill me! Ouch!

Thursday, February 19, 2015
WHY WOMEN MAKE BETTER ASSASSINS - dark humor

The CIA had an opening for an assassin. ​After all the background checks, interviews and testing were done, there were three finalists: two men and a woman.

For the final test, the CIA agents took one of the men to a large metal door and handed him a gun.

"We must know that you will follow your instructions no matter what the circumstances. Inside the room you will find your wife sitting in a chair. Kill her.

The man said "You can't be serious. I could never shoot my wife". The agent said, "Then you are not the right man for this job.” “Take your wife and go home".

The second man was given the same instructions. He took the gun and went into the room. All was quiet for about five minutes. The man​ came out with tears in his eyes, "I tried, but I can't kill my wife." The agent said, "You don't have what it takes, so take your wife and go home​"​

Finally, it was the woman's turn. She was given the same instructions: to kill her husband. She took the gun and went into the room. Shots were heard one after another. They heard screaming, crashing, and banging on the walls. After a few minutes, all was quiet. The door opened slowly and there stood the woman, wiping sweat from her brow.

"The gun was loaded with blanks" she said. "I had to kill him with the chair​."​

Posted by Freewill at 9:54 PM

Trying to convince my wife to do away with me, eh? Well, she hasn't yet despite what she said when she found the panties in my glove compartment. It's called love, something you do-gooders might not understand, but we Illuminati know all about, including how to chemically induce it for our own fiendish conspiracies. So there!

[Gregg]

First, I have fallen down the steps of that Subway station in Munich, it wasn't pretty. Munich in general tested the wisdom of my long held policy of "Never drink in America, never drive in Europe" which worked out for me quite well when I was in the Army but fell all to tatters when I went back.
Ludwig is not only the most beloved ex-ruler of Bavaria (and if you like Oktoberfest celebrations, thank him, it was originally his wedding reception) he is apparently the only one they can remember the name of when it comes to naming things. Ever hear how the Eskimos have 2,000 words for snow? (which I am told is an urban legend, but never having learned Eskimo I can't say for sure)
Well, Germans have 2,000 words for "street" and in Munich they used every darn one of them, after Ludwig. There is a LudwigStrasse, Ludwigplatz, Ludwigcommon, Ludwigeverything..... and that would be fine too, except, imagine meeting an incredibly attractive girl at a party and she tells you she has to go, but would love for you to come spend the night with her at her place, and gives you her address on Ludwig Street something or another....at the time, you think nothing of it, you remember the Ludwig part and figure you, fate and a reasonably competent taxi driver will be able to figure it out.
Now imagine being somewhat more intoxicated than the a roadie on tour with Jim Morrison, in a country where your knowledge of the language all came from Hogan's Heros and every damn stretch of concrete with houses on it is named Ludwig something and you have the Ludwig part but are guessing at the something. That is my own Oktoberfest memory.

And by the by, Ludwig's house is just a really cool place. Open to tourists, I know it had a name but it escapes me just now, see above note about my Drinking and Driving policy... I have spent years of my life in a country which I have only very sketchy memory of because the beer is so good.

[Gregg]

I just have to add the end of the story, the girl and I did finally spend more time together, I saw her again soon after and used the trick that has many a time kept me from sleeping in a German gutter, I gave her a card to my hotel (the aforementioned Hotel Konigshoff). I learned very quickly that when I went into Munich it was as likely as not that by the time I realized it was time to go from where ever I was, it was actually long past time to go, so I took to carrying around the stationary, cards and other stuff you find on the desk, bed etc... when you check into a hotel...and I'd fall into a cab, hand something from my pockets to the driver and slobber enough while falling to the floor of the cab to give him the idea that I desperately needed to be put to bed, and all things being equal this was where I'd like to be put to bed at.

In Ingolstadt, I always had the impression that all the locals knew me and referred to me behind my back as "the drunk American who lives over the Culinary school". And I did, that is, live in a boarding house on the third floor, the second floor of which was a culinary school that had the best breakfast buffet in this section of the solar system. The local beergarden was within walking distance, the University was just a few blocks and the only thing I ever needed for transportation was someone to keep me upright, again, see my policy on Drinking and Driving. I do think, that on a year on year comparison that I did more drinking in Europe than I have done driving in America, which is just one reason why I'm quite certain I'd love Germany even more than I already do, if only I could remember more of it. Take away their ambitions of continental conquest and they're really lovely people.

[notorial dissent]

Be fair now, Bavaria never spent anything much on anything except some exceptionally really expensive public works projects, that broke the bank well in to the 20th C but have long since paid for themselves multitudinous times over, that and making beer, lots and lots of really good traditional beer, of which I know you sampled great quantities of, and I don't think Bavaria ever modernly declared war, at least on its own behalf on anything but a wurst. They had an army about like Monaco has an army. Pretty much the same can be said for Baden, except they seemed to specialize more in resort properties, wine, and gambling, much easier, not to mention cheaper to make money off rich tourists than to go around playing conqueror.

Mad Luddy had several houses in fact, most out in the hinterlands if Bavaria can be said to have hinterlands, very scenic hinterlands in fact, and there was at least one in town proper, all done up to quite a royal effect, even the cottage is well elaborate.

[Gregg]

Okay okay okay, I have just one more little bit and I'll quit.

As I said, I have spent years in Germany, and speak about as much german as you'd hear if you go see Penn and Teller on Penn's day off. At the time I knew enough German to get my ass kicked in a bar if there were Americans there to offend, the Germans surprisingly got used to me and if they ever got offended I never knew, maybe because I couldn't understand them.

But honest to goodness the only place overseas I have ever been where my absolute inability to speak any language but american english has caused me problems is London fast food joints.
I attended the London School of Economics, where I, a moderately conservative American went to learn Economics from English Communists (well, Laski-ists anyway) I may have been slightly less of a degenerate drunk in London than I was in Munich, but only because they drive on the wrong side of the street, and honestly, if you've never lived there you cannot appreciate how dangerous this is if you're inebriated. I also had to stay sober more because I was student not a teacher, and I almost spoke the language and could sometimes tell when I was about to wear out my welcome at the pub.
Anyhow, at the time, the immigration policy of the UK was in simple terms, if you came from anyplace that was once part of the British Empire, except the USA and Australia, you could show up in England and they'd let you in, as simple as checking into a hotel.
In practice, this led to any number of people from all over the place speaking any number of languages but often not any English, showing up an needing jobs. Since they had limited language skills and often not much in the way of practical skills a lot of them began their careers in the UK working at the fast food outlets in London, specifically to me, the ones near Marble Arch where I was staying at the time. Marble Arch, while I'm mentioning it, is where any number of people who DO speak English, and quite a bit of it, show up to "Speaker's Corner" which I can only describe as a combination of a Massachusetts town hall meeting in the town square where all the speakers are as nuts as a Snickers bar.
Back to the fast food. As you may gather, I have a world education, I have lived in many places, learned incredible and exciting things about many cultures but none is as important as what I call my own "prime directive", that is, 'If the Colonel's picture isn't on the bucket, it does not taste like chicken". So, when overseas, as I tend to be half looped more than half the time I find it important to only eat at familiar places to avoid having a lunch that consists of animals I don't normally associate with meals. A good way to do this is only eat at fast food joints. A Big Mac is pretty much a Big Mac anywhere. My problem is that I'm a bit of a picky eater, and can't have a burger with mustard, for instance. Well, since most of the fast food places are staffed by people who only marginally speak English, its not uncommon to have a problem. Almost all of them can handle a "Number Two, with a Coke" or "a two piece combo all white meat" but when you go rogue and want two breasts and not a breast and a wing, or you'd love a double hamburger but no mustard, extra pickles" you get the kind of deer in the headlights look most Americans only experience when they ask for a live weasel at the BMV.

So, I lost a lot of weight in England, but I did figure out the Tubes more easily as the instructions were in English, so I got a lot more sight seeing done and didn't end up sleeping in as many gutters as I did in some other countries.

[Gregg]

Be fair now, Bavaria never spent anything much on anything except some exceptionally really expensive public works projects, that broke the bank well in to the 20th C but have long since paid for themselves multitudinous times over, that and making beer, lots and lots of really good traditional beer, of which I know you sampled great quantities of, and I don't think Bavaria ever modernly declared war, at least on its own behalf on anything but a wurst. They had an army about like Monaco has an army. Pretty much the same can be said for Baden, except they seemed to specialize more in resort properties, wine, and gambling, much easier, not to mention cheaper to make money off rich tourists than to go around playing conqueror.

Mad Luddy had several houses in fact, most out in the hinterlands if Bavaria can be said to have hinterlands, very scenic hinterlands in fact, and there was at least one in town proper, all done up to quite a royal effect, even the cottage is well elaborate.

All of that is true...as far as it goes.


I'm serious now, Munich is as beautiful a city as I've ever seen, just magnificent. I can remember many times walking around it and just losing myself.... but there are many, many places where you can still see damage from WWII, bomb marks and such that quite shocked me as an American who had before that never seen the aftereffects of modern warfare in a large city.
And I remembered every time I saw it, that politically Munich was Hitler's hometown. Yeah, he was born in Austria, but the Nazi movement was heavily centered in Bavaria and especially Munich and if you know anyone who grew up there, to this day I always feel a little bit like they're still feeling a bit guilty about it.

[notorial dissent]

I never understood, and have yet to find in any of my reading, anything that really explains why all the serious whackadoos and wannabe anarchists all seemed to congregate in Munich. My understanding is that Bavaria, and Munich by extension for the day was pretty conservative and shouldn't have really attracted the crowd it did, maybe I'm misreading it, but.... I've always, chauvinistically I'll admit, blamed it on all the capacious beer halls where the plotters could get together and plot.

[Deep Knight]

Ludwig is not only the most beloved ex-ruler of Bavaria (and if you like Oktoberfest celebrations, thank him, it was originally his wedding reception)

Ja, sicher, but it also because that's when the weather got cool enough to brew beer again (by law) and that was reason to celebrate in anyone's book. I've heard the story about the first refrigeration systems enough times it must be true - they were developed to cool fermenting beer in Germany to extend the brewing season. Honest.

The ony German you need to know is "Eine Mass" (actually Maß, the thing that looks like a "B" is in simple terms a "double s"), which at least in Bavaria means you want a liter of beer.

[Pottapaug1938]

Ludwig is not only the most beloved ex-ruler of Bavaria (and if you like Oktoberfest celebrations, thank him, it was originally his wedding reception)

Ja, sicher, but it also because that's when the weather got cool enough to brew beer again (by law) and that was reason to celebrate in anyone's book. I've heard the story about the first refrigeration systems enough times it must be true - they were developed to cool brewing beer in Germany to extend the brewing season. Honest.

The ony German you need to know is "Eine Mass" (actually Maß, the thing that looks like a "B" is a "double s"), which at least in Bavaria means you want a liter of beer.

Also, you should know "hell" or "dunkel", which means that you want a lighter beer (almost always a pilsner, over there) or a Munich-style dark beer (somewhat like a porter or mild stout). If you can get a "hefeweizen", that's a wheat beer usually served with some sort of flavoring (in this country, hefeweizens are often sold without flavoring -- add your own -- or with orange and coriander. Add a small "schuss" of raspberry syrup, and you drink it the way Berliners drink their "weissbier").

[Deep Knight]

Vladimir Putin, former KGB spymaster, model for at least two Bond villains, and current Russian President. A name that strikes fear in fearful people around the world, and at one time a great guy to get drunk and shoot up the place with. Now he’s just a pain in the NWO butt, revealing our secret conspiracies and wrestling bears. Even Satan has had it with him.

Siberia, a name that strikes fear in people who like to keep warm. However, I had an old report that Vladimir (V-Man to his friends) likes to take brisk morning runs there and back from his Kremlin office, perfect for a drive-by kidnapping. However, that would take advance work in the bitter cold of the Russian winter, and upon waking to a frigid dawn I thought twice about my fiendish plan. Was there some other way we could do this, a way that didn’t invite frostbite? I grabbed a Moscow telephone directory, turned to the evil dictators section of the yellow pages, and gave him a call.

It’s amazing how bygones can become bygones when old comrades in evil meet up after many years. For one, he no longer blamed me for that indiscretion with his wife Lyudmila. In fact, I had been named as a “co-respondent” when he divorced her last year, a move that avoided a 6 month stay in Reno, so he was actually grateful. Russian divorce laws are very strict. He invited Velna and me to his rustic Dacha, and over shots of vodka reminisced about the good old days when the KGB was still the KGB and acted like it. But I wasn’t there to shoot the bull or groups of political prisoners, I was there to solve the MacHaffie murder mystery, so I asked V-Man straight out.

“I am not to knowing this,” he said in his distinctive accent, “My Russian Federal Security Service is on outs with Sorcha Faal, so hearing nothings. Someday soon we have big purge, like with Stalin, and then maybe they get smarter, da? But I am soon finding out, my good friend, big fan, and cousin to Tsar is stopping by any minutes, Erasmus of America, and he is knowing everythings! Nice guy.”

Gassy Rassy, coming here? After we had spent the better part of a post riding every about-to-break-down public transport in Eastern Europe to lose him? I mean, what are the odds? If this was fiction instead of hard fact, readers would throw down their books in disgust! But this was one plotline I would have to live out for real. I first thought of setting up an ambush for Erasmus, but since V-Man and I were getting along so well I decided not to jinx that and run away like a coward instead. I knew Vladimir couldn’t hold is liquor, so after a game where we had to take shots every time someone said “Bob” on the old Newhart show (Russians love old American reruns), we left him happily napping shirtless on the couch.

We almost got out before Erasmus showed up. If we had only been 30 seconds earlier, bringing the world to the brink of war wouldn’t have been necessary. But “acting quickly” is my middle name (just ask any of my millions of old girlfriends), so grabbing Velna we ran back to the room Putin was passed out in and hid in a closet. I only hoped that Rassy wasn’t planning on hanging up his coat, an act that strikes fear into people in our precarious situation or French bedroom comedies.

[Gregg]

Ah, "weissbier", that was my own favorite and may have been what gave me away as an American if I hadn't given a few hundred other clues ahead of time. A girl who I knew from Ingolstadt used to laugh at me drinking it when so many "good" brews were available. It was kind of a girly-man thing I think.

To those who don't know, Biergartens in german towns brew their own and these house brews are much more common than national beer brands like we think of. Wiessbier is about as close as you can get to a Bud Lite which I admit is almost a crime in the situation, and being the loud, large and ugly guy bellying up to the bar and ordering one is kind of like John Wayne walking into the saloon and asking for milk, in a clean glass.

[Pottapaug1938]

Ah, "weissbier", that was my own favorite and may have been what gave me away as an American if I hadn't given a few hundred other clues ahead of time. A girl who I knew from Ingolstadt used to laugh at me drinking it when so many "good" brews were available. It was kind of a girly-man thing I think.

To those who don't know, Biergartens in german towns brew their own and these house brews are much more common than national beer brands like we think of. Wiessbier is about as close as you can get to a Bud Lite which I admit is almost a crime in the situation, and being the loud, large and ugly guy bellying up to the bar and ordering one is kind of like John Wayne walking into the saloon and asking for milk, in a clean glass.

Well, I'm more of a West Coast IPA type; but in my younger years, a Berliner Weisse mit himbeerenschuss (raspberry syrup) was the best summer thirst quencher, bar none.

[Deep Knight]

In our situation it was imperative that we not give away our location, for being found equaled death. However, without cracking open the closet door we couldn't see or hear what was going on or for that matter report them here. So, at great risk not only to myself, but to the mother of my children, we did this for you, so I hope you're happy. Anyway, we found ourselves looking at Erasmus of America looking quizzically at Vladimir Putin asleep on his couch.

"Privet tovarishch!" he said in the strangest accent I've ever heard, and then he went over a poked Putin a few times, who groaned. Smiling, Rassy skipped over to the door, and loudly called for his Bavarian Minions. Still dressed in Lederhosen at 20 below, a half dozen heavily armed thugs stumbled into the room, all smiling and laughing with that glee that tells you they just killed others. No doubt Putin's guards, whose KGB pedigree should have made them tougher than that. I guess V-Man was slipping. A simple tying motion by Erasmus caused them to get out a coil of rope and securely bind every appendage of President Putin, trussing him up like a Black Forest ham. Rassy rubbed his hands together and grinned like an idiot who's been 11 calendar years in the 4th grade.

Putin, still drunk but rapidly becoming awake, asked in slurry Russian what the @#$! was going on, and in best dramatic fashion Rassy accommodated him. It was then that I noticed Velna raising up her burner smartphone to take a video through the crack. Erasmus of America, pleased at his own success, blabbed everything.

"Having studied under 6 of the probably most famous poisoners recommended by Albert Einstein, I did away with 'The Duke," John MacHaffie, and took over as head of the American Alternative Truth Media Patriot Underground. The fools though it was heart failure just because he had had a heart surgery. Then I blew up that annoying Deep Knight, despoiler of women and thwarter of prosperity, and his little dog Toto too. Perhaps you saw the train wreckage on CNN."

So, he himself was he who indeed did the deed! And more importantly, Rassy actually thought we had been killed on the way to Vienna, and all that sneaking around Eastern Europe and eating their food was unnecessary. Not to mention that zither music. Erasmus would have to pay before another minute passed! But first, I let him continue his story.

"Now I have you, and once you've been sacrificed I can ascend to the Russian throne and claim my birthright, which is my right by right of birth and proven by this birthmark on my penis. Just look!"

Putin shook his head, perhaps to try and clear it (he's a cheep drunk and had passed out after less than 3 dozen shots of Stoli) and protested. It was clear he was scared, his quivering lips told the story, although looking at Rassy's genitalia would do that to the strongest man. But, macho ex-spy that he is, he pulled himself together and addressed Rassy's minions, not his member. "Look boys, to be giving it up. I only tell spotty dick Erasmus here he can be Tsar of all Russias to making him happy, Russian people no accept American pig dog for this. Instead, you should be having beer and going home, da? I am to having Paulaner Salvator Doppelbock on taps."

The Bavarian shortpants squad nodded their heads like idiots in unison. "Ja, und in this season for Starkbier (strong beer). No matter how cold outside, life is good in front of the fire place with a stein of Bock!" The rushed over to the bar, and one by one came back with ceramic tankards and gathered in front of the Dacha's fireplace. Rassy seemed unconcerned, poking the helpless Putin with a stick and laughing. Soon, he took out a long knife and made threatening motions aimed at V-Man's throat. I gave Velna a thumbs up, who put down her phone and pulled out her assault riffle. Almost as fast as you could blink, one by one the boys at the fire drinking beer sipped their last lager and fell like so much wet laundry on the floor. Rassy was so surprised he dropped his knife and wet his pants.

The rest of our day was simple. Velna used the remaining rope (Germans are thorough and always bring twice as much as in necessary) to tie up Gassy Rassy, taking care to make certain ropes so tight they cut into sensitive areas of spotty flesh, while I cut Putin free. Vladimir was besides himself in gratitude, and more than pleased that Erasmus was still alive for him to torture mercilessly. He put his private jet at our disposal, giving me the keys while Velna e-mailed Rassy's video confession to police back in America to get us off the hook. Then we returned to Bavaria to report to our Illuminati slave masters.

Back at the castle, the party was still in progress! No doubt part of a plot to keep the Dragon Families from trying to push through the RV (like that's ever gonna happen while the NWO is in charge), you can't revalue while you're drunk on beer. Beer. What can I say about this magic elixir? Even Satan had a smile on his face, not easy when you live in Hell. But, singing German drinking songs to tuba and accordion accompaniment, and throwing firecrackers at the marchers in dragon costumes, we had a great time and finally got a bit of a vacation. And the cake was wonderful, rich chocolate with cherries and just a bit of brandy...

[Deep Knight]

Well, we decided to stay an extra day and have some well-deserved rest, so didn't get back until tonight. The bulk of the boys and girls at the festival took a chartered flight to go to the Oscars and invited us along, but it's just not exciting when you know "the fix is in." I'm probably not letting the cat out of the bag here, most people who saw who last night's winners were probably suspicious anyway.

But I have other news. While checking out of the hotel, we were contacted by a small, shadowy German guy who gave us the secret handshake and name of Mackie Messer, though he told us we could call him "Mac the Knife." He was of course a NWO assassin, Central European Branch, with a penchant for knives, sort of an SS Slice Girl. He even had his own theme song, but more importantly, news of Erasmus of America.

It seems that Vladimir Putin, frustrated at his inability to kill Erasmus, decided to trade him for information. I could have told him about the not-dying part, we cut Rassy into little pieces and buried them under 12 feet of concrete in one adventure, but it didn't take. Sorcha Faal had heard of Erasmus' capture (she seems to hear about everything), and from her convent in Ireland with branches in Moscow brokered a deal to trade him for a pledge to share secrets and a third round draft pick. No doubt Sorcha did it just to irk me, there's a long history there, but then again she might also be cooking something up. So, after all that work it was as if nothing had happened or changed once again, but at least we could go home and not get arrested. And, after skulking through Eastern Europe, with a new appreciation of the American way of life we were hell bent on destroying.

As Mack the Knife left us, I remarked that he reminded me of a young Bobbie Daren, especially his pearly whites. But enough of Europe and especially Russia in mid-winter, it was back on the plane and in a few shakes of a lamb's tail we were in the good ol' USA we hated so much.