“Oh my God!” thought David Elder as he sat in his purloined office at the Chelsea Hotel. “My strategy of befriending the members of the Chelsea community doesn’t seem to be panning out.” Elder 
had just tuned in to the blog to see that we had reported on his recent attempt to (in our humble opinion) defraud his stepfather, author Piri Thomas, of $1.2 million. “The old man will be dead in a couple of years anyway,” Elder thought indignantly. “What the hell does he need money for!?”
But Elder was not without a conscience, and soon enough, the enormity of his foul deed overwhelming his tiny brain, he sunk into self pity and wallowed around there for awhile. “Born and Druckier said they’d make me a billionaire real estate tycoon!” he whined aloud. “They didn’t say that nobody would like me!”
But Elder was quick to rally his defenses. He had been watching The Godfather the night before, and all at once a brilliant idea to get sympathy struck him like a bolt out of the blue. He ran next door to the El Quijote, all the way through the dining room and into the kitchen, where he began to root around in the trash can behind the dishwashing machine. Sorting through the slimy mess, with a whoop of triumph he soon extracted his prize.
The mailman, who arrived the next day, was less than enthused. As he pulled the soggy, dripping, poorly wrapped package from his mailbag and handed it across the front desk, the mailman, who was perhaps Italian, or who had at least watched the movie more closely, declared, “It’s supposed to be a raw fish, you meathead! Not a half-eaten cooked one with a bunch of sauce and gravy all over it! And Mama Mia! Put it in a plastic bag or something so it doesn’t get all over the other mail!”
Elder ignored the unprovoked film criticism. “Ooooh, a package for me!” he exclaimed, trying his best to act surprised. “How wonderful! What could it be?”
As he unwrapped it, or rather as it fell apart in his hands, he thrust it out at arms length and grabbed his heart. “Holy Mackerel!!!” he cried in mock terror. “Mercy me! The Saints preserve us!”
Bearing the reeking, sopping mess before him, Elder ran out from behind the desk, green beans and a stray potato skin trailing off onto the carpet. “Stanley, Stanley!” he cried. “Look, look! Those evil Bohemian mobsters sent me a fish in the mail!”
“That’s terrible, David,” said Stanley, characteristically unconcerned. “Why don’t you go out on the street and get some fresh dog poop and put it in front of your door as well. That’ll really show ’em!”
EXTRA:
In related news, Born and Druckier are laughing their asses off because they were able to get this stooge to take the heat off of them while they work on more important matters—like how to throw us all out into the street and chop up the rooms into cookie-cutter boxes to maximize floor space. -- Ed Hamilton
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