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Chapter 2

Requiem for an Urkel

Carl Winslow was never one to take long showers. Then again, Carl Winslow had never been covered in this much dirt and filth. The water hit his black skin, each droplet ricocheting its way down until it swirled into the drainpipe and out of sight. Unfortunately, the guilt of his cold blooded killing could not be gotten rid of quite so easily. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Carl twisted the knobs and stepped out of the tub. He couldn’t squander anymore time trying to clean his body and his conscience. Today, he had two funerals to attend.

Steve Urkel’s body lay motionless on the velvety inside of the coffin, his comically large glasses gently resting on his face. They covered the wound from the slug that Carl had fired into his brain just 4 days before. When it was Carl’s turn to address the deceased nerd, he could only briefly glance at Steve’s body before he had to look away, as he was overtaken by a vomitous urge. The young man he had killed was not the same one that would soon be eulogized by his daughter. The young man he had killed was a prowler, a reprobate and a fraud. The young man he had killed was Steffon Urkelle, yet it was Steve Urkel whose heart would no longer beat, and whose murder Carl had to live with.

Laura’s eulogy was beautiful, truthful and poetic, and she spoke of Steve’s numerous misadventures with the Winslow family. She spoke of the time that he drove his car through the Winslow family house; she spoke of the time that Steve befriended an orangutan and got it to kiss Carl on the lips; she spoke of the time when at a wild house party, Steve let loose and taught everybody how to “do the Urkel.” She even spoke of the time when she enlisted Steve to help her with her science project, only to have him accidentally make an atomic bomb and completely blow Chicago off the map, and how she later woke up to realize that it was all just a weird dream. With each memory of Steve that Laura recounted, Carl winced in agony. Steve was such a lovable character, how could he have shot him dead in the street?

That night, Carl made violent love to his wife. Ever since the incident, Carl had ceased to feel human, to feel like a man, and he thought that intercourse with his wife would cure him of this. But it was a completely empty gesture, each thrust meaningless, each moan less a cry of exstacy and more a cry for help, and Harriette knew this. Carl knew that his wife could tell that he wasn’t right, but she could never know that he was responsible for Steve’s death, even though she deplored his alterego, Steffon, just as much as Carl. She could never know that he was a murderer.

The next day at work, things got complicated. Steffon’s murder, which had earlier been chalked up to a senseless, unsolvable drug killing, had been reopened. On the big board where the names of all of Chicago’s murder victims were written, so to were the names of the detectives assigned to each case. Next to Urkel’s, the name written in black sharpie was Carl Winslow. It would be Carl’s first case as a detective.

It would probably be his last.

Time To Get My Resolution On!

Alright people, I realize that it has been forever and a day since I’ve last blogged (literally) and I want to apologize from the bottom of my heart. I could come up with a whole litany of excuses as to why I haven’t typed any words in this word box thingy for the better part of three months, but most of them would probably be untrue and unconvincing, so what’s the point of even trying to come up with any? I’ll just make amends by posting this monster list of 69 New-fuckin’-Year’s resolutions for you’ll to chew on. How many other blogs out there in the cyberworld would provide you with this many resolutions, goals, hopes, dreams and pie-in-the-sky aspirations for 2009? That’s right, none of them would. Just me. So here you are, faithful readers, and here’s hoping to considerably more blog entries courtesy of The Crain Train in 2009.

69 New Year’s Resolutions For The Year of Our Lord, 2009 A.D.

1. Sleep in later. No more of this getting up at the crack-of-dawn nonsense. It’s not healthy.

2. Add a couple of new restaurants to my fast food lunch rotation. I’d like to see myself eating less Subway and a little more Wendy’s this year.

3. Oh, and some more Pollo Feliz.

4. Shave my beard with an actual razor that has an actual blade at least once without drawing blood and/or crying afterwards.

5. Break the land speed record…for gettin’ in a chick’s pants!

6. Adopt a Palestinian baby and an Israeli baby. Name them Pal and Izzy, respectively.

7. Come up with a new way to resolve long standing geo-political conflicts with some sort of competition involving babies.

8. Finally take that trip to Nigeria that I’ve been planning for the past few years.

9. Invent a Guinness Book of World Records video game.

10. Change my shoelace tying procedure from “over, under, around and through” to “over, under, in and out.”

11. Try to think of the name of the Nickelodeon game show that Mike O’Malley hosted before “Guts.” You know, the one with picto-grams and stuff.

12. Start smoking and then finally quit (and for real this time )

13. Get through at least one article about the AIDS crisis in sub-Saharan Africa without laughing hysterically.

14. Win an old school, one on one, no holds barred, east-side vs west-side rap battle.

15. Discover 40 species of microscopic, algae-dwelling proto plankton.

16. And kill them.

17. Finish at least 2 New York Times crossword puzzles each week.

18. Figure out a way to steal my neighbor’s issues of The New York Times.

19. Finally get out into my workshop and finish the dang entertainment center that the old lady’s been nagging me about.
20. Become a best selling author by learning how to fly-fish and then writing a humorous, anecdotal memoir about how learning to fly-fish is a metaphor for life.

21. Grow eight inches.

22. Write a kid’s movie about talking animals that live on the prehistoric super continent of Pangea.

23. Exercise for 45 minutes everyday after work, completely naked except for wristbands.

24. Put aside $20 from each paycheck to donate to the Ku Klux Klan.

25. Stop peeing in the shower, especially when I’m not taking one.

26. Start dressing in something nicer than just t-shirts and jeans when stalking high school girls.

27. Try harder to say “dork” instead of “dick,” because it sounds funnier.

28. Also “porno” instead of “porn.”

29. Clean out my closet, sell all the stuff that I don’t need or haven’t used for a few years and donate the money to the Ku Klux Klan.

30. Take a speed reading course and read the complete works of William Shakespeare in 25 minutes.

31. Cast an informed and well researched vote in this year’s U.S. Presidential election.

32. Train for the Boston Marathon and run in it while completely drunk.

33. Climb on top of the tallest building in the city and do a back flip off of it.

34. Spend about 5 minutes each night before I go to bed to pray for $40,000 and the power of flight.

35. Submit an entry for the next “Chicken Soup For the Christian Grandmother’s Soul.”

36. Go number 1 in twelve different states.

37. Go number 2 in six different ones.

38. Oh, and some more Del Taco. That stuff is pretty tasty (See #2.)

39. Start researching my family history and genealogy so I can be positively sure that I don’t have a drop of dirty, Lithuanian blood.

40. Enroll in a few night school classes at the community college…or just go on a sorority house panty raid.

41. Finish filling out all the necessary paperwork to legally change my name to Matty B. Exceptional.

42. Buy the lake house that I’ve always wanted and fill it with cocaine and tranny hookers.

43. Coach a basketball team of underprivileged, dyslexic, paraplegic middle school kids.

44. Bone down with each of their mothers.

45. Try to become the first person from Missouri to win the Nobel Prize…for gettin’ in a chick’s pants!

46. During a two week span, eat nothing but Hostess brand Chocolate Pudding Pies.

47. Get my ride “pimped,” my truck “tricked” and my house “flipped.”

48. Do some science experiments and see if I can’t find a cure for either rabies or scabies.

49. Stop what I’m doing whenever I see a school bus hurtling down the street out of control and save all the children that aren’t ugly.

50. Bone down with each of their mothers.

51. Overcome my debilitating speech impediment and record a Grammy winning duet with Chingy.

52. Try to get out of the house a little more often so I can go on a worldwide search for a lamp containing a sexy genie.

53. Adopt a dog from a Greyhound rescue service, dress it up in a tiny dog tuxedo and make it be my butler.

54. Make more of an effort to get involved in hilarious japery and/or tomfoolery.

55. Organize a local group of political activists to get all those damn Whigs and Free Masons out of city council.

56. Take a much needed break from my job as a trucker, make amends with my estranged son and win the national arm wrestling championship.

57. Stop neglecting my aging grandmother so I can horn in on some sweet inheritance action.

58. Bone down with her Hispanic nurse.
59. Work my way up the National Scrabble rankings, make it all the way to the finals and then play the word “BONEDOG.”

60. Re-watch Jurassic Park 2. Maybe it’s not as bad as I remember.

61. Start saving some money for retirement, put a down payment on a nice home and settle down with one of those San Diego Charger cheerleaders that I’ve been seeing on the TV.

62. Using only elbow grease, hard work and old fashioned American ingenuity, try and find a way to get drunk faster.

63. Rescue a chimpanzee from a zoo and train him to be a Kentucky Derby caliber jockey.

64. Dust off the old cam-corder and try to get myself on “America’s Funniest People.”

65. Actually take a stance for once in my life and speak out against the senseless genocide currently going on in Rwanda.

66. Become left-handed.

67. That episode of “Walker Texas Ranger,” where Walker needs to thwart a terrorist attack so he visits a kooky old inventor and then uses a jet pack to get to the top of a roof, I want to do that.

68. Get myself into good enough shape to make it onto a major league baseball team and then set the single-season record for bunts.

69. Blog more

Folks, I read it in the latest issue of J-14 that sometimes it’s okay to forget about other people’s feelings for a little while and to just let out your claws, be a bit of a bitch and vent about what’s a-peevin’ ya. Some of my bloggin buddies have done this before, making people frozen and even Joel Rolling them. Now, I’d like to follow in their footsteps by banishing a few things all the way to the back of The Crain Train and into my caboose. I’m not really a train expert, so I’m not sure if it is entirely accurate to put things that I think are bad and unwanted in the caboose. Maybe the caboose is actually a pretty desireable place to be, where only the best and the brightest are allowed to hob-nob with eachother whilest riding the rails. I really don’t know. But the bottom line is that if I’m driving the train, there are a definitely a few things that I want as far away from me as possible, and that’s why they’re going in the caboose. The other bottom line is that “caboose” is a funny word.

But enough chit-chat, let’s find out what’s in The Crain Train’s Caboose!

The Person(s) Who Bought My Nintendo Entertainment System (NES)

A few years ago I made one of the worst and least thought out decisions that I ever made in my life. After making the life-choice to pick up and move away from the comfort of my familiar midwestern haunt, I felt it was abosolutely necessary that I get rid of any un-needed wares as well as amass the greatest some of money that I possibly could. “What better way to do this than to sell some of my personal belongings on the internet?”, I hastally and stupidly thought. My collection of NES games, while not enormous, was definitely one that could fetch a pretty penny on the ebays. ‘Twas a collection peppered with Mega Mans, sprinkled with Tetris-es (Tetri?), littered with Marios and Zeldas, filled with Duck Tales and Rescue Rangers, and topped of with a delightful helping of Bubble Bobble. I placed the hefty lot on EBAY and over the course of a weekend watch the bidding price rise skyward, nearly reaching a cool 200 bones. And just like that, the auction ended and I was packing up my beloved gaming machine and sending in northward all the way to Canada. I sold it to a freakin’ Canadian! And not even a regular gun-totin’, beer-drinkin’ Canadian, but a native of Quebec. A French Canadian! How could this greedy and heartless Canuck stoop so low as to have bid on a lot of precious retro gaming cargo that was obviously posted for sale by someone not in a normal state of mind? I would almost venture call this heinous act the work of a sick and demented criminal mind, one that has absolutely no regard for importance of nostalgia and innocence of children. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my precious NES, and not a day goes by that I don’t place the blame me not having it on the dirtied hands of the Canadian(s) that are now in possession of it. Until I track you down and take back what is rightfully mine, I am banishing you to the Crain Train’s Caboose!

The Future of TV

Don’t know if ya’ll have heard the news, but TV broadcasting is going all futuristic and digitized next year. As some of you may know, the tube that is currently perched atop a dresser in my cozy, studio apartment has wood paneling on it, i.e. it ain’t gonna be able to play fancy-pants digital channels! Sure, my TV doesn’t go more than 2 minutes without making a loud static sound and cutting in and out repeatedly, usually during the pivitol plays of sporting contests or during the funniest lines of Seinfeld episodes, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t completely love the old girl. I take a lot of pride in owning the very same TV that I used to inconspicuosly sneek peeks of softcore Cinemax porn on more than a decade ago. And now the big-wigs and the TV lobbyists over in Washington want to render my beloved Panesonic completely useless. Damn you straight to hell! And not only that, they also want to hand me a hefty bill in the process. On top of the cost of having to buy a new, flat-screened, high-definitioned, big-assed TV that will probably break down just after the warranty expires, I’m also gonna have to upgrade every other piece of electronic material that I own. My trusty old Toshiba DVD player circa 1998? Nope, can’t use it, the fat-cats say I’ll need a HD compatable “Blue Ray” disc machine. And my trusty cable wire that I use as a crude antenna? Nope, gonna have to by a fancy digital box, a fancy digital remote and some fancy digital channels. When it’s all said and done after the US of A officially makes “the switch,” the Crain Train is going to 1 large in the hole. And it’s for this reason that the future of TV is being commanded straight back into in the Crain Train’s Caboose. Maybe you can get that damned Canuck to plug MY NES into ya!

Well, I’m not sure if all of you were aware of this, but books are AMAZING things! They can expand your mind, take you to far off lands, make you look a lot smarter than you actually are, help to more evenly distribute the weight in your backpack when you are trying to carry one with a computer in it, give you something to set your beer one when you’re too cheap to buy real coasters, and even teach you things for a few minutes until you get completely destracted by the television and forget everything that you just read because odds are you probably weren’t really paying attention anyway. But now, books can do another thing: unite people! It’s become quite the rage now for city and state governments as well as libraries of all sizes to try and get all of their literate constituency to vote on a book and then, (get ready for it,) READ it together! What a brave and noble experiment. Imagine, a whole city immersed in the taut, air-craft carrier themed dramas of Clive Cussler. Or a whole office not talking about assinine things they watched on the television while standing around the water cooler, but instead discussing the bestselling memoir of a young college student struggling with an eating disorder who will six months later appear on “Tyra” and admit to making it all up. Or even imagine how grand it will be when an entire state buys a copy of Janet Evanovich’s newest masterpiece and in turn buys Janet Evanovich a fifth home. Even my great state has dipped it’s proverbial paws into the proverbial kettle and introduced the One Book AZ. I voted for The Oatman Massacre!

Well, folks, I think that this is just the just the thing for this here blog, so I’ve decided to jump on board (or jump on the “tracks” as it is.) What better way to bring my legion of readers together by letting them all vote on a book and then promptly forget about because they want to look up some new porno?

So I welcome all of you to keep reading and help me decide which book we will all be devouring in “The Crain Train’s Reading Lounge”. I’ve picked out four absolutely delicous pieces of literature which cover the entire gamut, from non-fiction all the way to fiction (ok, not really that big of a gamut.) Anyways, here are the nominees:

1. Why Cat’s Paint

Talk about expanding your mind, prepared to get completely freaked the F out after reading just a few pages of this excellent analysis of the feline asthetic. Busch and Silver, the authors of this groundbreaking tome, provide plenty of pictures and plenty of fantastic insight into not only why cats paint, but how damn cute and funny it is to see a bunch of cats with paing all over their paws. How did they open up those cans of paint!? B. and S. even go as far as to introduce the reader to the 10 most influencial cat artists, and you would be hard pressed to find a more complete collection of paint hastilly scrawled across a refridgerator. Some may consider this book a little to “artsy” or “fartsy” or “complete bullshit” for their taste, but I truely believe that the question of “Why cats paint?” is one of the most important issues facing this world today. And did I mention the litterbox art?

2. The Ski Mask Way

The only novel on this list is sure to be an absoltute delightful read for any lover of American prose. A few years ago, 50 Cent decided to get in the big money game of “urban fiction,” and this novel is one of the absolute best entries in the great poet’s “G-Unit” book series. It tells the chilling and incredibly relatable tale of Seven, an ex-con just out of the clink and facing the harsh reality of having to choose between getting back in the game or living the life of a square. Follow along as Seven shoots, steals, impregnates, uses realistically foul language and talks about Scarface. And don’t think that the excellent narrative of the book is the only reason to read this; nope, the commonplace mis-spellings, the bizarre story structure and seemingly complete disregard for tense and word usage may cause you to question the very notion of editing. As you read The Ski Mask Way, you may just find yourself asking, “Who’s really wearing the mask?” And obviously the answer to that question would be the book’s main character.

3. Black Belt Patriotism

The second non-fiction entry of this list, and I can’t think of a more fitting book to be reading during these harsh economic and politically unstable times. No one can deny that this great nation is way up in the crapper right now, and it seems to me that it is our duty as Americans to listen to Mr. Norris’ suggestions of how we can fix our country’s problems (I’m guessing by punching and kicking things really hard) and how we may just be able to get this land back into the hands of the people by doing things the “Chuck Norris way.” The Texas Ranger campaigned for Mike Huckabee this spring, so I think we can all be quite confident that his stances, veiwpoints and suggestions are that of a sane and rational human being. And even if they aren’t, it’s fucking Chuck Norris in a karate stance on the top of some mountain or something. It’s gonna be complete gold!

4. Complete Idiot’s Guide to Slam Poetry

If any of you readers want to learn a fun and exciting new skill, one that will almost certainly get you “snapped” at in unison, then you may want to consider voting for this book. The fast and crazy world of Slam Poetry (bam! slam!) isn’t for all walks of life, but I’m pretty sure that this bald guy on the cover will be able to guide you through all of the twist and turns and have you performing in front of 12 people in a coffee shop in no time. As I mentioned earlier (I think, I can’t really recall because this post is redonkulously long) books have the power to teach you stuff, and what a fantastic skill Slam Poetry would be to learn. Imagine showing off your new skills at all your family gatherings. “I am AFRICA! SLAM!” Fantastic.

Well, that’s it folks, thems are your choices. What will we all be reading this month? It’s in your hands. And by that I mean make a few comments in the designated “comment” section below and then don’t ever mention it again. Lord knows that I wont.

June 30th, 1991

(Green Hill Zone Act II)

Dear Diary,

It’s been 3 days now since I first entered this “zone” of lush hills and emerald-colored forests and I still as of yet know not why I am here or even how I came to be placed upon this perilous isle.  The dangers that I haved encountered here have been quite vexing and of a nature that a simple hedgehog like myself could not have dreamed of in even one thousand lifetimes.   Hovering mechanical dragonflies, crab-like robots and even computer programmed primates are all commonplace in this bizzarre land.  And while they have proven to be no real match for my blazing speed or my nimble “spin-dashing,” I fear that challenges of a much more dangerous nature lay ahead of me, although at this point there is quite little that I can be certain of.

Along the way I have inadvertantly managed to liberate several birds, squirrels and other tiny critters who were entombed in the aforementioned mechanical baddies and I have heard many utter the name of “Doctor Robotnik.”  As far as if the person that they speak of is a benevolent healer or a mad genius, I do not know, and I dare not venture a guess at this stage of the game.  But I have made it a goal to someday meet this Doctor, and with some luck he may be able to answer my quandries and perhaps aide in my escape of this strange land, although only time will tell.

Perhaps this Doctor Robotnik values the gold rings that I have collected over the past few days, and maybe he will trade me his knowledge for these tangible treasures?  I would love to write more of this zone’s perplezxing geograpic features, such as it’s pieces of giant looping terrain, it’s platforms that seem to be floating back and forth on thier own free will and even the rocks with springing devices affixed to them.  But, alas, the sun is waning and I shant leave myself unsheltered through the night.  Perhaps, God-willing, I will survive long enough to transcribe my adventures in this crudely made logbook once again.

Godspeed,

S.the H.

A Football Watcher’s Lament

Folks, I’m just gonna go ahead and give it to ya’ll straight-up: there is just about nothing in the world better than spending a lazy Sunday afternoon chillaxin’ on the old sof’ and wasting the whole day away watching the bright and shining stars of the NFL do their thang. Add about a dozen or so frosty cans of easy drinkin’ Busch beer to the mix and you’ve damn near put me up with the angels in heaven. And this is especially true for me right now because I’m too cheap to pay Cox Cable any of my hard earned money, so the fact that these blessed events are beamed into my living room on 2 of the 4 fuzzy chanels that I get makes it that much sweeter. Yet with all the good that I speak of, there is one teensy drawback to spending the whold day glued to a TV set that happens to be tuned in to CBS:

For fuck’s sake, if I have to see another damn advertisement for “Two And a Half Men,” I swear I’m gonna go on a violent stabbing spree that will not end until the blood of at least thirty innocent citizens washes through the streets of midtown Tucson. And it doesn’t stop with 2AAHM (as they refer to it on the blogs.) There’s ‘The Mentalist.” Man, I really like to see how a twice-embarrased Eagles’ defense will hold up against the balanced offensive attack of the Steelers, so therefore I must surely be ecstatic about series premier of “The Mentalist.” Oh my gosh, the Dolphins are actually beating the Patriots, in New England no less, and Oh My Gosh, the “NICS” team is breaking up! Please, continue to show me an ad explaining how devestating it is that the folks of NICS are breaking up everytime you cut to a commercial (witch is apparently at every stoppage of play, you bastards.)

And the barrage of CBS programming ads isn’t even the end of it. What’s even worse are the numerous attempts at in-game advertising, where the commentators are forced to plug their chanel’s dramatic and comic offerings during the freakin’ games. I know good and well that Jim Nantz has a million poetic nuggets about football that he would rather be spouting instead of telling us that “CSI: Miami” is America’s favorite thing to zone out to in the evening, but tell us he must and groan I will. Oh man, there’s an in-game plug for “The Mentalist,” and then they cut to a shot of the Patriots’ head coach. Brilliant! And commentators, please for the love of God, don’t tell me your personal opinions about whatever shit show your broadcasting parter was forced to plug. Dan Dierdorf, your a good ex-football player and a crappy analyst, I don’t care that you think that “How I Met Your Mother” is “well written.” Let’s keep it about football, shall we?

Ugh, it’s like they are trying to make it as hard and as painful as it can possibly be to just veg out, nurse a hangover and enjoy a game of compettitive, American football. And don’t think that just because I’m picking on CBS that they are the only ones to blame. Fox, you suck too.

But with all my bitching, there is definitely something to like about watching football on network TV for 10 straight hours. I’m refering of course to Howard Long:

Howie

Yes, it is true that his musings on football are asinine, his playful joking with his pregame show co-host seems awkward and forced, and his demenor reeks of unabashed conservatism; but damn if that man can’t sell the shit out of Big Ass Trucks. The commercials where he is all up in his Big Ass Ford Truck and goads other dudes in slightly smaller trucks to do bold and manly things are absolutely hilarious. God bless you, Howie. Keep on goading those dudes on and I’ll keep on watching.

Chapter 1

Wild in the Streets

Carl Winslow was damn good police. Not a single man in the Chicago P.D. would ever dare to say otherwise. Carl Winslow was damn good on his best days and damn good even on his worst days. And having to put three rounds into a twenty year-old gangbanger, two of them in the chest and one in the head, shooting him dead right there on the street, would certainly put today in the category of one of his “worst days.” Carl had killed two men before today; one, a child molester who lunged at him with a knife while in custody; another, a man who hopped on a bus and stabbed three old ladies and then threatened to keep doing it until someone put him down. But this one was different. This one was the exact same age as his son, Eddie. This one might as well of also shot Carl in the chest twice and in the head once. This one could just about make a man quit the force.

This one was Steffon Urkelle, the alter-ego of his annoying neighbor, Steve.

Carl took a long drag off of his cigarette and tried to unwind in his living room easy chair. The dinner that his wife Harriette had prepared for him, a feast of collared greens and pigs feet, a feast that normally filled him with about as much pleasure as anything in the world could, was left on the dining room table completely uneaten and getting cold and rotten. Carl never thought a day would go by in which he wouldn’t want to eat one of his wife’s dinners, but the guilt that festered deep inside of him brought on by his deplorable act made it impossible for him to eat. Impossible for him to eat or to think straight or to love or to even want to live.

A deplorable act. That’s what was but it would never be officially described as so. To the Chicago Police department, to the men on the force, to the city courts and to everyone that would ever read about it in the newspaper page it will be considered a heroic act by a heroic poblic servant; a good deed carried out by a trusted law officer in danger, attempting to make the city streets just that much safer for the 5 million residents that walked them everyday.

But it was a crime of passion. Steffon had violated his daughter Laura’s body repeatedly and Carl knew this and for this reason Carl could not allow Steffon to live. Steve was an annoying kid with a piercing voice, and with a knack for almost weekly destruction, hijinks and japery, usually at Carl’s expense. His acts could drive a man to the absolute brink of sanity; but they could not drive a man to kill. Yet when Steve built that machine and transformed himself into the suave, debonair, lecherous, malicious and philandering Steffon, things changed. When Steffon tricked and decieved his way into his daughter’s life, things changed. When Steffon placed his manhood inside Laura Winslow’s body on the night of Saturday, November 19th, things fucking changed. And when Carl Winslow shot Steffon dead in cold blood the next morning and then altered the scene of the crime to make it disappear into one of Chicago’s thousands of drug-related killings, things changed forever.

But to Carl Winslow, there is only one thing that matters.

Family matters.

[to be continued…]