You probably don't care about Bernadette Glomski, you probably don't care one bit. But I care, I care about Bernadette Glomski. Because she was murdered up the street from my house. Murdered dead, I tell you. Her soul left her body like bubbles leaving a 7-Up*. And then, 16 months later, John Alexander was murdered right there up the block from me where Bernadette Glomski got the axe. But never fear. The boys and girls in blue, Chicago blue, have found the culprit that slaughtered poor Bernadette Glomski like she was flesh and blood that without breath turns to stinking cold dead meat. You'll never guess who it was! You'll never guess because you've never heard of Bernadette Glomski or John Alexander before, so surely you've never heard of John Skyblue Antone.
And now we all have to ask ourselves, how can a person with a middle name of Skyblue be a murderer? Shouldn't he be a landscaper or forest ranger or cowboy? I mean if someone named John Skyblue Antone can be a killer, well then, anybody can be a killer. Jane Grassgreen Murphy could be a killer. Hank Cloudwhite Johnson could be a killer. Margaret Sandbeige Schwartz could be a killer. Tom Puddlebrown MacSwain could be a killer. We all could be killers. All of us could be killers. But not poor Bernadette Glomski. She lost her chance to be a killer and now she's dead. Completely dead and unable to kill. Bernadette Glomski. Completely dead and almost forgotten, except by me, who never knew she existed until John Skyblue Antone killed her dead right up the block from me in cold Chicago. Such is the stuff of history. Mostly stuff we'll never hear about. Just like you never heard about poor Bernadette Glomski, who's probably rested in peace enough by now, but finds it impossible to get up.
*Thanks Father Guido
(Thanks to Duffy the dog for walking by my side each time I go by Bernadette Glomski’s used-to-be-house.)