Mutiny on the Bagel

A disturbing piece of mail has come to my attention lately, and for a change of pace, this one doesn't offer any free AOL hours.

Yes, in my Acting-Editor capacity I sometimes act like I'm opening my mail in the relative safety of my Acting-Office, otherwise known as Red Bagel's office. Usually the mail I open is addressed to the commune Editor, Editor Red Bagel, Bagel Red, Wanna-Be Colonel Sanders, Rudy Bega, Whoever Runs Your Lame-Ass Company, and variations thereof. Imagine my surprise to find a postcard addressed to Ramrod Hurley, Acting-Editor. Now imagine I study this postcard carefully, while being orally pleasured by supermodel Heidi Klum. It's not really necessary, but that's what I'm imagining so I thought we might as well be on the same page.

This postcard charmingly pictured a man holding a pile of dog feces, exclaiming in a word balloon, "Hey, look what I almost stepped in!" Immediately I was curious since I remember receiving the exact same image on a birthday card from Red Bagel last year. Indeed, this card was sent from "A desolate motel room" in Mobile, Alabama, signed by none other than our glorious leader Red Bagel. In effect, the card read:

"Ramrod: The situation is dire. Things proceed to grow more twisted and deceptive, as my unshakeable will continually nears faltering. I'm glad to see the commune is persevering in your hands even as I face an unknown fate in the bravest of ways. I wish you were beside me, instead of Sampson L. Hartwig, who snores loudly. Take heart and take pride, for though I know you would prefer stand by me in my time of need, yours is a greater role—to carry on my legacy if I fail to make it back. Godspeed, Redward Bagel."

That's what it said, in effect. In straight quotation, it read:

"Ramrod, you needledick: What the fuck have you done to my organization? I leave you alone for two goddamn seconds and you let the entire news department go to hell. Is it martial law there yet or not? You will rot in hell for eternity for what you've done to my column alone. Oh, nice job hiring that retarded Russian to write a regular column. Can you not tell when I'm joking? As of this minute I'm putting that numbnuts Raoul Dunkin in charge, and when I get back I'll show you how much I appreciate all the changes made in my absence. In the meantime I have to extract a bullet from Sampson L. Hartwig's back and fashion a temporary tourniquet. You'd better hope they get me before I can get you. Please forgive the smell of gin and unfiltered tobacco on this letter. Suck a skunk's ass, Redward Bagel.

"P.S. This postcard will self-destruct if held too close to a lit match."

This was, as you can guess, extremely alarming to me. Things had been rolling along so smoothly, the changes I implemented seem to be oiling the commune gears so well, now this: A coup attempt.

Fear not, peonic masses. Raoul Dunkin's transparent attempt to rattle my throne will not amount to anything more than a series of unpleasant assignments for a certain infamous turncoat reporter. Next week, Mr. Dunkin has the stellar position of covering the frontlines of the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border. Sure, it will be hard on died-in-the-wool action correspondent Ivan Nacutchacokov, but it's a necessary move. Not to punish Mr. Dunkin, no—if I wanted to do that I'd force him to move in with Rok Finger.

What I need is not vengeance; I need loyalty. If Raoul Dunkin can carry through with this assignment, not out of allegiance to me so much as to the commune, then I'll know I can trust him with the more important duties and assignments. In the meantime, while he's gone I'll need to figure out how he so perfectly duplicated Mr. Bagel's signature.

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