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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.

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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…]

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