The Midnight Niggler

In some ways, we all knew McD was The Midnight Niggler. From the very first incident in Kansas ... we knew.

I was eating breakfast and watching the Katie Couric with an Asian whore the morning after that first niggle went down: three left for dead in a soybean field on the edge of a KC suburb. Katie (of course) reported it with grace and aplomb, but I knew this was no good. McDougal was behind it, I could feel it in my guts. And so could she.

I called him like nothing was up. "Yo D, how's it hanging?" I mustered.

"I'm the Midnight Niggler," he said and hung up.

The next three niggles were in Oregon and Idaho, respectively. I drove in vain across half the goddamn country trying to catch McDougal and put a stop to it all.

Who was I kidding? Thirty six hours and 14 states into my quest, I was spent. Shot. Wasted. I pulled into Coueur d'Alene and checked into a motor hotel, showered, and settled in to bed with The Bible and wept through Leviticus.

Few hours later, I get a call from a weeping Senator Biden. McDougal, he tells me, framed a parish priest in Tampa, flew to Belize and shroomed his way to The Fractal Could Castle.

I see McDougal a couple times a year since then. We never speak of the niggling. Really, we don't speak at all.