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.
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
With an average of 40 IPAs added every day, it can be difficult to taste them all
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