Nocturnal Admissions – 3/5/02 …...

We were living in a small farming community in the Midwest. “We” being Gina, myself, and a large group of unnamed hangers-on. Oddly enough, Gina and I were the proud owners of a sizeable dairy farm. We lived on some land with a magnificent farmhouse, a barn, several silos, lots of hay, and cows as far as the eye could see. There wasn’t much to the town other than our picturesque little farm…not much, that is, except for a GIANT nuclear power plant. The nuclear power plant was situated on the outskirts of the city limits, but was so large and obtrusive that you could see it from anywhere in the town. We had an especially good view of it from our cute little wraparound porch. One evening after a hard day working the fields, Gina and I were sitting on the porch swing sipping lemonade. All of a sudden there was a blinding flash of light and atop one of the cylindrical towers in the center of the Nuclear Power Plant there was a glowing red orb. It appeared to have sprouted out of the center and was growing ever larger by the moment. All of a sudden, all of our cows began coughing and sputtering and falling to the ground. Moos could be heard for miles around. One cow remained standing however, and Gina ran into the field to save it. She led the cow up to the house, and the three of us went immediate inside and turned on the TV to find out what was going on. The talking head on the TV screen told us that the Power Plant had been taken over by Russians. The Russians had planted a nuclear bomb inside of the power plant and were threatening to set it off if we didn’t meet their demands. (Their demands were never stated…it was just made clear that we should meet them). For some ridiculous reason, the Russians had implanted the trigger to set off the bomb in two unnamed people who resided in the town. One of these residents had already been kidnapped and was being held in the power plant. The other resident was currently being sought after. (Please note that this doesn’t make any more sense to me than it does to you. I’m simply reporting the craziness that my subconscious created.) According to The Russians, in order for this bomb to go off, the two carriers of the trigger had to hug each other. Upon hugging, the bomb would go off and destroy the world!!! True, it’s an odd and somewhat unreliable way to set a bomb off, but Russians are unconventional people, and they felt it would really make a statement.

Gina, the cow, and I, all looked at each other with tears in our eyes. What would happen to us? Why were the Russians picking on the residents of this sleepy little town? Who is the carrier of the second trigger? Why were we sitting in our living room with a very large dairy cow? At that very moment, there was a knock on the door. I looked outside and saw several imposing black sedans, and a large man in a fur hat standing on the porch. “Oh god…it’s one of us. One of us has the second the trigger,” I whispered. Gina and I frantically searched our clothing and bodies for this “trigger.” While searching, a flashing red light caught my eye. I looked up and realized there in Bessie’s cowbell was some sort of electronic device with a flashing red button. “NO!!! Not Bessie!!” Gina whispered loudly. Without another word, Gina selflessly slipped the cowbell off of Bessie’s neck, and hung it on around her own. “I won’t let Bessie be a part of this. I WON’T!” she said, and took off running out the back door toward the Nuclear Power plant. I followed quickly after her, leaving a very confused Bessie sitting on our living room floor.

I caught up with Gina about halfway across the field. She was quietly weeping next to one of her precious cows…now passed on to that great pasture in the sky. She gently patted its snout, and vowed to get the bastards who did this to her herd. I pledged my loyalty to the “cause” as well. We both looked back longingly at our quaint little farmhouse, now swarming with men in fur hats, and set off toward the Power Plant, the red orb growing bigger and bigger by the moment.

As we neared the power plant, we realized that in order to get to the plant itself, we had to cross a raging river. Weighing all the options, we decided the best thing to do would be to steal the boat that was sitting at the dock. Granted this was the only option available to us, but seemed to be a good one regardless. We hopped onto the boat, which conveniently had the keys in the ignition. Gina, claiming to know how to drive a boat, plopped down in the captain’s chair and started the engine. She started out onto the raging river. Clearly her skills at the helm were quite exaggerated, as we immediately capsized and found ourselves heading quickly down the raging river, flailing and kicking all the way. All of a sudden, Norm Macdonald from Saturday Night Live appeared at our sides. Strangely enough, he was swimming along very smoothly and was able to give us instruction on how to maneuver to the shore of the river. With Norm’s guidance, we smoothly made it to the other side. He pointed out that HE was the owner of the boat, and had been watching us all along. He had originally set after us in an effort to stop us from stealing, but after we capsized, decided to save our lives. You see, there was a Niagara Falls Sized waterfall directly in our path, and we were headed for a sure death. After explaining to Norm why we had stolen his boat, he forgave us quickly and gave us directions to the power plant. As Norm’s curly head faded into the distance, we realized that there was a beat-up red Camero coming down the road from the other direction. Figuring that no respectable Russian Soldier would be caught dead driving a beat up red Camero, and realizing that we were very tired and needed a ride, we figured it was safe and we flagged the car down. It came to a stop about 100 feet from us and out stepped what can only be described as “Hippie Teenagers.” “Oh god….its hippie teenagers,” Gina gasped. “They’re bad news for sure.” The Hippie Teenagers explained that they were in cahoots with the Russians and that they had been sent to take us prisoner and deliver us to the power plant. I began to walk toward them, and quickly realized that we could most likely escape with relative ease. Granted, there were three of them and only two of us, but since they appeared to be armed only with dreadlocks, hemp necklaces, and a mellow attitude, we made a run for it. Seeing that it would take a concerted effort to follow and capture us, and remembering that large bell-bottomed jeans make running difficult, the “Hippie Teenagers” retreated to their Camero and dejectedly drove off. (Russian Soldiers take note for future reference: Hippie Teenagers are NOT the best employees, especially when the job in question is “Kidnapper.”)

We trudged along for quite some time, and finally made it to the entrance of the Power Plant and went inside. Directly inside the door was the second person that carried the “trigger” to set off the bomb. He was tied up with thick rope, and was wearing a bag over his head. He was also holding in his hand a white flag. I ran over to the captive, and pulled off the bag, revealing Nathan Lane of “The Producers” fame. He thanked us profusely for saving him and wept as we untied his hands and feet. He handed us a note that his Russian Captors had given him. It said simply, “We Surrender.” Shockingly, the trauma appeared to be over. It was never explained exactly why the Russians had surrendered. It seemed to me that they had given up rather easily. I mean really….How could Russia have been intimidated by two pretty little dairy farmers like Gina and I? Why would we intimidate them? It seemed to be quite an elaborate scheme to hatch, only to surrender right away. Regardless of the motives behind the surrender, it was evident that we had won the day.

As I’m sure you can imagine, Nathan Lane’s fame reached a pinnacle following the kidnapping. One of the big networks even awarded him his own talk show. Naturally, he asked Gina and I to be his first guests. Instead of filming his show in a traditional studio in New York City or LA, Nathan decided to broadcast from the very town that had catapulted him to super-stardom. He came to us when it was time to build the studio, and purchased one of our dilapidated old barns. He quickly renovated it and turned it into a high tech set, with the nuclear power plant as a backdrop. We used the proceeds from the sale to purchase a new herd of dairy cows. We were back in business in no time at all.

Gina and I arrived at the studio on the day of “The Nathan Lane Show’s” premier excited, but quite nervous. There was an odd foreboding feeling in the air. We both sensed it. The show began quite innocently. Nathan filled his audience in on what he’d been up to, told a few jokes, danced a little dance, and then promptly introduced us to the audience. We chatted amicably or a few moments, Gina told everyone how well Bessie was doing, how our business had revived itself despite the death of our entire herd, and so on and so forth. It was when Nathan asked Gina why she was wearing a cowbell around her neck that things turned serious. Gina had taken to constantly wearing the cowbell around her neck. She felt it brought her good luck and its presence would always remind her of her own strength and determination. (It also made a terrible racket, but I let it slide, as she was very emphatic about her desire to wear the bell.) The interview came to a close and Nathan bid us adieu. I stood up, gave him a hug, and began to walk off. It was at that point that I realized that it was very likely that no one had removed the “triggers” to the nuclear bomb from Nathan, and Gina was still wearing that stupid cowbell. (Quite an oversight by the US Government I know, but hey…what do you expect from such a organization?) I turned around slowly, only to see Gina and Nathan reaching towards each other for an embrace. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” I screamed. But it was too late. As Gina and Nathan embraced, there was a loud rumbling noise. The red orb atop of the Power Plant once again began to grow and before we knew it, the Power Plant was engulfed in a giant Mushroom Cloud that was rising towards the sky. Lucky for us, when renovating the barn into a TV studio, Nathan had built it to Bomb Shelter specifications. (He was understandably paranoid, having gone through what he did.) After the Mushroom cloud subsided, we looked outside into the pasture. It was barren, and it appeared that the whole town was gone. Naturally, the cows were dead once again. (Poor cows can’t catch a break here.) Luckily Bessie was in the studio with us, and her life was spared again. I looked over at Gina as she was slowly removing the cowbell from around her neck. I think it goes with out saying that she felt slightly bad about this unforeseen turn of events. I tried to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault, that she should have been warned that the bell was still dangerous. Her response to me was: “Damn. Do you know nuclear winter lasts for 6 years?” The End.

A dream I had a couple of months ago....

It was late on a rainy Monday Night when I got the call. I winced when the phone rang. When you've been doing this as long as I have, you begin to *know* when it's going to be bad news. You see, being a private investigator gives you instincts that the average Tom, Dick, and Harry just do not possess. The voice on the other line was my friend Beth. She was a cub reporter for the local daily rag and always had the hot scoop. "Jen," she said with a sigh, "he's struck again." "He" was a criminal that we'd been chasing for months. "He" was an unknown who had evaded the cops with such cunning and skill that they had turned to me: Jennifer S., Private Investigator.

The attacks began several months ago when a little girl was found whimpering underneath a twisty slide at the local playground. She was scared, but basically unhurt. The attack was unique in that the only injury to her person had been to her hands. You see, her fingernails had been bitten and chewed on just enough so that they looked ragged. Almost as if a mouse or a small woodland creature had been nibbling on them. Her cuticles had also suffered quite a bit of damage. No doubt, it WAS a puzzle. No one had seen a crime like this, well, ever really. The young girl was naturally traumatized, but through her pain she was able to give a basic description of the assailant. It wasn't much to go on, but she told the cops that the attacker was old, had chubby cheeks, and incredibly bushy gray eyebrows. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

The attacks continued to happen as many as 3-4 times a week. The victims were males & females of all ages and all races. The police searched in vain for a pattern of any sort, but came up with nothing. The description of the attacker was the same from every victim: Old, chubby cheeks, bushy eyebrows. It wasn't until the assailant attacked a harmless 80-year-old woman that the police finally got the lead that broke the case wide open. It seems that the victim was an avid fan of the well-known and much loved news magazine "60 Minutes." She was overcome with emotion when giving her statement, but she eventually was able to utter the two words that would bring this case to a head. "Aaannnddy Rooonneeey," she croaked. She swore up and down that her attacker was none other than Andy Rooney himself. It was shocking to think that the gentle face and tender voice that we associate with that sweet little man could be some how messed up in this kooky case. How could the author of such notable works as "A few Minutes with Andy Rooney," "More By Andy Rooney," and "Sincerely, Andy Rooney," commit a crime of such perversity?? It just didn't add up. Nonetheless, the search for Andy began in earnest. It was quickly determined that for all intents and purposes, Andy Rooney WAS missing. According to the producers of "60 Minutes", Andy was on a sabbatical. Unfortunately no one could locate him. Andy remained on the lam, and the vicious attacks continued.

Up until about a month ago I was not directly involved with this baffling mystery. I had been following what had been dubbed as "The Hunt for Andy Rooney" mostly on TV. Without a doubt it was a case that intrigued many citizens of this fair city. We all had been walking around like scared little rabbits, fearful of every dark corner and alleyway. We had been reduced to a society that was distrustful of old men with bushy eyebrows...it truly had become a sad state of affairs. It had gotten to the point where you could feel the tension rise every time a man fitting Andy's description entered a room. Old, bushy eyebrowed men were being needlessly persecuted everywhere. I could hardly even look at my own Grandfather without feeling a panicky feeling in deep in the recesses of my chest. It wasn't until this horrible monster victimized a close friend of mine that I began to work closely with the NYPD and the FBI in an effort to catch the criminal.

Gina Perino was a minor celebrity in the big apple, a media darling if you will. She hailed from one of the city's wealthiest families. Famous for her ostentatious wardrobe and outlandish dancing, she frequently swanned about the city with a large posse of fabulous people, causing no trouble, but entertaining those who were fortunate enough to be in her presence. I was lucky enough to be one of those people. She called me one night sounding very distressed, and begged me to come over as soon as possible. When her butler showed me to her study, she was hysterically crying. I knew what was wrong just by looking into her eyes. Andy had gotten to her. She hired me immediately to personally represent her. From that day forward it became my sole mission in life to bring Andy to justice.

This brings us to this Monday when I received Beth's call. Not only had Andy struck again, he had struck GINA again. THIS was unprecedented. The attacks had become more and more frequent, but he had yet to repeat a victim. According to reports, Gina had been found by a policeman in the back of a large Uhaul truck and had been taken immediately to a hospital. He found her sitting in the back of the truck, rather leisurely reading a People Weekly magazine. She had apparently summoned him there via cell phone. Beth told me that she was refusing to talk to the police until I had arrived at her side. When I got to the hospital I was told that she had barricaded herself in a private suite of rooms and was being heavily guarded. I was led there by an extremely large policeman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Andre the Giant (may he rest in peace.) The look of horror on her face was almost too much for me to take. I knew though that I had to remain cool and collected in order to take in and process all the evidence. Little did I know we were all in for the shock of our lives.

Unbeknownst to me, Gina had been doing a little private investigating of her own, and had tracked down a man whom she thought might be hiding Andy in his apartment. She took a deep breath and began to solemnly account an incredibly upsetting and tragic tale. Upon her arrival at the aforementioned apartment, she was roughly pushed from behind into a dark hallway. A large brawl quickly ensued. Well, actually, a rather small girlish brawl quickly ensued. There was a lot of hair pulling, scratching, bitch slapping, and the like. Mid-slap she realized that the person she was fighting appeared to be Andy Rooney. In a desperate attempt to fight him off, she grabbed hold of one of his excessively bushy eyebrows. Instead of inflicting hair-pulling pain on her attacker, much to her surprise, she found herself holding in her hand a rubber Andy Rooney mask. She glanced up at her assailant, and realized in horror that the person she was sparring with was NOT in fact Andy Rooney. She was staring directly into the face of Danny Pintauro, former child star of Who's the Boss. (I must digress for a moment, as it was at this point that I lost my cool. At one time in my life I was very close to Danny. We met in the spring of 1990 in Washington DC at the Respecteen National Youth Convention. He was the celebrity guest and I quickly became smitten. We enjoyed an abbreviated but passionate romance. Okay, maybe not passionate per se, but we did spend one glorious afternoon at the Georgetown Mall, walking the near empty corridors together…his father following close behind in a red leather “Who’s the Boss Jacket.”)

After I recovered from the initial shock of the news, Gina bravely continued on with her story. When she discovered that her foe was a tiny little man who in all likelihood could be defeated in any sort of physical altercation, all the fear left her body and she began laughing. Unfortunately the laughter and mockery really pissed off little Danny P., and he began to chase her. The chase didn't last very long as Gina was quite a bit faster than he was. She ran nimbly down the street while he clumsily followed. She noticed an open Uhaul truck and quickly ducked inside, closed the door, and sat quietly in hopes that she had lost him. Not surprisingly, she had easily outrun him and was safe and sound. Unfortunately the door was locked, and she found herself held captive by the very Uhaul truck that had provided her sanctuary. She quickly called the police on her cell phone tried to explain what had happened. Fortunately she had the People Weekly magazine in her bag to help pass the time, as it took the police some time to find her.

Danny Pintauro was found very quickly. After he lost Gina in the "big chase,” he went on a crime spree of sorts, unabashedly attempting to bite and chew the fingers of everyone he ran across. Robbed of the anonymity that the Andy Rooney mask provided, the police had no trouble locating him. A media firestorm quickly erupted and brought on the trial of the year. Though there was much speculation, the motivation behind these senseless attacks was never made clear to the general public. Danny is currently serving 3 months in a minimum-security psychiatric ward. It was Gina's testimony that put him away. Andy Rooney was located a week later. He was found at a private Swiss hospital recovering from a facelift. He has since decided not to sue Danny for defamation of character.