The Cooter Times Vol 7
 

A middle-aged woman who is likely past her prime sits on a bench in the streets. Catherine J. Cooter, the esteemed Editor and writer of the Cooter Times for nearly two decades is finally at a loss for words.

Catherine knows what is currently on her mind, what she wants to say with the aid of a few strong glasses of wine, but her current mental state leaves her wondering with the age-old question, “Will the public give a shit or not.”

And after some hemming, hawing and just in general a lot of alcohol, it didn’t really matter what the masses thought. It was her newspaper and as the editor of 20 years, she could say whatever she wanted and they could choke on it.

It of course, being her massive dick.

Realizing the majority of the masses had the reading comprehension of a sea-slug, Catherine wasn’t concerned about alienating them. And on the off chance they decided to sound the words out and take offense, it wasn’t exactly a feather in their cap to kill an unarmed member of the press.

So once again, armed with nothing but a well inked typewriter, two packs of cigarettes and a mind that refused to shut up, Catherine put her fingers to the keys and once again history was made.
 

Guys, Gals & all my Pals,

Welcome to the Cooter Times Volume 7

For all the news that matters to me or I can could be bothered to make up.

I will warn you now, this edition is near and dear to my heart, and if you lack one, please do kindly fuck off now.

For those who would like to run to city hall claiming there is no link to this thing of ours or whatever the fuck you people complain about, I assure it does. And if it doesn’t, I will bribe city hall to believe me.

This entire edition is about a fallen soldier, and whilst most don’t care enough to learn the names of those in their families or much less pay their respects, I will be pontificating enough that perhaps we all won’t burn in hell for being heartless greedy fucks.

Perhaps.

As always, this edition was brought to you by Bob & Tom, Dead puppies and an unnerving level of optimism that generally makes people quite uncomfortable.

 Love always or never, like I give a shit,

Catherine J. Cooter

Breaking News: American Healthcare and Science have failed again.

Imagine, three beautiful fraternal triplets born. All three of them smart, creative, and plagued by immune diseases.

Years pass and the severity of the disease becomes clear. Its very Goldilocks, one is Alright, one is meh and the other is severely fucked up. But this isn’t a fairy tale, no. This is the start of an epic tale of Mafia cunning, Human nature and uh… Disease, I guess?

These three, and one more formed a gang. Their hide out was in their small hometown. But it was close to the sewage plant so no one went looking for them. The Triplets were as close as you’d expect them to be, but then they stumbled upon this weird orphan freak.

The freak had a bit of each of them in their soul. The creativity. The thirst for knowledge. The ability to discuss death and make a joke.

The orphan was adopted.

The gang initially was there to extort money form those who owed them. They were referred to as, “Parents” but then times got harder, and harder and those “Parents” insisted on the gang “Growing the fuck up and moving out”

But they ignored that, they were idiots. As all “Parents” are.

They took over the place. Invited Germans in, had dance parties, and made and unholy amount of Eggplant Parmesan. It was all very “The best times of their lives”.

But time passes, as it seems to do regardless of the pleadings of humans. And with time passing comes the progression of disease.

It is one thing to stare down the barrel of a gun perfectly healthy. It is another to know the bullet that will kill you lurks within you and has since birth.

Some people are born into greatness, some have it thrust upon them (Greatness is the name of my dick) but then some take the shitty fucking hand of cards they’ve been dealt at birth and just decide instead of Poker, they’re playing Go Fish.

Your joints don’t work, you can barely walk, your hands are bent  at the second knuckle.

“I was born to clap, go fish.”

You can’t attend school due to the walking, so you’ll be alone.

“My sister’s brought this fucking freak home who also hates people and leaving the house, Go Fish”

Your education will be stunted

“Bitch, do you know how fast I read? Go. Fish.”

No one will love you

And that’s where the transcript ends, mainly because the person overseeing the interview got a little bit too protective and beat the shit out of the person asking questions.

In true Mafia fashion.

Through the years the Quads, as they were lovingly referred to only in this newspaper, took on some daring heists. There was the raid on Germany’s Untrturkheim, the quest to find the Gnome kidnapper Amelie, but also the jazz song writer of the key hits, “Dead Puppies” and “Go down to the old pub instead”.

For years they enjoyed the life on the top, with Kate’s heath failing, but not in a way that would stop her from kicking ass. Studying the records regarding crime, and behaviours she was able to share with her sisters not only the joy of laughter, but how not to fuck things up.

But as the stakes got higher, the adopted sister moved on. She thought she was destined for bigger, better and more expensive things thanks to the exchange rate with the United Kingdom’s pound.

Years passed and whispers were heard about the triplets and the fuck up. In certain circles they were legends. You could scarcely attend a theatre production near a corn field without hearing their street name, “Cozza”, with awe, fear and admiration.

But Katie’s health took a turn for the worse. The doctors were unable to properly diagnose what was causing the issues, and whilst she fought on…

Three hearts, beating in time for 39 years.

Two hearts, beating in time for 39 years and a day…

And you may ask, where is that fucking orphan idiot. Well she’s here. Reporting on this story as a way of managing her grief.

Melissa: The brilliant fucking woman who spoke German so fluently the idiot didn’t have to learn it when and or if they visited. The one who originally dragged the idiot home to the open arms of not just Sisters but parents and a brother. One would assume the fighter going, “Yeah shes a fuck up, but just love her ok.” To everyone so the idiot was accepted.

Amanda: The quiet creative type. She loves books, French and forcing people to also enjoy French. Dreams of escaping to some place where family is important but she’s not a triplet so much as her own person. Has a cat named Sylvester, loves wearing Boxer shorts and socks.

Katie: hands bent permanently at the second knuckle due to her disease. Instead of being bitter, she’d laugh and clap going “I was born for this”. An insatiable appetite for learning, reading, and any sort of media to make her feel part of the world she was locked away from. Being treated like a fucking human rather than the diseased fuck she was, scored you bonus points.

Her heart gave up in her late 20s. The disease progressed past just fucking with her joints. But she was on a list to get a new one. But America is the home of dreams, and the home of shitting on those dreams.

At 39 years old her heart gave up. Because it was fucked. But also because the person behind it was genuinely too good for the world, that she found herself in.

And thus, the gang officially died, with the death of the heart of it all. It was ironic. Iconic and moronic.

The end.

Editors note

Grief is a fucking funny thing, isn’t it? People you’ve known for years that you speak to constantly. People you’ve known for years but haven’t spoken to in decades. People you know but have never met. People you’ve admired but will never meet.

Humans are so interesting, as any interaction can change the course of your  life or theirs. It could be a first meeting, it could be forcing someone to drugs on your birthday (That almost kills you, you’re welcome) or it could be a childhood friendship that fizzled out but the attachment never left.

Every death has meaning, even if it feels meaningless.

With Katie it was remembering that regardless of how fucking shit her poker hand was, she couldn’t hold the cards so fuck it lets go do something else.

Laughter is an amazing medicine. And one would argue it’s better than those weird dock dwellers squirting their tit-milk into their child’s ear, but.. Even in grief you can find moments of laughter and joy.

And those are the moments you should cling to. Because if you can find someone who goes, “Yeah, sure you’re mom’s dead. BUT LOOK AT MY FUCKING HANDS” like the claw,  then you’ve god damn won at life.

Hug your loved ones close, listen to some truly terrible music and laugh as much as you can before you pee your pants.

Catherine J. Cooter