The Killing Kompany Diaries   

The Killer KOed

Detective Dorsey fired his gun at my chest.
Not an unwarranted action on his part considering
I had just pulled a very large pistol from behind
back and pointed it at Detective Dorsey
and fired first.

I had hidden the weapon by tucking it
into my pants
which were a bit larger than the day I had purchased them.

The tailors at TODAY'S MAN had done a swell job
with two really nice suits I had ordered
when I was a photo double for Danny Aiello.

{I was wearing my navy blue number.}

I have lost a some tonnage in the last few weeks
so the pants felt a bit large.

The action of trying to take the detective's life
in front of 125 witnesses
seated within the Lexington Room
at the Hyatt Regency
in Princeton, New Jersey
was made more difficult than your usual attempted homicide
not only by the oversized pants
in addition
I had two women trying to hold me in place
by virtue of having their arms wrapped around my legs.

The girlfriends of the man I had slain only minutes before
had prevented my escape
by tastefully grabbing a leg apiece
and rendering my escape through the service entrance

The bimbo/slut/moron who had given the best two weeks of her life
to the fabulously wealthy and demented Ben D. Rules
was entwined around my left leg
and the
sex crazed/love slave/lounge singer
his other lover-mistress
was clutching the ankle of my right leg.

It was an awkward moment for all of us.

I always aim directly at the Detective's chest.
And since he is usually less than twenty feet away
I must conclude either I am the most consistently
worst shooter in the known world
his chest is made of Teflon.

Sometimes I even afford myself a second shot
at the detective.

Nothing seems to work, however...
the net result is always
the same.

He just calmly stands there
and plugs me

even as I am falling down.

which brings me to my next point...

Having released my appenditures
at the moment the gunfire began
the two woman
bolted in opposite directions

freeing me up
to acquire the aforementioned projectiles
delivered at the behest of said detective.

I began my own Dance of Death
which consisted of two steps back
and a collapse.

What was different

and this is the nature of live performances
and something Danny Aiello may have forgotten

is that
shit happens...
especially when you least expect it.

As I began my dance

for no apparent reason
beyond the usual reception of a fusillade of projectiles

I found my left toe pointed in the direction
of the ceiling?

"This was perplexing...?"
I thought to myself.

This was an activity I had NOT intended.

As my leg continued to rise up to greet the ceiling
and my back moved down to greet the floor

my head introduced itself
to the lower portion of the door jamb
of the service entrance.

Much later
I was asked if I recognized
any of the stars I saw at that moment.

I replied I had not
as I pressed the towel containing ice cubes
to the back of my head.

But I am getting ahead
the story...

Having saved the day
I overheard
Detective Dorsey congratulate himself
in front of the 125 patrons
as I lay on the floor
wondering how my right leg
had gotten tangled up with the sound system?
[how indeed...]

Though I could not actually see myself
I imagined I had the appearance
of a tastefully laid out bad guy
on the floor
of the tastefully decorated
Lexington Room
of the Hyatt Regency Hotel
Princeton, New Jersey...
with one leg draped over the sound system
my arm projecting through the service entrance door
the weapon lying on the floor
my head propped against the door jamb
and my face
having the expression of macabre disbelief.

In other words: "I looked great."

The fact I had received endodontic surgery
24 hours earlier
and was performing with three stitches in my mouth
along with a healthy dose of penicillin
floating in my bloodstream
to prevent further infection
only added
to my recalcitrant discomfort for the next few moments...

And as the cast was introduced
I picked myself off the floor
and headed out the service entrance
in search of
ice cubes
foregoing the traditional applause, congratulations
and obligatory self effacement.

Bad Theatre Training.

Next Diary Entry

Money? Yes. People kill for Money.

Next Diary Entry

[how indeed...]
It was slowly and carefully explained to me later
as we drove along the darkened New Jersey Turnpike
back to the relative safety of Manhattan

I had probably stepped off the tasteful wooden dance floor
and onto a slightly lower carpeted area
the moment I began my tangled tango of demise.

This would have accounted
for the sensation of unwarranted exuberance
on the part of my left foot
as it tried mightily to reach the ceiling
Martha Graham-like
in my final resting place...

Back to the story...