!Moon Landing Faked!

This scoop came via that most valuable of sources—the disaffected college drop-out who quit school because he knows that colleges cover up the truth. I was searching for hot scoops at Liquor Dick's, the bar frequented by the muckiest of rakers, the most two-fisted of journalists, the most rapier-like of wits. I was chatting with Dr. Fantastic, Case Closed™'s resident bamboozologist, about the possibility that Uncle Ned was responsible for Anne Rice abandoning her proposed nineteen-volume exploration of New Orleans told from the zombie's point of view. Fantastic was about to confirm my hypothesis, when a rat-faced young man with mousy-brown hair and cheeks full of sunflower seeds looked at us with the violent intent of a gerbil in a sock.

"Uncle Ned is part of the conspiracy," he squeaked.

My reporter's instincts twitched, hummed, and gargled to life. "What's that about Uncle Ned and a conspiracy?"

"That movie he made, Apollo 13. It's tommyrot."

Tommyrot, I thought. A fellow doesn't throw words like that around without being correct. "Go on," I said.

"Uncle Ned would have us all believe that we landed on the moon. Or at least tried in his case. But it never happened."

"Yes, yes," I said, distractedly holding a piece of cheese in the air. "We all know about radiation and shadows and the like. There was no moon landing. Case Closed™ broke that scoop back in '63."

"No, you fool," he yelped, his nose twitching at the cheese. "It's not that there was no moon landing. There's no moon!"

Dr. Fantastic excused himself to work the Love Tester in the corner of the bar. I began scribbling what I knew would be yet another Plutzer Prize. "Do you have any proof of this?" I asked.

"Proof?! I quit college over this cover-up.!"

"Interesting," I said, and began to compose my Plutzer Prize acceptance speech in my head.

"Yes. Very. The moon is just a projection put out by the mighty Lizardorians, who live within the earth. They have huge candles that they use to project a big round rock into the sky, so that we spend our time trying to land on it instead of preventing their takeover of the surface world."

"Fiendish!" I exclaimed, debating whether a gold or bronze frame would be best.

"Yes. Very. Uncle Ned is a Lizardorian agent, sent to the surface to co-ordinate with other Lizardorians, who run Hollywood and the American government, to keep people distracted and confused. A careful study of Uncle Ned's movies contain clues of the Lizardorian plan. I'd know more, but I can't afford to rent movies."

"I understand," I said.

"Well," my beady-eyed informant said, "I've got to get going. There are Lizardorians everywhere and they'd love to eat me."

"I understand," I said. With that, he scurried away. Dr. Fantastic returned a few minutes later and reviewed my notes.

"It would explain his home repair problems in The Money Pit," he said.

"Great Caesar's Salad's Ghost," I yelled. "You're right! To the press room!"

Dr. Fantastic placed some complimentary Case Closed™ Weekend Planning Guide sample copies on the bar to pay for the drinks while I hurried out to stare at the night sky and learn to disbelieve.