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Catherine J. Cooter had finally done it. She had dusted off her old typewriter and found something so outlandishly hilarious that she just had to write about it. It had taken nearly ten years, but here she was ready to bring her precious baby back into the world.
“Extra, Extra, read all aboutit.” she yelled as she wandered the streets. “Cooter Times is back, and this time it’s the man who cried war!” she handed out editions left, right and center. And if no one was standing there to take one, she just let it drop. Some poor soul with a broom would be by eventually. Or a nice hobo would have a lovely blanket to snuggle under.
Dear People of our streets,
Some of you may know me from days of old, a time when I was young, vibrant and thin. Some of you may not know me at all. You my friends, are probably the lucky ones.
Not much has gone on around me to warrant the Cooter Times coming back, until today.
So buckle yourselves in, because we’re going to see if I can be just as mean and sarcastic as I was ten years ago. (Short answer: no)
This edition is brought to you by the letters: L A and the numbers 8 6 7 5 3 0 9
Please Enjoy,
C.
The Man Who Cried War
Alexander unpronounceable last name was the crew leader of a little group of misfits in Los Angeles. You may have heard of them, RP Inc. You may have seen them, spouting short answers, groping butts and generally being rather obnoxious from time to time. They were birthed from the mind of the great Kathryn Renford, who unfortunately had to go get knocked up by her former lover’s adopted son and fuck off for a bit to England in order to have her shame baby (Shaaaaameeee) and live happily ever after.
So Kathryn left Mr. Ball Point Pen (covered in tattoos, bald - keep up, people) in charge of Los Angeles assuming that her visions would still be his visions and the great Los Angeles would be a booming thriving community. Which it was, if you consider five to seven active booming. Of course, things got off to a rocky start, but they settled in.
From what I’ve heard, threats and pleas to kill this little humble group of friends was made time and time again. But the Heroic Disorder…
(Page Break for full page image of this man’s beefy calves and well-filled trousers)
… kept them alive. Because when he was younger he had an ant farm. And much like now, he considered them like an ant farm. It was fun to watch them scurry to and fro. Interesting to pick out the ones who were actually useful and which were just bringing the colony down. But Disorder knew, one day he’d have to get his mighty magnifying glass and see what happened when angled just right under that hot Las Vegas sun. It was just in his nature, you see. (Note: At time of publishing Disorder has killed literally everyone. Everyone is dead. If they are not dead they may die. Its Disorder. It is all he knows.)
Now, being a kind and benevolent god (Read: Monster. A murdering, murdering monster) Disorder had decided to move the other murdering monsters of Detroit into the lovely side district of Los Angeles. One that Alex Russian Vodka Drinker, would have no hopes of ever filling as his member numbers were not going up after three weeks, but rather going down. And not to mention the only reason his organization had expanded to include the Wild Bunch was because 90% of his current active crew members could not stand the leader’s wife and wanted her gone.
Now although there was, from what I hear, little notice about this move, but one does not argue with the guy who is graciously letting you live for his own amusement. And if you do happen to argue with him, you quickly explain you are on the rag and you’ve had a rough day and you’re very sorry. But not Alexander. Oh no, this man covered in tattoos of a phallic nature had other things on his mind. Aside from his Right hand’s flat ass.
He decided he was going to mail Disorder and give him a piece of his mind. Unfortunately for all involved it was the broken piece. And it was not the part that went, “Hey, I should probably ask some advice on more than just a few of these words.” and thus he charged into the er...mailbox.
Disorder was nice and kind, not very murdery at all by all accounts. But then Mr. PunchyshoutyLoudFace decided he was OFFENDED. (Read: This is something people who feel they are entitled to things get when they do not get their way.)
So off to his little writing desk he went, ignoring his Right Hand who was brilliant, beautiful, wise and short. And he wrote a letter. A rather damning letter. And this was not Alex’s first damning letter. Not by a long shot. He had previously made himself look foolish by forwarding a whole batch of mails to all upper structures. Then he sent out a mail to his crew basically listing who their shooters were (both of them, ha!) and that he basically had no talent with his gun at all. And finally this, this mail that basically announced his intention to possibly go to war.
And although Los Angeles has fallen, and although his Right Hand fell with her palm to her face, his family line persisted. When the hulking stud of a man, Disorder, took to the streets. And not even the main streets, it was just a little side street where probably the night before some guy was down there blowing a guy for cash. But he came out where the public could find him if they wanted (Read: It was Disorder murdering someone. Half will cry bullshit the other will lick his taint.)
And instead of just bowing out gracefully and accepting that bad choices had been made, Comrade Ink decided to run his mouth some more. After Disorder pointed out the context of the mails wasn’t great initially and that it was the finally war mail that the was the nail in the coffins for Los Angeles, the son came forward and did the unthinkable: He shared all of the mails with the world and proved Disorder was right.
I know, I was fucking startled.
So to recap from this hellaciously long tale, for those of you who got into the life of crime early and neglected your studies: Disorder kept Los Angeles Alive. Los Angeles’ leader did some dumb things. Continued to do dumb things. Did a really dumb thing. Los Angeles died. Disorder stated some true facts, son comes out and looks a bit crazy and proves a point. I write this because I can’t believe this is real life.
So folks, let this be a lesson to you - not only should you listen to everything your right hand tells you (especially if it's wearing a puppet) but perhaps you should avoid cries of war when all you have to bring to the table are a few shitty sentences and a water pistol.
This has been the Cooter Times, Cooter Out.
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