RABBIT HASH, Ky - Shocking photos sent in to the Dealer from an anonymous source have stunned the internet journal's newsroom. Blaine Chowder, longtime correspondent with a knack for pissing off nuns and pawnbrokers, has succumbed to the perverse forces arrayed against him.

"The dumb shit! Why did he do it, why?" sobs a devastated Burt Safer. "He drew my name in the office gift exchange, and was going to score me a new X-Box!  Why did he have to die at such a joyous time of year?"

A dour Fred Pastry echoes his colleagues' sentiments. "Why? Why didn't he take me along? I could have saved him!" A tear rolls gently down Fred's face, revealing a depth of sentiment rarely shown by the hard-bitten satirist.

I knew Blaine to have his weaknesses; every great man does. Still, the sordid ending to my dear friend's life sends shivers down my spine. I ask Fred to help me understand.

"He was one sick bastard, Patricia. But he never meant to do anyone any harm."

True, he had only hurt himself.

Fred, who knew about Blaine's penchant for meth, and how much he enjoyed the company of former beauty queens now working the checkout lines at Walmart, felt it his duty to shed some light on the strange forces that pushed Blaine to the brink, and beyond.

"That stupid yellow smiley face could really give Blaine a hard on. But I guess you'd have to be a man to truly understand." Noticing my dismay, Fred seeks to comfort me. He pats me on the head, and then scratches me behind the ears.

I quickly leave the newsroom to its sad despondence. Though I know that Blaine is gone, and that he was indeed a sick mofo, I still hope to find some shred of justice for the man, and let the world know what an unusual talent it has lost. But what can I do? How can I make the emptiness go away?

I decide to jog to Ault Park in order to clear my head.  After dodging a team of lacrosse players, 12 labrador retrievers, and 3 double-wide baby strollers, I stop to rest at the overlook.  It's difficult to be a woman in this town!  Too many parks, too many joggers, too many in-depth blurbs to read in Self magazine. 

Maybe it was true.  Maybe I had gotten from this town all I possibly could.  God, Buffalo!  So beautiful this time of year.  Maybe Self was right.  Maybe it was time to move to a city in the top 31%.  Why didn't I love myself enough to leave this forsaken # 100 city, that only a bottom-feeder could happily call home?

Enough about me.  What about Blaine? How would his blurb read?  Dead at the cusp of 40, a former Miss Paducah at his side.  3 unfinished novels.  A meth habit that should have killed him 20 pages ago.  And what about this Gomez?  The scrap of paper falling from the pocket of a Cincinnati Advancer.  The velour track suit.  The money.  What did it all mean?

Editor's Note:  We'll make her stop.  We promise.  Send donations in honor of Blaine Chowder's memory to the Search for Sparko Foundation, care of Jerry Parker.