You’ve seen the pictures.  You’ve seen the video clips.  You’ve read the propaganda.  You’ve heard the protests.  And it’s all bunk.  There is nothing wrong whatever with killing baby seals.

    Most of you have never actually seen a baby seal.  If you woke up in the middle of the night and found one beside your bed, you’d scream so loud you’d wake up the whole building.  You’d call the police.  You’d sue your landlord.  You sure as hell would not keep it as a pet.

    Out in Labrador, nobody likes seals very much unless they’re dead.  Then you can sell the skins or make soup out of the flippers.  But mainly the Labradorans have to fish to make a living because there’s no other economy.  Seals eat fish.  With fish stocks declining, the seals are an economic threat.  So you have to kill them.

    But there are other good reasons.  Baby seals stink, they spread diseases, and they attack people!   You didn’t read about that in the save-the-seals ads, did you?  Oh, no.  And the politically correct media don’t want to report it.  Baby seals have been known to kill and eat small children!  Ask the Eskimoes.  They’ll tell you so.  And so will anyone in Labrador.

    Why do baby seals get bashed in the head?  Why does it have to be so gruesome?  Because the Canadian government makes it too difficult and expensive to own guns, that’s why!  So you get a club or a pick axe, what else?

    Animal rights activists act like killing baby seals is the worst atrocity imaginable, but they don’t say boo about the Chinese eating cats and dogs!  (The word we are trying to think of begins with “h” and ends with “y.”)  Mustn’t attack the Chinese.  That would be racist.  They have their culture, after all.  And besides, no one ever sees the Chinese killing and eating cats and dogs.  The Labradorians, on the other hand, club those seals in broad daylight, as if they’re not the least bit ashamed of it!  (Now that’s real Canadian culture!  Tough white men! Violence! The outdoors! Books by Crad Kilodney!)

    If you think baby seals are cute and cuddly, adopt one.  That’s what animal rights activist Anne Ashley of California did.  And guess what happened to her.  The seal bit her on the leg, and the wound became so infected that her leg had to be amputated!  And she was given a $100 fine for having an illegal pet under a local ordinance.  Just deserts!

    Now are you convinced?  Baby seals are our enemies! 

    Copyright@ 2009 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:


Yarmoj, the Evil Storage Jar

December 24, 2008

    Yarmoj was a storage jar who lived in somebody’s basement cupboard in Menominee (pronounced muh-NOM-uh-nee), Michigan.  It’s a nice, little town in the Upper Peninsula where there are no bad things like Crips and Bloods gangs, gay pride parades, Muslim terrorists, serial killers, or people who try to get on the express check-out in the supermarket with a whole cartload of stuff.  In other words, it’s the last place you’d expect something simple and innocent like a storage jar to turn evil.  But evil can spring up anywhere.  You think you know people, but you don’t.

    Anyway, Yarmoj just sat in the dark, on the shelf of this basement cupboard, month after month, year after year, and never got used.  This made him angry and resentful.  The plastic containers got used fairly often — more often than the glass jars.  And Yarmoj felt superior to the plastic containers because he was made of glass, of course!  Whenever the homeowner went to his cupboard to get a storage container, Yarmoj would scream out, “Me! Me! I’m here! I’m here!”  But, of course, people can’t hear the voices of storage jars because they’re in a different frequency range from what humans can hear.  Sometimes the owner did select a glass storage jar, but Yarmoj always got passed over for no apparent reason.

    Every day he would scream his protests to the uncaring Universe.  The other storage jars would tell him to shut up.  “Know your place!” they would say.  Sometimes they teased him by telling him he was Made In China and it said so in small letters that he couldn’t see.  This made him feel insecure about his ancestry.  Another storage jar suggested he should convert to Islam, and then he would be at peace.

    Okay, so what happens to people in a situation of prolonged frustration and anger?  I meant storage jars, of course, but we can talk about people generally.  Eventually, after enough of this bottled-up rage they can’t deal with, they turn evil.  Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.  So what did this do to Yarmoj?  He just lost his mind, what else?  All he could think about was revenge.  (And this is something I understand better than most people.)  He wanted to find some way to lash out at all these stupid people who refused to recognize his talent (as a storage jar, of course).  He had these terrible fantasies of murder and destruction, night after night.  But what sort of power can a mere storage jar wield in a world of big people, big machines, and big weapons?

    There was one idea that he kept thinking about.  If someone used him to store some kind of food, he could contaminate it with some kind of bacteria, and then later the people would eat the food and get food poisoning and maybe die.  And he kept asking the other storage jars if they knew where he could get some bacteria, but they told him it was a stupid idea because people would wash out any sort of container first before putting food in it.  Yarmoj kept looking for some bacteria anyway, and he thought maybe there was some gunk inside his lid, like metallic corrosion or putrid organic matter.

    Well, a big surprise happened!  The homeowner opened the cupboard and took out Yarmoj!  And Yarmoj thought, Now I have a chance to do something really evil!  And he expected the homeowner to put some sort of food into him, but that’s not what happened.  Instead, the homeowner used him to store a lot of screws, nuts, and washers.  And this made Yarmoj really mad because there was nothing socially lower in the world of storage jars than to be used for little pieces of hardware.  Fuck this! Fuck this! Fuck this! he swore over and over.  And this went on for many days until Yarmoj decided he would do something evil or die trying.

    So, sure enough, one day the homeowner needed a screw, and he picked up Yarmoj.  And Yarmoj concentrated all those years of anger and frustration into a kind of psychic energy, and with all the will power he could summon, he tried to make himself explode!  And he did! Yarmoj exploded, destroying himself just like a suicide bomber, and the homeowner was badly cut on his hands and arms!  And he was lucky he didn’t lose an eye with all that broken glass and hardware pieces flying everywhere!

    And guess who that homeowner was.  It was none other than Congressman Bart Stupak!  That’s right!  A real, actual member (Democrat) of the U.S. House of Representatives!

    Fortunately, I can report that Congressman Stupak has been treated for his injuries and is feeling considerably better now.  And I think it would be a very nice gesture if you sent him a get-well note.  You can e-mail him at  or write to his office at 2352 Rayburn House Office Building, Washington, DC 20515.  Just say you read about his awful experience with an evil storage jar, and you hope he gets well soon, and at least that evil jar is destroyed, so the world is safer now.  Or words to that effect.

    Copyright@ 2008 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:


December 18, 2008

    This feature contains certain forward-looking statements, such as “could,” “might,” “in the event of,” “assuming that,” “I desperately want,” and “kill George Smitherman,” and does not constitute an offer to sell securities.  Please remember that options involve risk and should not be handled by children without adult supervision.  Avoid contact with eyes, skin, and lesions.  Flush out eyes with a mixture of water and ammonia and induce vomiting.  Consult certified dealer in your area and do not attempt repair yourself, otherwise your account may be closed without warning, and tort litigation may be commenced to protect carrier from third-party claims.  Store at room temperature or cook immediately, otherwise blindness may result.  The 5-day grace period does not apply to residents of Quebec or to foreign nationals not currently registered with the Company’s licensed representatives.  Side-effects may include dizziness, temporary loss of consciousness, and a compulsion to give money to beggars.  You must advise us in writing of any changes by standing in a well-ventilated room or designating a co-conspirator to occupy your unit in the event of a flood, fire, epidemic, or civil unrest.  To avoid shock, hide in a closet without windows or seek shelter above ground.  Move away from any siren and follow the directions in the accompanying product description.  Lie on any sharp object to avoid prosecution.  The limited liability as set forth in the owner’s manual is superseded by the laws of your state or province, as designated in the relevant criminal code and/or the Compromise of 1850.  Management is not responsible for acts of violence to pets or accidental termination of your coverage by application of adhesive to porous or non-porous surfaces.  A skill-testing question may be required before the lessor may be released to the custody of a parent, guardian, or inmate of a mental institution.  Winners will be notified by a refugee claimant who has been ordered to appear for a deportation hearing, or by sending a cheque by registered mail to any officer of a labour union (in Quebec, officer of a biker gang).  No animals were harmed or discriminated against in the making of this product, except as permitted in Section Three of the Prospectus (“Exemptions for Aboriginal Persons”).  Contestants must be of legal drinking age, with a criminal record and previous claim of legal insanity, and must be accompanied by a bonded technician (in Quebec, member of a separatist party).  The Provider may enter your home and remove any persons or property necessary to bring your account into compliance (or may designate a proxy to do so), and may bill you for this service.  Subscribers may not hold long and short positions simultaneously, except by special arrangement with the Courts or Armed Forces.  A non-white illegal alien with a speech defect may be sent to your home to instruct you on the use of this product and to molest your children.  Your rights under the warranty may be modified without warning according to the terms of the McCarran Act, and amendments thereto, and your coverage may be voided, at your expense.  Discontinue use if paralysis develops and consult dealer or pharmacist.  Allow 90 days for evidence of any dispute to be processed by monkeys.  Liability to the buyer continues indefinitely, and to his heirs and successors.  Some components may explode, causing death.  Discontinue use in this event and provide details in writing to the Customer Service Dept.   Reading this far constitutes your acceptance of all terms, including future amendments thereto, and is valid in all jurisdictions.

    Copyright@ Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:

    This story starts slowly and gathers momentum until it explodes in a nerve-shattering climax.  Along the way, the reader is treated to numerous colorful characters and subplots involving espionage, global catastrophe, romance, and the supernatural.

    Excuse me….I have just been informed that this story has received scathing reviews in the Toronto Star and Saturday Night.  Therefore, it will be necessary to go back and make changes while there is still time to save my literary reputation.

    Ahem….This story starts with a bang, and then the reader meets the two principal characters — a man and a woman — who are in a troubled relationship.  A lot of back story is given to explain the problems between them.  The plot has been simplified to deal with condo development.   The man wants to redeem himself by building a spectacular condo project, but the woman tells him he has to choose between her and the building….Unfortunately, this will not do, as it appears the story has received even worse reviews in The Globe and Mail and Maclean’s, and certain harsh comments have been made about the author.  So it will be necessary to start over.

    Thank you for your patience….This story begins with a long description of the Hawaiian Islands, where it will now take place, instead of Moncton, New Brunswick, as previously intended.  This should make it more commercially acceptable to American publishers (all the Canadian ones hate me anyway).  The protagonist is a CIA agent, and his female counterpart is the divorced wife of an unscrupulous Wall Street money manager….I’m sorry.  There is a problem.  This story has already been rejected by Esquire and Playboy, although no reason has been given.  The rejection slips merely say that it does not meet their editorial needs.  Frankly, I doubt they even read it.

    All right, never mind.  A few changes, and we’ll be back in business….A beautiful young rock star receives a human head in a box.  There is no note, and she doesn’t recognize the man’s face.  (Now I’m sure I’m on to something!)  She calls her friend, who is a bumbling but humorous private investigator who looks like Walter Matthau.  The scene shifts to somewhere I haven’t decided on yet, and the reader realizes that the box was delivered to the wrong address!  (This is sensational!)  The bumbling investigator, however, stumbles onto a clue (I don’t know what, but I’ll think of something), which leads him to a gang of drug traffickers.  (This is a winner!  I’m sure of it!)….Oh….I’m sorry….My mistake….It seems that a very similar story was published only minutes ago in The Idaho Review, and the movie rights have already been optioned to HBO.  I don’t believe this!  This is either the worst luck a person could have, or there’s something fishy going on!

    Okay, I’m not through with this sucker.  I’ll give it one more try….A prospector in Alaska stumbles onto the richest gold deposit in the world.  Now he has to lock up the mineral rights to the whole surrounding area without anyone suspecting that he has found something big.  But he has been followed by his nemesis, an evil prospector with no talent, who just rips off other people’s discoveries, and the nemesis intends to kill him before he can get back to the nearest town to file his claims.  There will be a big fight, which the hero wins.  After that, he has to kill a bear and a mountain lion.  And then he falls down a ravine, hits his head, and loses his memory, so he can’t remember where he discovered the gold.  There!  I think I’ve nailed it!

    Oh, no….My story has been rejected with prejudice, if you can believe it, by The Paris Review, for “failing to address women’s issues or the environment, and failing to include minorities”!

    Well, that’s the last straw!  This is a stupid, rotten, corrupt business, and those miserable sons of bitches can rot in hell!  Years from now, when they’re almost bankrupt because nobody reads their inferior shit any more, they can crawl to me on their hands and knees and beg me for a story!  “Conquest and Horror” will be waiting for them, and I’ll shove it down their throats!

    Copyright@ 2008 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:

Cow Five

August 6, 2008

    When you work at Snuj, there’s no fixed timetable for anything.  There are no clocks or calendars.  If you want something, you have to do something to get it.  This kind of purity doesn’t exist anywhere else.

    I made up my mind to go see Ludwig.  Ludwig was black and didn’t speak with any identifiable accent.  It was an unwritten rule at Snuj that you never asked Ludwig about his background.

    “I want Cow Five,” I said to Ludwig.

    He gave me an over-long stare before reaching for the lower drawer of his old wooden desk.  He took out a magazine and handed it to me.  “Now you go to the men’s room and do what you have to do, understand?”


    “You just bring back the cover.  The rest can go in the waste basket, understand?”


    I took the magazine to the men’s room and…I did what I had to do. I brought back the cover.  “The cover is still clean,” I said.

    “We don’t care about that,” he replied, taking it from me.  He opened another drawer and took out a brown envelope, which was sealed.  “Now you go to Zeugma and ask for Nine Special Ray.”

    “Nine Special Ray,” I repeated.

    “Yes.  Now go.”

    I went downstairs, pausing at the window in the stairwell to look at the Unerectable Dome across the street, a structure that was perpetually collapsing and being rebuilt.

    I walked into Zeugma, where Carney, the albino, sat in a cubicle very much like a subway toll booth, with the added feature of a bell on the counter.  I held out the brown envelope to him.

    “Ring the bell if you want service,” he said condescendingly.  I rang the bell.  “What do you want?” he asked.

    “I want Nine Special Ray.”

    He snatched the brown envelope out of my hand, opened it neatly with a letter opener, and peered inside briefly, frowning.  Then he took a small ledger from a cubbyhole, opened it, and flipped a few pages.  He was still frowning as he scanned a page.  The frown was Carney’s only facial expression.  I wondered if it was a medical condition.  “You do…Solar AB….The string, that is.”


    “In the Fish Tank, of course.  That way.”  He pointed.

    I went down the hall to a wooden door with faded letters: FISH TANK.  It was unlocked.  It was like a janitor’s closet with a chair.  I sat down.  A tangled mass of strings hung down from a high shelf.  Each one had a tag.  The rectangular tags were Neon, the round ones were Fruit, the triangles were Solar, and so on.  There was another closet called Beggar’s Dream with other tags, but don’t ask me about that.  So I had to look for a Solar AB.  I found one.  I yanked the string, and a key fell down from the shelf.  A gold key.  Irish Knights.  But we had other names for them.

    I went to the other side of the building to what was called the Insensorium, or “Sorry.”  I knocked at the open door.  There were a half dozen guys dressed as leprechauns, all with their feet up on this big table, smoking clay pipes.  “Whut-choo got?” said one, talking like a ghetto black, although he was very pale.

    “I have a Solar AB.”

    “You going for Cow Five?” asked another.

    “Yes, that’s right,” I said firmly.

    The leprechauns chuckled and made some remarks in a dialect only they understood.  Bunch of assholes.  Older guys with no degrees, no technology, just years of seniority.  Not one of them ever saw Cow Two, I’m sure.  The oldest one got up, picked up a large wooden mallet, and stood in front of this large copper plate on the wall.  He struck the plate with much force.  The others went Ooh! and Ahh! with fake reverence.   Then the one who had struck the plate said in a loud ceremonial voice, “Voola One-Two-Three!”

    “On the roof,” someone else explained, although I already knew that.

    The elevator only went to Six.  After that you had to climb this long ladder, which was always greasy and slippery, and the handrail was loose besides.  I came up onto the roof.  It was an asphalt roof that was always too hot in the summer, so the company wisely sprinkled dirt on it, which was guaranteed to make a mess of your shoes.

    There was this large pigeon coop set close to a wall, and set into the wall was a bank of boxes like safe deposit boxes.  There was very little clearance between the coop and the boxes, so you had to squeeze in to get to your box, and it was hard to read the numbers as well.  I managed to find Voola 123 and put my key in, hoping it would work, because very often the leprechauns would give you the wrong box number, and you’d have to go back down, and they would claim it was an honest mistake or you heard them wrong.  Ha, ha.  Very funny.  But fortunately my key fit.  I opened the box and pulled out a small gold brick.  Pretty damned good.  You got a gold brick, that was good.

    I had to take the brick down to Ludwig.  Before I could say a word, he said, “Carmody,” and pointed toward the end of the hall.

    Carmody was dressed in a blue uniform like a bellhop.  He guarded the Gasworks.  There was actually no gas in the Gasworks.  It was just an old traditional name that went back to the time when Snuj was called something else.  Carmody unlocked a metal door and led me down a long gangway to a basement that was poorly-lit and smelled like oil.  There was a lot of low, throbbing machine noise that came from these chambers behind the walls, but you couldn’t actually see the machines. 

    Royster was in charge down there.  I think he lived there because I never actually saw him come to work or leave.  He was supposedly a mechanic, and he was dressed like one.  But rumor had it that he was the one who actually controlled Snuj.  He was said to have the entire 800-page Code Book memorized.

    Carmody said to Royster, “He’s all yours, Sir.”

    “Yes.  Fine,” said Royster.  Carmody went back up the gangway.  Royster said to me, “Come this way, please,” and he led me through a maze of passages.  “Watch your head.  Low ceiling,” he warned me.  We reached an area referred to humorously as the Un-Stable, which smelled like animals.  There was a row of stalls screened individually by canvasses, which were rigged like shower curtains.  He led me to the one at the end.  “This is it.  Congratulations,” he said, shaking hands with me.  Then he left.

    I took a deep breath.  Was this for real, or was it just a dream?  Would this be the happiest moment of my life, or would I be cruelly disappointed?  I pulled the canvas aside, and there it was…Cow Five….It was tied to the wall with a rope and was chewing contentedly on something.  There was a decal on its side like that of a racehorse — a white 5 on a background of green and gold.  I almost couldn’t believe it.

    “Four years of college just so I could stand here now,” I said out loud.  “But it was worth it.”

    “Moooo…” said the cow.

    Copyright@ 2008, by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:

    This is a story about Cornmoko, the Hot Clam from Fort Lee, New Jersey, boys and girls.  But don’t tell your parents about it, or there could be trouble.  And always write the name “Fort Lee” in full; don’t abbreviate it “Ft. Lee.”  It’s disrespectful.  The same goes for “New Jersey.”

    Cornmoko, the Hot Clam from Fort Lee, New Jersey, was a mollusc who was into rubber.  But he was a person because all species are equal.  Therefore, his interest in latex rubber and bondage was automatically validated.

    Cornmoko had this black girlfriend from Hoboken named Lola, and she was a bitch.  Sorry, but that’s what she was.  Let’s tell the truth about other people, okay?  So Cornmoko had to tie her up and whip her because she was such a mouthy black bitch.  She worked as a cashier at the Delite Supermarket, at 420 Washington St.,  in Hoboken, and she was such a goddamned motormouth that a white customer blew a head valve and screamed at her, “Will you shut up, you nigger!”  Then there was a big scene because a white person just called a black person a nigger, which is not allowed, boys and girls, okay?  The owner, who was white, was not sure who was at fault.  If a white customer who shopped there for ten years with no problems suddenly went ballistic, there had to be a reason.  And the owner really didn’t like Lola because he knew she was a motormouth, but he didn’t want to do anything politically incorrect.  Now, by coincidence, he happened to know Lola’s boyfriend, Cornmoko.  They went back a long way together, and the owner looked up to him as a great guy.  So the owner told Cornmoko, “Hey that girlfriend of yours, Lola, sure is a big mouth.  I don’t want to fire her, but I’m just telling you she’s burning some of my customers’ asses.”

    “You did the right thing to call me,” said Cornmoko, who was all too familiar with Lola’s big mouth.  “I’ll straighten her out.”

    That night after they had drinks at a bar, Cornmoko took Lola back to his place and gave her a few slaps, pushed her on the sofa, and tied her up.  “You need to learn some manners, bitch!”

    “Whut-choo-mean, you fried clam?” said Lola.  “Fried clam” was her favorite put-down.

    “I’m gonna teach you about manners in the workplace, that’s what I mean!”  So he pulled down her pants and whipped her black ass, and then he gave her a good butt-fucking.

    So that was one adventure of Cornmoko.  There were some others that I don’t have time to tell you about.  Like, for instance, he caught a drug addict stealing a jar of pickles from a bargain store.  And he returned a man’s wallet after the man dropped it on the subway.  And another time he went into the Hudson River and gave suicide counseling to a contaminated mackerel that didn’t want to live any more.

    Cornmoko is a well-known Hero Clam in New Jersey (some parts), and he is a role model for you.  You should be just like him — firm but fair.  And you should get a $5 bill out of mommy’s purse and send it to me.  (Anything larger than $5, and she’ll probably notice, so just a 5 is okay.)  Just mail it to Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, Greenwin Square RPO, Toronto, Ont., M4W 3S9, Canada.  Don’t tell anyone.

    Howard Johnson’s makes the best fried clams in the world, but I can’t get them here in Canada.  These people are so stupid.  They never even heard of Cornmoko.  He’s a Wonder Clam.  My hero.  And if I bash a certain mouthy black bitch supermarket cashier in the head with a hammer, you’ll understand why, right?

    Copyright@ 2008 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail:

    In the interests of national security, I will call them Edward and Julian Gabacci, although their real names were Leon and Anthony Parducci.

    They were cleaners, but that was just a front they maintained in order to study floors.  They wanted to know everything about floors — what they were, what they did, how they worked, what they were made of, their impact on people, what you could put on them, and so on.  The Gabaccis were research scientists — not in the sense of having formal scientific knowledge, but rather in their all-consuming desire to penetrate the deepest mysteries of the universe.  They were visionaries, wizards, trailblazers, and they would suck the truth out of an enigma like a bilge pump sucking the intestines out of a goat.

    They cleaned the floors of a government building, which housed an organization so secret that it remains unidentified to this day, but one whose intent was as sinister as it was unfathomable.  And it was in this building that Edward and Julian Gabacci stumbled across a terrifying secret, which, if unleashed, could destroy the world, both literally and figuratively.

    It was a container of floor wax that aroused their suspicion.  It was unusual — very unusual.  One might even call it abnormal.  And if that was the case, then it was certainly not ordinary.  There was something in the floor wax itself, something invisible.  Yet, despite being invisible, it was not inert, for it had an effect on whatever floor it was put on.  Edward and Julian could tell through their prodigious powers of the mind that once this particular floor wax was put on any floor, that floor would be physically different in some way.  And someone, somewhere, in this building had to know, too, because they (whoever “they” were) had made a deliberate decision to keep this floor wax in the janitor’s closet, out of sight and inaccessible to anyone who did not have the key to the closet.  But Edward and Julian had the key, and the mysterious “others” knew they had it.  This terrible circumstance was what sealed the fate of the Gabacci brothers.

    Their cousin Otto was the first victim of the “Men In Black” — or should we say, the “Men Formerly In Black,” for they no longer wore black.  They now wore a variety of colors except black, so that no one would know that they were, in fact, the Men In Black.  Otto was found dead in his home, his head still attached to his body, lying face-down.  The coroner stated that it was death by heart attack!  But what did that really mean?  How could Otto have had a heart attack unless something had caused the heart attack — something terrifying enough to scare a man to death?  Or was it  something entirely different?  What made his death even more mysterious was the fact that Otto was not a cleaner like his cousins but a milk truck driver.  He had never even set foot in the building where Edward and Julian worked. 

    After that, events moved quickly, although nothing happened for a week.  Edward and Julian cleaned according to their routine.  But they were being watched by the security cameras on every floor.

    A mysterious black car was now seen parked across the street from the Gabaccis’ house.  It was seen every day, but not according to a predictable timetable, for the Men Formerly In Black were too clever for that.  Edward and Julian knew full well that the presence of the black car was connected to their inadvertent discovery of the unknown invisible component in the floor wax.  That component had to be some kind of chemical compound.  But since it was unknown, could that mean that it came from somewhere beyond?

    The last night that they were seen alive, Edward and Julian tried a daring experiment — one they could not put off any longer if they hoped to learn the truth.  They poured some of the floor wax onto the floor and went over it with a heavy duty floor polisher, which was scientifically designed for that specific purpose.  Soon they would know what they wanted to know, or at least they would begin to know what someone else already knew.  And that someone else — those “others” — saw it all on their security monitors.  They could see what Edward and Julian were doing.  And they understood the threat that they posed.  Edward and Julian could not be allowed to live.  The Men Formerly In Black would see to that.

    Three weeks later, a submerged car was dragged out of the Allegheny River.  Two partially decomposed bodies were found in it.  They carried no identification.  And their fingertips had been burned with acid, so that no prints could be taken.  The police treated the case as an accident — predictably!  No public inquiry would ever be held.  The secret will forever remain a secret.  The world will never know what Edward and Julian Gabacci discovered.

    Maybe it’s better that way.

    Copyright@ 2008 by Crad Kilodney, Toronto, Canada.  E-mail: