An Apologetic Update to Our Cased Closed™ Reader

By Jessica Ithaca
Secretary to Manny Fatback

We here at Case Closed™ want to extend a sincere apology to our reader. Those people in search of the Truth™ as well as the Facts™ have been disappointed these past months, as the skilled writers at Case Closed™ have been less than vigilant with their posts. We understand how difficult it has been for people to get through their days without a closed case or a solved mystery. For that, we apologize.

Cletus Hookworm, editor extrodinare and collector of used urinal cakes, is once again suffering from Lazy Brain. Despite intial reports--and a burst of creative energy-- he has not recovered from this ailment.


(On the left, a Normal Brain. On the Right, Cletus's Lazy Brain)

Manny Fatback, skilled wordsmith and snack tester to the stars, has been recently diagnosed with Wild Turkey Poisoning. He will return soon--with a vengeance--and reminds his readers to keep watching the blog.


(Manny Fatback, before entering a clinic for Wild Turkey Poisoning)

Keep an eye on Case Closed™ for more doses of the Truth™!

AND NOW... A Case Closed™ Little Known Fact!

Did you know that recently, the world's biggest marshmallow strike was made in Canada? That's right, faithful Case Closed™ readers. During exploratory mining new New Puft, Saskatchewan, miners came across the biggest marshmallow vein ever discovered. Marshmallowologists believe this vein might very well yield enough 'mallow to last two centuries!



Canadian Security forces have beefed up their presence around the mine, fearing that Nestle terrorists might attempt to launch a hot chocolate attack. If this happened, the world's supply of the white, sugary treats could be devastated!

It's TRUE™!

(This has been a CCLKF)

!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.

Bad Names Come In Threes: The Serial Killer Triple Threat

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by
Manny Fatback

Experts the world over--including our very own panel here at Case Closed™--know that there are almost 245,000 active serial killers at large and practicing their craft in the United States today. Every year tireless and unimaginative authors pile bookshelves with tales of horror and murder, imagining serial murderers even more horrific than the crimes they actually commit. Sometimes these books are as unforgivable as the crimes that we read about in the daily papers (see Thomas Harris' latest unpickupable 'thriller', "Hannibal Does Something Spooky"*). Even the normally moral and thoughtful men and women in Hollywood buck the trend and put out movies that tastefully examine the life and times of the most notorious killers.

But despite the attempts of authors and directors to give a clear and truthful picture of serial murder, they often fail to answer one simply question.

Why?

When it comes to the desire to repeated bludgeon a female hitch-hiker with a tire iron and then have sex with her corpse while repeatedly biting it, no one can very really explain what drives these killers to their crimes. 'Experts' like to flaunt their degrees and theories, claiming that it might have something to do with childhood trauma or upbringing. Is it enough to spend those formative years watching one's mother having sex with an endless parade of hoboes? Could it really be blamed on the years of sadistic abuse at the hands of an alcoholic step-father? Is that what creates these murder-machines? Or is that just another case of the 'experts' trying to do their best to make themselves look so much smarter and so much more important that us regular folk?


(What would make an average motorist want to do something like this? Just childhood trauma? I think not...)

After reading and researching dozens of stories about serial killers, yours truly, Manny Fatback, decided to set out to discover the true reason for the demented behaviour. On behalf of Case Closed™, I had to find out what turns an ordinary cat smotherer into a serial killer!

And yours truly found out!

If you look back at the history of crime, there are a number of well-known murderers. Theodore Robert Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, Henry Lee Lucas and Albert Henry DeSalvo have all earned their place on the infamous list of the disturbed. Each one of them can lay claim to a rough childhood and a few bumps and bruises. But can't we all? They can also lay claim, however, to have one thing in common.

Or rather... three things.

Three names.


(Theodore Robert Bundy... not just a ladies' man)

After spending hours in a library and a lab with our resident murderologist, Dr. Fantastic, yours truly discovered that there is a triple link that leads to serial murder. That link? It's the use of three names, one after the other, all of them given the same verbal importance and stress. When spoken aloud the names themselves are a clear trigger for murder. Every single serial killer of note has had this common one-two-three punch! Lee Harvey Oswald! John Wilkes Booth! Even Pee Wee Herman, who murdered his own career and the imagination of several children with his terrible TV show. This use of three names is a clear signal of impending murder?

I'm sure there are doubters out there, naysayers if you will, saying nay. Well can you say 'nay' to Randy Steven Kraft? Or what about The Zodiac Killer? Is it just coincidence that these men all have three names, and they are all guilty of murder? Would it be a leap of logic and intelligence to say that three names is indeed a causal link? We ate Case Closed™ don't believe you can ever leap far enough when it comes to logic. That's not about to change now.


(Was 'Teen Wolf' an examination of the killer inside of Michael J. Fox? And note the tagline... like all serial killers, he always wanted to be 'special'!)

If yours truly could discover this so readily, why do the 'experts' continue to shy away from the truth? And what have they hidden from us in the past? Is it possible that John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated because he was an out of control serial murderer bent on slaughtering hundreds? When asked, our experts said, "What was that?" And what about other 'triple threats' who have disappeared from public view. Michael J. Fox? JM J. Bullock? Is it a coincidence that these people have 'slipped out of public view'? What about David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen!? Are they rock and rollers... or rock and killers?


(This picture says it all!)

I don't think I need to paint a clearer picture (as we say at Case Closed™: "If we have to paint you a picture, you probably don't know how to read!"®). There are dangerous people at large, ones we might never suspect. Look at your neighbours. Your co-workers. Your boss. Do they have three names? Do you think they might have drifters buried under their house?

Obviously there is a clear and definitive causal link between serial murder and having three well promoted names. Ted Bundy had three names. So did O.J. Simpson. So do 245,000 other active serial killers.

Do you?


Case Closed!™

*Title of this book has been fabricated due to the general feeling that Harris's book is crappy

AND NOW... A Case Closed™ Little Known Fact!

Did you know that when making prank phone calls, the Tusken Raiders, or "Sand People" often use call block to hide their numbers?



It's TRUE™!

(This has been a CCLKF)

The Burgerland Killings

There’s nothing like confronting one’s own mortality to speed along some self-evaluation. My recent escape from Chinese Martian terrorists, who were holding me against my will in Dimensure Nine, has led me to publish a story that I’ve been sitting on for some time. Indeed, the photos for this explosive piece have been hidden in the cushion of my desk chair. Yes, corporate spies, it hasn’t all been Oreos and pretzels!

This scoop has its origins in the early eighties, when I was a cub reporter for the Daily Truth-teller, an old-fashioned truth-telling daily. I received a mysterious package containing mysterious photos, taken quite mysteriously for mysterious reasons. “A mystery,” I thought. The photos were grainy (mysteriously so) and featured what appeared to be spokespersons for Burger King. The Duke of Doubt, Sir Shake-a-Lot and the Burger King himself. The accompanying note read, “Where are they and why?”





Indeed, I thought, where, and why. I realized that they hadn’t been seen in years, and yet I could not recall hearing of any investigation. A quick call to my undercover contact at the National Police Association, Cpl. Terry Stoddard, revealed that all three were reported missing, presumed dead. The case, while not closed, was not being pursued. Stoddard’s explanation was less than convincing due to an ominous string section playing in the background. I grabbed my fedora, placed a fresh “Press” card in the hat band, and stormed out of the office. I was on the case … until it was closed.

Lots of phonecalls and interviews later, I gave up. The trail was cold. Besides, an outbreak of lobsteritis had made for an easier story to cover. I placed the photos in a file folder marked, “Case Never To Be Marked Closed” and went on with my career.

Fast forward a number of years. I’m now editor at The Gumshoe Investigator. And another package of photos arrive. These contained disturbing crime scene photos of several murders. Three McDonald’s representatives, Grimace, Hamburgler, and Mayor McCheese—all dead. It appeared that all had been victims of mob executions made to seem like accidents. At least the police said they were accidents, but that many bullet holes in the head made me suspicious.




Who were we left with? The Burger King, Sir Shake-a-Lot, and Duke of Doubt were missing and presumed dead, but Ronald McDonald was still alive and highly visible. A theory began to take shape. Ronald McDonald, head of the McDonald’s empire, had taken out contracts on the Burger King gang for either strategic or vendetta reasons. But why had several McDonald’s figures also met grisly fates? Retribution? Maybe, but from whom? More likely, I deduced (thanks to years of crime investigatin’) that they were the assassins who took out the King gang, then found themselves victim themselves of the oldest rule of conspiracy: kill the assassins. Ronald McDonald himself was killing off the McDonald’s gang. Of course, it all made sense. By the nineties, Ronald was the only one left to promote the business. I didn’t have the why but I didn’t care—leave that for the philosophers.

I was about to go to press with my exposé when I was visited by the Fry Guys, who delivered a terrible beating, growling about the photos, the photos, the photos. I didn’t surrender the photos, but I didn’t dare go to press. It was too dangerous. At that point, I was still the best, toughest, and bravest crime reporter on the northern coast, and I couldn’t take the chance of dying. So I refiled the story in the “Case Never To Be Marked Closed” folder.

Which takes us up to today. What’s changed on the McDonald’s-Burger King gangland slayings? A lot, actually. Ronald McDonald has disappeared and I think it’s probable that he’s dead or … gone underground. Why underground? Because of the re-emergence of the Burger King! Of course! He wasn’t dead, but had gone underground when his comrades had been gunned down. But now he was back, perhaps after dispatching his arch-foe, Ronald. But there was something not quite right about this Burger King. This one’s face was plasticky, the result of bad cosmetic surgery. In fact, I came to believe, this was not the original Burger King—he was dead, killed by the McDonald’s gang. This new King, I was sure, was Sir Shake-a-Lot or maybe the Duke of Doubt, cosmetically altered to look like the King!



It’s all so confusing. Who killed who? Who’s really dead? Did Shake/Duke kill Ronald? Was he in on the original Burger King Massacre of the seventies, a double agent? Did Shake/Duke kill King? Or are Shake and Duke dead, along with everyone else? Then who is the new Burger King? Who sent me the photos in the first place? Any story with this many unanswered questions must be legitimate! The machinations involved in this scheme are so profound that I fear for my safety and expect to go underground once more.

This case, however, is closed™ (pending new evidence. Send all leads to Manny Fatback, c/o this site.)

The Return of Cletus Hookworm

It’s hard to remember what exactly has happened to me these past months when I’ve been missing—that is, missing from where I and others expect me to be, but not missing from where I was. Where I was was right where I was, and certainly not missing. If that reads as confusing, maybe you need to patch the gaps on your aluminum foil hats.

Yes! That’s what had happened! After my near fatal encounter with a rabid, murderous, vindictive, and malodourous Uncle Ned, I realized that my aluminum foil hat had ripped. Maybe it through normal wear and tear, maybe Uncle Ned had torn it when I wasn’t paying attention. The latter possibility made a lot of sense because it’s just the kind of thing Uncle Ned would do. Hadn’t he tricked Doctor Tongue into joining the Peace Corps? Hadn’t he once tried to karate kick The Fonz? Of course he had—he was capable of anything. Yes, yes, yes. Where was I?

Ah, in my bunker, fixing my aluminum foil hat. That must have been when the mind control ray got me. My subordinate, Manny Fatback, is prone to blaming Stephen King’s rogue clones and, more often than not, they are to blame for the ills of this world. (And other worlds—scienticianologists have long wondered why Jupiter is unsafe for humans. Think about it: Jupiter was the king of the Roman gods. King. Obviously Stephen King’s clones rule that planet at the exclusion of human beings. Jupiter is also the fifth planet from the sun. His fifth book? The Dead Zone. Jupiter is a dead zone for human beings. There’s more, much more, including his failed attempt to kill Jack Lemmon, Meadowlark Lemon, and the Lennon Sisters, but I don’t want to pee on Manny’s hydrant.)

The mind ray. Whoever was controlling it, the next thing I knew I was in a gypsy camp in Gypsania, somewhere in Europe. What did they want? At first I thought it was a nefarious plot—fixing a tribal volleyball match or securing cheap trenchcoats from my Inuit connections (if so, my reputation would indeed have been the cause of my present fate). However, it was my editorial skill, in turning literary urine into wine and papering over the holes in Manny’s investigative stories. (I mean, really, Manny originally thought that Big Bird was involved in Reagan’s assassination. Absurd when you really think about it.) So I fixed up the gypsy manuscript, Gypsgoria—a puerile rip-off of Fangoria Magazine; the absence of Wes Craven or Robert Englund interviews made it little more than a Vincent “The Gypsy Prince” Price fanzine. I think that they smelled my contempt. After all, without my trusted Irish Spring, there was little to whistle about.

So, one night, while my captors slept off a Mr. Pibb-fueled donnybrook, I stole away, eventually coming across a dimensional transporter run by a kindly gnome named Lonnie. This led to a whole series of adventures, the gist of which Manny got right in his updates as to my whereabouts. Eventually, a chain-smoking, hard-drinking private eye named Johnny Carcinoma—a man who any smart publisher would pay big money for the rights to his own exploits—rescued me while working on a case involving a man dressed like a cat eating macaroni and cheese in rubber boots. Fantastic, sure, but I don’t make this stuff up. Indeed, our own Dr. Fantastic, inventor of the Tell Whether A Person Is Lying 4050, said that my story was 51% likely to be true. In other words, I passed.

Still, nagging questions remain. What are gypsies doing with mind control devices? Why do they live in tents? Is it a coincidence that Jack Lemmon and the Lennon Sisters are dead, yet Meadowlark Lemon lives? Is that Uncle Ned sitting in a Ford Taurus down the block from me? Does Uncle Ned have clones? Does anyone really believe that a painter with an obsession with the ghoulish was really Jack the Ripper, especially in light of what happened to Suzanne Sommers house? It all makes sense if you have the grapes to make wine, folks. This case might never be closed, but for now, Case Closed!™

The Roles of a Lifetime (Where Your Favourite Celebrities REALLY Act)

a Case Closed™ Exclusive
by Manny Fatback


They’re the heroes of the silver screen. They wield weapons and swing through the jungles with the grace and ease of a baboon on steroids. No matter how poorly written, how clichéd or how ridiculous, they can overcome any fictitious series of events. No, I’m not talking about your favourite animated Saturday morning super friend… I’m talking about celebrities. The folks of glitz and glamour who all rub elbows while waiting outside the hippest rehab. You know them.

Or do you?

For the past month or so, yours truly, Manny Fatback, has been recovering from bunion surgery. While spending time in my palatial home on the coast of Uruguay, I became as bored as a nun at a penguin exhibit. So, I decided to join up with one of those online DVD movie rental organizations. Before I knew it, I was feeding movie after movie into the DVD player, and snack after snack into my own gullet. While relaxing and watching ‘The Terminator’, my faithful Uruguayan servant, Satchel, said something that surprised me. While looking at Arnie, the Terminator himself, he said, “That preacher, he touch me one time. Not love me long time.”

I was confused. Not only by Satchel’s curious Japanese accent, but by what he was claiming.

“Preacher?” I said, a bottle of Wild Turkey sliding off my six pack. “What are you talking about?”

He pointed at Arnie and said, “That preacher at church. He touch me, special place.”

Cracking open one of the cans from my six pack, I scratched my head. Further conversation with Satchel revealed that his preacher at the local church bore a striking resemblance to Arnold Schwarzenneger. Of course, I knew that it couldn’t the Arnie. Still, I had to see for myself. So, I grabbed my crutches and hobbled down to the local God shop. Opening the door, I was surprised with what I saw.



Arnie himself, the man of iron, spreading the word of God.

This discovery got me to wondering… what did I really know about my favourite stars? What was Robert Redford doing on his day’s off? Did Kevin Costner really work at a McDonald’s? And what ever happened to that girl who played the chick in ‘Debbie Does Dallas’? With my curiosity piqued, I decided to hop a plane and head to Hollywood. Along the way I called up my intrepid photographer, Lance Trout. He was glad to get out of his mother’s basement and come along.


(Is there where anti-Semitic rants will take our great actor/directors?)

What we discovered amazed me. It didn’t take long, but I uncovered the secret lives of a half a dozen celebrities. Anthony ‘Hannibal’ Hopkins. Johnny Depp. Demi Moore. Even Dudley Moore had another job (a door stop at a bakery in Chinatown). From spot to spot Lance and I went, amazed at what we discovered.


(Anthony 'Hannibal the Cannibal' Hopkins working as a butcher... irony, or just plain funny?)

Faithful reader of Case Closed™, I realize this isn’t a vast conspiracy… but it does have potentially dark undertones. What do we truly know about our favourite stars? How do we know that the man removing our appendix is really a doctor? What if it’s TVs Doogie Howser instead? And what if the man mowing our neighbour’s lawn really is Charlton Heston? Is he packing heat?

All I ask is this: keep your eyes open. When you sit down in the theatre, ready to watch another Jerry Bruckheimer extravaganza, check to see who sold you your ticket. Perhaps it was Keanue Reeves.


(Johnny Depp... Picker of the Caribbean)

Keep reading Case Closed™. And keep watching the…stars.

Case Closed™!

The Kings and I! A Cloneopolis Update!

A Case Closed™ Exclusive
by
Manny Fatback


They sat you can never have too much of a good thing. Friends. Happiness. Bourbon. Whatever your magical vice, the idea remains the same. No matter how much of it you have, no matter how high you stack it, it never loses that special something. Of course, we all know that’s a load of steaming outhouse treats. No matter how terrific something is, no matter how specialtastic®, eventually not enough becomes too much. There always comes a breaking point.

When it comes to Stephen Kings… how many is too many?

As the dedicated reader of Case Closed™ well remembers, it was yours truly, Manny Fatback, who first broke the astounding story about the numerous Stephen King clones! Never before had a story with such power and magnitude been so graciously ignored by the publishing industry. It was clearly a story that hit too close to home. No matter where I went, no matter who I spoke to, no one seemed willing to acknowledge this amazing discovery. But that didn’t stop the Stephen King Cloneopoly Bullet Train to slow down. It continued on the fast track, moving like a well-buttered lap dancer.

Now, however, it seems that this many might be too many.

As readers know, the latest Kingly offering was a great disappointment. This novel, billed as some kind of love story and terrific stretch for one of the Kings, falls flat. And well it should! There are too many Stephen Kings out there… and too many Stephen Kings spoil the broth! And in this case, the broth is the book! After fighting my way through ‘Lisey’s Story’, I decided to press myself back into service and investigate the Stephen King conspiracy even further. What I found should be enough to convince any executive at Scribner of the truth™!

Even the most casual visitor to the Stephen King website can see the clues. When I made a visit, I noticed that the site listed Mr. King as ‘Stephen Stephen’. Two Stephens? Is that a none-too-subtle way of giving yours truly a reminding jab, letting me know that though I tried to get the secret out there, it’s still going on? It would seem so!


(Stephen Stephen... a typo, or proof of something far more sinister?)

A second visit to the Internet brought me to a foreign language site, which clearly demonstrated incontrovertible proof of the Stephen King clone conspiracy! Even though I can’t read Mexican, what’s written below is as clear as day. There is more than one Stephen King… and even people who don’t speak English know about it!


(Even in this savage tongue, the truth is easy to read!)

Armed with these new pieces of evidence, I decided to return to Maine and pay the Kings a visit. I showed up in my LeBaron, a stack of King hardcovers bunched under one arm. The King mansion, a shameless display of wealth and ego, stood before me like a giant monolith built on words and pages and bricks. I stood in awe for a few moments before carefully wriggling over the front gate and heading for the back of the house. I knew that if Mr. King (or perhaps the other Mr. King, or even the third) spotted me, the gig would be up. I’d brought the books along as a distraction, knowing that when asked, a clone can’t help but try to sign it’s original’s name.

At the back of the house, beyond the recently installed Fountain of Youth (an upcoming story here at Case Closed™), I found a rear window through which I could peer into King’s life. And what I saw amazed me! Seated inside a plush and comfortable looking den was Stephen King.

And Stephen King!
And yet more Stephen Kings!
I quickly grabbed my camera and snapped a picture. Undeniable proof of this conspiracy finally brought to light.


(How many stories would a Stephen King write, if a Stephen King could write stories?)

As I turned to go, however, I realized that I was no longer alone. One of the Stephen Kings, pushing a Toro lawnmower, came around the edge of the house. Knowing that this Steve could be in two places at once, I immediately fell to my plan of attack. Producing my stack of books, I asked for an autograph. This carbon copy King obliged, signing the book with great concentration, tongue jutting from the corner of his mouth. Soon after I escaped, returning to the Case Closed™ offices. Once safe at my own desk, I looked at the signature of the phoney King. Of course, it seemed much different from that of the real Stephen King. I quickly tracked down a sample of the genuine King’s signature and laid it next to the clone’s signature.



Not even close!

So, friends and readers, it should be clear to you now that Stephen King is not who he says he is. He’s more! And he’s continuing to produce books at a fantastic rate despite being retired! So, the next time you pick up one of his novels and feel vastly disappointed in the decline in quality, just remember… this ain’t your grandma’s Stephen King!

And there is too much of a good thing.

Case Closed™!