Police Seeking Hard-Boiled Cop to End Sniper's Spree

sniper operating in the region of outer-Washington, D.C. continues his random assault on citizens, adding more to his bodycount which includes a cross-section of the entire community with no apparent connection to each other. Nine have been victims of the sniper, seven of those have not survived. As the crimes continue to escalate, investigators are desperately seeking a brilliant-but-self-destructive hard-boiled cop to end the nightmare.

"At this point," said FBI liaison on the case Match Tidwell, "we are sorting through a list of D.C.-area-based detectives with personality issues who can unite the search for the sniper and make the case personal. Preferably someone who drinks a lot to forget the past case, say, a sniper shooting he failed to prevent 5-10 years ago. We are examining former cops and 'washed-up' investigators especially."

When asked what they were doing about the sniper, Tidwell rolled his eyes and said, "Were you not listening?"

Speculation that the new lead investigator, when chosen, would have a partner could not be made by the department at this time.

"There's always a possibility," said some cop in a general's outfit standing next to Tidwell, "say, a grizzled old veteran. I would personally prefer to assign a green young recruit straight out of the academy, someone who's still hung up on the rules and would make for a nice by-the-book personality to off-set the lead investigator's self-destructive behavior. But we're playing this by ear. It's always possible the cop chosen will insist he work alone—it's personal."

No names on the short list of officers or former investigators were given.

The plan is the latest to quickly resolve the string of attacks by the unknown sniper, dubbed by the media, or perhaps just this reporter, as "Oswald's Ghost." The necessity for a different kind of cop was realized Monday when police found a "Death" tarot card with the message to cops saying, "Dear policeman, I am God" scribed on it. At this point the investigating force of city and county police, state troopers, and FBI realized they are more than likely dealing with a very cliché-killer personality type, and to offset the awful TV-mentality violence they needed a cop to match his wits.

Brock Johnson, an expert on cinematic crime investigations and salad bars at the University of Ratsass, Maryland, painted a vivid picture of the man, the cop, sought by the police.

"What they need right now is someone who can take a cursory look at the crime scene and determine how the victims are connected," Johnson said. "Something like, 'Christ! Why didn't we notice it before? They're all wearing Members' Only jackets!' Not that, of course, that's stupid, but you get what I'm saying. There must be a common link that we're missing if the cliché—what did you call him? 'Oswald's Ghost'? That's good, he'll love that. I'd call him the Turd Burglar, but that's just me."

The police's choice to find a new, more cynical and emotionally-burdened investigator was a correct one in Johnson's opinion.

"You're not going to catch this guy with good old-fashioned police work and canvassing the area. He's apparently got a score to settle, let's say his father sexually abused him or his overbearing mother had an anal fixation and used to administer suppositories, something real fucked-up to explain his behavior. This new investigator the police are seeking, let's call him Coyote for now—he should be haunted by the failure to save someone in the past, preferably by another sniper. If he can have a personal history with the suspect, that would be fantastic, but we're not counting on it. Mostly, we want a big finish to the case where, shortly before catching the perpetrator, Coyote smacks a hand on the desk and stands up with the deadly utterance, 'Shit! There's two of them. We're looking for a pair of snipers.' That would completely rock."

Rock indeed. What a glorious day for news!

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Emil's Note: I know what you're thinking, loyal commune-ist: "Oh great, more recycled Finger columns from bargain bin porn mags." Frankly, I'm shocked you would think so cynically. You're wrong on that point as well, as this is BRAND NEW FINGER! It only seems recycled because that's part of his charm. Yes, I found Rok Finger once more, working in the most unexpected of places, as part of a nightclub act in Savannah, Georgia. Yes, now that I think about it, I suppose it was kind of expected. After much cajoling, and tender massage, I convinced our staid old tell-it-like-it-should-be columnist to volunteer a few more pages to remind us of better commune times. He isn't likely to move out of the Peach State yet, but this is almost as good as having him right here in the office! I'll just imagine that old creepy collectible Linda Hunt doll mom keeps down here is him until the real thing is in attendance. So enjoy fresh finger, good people…

My faithful readers, please be kind to me, as I'm a bit out of practice on ranting in typeface. But the Arab who owns the commune now assures me thousands of my fans are camped out in front of the building and will give no one any peace until they receive more of my motivational thoughts and harrowing true stories.

The god's honest truth is that I don't have much to write about. I have not been opining in a very long while, except on stage, and my life has become considerably boring since I earned my living at the commune. Times were tough, I borrowed a sizable high-interest loan from a hyper-intelligent 10-year-old, the enema bar failed, I couldn't pay it back, so I had to go into hiding working in show business. It's the world's oldest cliché, I'm boring myself talking about it.

Still, it's fair to say there's enough of interest to me to keep me breathing. My wife is working the upscale Hoboken real estate market while I'm living the high life on the Savannah entertainment scene, which is perhaps a little depressing, but we're both living our dreams. Her dream involves lots of land and garish sport coats, mine involves thing people really care about, but that doesn't mean they're not equally important. The fact people pay to see me perform each night is what means they're not equally important. Yes, I have broken into the lucrative world of voice-catching action figure performance.

Some people still use the term "ventriloquist dummy," not realizing how offensive it is to those of us who perform. For instance, the little pissant camel-jockey who asked me to write this column still says "dummy, but did he ever think how dummies feel to be called dummies? True, most of them are inanimate wooden dolls that display no emotion, but that doesn't mean they don't feel. And what about the rest of them that do, namely me? So get politically correct already, you stupid Polacks.

I've always had an eye for the voice-catching-inclined, as we tend to shop in the same stores, so it was a lateral move from wearing their clothes to performing in the business. True, I had originally gone to the Yak Yak Club to work as a gruff but lovable bartender, but they took issue with the fact I could not be seen behind the bar. It was the Great Raymondo who noticed I had a touch of talent, particularly looking "creepy as fuck," and while I don't know much about voice-throwing talents like Raymondo, I can say he does a dynamite impression of my voice. Except my Johnny Carson impression, he can't do that. Isn't that odd?

Raymondo, like most convicted sex offenders looking to break into show business, was down and out, and could not afford his own voice-catching action figure, so he asked that I join his stage team—I even get first billing—and simply enhance his jokes by making funny faces and spinning my head around 360 degrees. I'm still working on that part, although I have managed a firm 180, which is no small feat.

Speaking of which, my small feet help. All my life I have been subject to ridicule for being undersized, as well as especially unattractive, but now at long last, when people see me kicking my tiny shoes back and forth while Raymondo mimics my voice, they don't make fun of me, they just laugh and laugh and laugh.

Admittedly, in a perfect world, I would have a lot more to do with the material we perform. It's kind of Raymondo's baby at this point, I'm just shaking it violently. I respect his humor is mostly wood-based and, yes, I get some of the best zings at his expense, but I don't see why we couldn't work in some of my stinging observations on how unnecessary queens are and why should we have to pay taxes. Not to mention a little soft shoe, properly amplified so the audience can hear the tap sounds. But everybody stops somewhere, and once I get to that level of fame where I can squeeze Raymondo out, it will be "Rok & Nobody" instead of "Rok & Raymondo." You know, I've never considered it until now, but I might even cut the "& Nobody" out of the title, why should I have to share my marquee with Nobody?

This has been a reminder of the good old pre-voice-catching days. Almost enough to make me miss the common. Still, big fame awaits me, and I must run. I'm auditioning for Jeff Dunham later today, and I'd do anything to get on that guy's meal ticket. I'm even considering a surgery that allows the voice-thrower to move my mouth by sticking his hand into my back. I'm not saying yes to it, just considering it. Surgical augmentation is all the rage in show business, the showgirls tell me.

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Hello column. Welcome to thing is Boris brain on papers. Such good time to do this thing because Boris brain full of good thought is for writing today. Yesterdays, not so. Yesterday Boris brain full of being hungry and Girls Got Wild video thing. But today, Boris does catch pigeon outside apartment window with net thing made from swimming pants, so Boris belly full of pigeon meats. Also, Girls Got Wild tape thing does bust from so much rewinding, so goodbye to that. Today Boris brain is free for thought things, so good for writing.

Boris does catch pigeon lunch thing because is no food in apartments. Is food outside apartments, Boris thinking, in store or hands of childrens so smaller than Boris. But Boris cannot leave to eat these food, because of no key for apartment thing. Oh shit, is this deal. So Boris must catch what meats fly by apartment window into pants.

Then there is one good idea thing Boris does have: to send Similar to Skippy dog outs of apartment to find foods. Similar to Skippy dog so good at finding foods, is like pro. Any place him does go, does find popscorn in garbages or half of glazed ham floating in neighbor toilet. So good this dog. So Boris does send dog out on food mission, so smart. But does turn out Similar to Skippy dog is not good at second part of mission, which is bring foods back to Boris thing. No, no no, Similar to Skippy is shit for this part, big retard job. Him does eat all finding foods and come back to Boris only when is so full to vomits on couch. So, in way Similar to Skippy dog does bring foods to Boris, but this is such gross way to do job.

Boris also does try yelling way to get foods. Sticking head out window and yelling "Hey Boris does need foods!" is good way for collecting shoes and rocks that neighbors does throw for help, but none is smart to think of throwing can of ham or so many sardines for eating.

So, Boris does build pants trap for catching bird. So smart, but Boris still does dumb thing of forgets to pull off feathers before to bake 'n shake pigeon. After Boris does put out fire, pigeon meal is so crunchy with stabbing things, like one time Boris does accidentally eats scorpion in hot dog.

But now wait for Louis is not such hungry time, is nice. Also nice because Boris does make friend! Yay for friend! And Boris friend this time not made of meatballs. For real Boris friend is Jehoma Wintess person who come at door to tell Boris of heaven place where persons does have wings like Batman and does sing like Batman. This is does sound good to Boris. Hooray for Batman!

First, Boris does not like Jehoma Wintess because person will not run to store to get Boris food like Russian bologna and Ritz. But, then Boris does forgive because of being in love with Jehoma Wintess. Boris even does give Wintess all things from Boris special pig bank to help pay for ladder to heaven. And Jehoma Wintess not even mad that Boris pig bank only full of tootsie rolls because Wintess is so in love with Boris also. Boris can tell this thing because Wintess does not mind to sit on couch where Similar to Skippy dog does chuck up all times, Wintess does act like not even knowing. Hooray for love thing!

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