I'm not sure when I got a partner, but I'm sure of when I lost my partner. It's written down in my writer's notebook app.
Ugh, fashion week and now this? Murdered partner. Genderfucked Hitler Interactive Exhibit at MOMA. GOOD BLOOG POST? 8:28 PM. Saturday.
K.M. Agincourt was dead and I would never have a chance to be his friend on Facebook. Before all his blood came out he was tanned, liked to play softball and he always wore bowling shirts. I remember him because he also wore these weird jeans that would get folds around the knees sometimes. What was that about? He tried to tell me something once while I was writing a Yelp review of that Sherpa restaurant on my phone. Something about being a cop or being a Navy SEAL.
Oh, I remember, it was when Navy SEALs killed Osama Bin Laden. God, that was at least 500 years ago already.
Oh, well, no more interruptions, because K.M. was lying in a pool of blood at the feet of a rhinestone jeweled statue of what the fuhrer might look like after hormone treatments. Huge tits. With the crowd of fashion weekers it was only a matter of time before somebody happened upon my partner. An Afro-Israeli designer known for his trademark of high-glam ox yokes for women found the body. X-Benedict called the police. The police called me to the crime scene.
There were no clues. No leads. No witnesses. My partner was shot in the head with a single bullet from a Luger. A gay Luger? No, just a regular one, the gay Luger was still in its case, I noticed as 3D cameras projected a zwinky of my frowning face onto the piled bodies of a concentration camp stereogram.
"Don't leave town," warned Sergeant Majors. I took a picture of him for my lame shirts tumblr and departed. On my way out I noticed they had ten kinds of chai in the vending machines so I stopped to nurse my saffron addiction.
"Allo American. You are the crime man and I need your help to detective," said a man behind me. He had a Peter Lorre sort of voice that came prowling out of the Celluloid Closet. I couldn't place the accent.
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
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