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Archive for January, 2009

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.

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