Sesame Street Assassins and the Letter 'Kill'

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by Manny Fatback

While travelling through Nevada with Mr. Beam and Mr. Daniels, I found my mind turning toward the fantastical. Yours truly, Manny Fatback, had been driving almost non-stop through the desert scrub of Nevada in search of The Truth™, be it about aliens, bigfeet, or the proliferation of plastic flowers. With so many possible avenues of the amazing to explore, where would I turn? Down an alley leading to serial murder? Through a tunnel taking me to the Cult of Cruise? Or perhaps onto a ferry channelling me toward the whimsical Truth™ about Hitler?

As it turned out, the road took me to a run-down motel-cum-sideshow made of slapped-together tin and wood. 'Lefty’s Sleep-a-rama and Mystery Emporium' had been spray-pained across a slat of plywood and hung above the front windows like one sagging eyelid. Beneath it the words 'Cigarettes, Liquor and Pastries Made Daily' caught my eye and convinced me. I pulled in, eager to see what I might discover in this out-of-the-way place tucked into the corner of the desert.

I was checked into room 3 by a tall man with a needle-sharp head who might disappear if he turned sideways. After throwing my things onto the bed and currying favour with a wide-hipped señorita who was either cleaning rooms or collecting cockroaches, I considered moseying over to the Mystery Emporium. After realizing that I couldn’t mosey, saunter or toddle, I reconsidered and simply walked to the front door. Once inside, surrounded by the dust-laden warmth of the cooped up building, I was vastly disappointed.

The Mystery Emporium was filled with the usual glut of roadside junk. Aliens under glass, Elvis in a casket and a genuine piece of the cross (which felt like it had been fashioned from Styrofoam) are all the rag-tag cornucopia of flea-bitten, second-rate novelty shows. Just as I was about to return to my room, upset that there was no Story® to be found, a small voice behind me said, “Five bucks for the real show.”

The speaker was a kid, perhaps five years old, but he had the eyes and the nose of a heavyweight fighter. He smiled at me from behind a pound of dirt and mucus before saying, “Five bucks for the real show,” again.

I’d heard that pitch before, from New Orleans to Vegas. First it’s a small stage and ‘exotic dancers’ who are about as exotic as Russian flu, with varicose veins and saggy… but still, I had to take the chance. Besides, the kid had charm. I slipped him a five and followed him into a small, cramped back room filled with boxes and cabinets. Not certain what to expect, I opened the closest box and looked inside. There was a folder marked Assassination (brought to you by the letter ‘a’). I opened it up and looked inside.

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I was stupefied. Stunned. Liquefied. And a true-grit reporter like Manny Fatback doesn’t often end up that way.

I carried the folder back to my room, the kid trailing me like the aroma of old baked beans. I had been reading the folder for almost a half-hour, aware of the kid’s smile the whole time. There was something almost predatory about that grin. He wanted another five bucks to let me take the folder, and I agreed.

“Is this all on the money?” I asked him, standing inside the door to room 3. A quick glance showed me that the señorita had been diligently checking my bags for cockroaches.

The kid nodded. “It’s true, mister,” he said. “Honest.”

Honest. I’d heard that word before. It was a lot like truth. Almost seven letters long and easy to read.

But if it was true… whatta scoop!

Grabbing a bottle of Dr. Beam’s old-fashioned thinkin’ juice, I locked myself up in room 3 for the rest of the night.

****************************************

If the kid—and his file—were right, then everything I knew about presidential assassinations had been knocked on its head. And I know a lot.

Everyone remembers where he was on the day Kennedy was popped. We can all recall with faint nostalgia what we were doing on the day Reagan forgot to duck. But how much of what we remember is the Truth™? And how much is just the truth that ‘they’ want us to believe?

An assassin has to have certain skills in order to succeed. Perhaps it’s stealth. Cunning. Veracity. Verbosity. Marksmanship. Shipsmanship. Sportsmanship. But above all, a true and honest assassin longs to be like the mythical Ninja (akin to elves, sprites and goblins): invisible, and often hard to see.

Imagine an assassin who could come and go as he pleased. Who could slip in and out of crowds undetected. An assassin who was, for almost all intents and purposes, invisible. Imagine that, and what do you have?

The world’s greatest assassin.

Snuffleupagus.

****************************************

The facts, held in that dusty old folder, were clear.

Beginning in the late forties, a covert branch of the US government known as the CTW, began training assassins. It was while on a deep-jungle mining and research development gig that they found Snuffleupagus, the hairy pachyderm who messes up every corner of Sesame Street with his droppings. They brought him back to America and trained him as a spy. Why not? He was invisible to the naked eye—for the most part—and had few scruples. It was a short step from espionage to murder.

Because Snuffy (a derivative of the word ‘snuff’, and a precursor to snuff movies, perhaps?) only appears to children—and one large, demented yellow bird—he could move about political circles with ease. The CTW, in conjunction with the number 12 and the letter D, began eliminating potential enemies. John F. Kennedy. Robert Kennedy. Reagan. The list seemed endless and the gig seemed perfect.

Until one small boy pointed out the obvious. He pointed out something that had been overlooked by experts the world over. There was a big, hairy elephant present at every assassination.

Was this possible? I dug deeper, finding transcripts of police interrogations with a man known as B. Byrd. Apparently they tried their best to grill him for information after Reagan was shot, but to no avail—he wouldn’t sing. He was whisked away by ‘men in suits’, men tied to a lone figure known as Hooper. Even long-time friends of Byrd (David, Oscar and a manic-depressive man with ADD named Grover) didn’t crack. But why had police been asking questions about an assassination that the government had carried out? Why would they create a false investigation pointing in the right direction? It was a muddled mess of a ham sandwich wrapped loosely in foil and left behind a radiator. And it stank.

I sent a few of the photographs (see below) off to Case Closed™ headquarters for investigation. Kipling Glenavon and Lance Trout claimed to see nothing amiss. Even our resident Forensic Assassinationologist Dr. Fantastic could pinpoint nothing suspect in the photos. His three-year-old live-in shoeshine boy, however, pointed at one photograph and said, “Upulgus.”

Upulgus indeed.






(Look closely at the above photos... can YOU see the elephant?)

Is it so crazy to believe that a hairy, two tonne creature with a trunk could have been on the grassy knoll that day in Dallas? Why not? Only kids can see him, and kids make terrible witnesses. It seems perfectly clear to me what really went on that fateful November day—and on many other occasions—when the bullets flew.

Snuffleupagus… or Coverupagus?

Just remember… the next time you are watching the evening news and your child starts pointing out ‘imaginary’ characters on the TV screen, look a little closer.

You might see the Truth™.

Case Closed™


(The preceding was brought to you by the letter ‘g’)