The Wire Of Intrigue: Season Two.

"Stories of Intrigue" is a pastiche of terrible amateur genre fiction. Another way of explaining it: here is a story written by the dumbest motherfucker taking Intro to Creative Writing at your local community college.

This is part two in an epic series of Stories of Intrigue inspired by "The Wire." Click here for Season One.

Ernest Dockguy was as bald as a billion ball. He controlled the coming's and going's of the docks down by the waterfront. He was a good man, but he let drug people bring drungs in through his dock, which made him a anti-hero.

One fine day, a boat came in full of dead lady's. "No," said Ernest when he saw the dead lady's. They were carved up from here to Tim-buck'two. They looked like a Mudvayne concert. The killer left behind his calling card: a card that said "call me if you can crack my puzzle."

Ernest called the girl he had a crush on, whom was a police officer. Beady was her name: B.D. for short. "B.D. ya gotta help me! A boat that I let park at my dock illegally—" He realized his foolish mistake. "Er, never mind. This is not but a Jerky Boys-ian prank call." He reached for the Arnold Shwartzneger sound board he had Q'ed up on his comp. screen, but it was to late.

"What are you talking about, Ernest? I'm coming down they're" said B.D. Uh-oh-spagetti'o's, he thought.

BD showed up at the dock and said what seem's to be the problem. "Er...Er..." said Ernest. He had to think fast. "Allow me to give you the grand tour," he said, stalling. "This is a boat. This is a dock. This is a big metal crate thing. This is a guy who work's on the dock's." And on he droned, into the wee hour's. ‘Twas a comedy of error's most foul.

Finally, BD said "Cut the crub, Ernest. Your hiding something." She found the dead lady's. "No," she said.

She called up McNutty and Bunt, two cop's who couldn't quite seem to shake "the sauce," if thou will... They came down to the dock.

"This look's mighty familiar..." McNutty said. "You can say that again," said Bunt. "This look's mighty familiar," said McNutty. They both laughed, their staccatto twitters arcing through the air over the piles of mangled corpses. They were always cracking wise like that because the strain of being a cop made them turn to dark humors, much like how Mudvayne see's the world for the sick joke it truely is.

Anyway, it looked familiar because their had been a string of ladymurder's in the area. McNutty and Bunt scratched they're hoary head's. They stayed up all night trying to crack the case, swilling the finest liqueurs and eating lobsters by the handful. "Hey, one of the perk's of the job" they said. But try as they might, they couldn't figure out the killer's puzzle. It was written in a wierd language that niether of them could read.

So Ernest went to his underworld connection to see if he could help where the cop's couldn't. His name was The Geek, and he had a bald helper, The Geek Jr. The Geek Jr. was the one who talked to Ernest & co.; The Geek was but a shadow, a master puppeter, pulling the string's as a turgid child might pull the string of his most betrothed Yomega-brand Yo-Yo.

Ernest and The Geek Jr shared a knowing chuckle about both being bald. Then they got down to brass tax. "Do you know anything about the dead lady's?" said Ernest. No said TGJ. Everywhere Ernest turn'd was a dead end. He felt like the misbegotten protagonist of a Mudvayne song such as "I.D.I.O.T." or, dare I say it, "Poop Loser." He went to The Sea Gull's Bar, where all the dockfolk guzzled away they're paycheck's on ratgut beer and wine, to comiserate.

At the bar were his son, Nich Dockguy, and his son's cousin, Zippy. Zippy—who's name's similarity to the pinhead of lore was perchance no coincident—was standing on the bar playing air guitar on his wanger.

"Get down from they're, you!" said Ernest. "Your a disgrace to the Dockguy name." Zippy was a tradgedy waiting to happen, for all he ever dreamed of was to fit in. But he was bullied in such a manner as to make this fair-weathered tale ripped from the headlines. The other dock worker's would throw his breifcase into the sea, dock paper's sinking to the watery depth's like the lost city of Atlanta. Whenever the whole dock crew went on a field trip to Fuddruckers, you better believe it was always Zippy whom ended up having to drink the concoction of ketchup, mustard, pepper, hot sauce, Mello' Yello', and mushed-up hamburger bun that they would mix up in a glass when Ernest was in the bathroom.

Zippy got down from the bar. "Aw jeez, uncs, I was just havin' some fun!" he said. "Yeah, pops," chimed in Nich. All was forgiven. But what could not be forgotten was those dead lady's. "No!" yelled Ernest as he slumpered that night. "No!" He was having horror dreams, Krogerian visions of dead and division. Blood gushed from deflated heads like gooze from a Gusher. Tounges wagged like Fruit by the Foot. Skin unfurled like Fruit Rollup's. Ernest sat up in bed with a startle. "I've got to get to the bottom of this! he said"

So he got to the bottom of it. He snuck into the police station and looked at the file's. "Aha!" he said when he found the killer's puzzle. He couldn't believe what his eye was telling him. It was written in Italian. His mind realed. Who was it that spake Italian? he thought. "I've got to think! Think, Ernest! Think!" He pounded his bald head. "Think! Think! Think! Think! Think!"

Suddenly, the light's went out. "Little pig, little pig, where are you?" Came the voice. "I've been watching you. I don't like what I see. This world is a hunka junk. I do folks a favor by setting them free by murdering them in horrible, unspoken way's. Don't you see? I'm ushering in this Y2K future with a bang."

"The only bang you'll ever know is a jailbird having his way with you're hiney!" gritted Ernest. Suddenly, the light came back on. The killer stood right in front of him. The killer pulled off his mask. It was The Geek! "The only one of us getting his hiney handled like a meatball sub"—of course! ‘Twas the Geek who was Italic in nature!—"is you!" The Geek said.

Suddenly, holes appeared on The Geek. Blood flew out of the holes. Mear moment's before the holes appeared, there was a BLAM! A gun. It was The Geek Jr. He saved the day. Thanks said Ernest. Anytime said TGJ. They're bald heads exited the station together.

Elsewhere in the city, the drug trade kept rumbling like your window when the train goes by because the apartment facing the train tracks was cheaper then one with a balcony. But that would be a tale for another day. This wild and wooly town had a buttload of tale's.

For more bone-chilling and heart-stopping tales, check out our Stories of Intrigue section.