I have a new friend.
Most of you know this friend as, perhaps, he’s your friend as well. My new friend is located at the top right hand corner of my keyboard and he goes by the name of Delete Button. I find the button useful when writing to you dear reader – so many mistakes go bye-bye so quickly – and extremely helpful when sending nasty comments into oblivion.
Yesterday, I received my very first death threat via a comment sent to this blog. The comment from Anonymous described your occasionally intrepid blogger as a ‘dirty Jew,’ reminded me the Jews were the culprits for the Assassination of JFK (when we all know it was a botched job by inexperienced CIA operatives) and said he was going to kill me. Of course, said Anonymous individual couldn’t spell to save his/her and needed to retake elementary English grammar. Frankly I was offended. C’mon if you’re going to threaten my life at least you can do it in proper English although I’d prefer Iambic Pentameter. Thus, I introduced said message to my new friend Delete Button.
Unfortunately, real life doesn’t come with a delete button.
In early December, I found myself in a central Phoenix bar built into a former gas station talking to the barmaid about the then upcoming Magic Bullet Theory. After a whiskey or three, the slight guy in a faded blue-stripped shirt with a badly kept horseshoe haircut sitting four stools down moved over to join the conversation. “So you think they set-up the President to miss him,” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I replied.
He looked around the joint to make sure no one could hear our conversation. I braced myself for the worst; we were the only two patrons in the place and if the guy had to look around to make sure, I was scared of what was to come. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear “at home, I have to answer to who actually killed Kennedy.”
“Really,” I said.
“Yes, it’s at home. I live around the corner. I’ll go get it and show it to you.”
After he sauntered out the glass garage door, I called the barmaid over and asked about my conspiratorial pal. “Oh Bobby’s harmless,” she said. “But he knows a lot of things.”
In the occasionally freaked out mind of a man who deals with conspiracy freaks, ‘he knows a lot of things’ translates put your back against the wall. This guy might bring back some odd martial art weapon or could get violent if I told him his rifle wasn’t a real Mannlicher Carcano. I decided discretion was the better part of valor and asked for my check. However, before I could sign off on my tab, Bobby had returned.
He looked around again, craned his neck to look down the hallway to the bathrooms as well and handed me a crumpled piece of paper. “All the information you need is on there,” he said.
The piece of paper he handed me was a barely legible 1974 receipt from the Watergate Hotel. As near as I could tell, he stayed there for two nights and had paid cash. “The numbers are in code, aren’t they,” I asked.
I was flabbergasted. What exactly was I supposed to say to this guy: stop watching the Bible Code specials on the History Channel? Go back on your Meds? Can I buy you a Mint Julep? Fortunately, the barmaid had a copy machine in back and offered to make me a copy of the receipt. “Do you mind,” I asked him.
“Oh no. That would be great,” he said.
“Excellent,” I said. I gestured with my chin and he came closer. “Look, if something happens to me I want you to take this receipt straight to the police and tell them what happened tonight.”
“No problem. I’ll call George Noory as well,” he said.
Note to Microsoft and Apple: can you please come up with the real time delete button, sometime before the end of The Magic Bullet Theory run? Thank you, the management.