A Rather Disturbing Discovery

As Jeff mentioned last post:

"... the communiques came in the form of threats, either via phone or on notes hand-delivered to our mailbox. We never really took them seriously, believing them to merely be the diseased ramblings of a messed-up mind. That is, until he started to get serious, personal and dangerous."

Well ... sort of. 

The phone calls? We blew them off as pranks. Because that's what they were ... poor ones, too. They weren't the least bit serious. (And, if memory serves, Jeff even used one as a headquarters answering machine message once.)

But the notes were a different matter all together.

They began arriving more frequently at the Unbelieva-base ... and annoyingly so. It came to the point of our Unbelieva-base mail boy Kip alerting us to their voluminousness:

"Hey guys? We got 34 letters and postcards from Bernie this week. The Stiletto Flats post office is starting to complain they're working too hard and want us to nip this in the bud ..."

Things were unusually quiet on the ne'er-do-well front so we decided to do some digging on Bernie.

Most of what we discovered on the guy was fluff. Stuff and nonsense. The blather of a disgruntled, whiny, self-absorbed little peon who thinks he hadn't gotten his due in life. 

But ... there was one thing we found that got us to sit up straight in our chairs.

An association.

A disturbing association.

A disturbing association with a known deviant.

Scott Thompson.

Better known as ...

... Carrot Top.

Clark will fill you in ...

The Case Of The Gingervator

Back in the day there was a young boy with ginger hair that we Unbelievables became acquainted with through the magazine photoshoots and catalogue modelling jobs we had. His name was Bernie Bigyott, the son of wealthy banker Bernard Bigyott Sr. and his wife Iona. He was jealous of our good looks and our style, grace and elan, not to mention our success with the ladies. He blamed it on people not understanding him, but we all knew it was because he was a strange-looking redheaded kid.

I mean, what's with that weird facial expression? I know he's meant to be licking his lips, but it looks like he's trying to use his tongue to pick boogers. Really.

Things didn't improve when he got older. His Bacardi advert was to be his last. The decision to grow a 'tache may have been his undoing.

Holy Hell.

Well, he blamed it on us, of course. we were still getting plenty of offers when they were drying up for him. And all this became a little too much to bear. He sank deeper into depression and finally snapped, becoming a bitter and twisted individual hell-bent on revenge... on us. Bernie renamed himself the Gingervator (in homage to his early work, see above) and retreated Unabomber-style to a remote location where he was at liberty to plot and scheme 24/7. 

Suffice it to say, Bernie "The Gingervator" Bigyott was disowned by his family and only very occasionally did anyone hear from him. it was usually us, and the communiques came in the form of threats, either via phone or on notes hand-delivered to our mailbox. We never really took them seriously, believing them to merely be the diseased ramblings of a messed-up mind. That is, until he started to get serious, personal and dangerous. 

I'll leave it to Michael and Clark to let you know what became of The Gingervator. All I will say is that it is serious gut-wrenching, page-turning stuff, and you'll need more than a glass of Canada Dry to recover from it.

Ciao...