"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 the fifth and final part in an epic series of Stories of Intrigue inspired by "The Wire." Here are the others:
"Hot off the press! Read ‘em and weap!" said Maria Bueno, the enterprizing reporter for local big city paper The News & Paper. "Got a front page story about the corruptions of local polititian Clade Avis. He took money from cancer children and used it to buy X.B.O.X. games. And all the evident's is right here. I used journalism to hack into his bank account and blow this thing wide open."
She turned on the Tv to see the new's. Clade was on the Tv. He was being arrested for his evil way's. "Sheeeeeeeeeeeeee," Clade Avis said, "eeeeeeeeeeesh."
"Hip hop hooray!" Ed the editor said. He was proud because Maria was fighting the good fight for good journalism. The entire news room burst into an avuncular rendition of "For He....Er, She's, a Jolly Good Fellow....Er, Lady." The article was going to sell like hotcakes. Maria was a shoe-in to win the Pullister Prize—or, dare I bequeath it, the Noble Prize.
But Maria's glorious did not last long. "Pfft, thats nothin'," said Temple Grandin, a slimeball upstart reporter. "I've got a scoop that'll blow you're mind out of you're brain." "Wow, great scoop! What's you're scoop!" the miserable guppy's whom desecrated the news room shouted. Maria felt like Turd City, population one, or, more befitting her ethnology, El Puerto Dos Las Caca, uno la populazioné. Ed clucked his head. He knew Temple was bad new's, and if you think that's mearly a pun of the ilk newsies are so fond of, you got a nother thang comin'!
What, indead, was Temple's scoop? Hrm. The world would have to wait...
Meanwhile, the mayer was giving a speach in the finest of all hotel's. The mayer had an Italian name and lived in the U.S.America, but sometimes he would turn Irish in the middle of a sentence for some wierd reason. I guess it represented the mixing pot of American culture, maybe.
"I'm happy to report that crime is down one-hundred %," he said. "Our fair metropolis is safe to stroll again. The villains whom once stalked our shabbling street's have been hunted down and destroyed like the sole surviving copy of the sex tape in the film that catapaulted Breckin Myer to super stardom, Road Trip."
"This make's me want to puke to high heaven," said McNutty, a cop. He was in attendence at the mayer's speach and he knew the books were as masterfully cooked as if Emerald himself had a hand in cooking them. "Hippocrates!" he yelled. "All of you!" The mayer's goons came and scooped him up and dragged him out. "Unhand me!" he yelled. "Duh, your the boss," they said and dropped him into the ocean.
Back at the police office, he ranted and raven, but he got nothing but a blind ear for his trouble's. "Criminal's crime within punity. Its a joke. I've got half a mind to—" He stopped himself. Hmm. He had a idea.
The next time McNutty went to a crime scene, he executed his perfect plan. There was a dead homeless stinking up the joint. He died because of the many institutions that were rotten to the core in this urban hellscape.
McNutty began by soaking a rag in rubbing alcohol and putting it against his partner Bunt's nose and mouth. "Don't fight it," he said. "Say nighty-night." Bunt past out. It was time to get to work. McNutty chopped off the homeless's head. He rolled it around in mud and soaked it in a pot of tea to give it that "lived-in" look. He tied the homeless's homeless hands to each other using the most complex of knot's known only in the far-off Orient. He stomped all over the homeless and all over the homeless's house whilst wearing Dr. Martin's boots—known by all to be the preferred footware of killer's and pervert's.
Finally, McNutty took his final step. He left a note on the homeless body. "Howdy world," it read. "If your reading this, its only because I haven't killed you yet. I'm a physco. I kill because I can, and I can because I kill. I strike terror into the heart's of all in this whacky world. I do my bad deed's because my mommy and daddy were viscously murdered before mine very eye's when I was a young lad. They looked like barfed-up Captain D's platters by the time the killer was done with them. So now I'm more loco then cocoa. You will never stop me. With warmest regard's, The Annialator."
Bunt woke up. "Zuh! What happened!" he said. "Jack diddly," said McNutty. "You just had a bad dream. But what's this I see before me? Look's like foulplay..." His plan was to draw attention to the dead's that littered the city like peanut shell's on the floors of the finest dining establishment's.
Wierdly, Temple Grandin was first on the scene to cover the story for the paper. "Great scoop!" he said, a twinkle in his eye. Hmm...
Back at the station, McNutty told his agéd friend Buster Tective about his grand plan. Buster looked up from the American Girl doll he was playing with, which indicated a heretofor unknown depth to his character. "Good idea," he said.
Two day's later, a 9/11 call came in. "Their's a dead lying about!" the man on the call said. "Come at once!" McNutty and Bunt raced to the scene. It looked just like the murder that McNutty faked, down to the suttlest element's, such as the head being cut off.
"What the crap," said McNutty. Suddenly, dead's were turning up left and right. McNutty had unleashed a monster, and he hadn't a single Monster Magnet to real it back in.
Back at the newsroom, oh how the praise's did flow. "Wow, Temple, your the best reporter!" "Wow, Temple, your just dandy!" "Wow, Temple!" Temple gleamed and gloomed, his head swelling to strain the headband of his hat that had a card in it that said "PRESS". He sat down at his Gateway computer, with it's blazin' fast Celeron processer, and began to type.
"‘Twas a faithful night that the mayer had his life snitched away from him. That's right, folk's: The mayer is d-e-a-d, DEAD. You heard it hear first. He was killed by The Annialator, a dashing local serial killer who swear's he will kill again. In an exclusive interview with The News-Paper, The Annialator said, "I'm more nuts then Planters. Crazier then Crazytown. Battier then Lewisville Slugger. And I'll kill. Again and again and again and again and again. I killed the mayer. And your next! And you and you and you!" The Annialator is a handsome man with peircing baby blue's. Stay tuned to this paper for more information."
Temple hit the "save" key and then strapped on his Dr. Martin's. Thing's were about to get twiztid.
The mayer's house was a charming, 2-storied house of sort's. His children were inside playing there flute's and baking there sweetbread's. Ah, the trappings of childhood. Suddenly, a pear of eye's appeared in the bush's. Temple! He had a chain saw with him. He pulled the string to rev the engine. Pull! Rrrrrr! Pull! Rrrrr! PULL!! Zero hour was almost upon us.
But then: McNutty? What was he doing here?! He came to the mayer's house, yelling drunk vulgar's into the wind. This was his way of acting out. Suddenly, he saw Temple.
"Temple? Your the killer! Of course!" Temple laughed a hearthy laugh from deep in his ferrous belly. "Ha ha!" he yelled.
"I played you like a Bop-It," Temple said. "You fell right into my trap. I knew you would make the dead homeless look like a serial kill. How does it feel just being my puppet? Of course, I knew you couldn't keep making more fake dead's. So I stepped in and did a little...cleanup. And now I'm going to clean up the mayer."
He menaced toward McNutty, swinging his knife. Suddenly, his head flew off!
Buster had followed McNutty to the scene. In his hand: the titular wire, which he used to slice and dice Temple's head off.
"How did you—" said McNutty.
"The wire," said Buster. "The wire."
In due time, they're was a role call of sort's, as all the character's we knew and loved appeared one by one.
O'Mart "kiss'd a boy, and he liked it," as Zoe Deshanelle might say, but then a toddler whom was foolishly fooling around with a size XXL gun blew O'Mart's brain's out as he ordered a fretful Blo-pop from the corner store.
Nich Dockguy yelped and screlped because Zippy and Ernest Dockguy were dead and he didn't give a rip any more.
Chemo read a Goosebump's book to her son, whom she had made by rubbing up against another lady. "Syonara, drug guy's," she said, and so forth.
Bubba the cracked head put down the bong and flew right, and he was allowed to leave his family's basement, where he had been living like the betrodden foe in the chilling Goosebump's tale "Stay Out of the Basement".
Chief Daniel's wierdly musculer bod, whose taut pile of mussels made him look like a black Vac-Man, glistened under the touch of McNutty's lawyer ex-gf.
The Pullister Prize gave itself to Temple Grandin's head, thus proving the sorry state of journalism today. Editor Ed and Maria Bueno sadded.
Weed's ironically grew around Ringer Bell's grave.
Clade Avis led a crowd in a rousing rendition of his benighted catch phrase. "Say it with me know," he grinned. "Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-" The roar of the loving crowd drowned him out before he could finish.
Bunt and Buster and Buddy Blackcop and the kid's from season 4 and Merle O. and etc. did stuff to.
Finally, McNutty looked out upon the great grandure of Chicago, which was a character in this grand assortment of tale's as sure as any human person was. He looked strait into the camera. "Well that was randome," he said. The saga ended.
For more bone-chilling and heart-stopping tales, check out our Stories of Intrigue section.