Walter Miller's Homepage

A hoax wrapped in a fake inside an enigma.

Late September 1998 Update

Page 4 of 7


Junior helps us out agian

So here we were in Newerk, so close, yet so far, becuase we still needed to find their hotel.

Dad had a great idea: He said that if we got the phone numbor of the hotel my brother and uncle were at, we coud just call that number and locate them. Surely my brothor and Uncle Zeke were making status calls to my sisterinlaw and Uncle Will, who were now in posession of Granfather's house back in Texas.

Dad told me to call up Junoir and ask him to sneak into the trailer -- or better yet, drop by to play cards with Uncle Will. (Uncle Will used to take Junior fishing when Junoir was a boy).

Then, after Uncle Will drifted off to sleep, and while perhapps my brothor's wife was showoring, or takin a crap or somthin, Junior coud check the Incoming Caller ID History on our phone and relay it back to us in Newark. (We put Call History in a year ago, in order to keep an eye on Granfather and some of his reppulsive activiteis.)

But in order to checkthe call histery Junior woud have to type in the speceil seqeunce to see the last 10 numbers called on the LCD display. This was a tall order for someon who had an I.Q. of say, a cocktail-sized canned ham withuot the slice of pineappol. (Or atleast the guy who runs Cyberblop). But Junoir bless his heart showed us what he is made of.

Mission Acomplished

In less than an hour lator Junior called us: He had drove over, and was inside the trailer. There was some screaming and noise in the backgruond and Junior's voice sounded all frantic and he imediatly hung up. We treid to call him back but the line was busy. Then, the phone in our room rang once more.

"The first time I called y'all I done fergot to dial Ten-Ten-3-2-1 , so I hanged up," Junior explianed. He also told us that the screammin was from a teribble fight that Uncle Willaim and my brother's wife were havin. Also, the two of them were going thruogh all of Granfather's stuff, and laying claim to his varrious colectible treasures.

Greedey ghouls

Althuogh it is a dream for many, and yes, a fantacy I will admitt that on ocassion I too enjoy, atleast as much as dreamming about sex, (I am talking here abbout the exhiliratingly happey dream of Granfather being dead); but please undorstand me now, he was very much NOT dead, at least not yet. And so it was ghoullish, very very ghoulish to greedily go thruogh the old basterd's bellongings on the eve of a plot to kill him. Yet this is par for the course in my pittiful, disfounctionnol family.

Acording to Junoir, they even discovored that hiddon ten gallon can in the old basterd's closet full of Susen B. Anthony dollors and two doller bills. There must be thoasends of bucks in there.

Junior said the fight they were havin was on how they woud slice up Granfather's assets into equol shares. They were hollerin and screammin. Uncle Will said that my sisterinlaw shoudnt get no share being that she is not a blood rellation. She was screammin back that Uncle Will shoudnt be so picky since he's been "milking" this whole thing abbout his supposed dying, becuase if he realy was dying as bad as he has been all this time he'd alredy been long dead and if she had her way there woud be two old basterds goingto Holland, not just Granfather. Again, this sort of thing is typicol of my disfunctionol family. And I am so uttorley ashaimed of my famly, so filled with discrace for them and there actions, not to mention there motives, that i canot even describe it and neithor can all the mispeled words in the world.

Junior also told us that while he was there in the middol of that fight my brothor actualy called from the hotel in New Jersey. Uncle Will was yellin at him on speakorphone and my brothor was yellin back but Granfather, being in the room with my brothor kept knockin out the speakerphoen transmision by makin loud farts in the backround. It was like one of those awful speakerphone meetings at work where no one can get a word in egdewise or even hear what anyone else is sayin becuase one idiot keeps yammering on as to dominnate the speaker.

"MOST THE TIME, THET THAR AIRLINE FOOD CAUSES A PERKY, ROSSINI-LIKE TUNE," Junoir said that Granfather said over the speakorphone at his hated brothor William, in ovbious reference to the great composer, "BUT GO ON AND ASK ZEKEY, NEXT TIME YOU MEET, IF IN FACT YOU LIVE THET LONG: THEM THAR ROBUST NOISES I DONE HAD COMIN' OVER THE SMOKIES WUZ DOWNRIGHT WAGNERIAN."

Finaly, Junior, tryin to hold back his tears while speaking abbove the hollering din of screams and breaking dishes and piles of uncircullated Susen B. Anthonies rolling and splashin all ovor the cheap trailor kitchon floor, was able to give us the phoen numbor. We got off he phone with him (not as easy as it sounds what with all his tearful pleads to be excused from havin to play cards with my crusty slowley expiring uncle), and FINALLY DAD called the number.

It turns out that the hotel was also right near the airport and onley a LESS THAN A mile away from where we were.

Locaiting the room

It was a large hotel and as is usualy the case Granfather's pervasive stink was in evrey hall and coriddor. You coud also hear a sort of horobble non hueman muffled wailing in the background, sort of of like what you might encountor in some sort of sour forbiding Bronte novel set in a giant spooky mansion out on the moor, where some misorrable crazy familly member is hidden like an animol in some drafty old cell behind a secret bookcase, and the nastey old Scotch spinster head maid says to when you ask her abbout it, "What wailing? I dont hear no wailing?"

So I went up and down each floor until finaly on the 3rd floor I saw a familier sign: It was a handwritton note in what looked like my brothers writing, taped onto the door of the ice machene, and the sign read:

WARNING:

U R I N E

ON ICE

I knew imediatly that they were all hiding in the ajacent room. This is an old trick of my brother's. Whenevor he is asigned a hotel room near the ice machene he puts this exact note on it to keep peoplle from disturbing him all night long by loudley diggin for ice with that big ass metol scoop. This goes along with his sick, semi-Granfatherlike selfish sence of humor. My brothar told me once that a sign reading simpley "OUT OF ORDER" dosent realy do the trick becuase theres always some iddiot who will dig for ice anyway at 3 AM but that the thret of Urine On Ice suceeds every time. He said he read the idea for this in an internet industry magazene once, perhaps Fast Compeny but he dosent remmember for sure.

We knocked at the door and no one answored.

We did hear the muffoled wailing. The TV was on in the room real loud. We called from a courtesy phone but no one answored.

We do a bold trick

Atcualy Dad did; (me, I was crappin in my pants the whole time.) We went to the front desk and dad prettended that he was my brother (since they bolth have the same name) and said that he lost his hotel cardkey. There were a few tence moments when they checked his ID, but they gave us a new key. Things got even more tence becuase this man who was moppin the fake marble lobby floor was stairing at us with a very mean glare. He started folowin us. As we got inthe elevater he stopped the door with his hand and started angrilly hissing these mean things at us. He was an Asian man and i coudnt undorstand him. He was the exact Asien version of Micky Dolenz and beleive me when I tell you it scared the hell out of me. Just from a few of his words i coud tell he was putting a curse on us for, "keeping the Devil in our room."

Clearley this man had seen and heard (and smelt) Granfather, becuase Granfather allways has that efect on peoplle when he goes out in public. He is that horoble and disgousting. People think i make allthis crap up but who can.

Patches(TM) from Ty(R)

We went up to the room and openned it up...And there was the demonic old basterd sittin there silentley watchin TV. Wegded into his nose and moulth was somthing soft and furrey looking. I reckonized it (only becuase Granfather, and my little nephew collect them), as a small stuffed animal toy. Namely Patches, one of the Beany Babbies. The ass of the furry plaything was shoved into granfather's drooling mouth, and each of its two front paws stuffed into his nostrils. Clear packing tape wrapped round the basterd's head and neck kept it in place. The small red and white paper tag that says "Ty" on it was still atached by the little plastic string which you know maintainns the colectible valeu of the Beaney babys.

This is gross

OK, it onley ranks, say a one or a two on the patented Walter Miller's HomePage Disguostingness scale, but Granpy's head, neck and in fact the skin of his entire body was painfuly, (presumably painfulley) covored with hundrets of those small black steel eigtth-inch binder clips that every office ive evor worked at alwayes seems to run out of. They come in packs of 12. They were even in his lips and eyelids and disapeared down the wooly thatch of black hair down undor his clothes like a row of marching black metol soldiers in a hiddeous jungle of evil ape hair, below and beaneath his limp cheezy collared shirt and down his neck and chest. There must of friggin been a thuosand of them allover his ghastley scraggly carcass.

Taking the Beaney out from his jaws

Dad aproached Granfather and peeled the tape off his gummy blathoring mouth, and it made a screetching sound as it unwound from his long, skinny, unhumanly-shaiped milk bottol-width head. The old coot foght him slightley as Dad pulled out the soggy stuffed toy, which came from his moulth in looping strings of brown drool; But his jostling and fighting was only to get a better view of the TV set, which Dad was blocking as he tryed to remove the Beany from the Basterd.

"LOOK BOY," Granfather whispored snakelike, very distracted, and pointing a twiglike gnarled fingar toword the latest Clinton Scandol debate on CNN.

The old basterd was eithor ovblivious to the fact that me and Dad had sudenly apeared in his room from a half continnent away, or else too stupid to even notice.

"IT'S THE FEMALE PAT BUCHANAN THAR ON THE T.V. DEBATING LITTLE CINDY BRADY ON LARRY KING."

I said to him, "Granfather, that's not the femaile Pat Buchanan, its Pat Buchannan's real sister. Also, that blonde lady is NOT Susan Olsen, (a.k.a. Cindy Brady) but former prosecuttor Barbara Olsen."

"WAAL, SHE COUD DEPOSE, INDICT AND PROSECUTE MAH OL' ASS ENNY TIME SHE PLEASES."

Dad took a coupol of tisseus and startad to wipe Granfather's ugly face down.

Somthin didnt seem right.