he trial of last century is making all the news in Mississippi and nowhere else, as the racially-motivated murders that inspired the film Mississippi Burning are underway after a lengthy ignoring of the whole thing. It took a little time to build a case and find a non-racist jury, but after 41 years, Edgar Ray Killen is being given as fair a trial as the white man's legal system will allow in a Philadelphia, Mississippi court.

The accused killer Killen is on trial for the premeditated murder of civil rights workers James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner, who came to the town to aid in black voter recruitment. The accused was originally tried in 1964, but the jury deadlocked and couldn't decide whether murdering a Negro and two Jews was a crime in Mississippi. "Killer" Killen, as this reporter's just dubbed him, was released and not retried for years, although he was punished then by enduring Southern cooking at a barbecue in his honor thrown by all his Klan kronies.

Thankfully, Hollywood intervened in 1988 with a film about the murders fueled by the performances of Gene Hackman and Willem Dafoe that, while good, no self-respecting black man is going to sit through when they've actually lived the same shit every day. Embarrassed by the liberal ass-tanning, modernized Mississippi began a crusade to re-try Killen and put the killings to rest once and for all.

Since the accusations have resurfaced, Killer Killen has denied orchestrating the murders and downplayed his involvement with the charitable organization the Ku Klux Klan; or at least that's what his lawyer says he has said, the 80-year-old is a bit indecipherable over the loud sound of his wheezing and mumbling. Philosophers only I've talked to suggest maybe Killen will live another 30 years as his real punishment from God, long enough to see black culture completely co-opted by every white kid on his street and allowing black performers to dominate the box office, television, and every station on the radio. And there's always the White House, if God is particularly cruel to the poor peckerwood.

Some fellow good old guys and girls have come to Killen's defense, while denouncing the killings, and say the frail, birdlike man had nothing to do with the horrific murder of people they wouldn't have spat on back then. Among those testifying were other Killens, including Killen's brother and sister-in-law, and several associates with peculiarly pointy hairstyles, like Cricket Beechauser.

"I love Killen," said the comparatively young 75-year-old Beechauser. "Killen taught me everything I know, not that I'm braggin' or nothin'. I'd do anything for him, that's how much I respect Killen—I'd go to jail for Killen. I'd go to hell for Killen, if that's what I had to do. Killen ain't any more racist than anyone here in this courtroom." To which at least the defense agreed.

The only irregularity in the Killen trial came on Friday when an angry protestor in the courtroom objected to the Beechauser testimony. A young white woman stood up and began shouting at the witness, still on the stand, insisting if the Ku Klux Klan liked Killen so much, they deserved Killen.

"Order in the court!" clichéd Judge Marcus Gordon. "If there's any more outbursts I'll remove the defendant. Then there won't be any Killen to shout about."

The prosecutor Mississippi Attorney General James Hood, for those of you who like irony, said the state would win this time against the Klansman.

"This time we will get Killen for these killings—hey! I just noticed how that sounds. Weird. But in all seriousness, my office is seeking the death penalty. And we'd better hurry up because this old Nazi is half in the bag already."

So declare the men of law in Mississippi, where the state motto in racial killings is "better late than never."

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Ah, my sweet Nancy. Another year, another anniversary, and our love endures. Why does it last? Is it because ours is a love meant for the ages, without judgment or fear of reprisal, a shared connection between two people who are soulmates? Yes, a smidge. Mostly it continues to grow stronger because we never let ourselves lapse into staleness.

As you know, Nancy, I am not simply a heart that never stops loving and a mind that never stops obsessing over our love. I am also a penis. I am a testicle. Two testicles, in fact. I am a body, the throbbing impulses of a man. And you are more than love to me. You are the rounded hips, the supple breasts, the plush lips, the honeyed cave hole of a woman. We satisfy each other's bodies as we do our eternal longing for companionship. Yes, Nancy, like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, we express our love with constant humping.

The years pass, Nancy, but our physical love continues to bring us closer. No matter how many times we do the nasty, my darling, I never tired of the act, and I know you feel the same. For no matter how we may copulate in familiar ways, when things grow too familiar and comfortable for us, we always choose to raunchy it up with a little romantic experimentation. Your leg here, our backs bent this day, dangle these here and lick them—our imaginations are limitless when it comes to our storied love-making. Even if we were blithering retards, dear Nancy, we still have that dirty Japanese comic book with all the pictures of weird positions to try.

What a treasure the fables positions of the Comic Sutra has been to us. We've tried all of them, I believe, Nancy, some of them in other rooms of the house. Some say there are only 103 positions, but you know what I say to that—do them twice. And then do them underwater. There is no spice for a relationship like an aquatic sexual adventure, and as long as our neighbors leave their gate unlocked, we will continue to follow our inner Neptune and Neptilla.

Sometimes, dear Nancy, what we hide is more exciting than what we reveal. A sheer negligee may give a breathtaking hint of the beauty of your naked body, inspiring more excitement and ecstasy than I have ever known. Just as the small football helmet on my wang does the same for you. Sometimes, for an added touch of sensuality, we may play our own erotic game of Blind Man's Bluff, feeling our way to each other's bodies in the dark. At least once we remove the furniture, there's no way I want my dick in a sling again, but that probably goes without saying.

What does not go without saying is that I always prefer your naked body in the light. Do not think my talk of concealing your goodies or making love in the dark means I'm ashamed of your body. Though both of us have aged, Nancy, I find you just as sexy as you were ten years ago, on the sliding scale that we've both aged and, sure, you're not as hot as you used to be. Your sister has your body from ten years ago, but I would not sleep with her Nancy, since I love only you. I may think of her to inspire my erection, but I will make love to you with that erection, Nancy, and almost all the time I'm picturing your head on that body. That could not possibly be cheating.

No matter if you have gained a little weight, if your thighs now rub together in a disconcerting way, and if your breasts do not rise like fluffy couch pillows as they used to. If you have pancake boobs now, it's all the better for me to lay on top of you and cram my love inside. You complain about your cottage cheese buttocks, but I say those indentations are the dozens of dimples from the many wrinkly smiles your ass gives me whenever I look at it.

It's for our erotic life together, and no other, that I keep all those pornographic magazines in my workshed. I don't know why you're getting so bent out of shape, Nancy—you should only be bent out of shape for our coupling. The magazine may be called Chicks With Dicks, but the reason I have those is obvious: A chick with a dick is still a chick. I don't need chicks with vaginas. That's why I have you, my love.

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"I remember in my youth, I had made a mask out of rubber bands and construction paper. It was a beautiful thing, glittering with sparkles I had glued around the eye holes. I would wear it everywhere and would make people call me 'Mr. Dingle' and refer to myself in third person as in 'Mr. Dingle would like some mashed potatoes' and 'Mr. Dingle demands we watch cartoons.' One day, my father approached me with a sad look on his face. Great Aunt Mable had died of pneumonia and the family was in mourning. So my father says to me, in that gentle way of his, 'Son. We all like Mr. Dingle, but I'm afraid he's not invited to the funeral. Only you were invited.' I was stunned. I said, 'Dad! I'm 22 years old! I'll decide whether Mr. Dingle is invited or not!' Mr. Dingle enjoyed that funeral. I think Great Aunt Mable would have been proud."

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