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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I hate to be the bearer of bad news, otherwise known as a bad news bear, but this will be the last Giving You the Finger column for quite a while.

Yep, you read right. Why? you may ask, with my permission. I'll tell you: Because starting with my next edition, in this regular space, you'll be reading Giving You the Bellmont.

I do not jest, not even for fun, but especially when it comes to my column. Giving You the Finger is no longer possible, as Felchyana and I are now in the Witness Protection Program, following our late-December feeling to the FBI. For all intents and purposes, Rok Finger is dead. I'm not sure how he went, my money was always on being fatally shot on the subway in a dispute over a wheat penny, but I'll let the FBI handle those fine details, that's their show. This column is now coming to you courtesy of Godfrey Bellmont.

Before you start hem-hawing about losing such first-rate name material as Rok Finger, I promise you it was the only resort left. The mob was quite angry at me, even before I turned state's evidence, county by county. It was only a matter of time before they tried to kill us yet again, only more successfully. I talked to Felchyana about it, long and in-depth, and she called me a perpetrator and said my rhymes were wack. As you can see, her fondness for gangsta rap hasn't quite passed yet. But I took her insult of my lyrical science as agreement we needed to get away, and the FBI was our best shot.

To cut to the post-chase, I spilled every bean I had on the mob, even made up some plausible sounding stories about something they did at Ruby Ridge. In exchange for my exciting information and guaranteed box-office quality testimony, they moved us to an undisclosed location which I haven't yet disclosed. I think it's Wisconsin, but it's awful warm for Wisconsin. I'll have to get back to you on that. All I know is people are not shooting at me anymore, that's a change in the weather I can appreciate.

They also gave me a new name! Godfrey Bellmont, as I mentioned. Either they were all out of Jack Johnsons or the guy in charge of the names thought I called for a little extra flair. My wife, Contessa, would probably agree. I suppose I'm glad they come up with the names for you, my first choice would have been Edith Head, which really doesn't work for a new column title. I believe I'm just very uncreative when it comes to names, or creativity in general.

Believe it or not, the FBI wanted me to cut off all contact with everyone I knew—including the commune and you, the loyal commune reader. I was aghast, as you can imagine. Just leave my faithful followers hanging, like the equipment within a pair of boxer shorts? No can do, my federal friends. Of course, I haven't told them I've returned to the column yet, even if I'm writing it from the safety of Undisclosed Location, Wisconsin (possibly). But they should be happy with it once they find out I'm going to use my new name.

Things will not change, good people, just because my name and living situation has. I will still rail against the railable, stand up against the unstand-uppable, and continue to fill out the same amount of column space for weeks to come. Camembert and I are going to a costume party this weekend, and I'm sure that will make for the fantastic style of Rok Finger complaints you've come to expect. Just delivered by Godfrey Bellmont.

Oh, yes, Camembert is just as safe as us. I managed to talk the FBI into including him in our Witness Protection deal. But as far as everyone is concerned now, he's my 13-year-old daughter Penelope Bellmont, and can even walk now, although his legs are slow to cooperate. Actually, the FBI assigned him the new name of Gerald, Godfrey Bellmont's brother, but I haven't told him. Dressing him like a girl was my idea.

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In the world of show business, things go from boring to frenetic overnight. This also applies to my life as of recent. One minute I'm volunteering at soup kitchens just to get out of the house, then my phone is ringing with work and so on. Which is great, the soup kitchen thing wasn't what I thought anyway—you believe people volunteer to serve the soup? They tried to tell me they already had more than enough people to eat it all.

But the work, the work! It's true what the Fixx said, one thing leads to another. I get a call from Vic-O Smith-Smith, one of the convention geeks who kept trying to get me to read his script last year. I told him I would, then when he asked me what I thought of it, I told him I thought it had its moments—he totally fell for it. Anyway, Vic-O asked me if I'd be in his movie if he ever got the money to do it, and I said sure, thinking no one would give this chunk money. Well, I was right, but it turns out he got hit by a Brinks truck and sued for big-time bucks. Vic-O called last week, as I said, and said the part was mine if I wanted it.

I played it cool and told him I would do it, only on the condition he gave me money for the role. It paid off, 'cause he offered me even better than money—a percentage of the movie! Usually that spells disaster, just ask anybody who's ever financed a bomb movie for percentages, or internet investors. This one's a sure-fire hit, though, because it's a sci-fi movie. Sci-fi movies are like oil spouting up through your bathtub. Money city.

The gig is all set, though. I'll be playing Clemenstra Raygun, the star of the movie, and it ought to be kick-ass. It will take about two weeks of shooting and then a long post-production time while all the special effects are computer-generated. It's a low-budget movie, but Vic-O says he can CGI all the effects with a special movie-making program known as Photoshop. The movie is about… okay, I still haven't read the script or anything. I'm putting money down it will involve me in some sexy space outfit shooting a laser and riding around in a rocketship. Something like LSD but it costs less and helps move my career along in inches.

I didn't even tell you the best part yet! Vic-O, he's a good friend with another guy, and this guy (whose name I didn't bother to write down) is publishing a comic book. I know, nerd city, but check this out: It's a comic about a super-freak sexy heroine, and guess who they wanted to play her on the covers? Victoria Principal. But of course she wants ridiculous money and has a busy schedule doing make-up commercials or whatever. Her loss, my gain. I'm going to be Metallichick!

Not much involved as far as the covers go or anything, they basically have me stop by the "studio" in his mom's house ever couple months and take a couple of promotional photos and some shots for the cover. Then people see a real chick on the front of the book and want to buy the book, then get home and get pissed to see it's all drawings inside. Maybe they recognize me from TV or the Brady Bunch reunion special where I told everybody I was Cindy, who knows, but people buy the book and I get money to come back and do more. It keeps me busy, that's what's important. That and the money.

I didn't even mention the big stuff, that I'm off to a sci-fi convention next week. I was planning on going back to sign autographs at the Orgasma table anyway, but the guy whose name I can't remember also wants me to do some promotion for the Metallichick book. I might even help Vic-O promote the new movie. It's feast or famine, as the old saying goes, and I'm going to gorge myself while the gorging's good.

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