I – Guinness Winterman Tries Arson
II – Guinness Winterman Goes West
III – Guinness Winterman Recycles
Continued from last week, when someone pointed a gun at him.
“Week 4: He Has a Gun Pointed at Him”
This wasn’t the first time that an old woman running a counterfeit scheme decided to point a gun at me after seeing through my horse disguise, but I planned for it to be the last. And not because I’d get killed; because I would escape.
“You played a convincing horse,” said Madame Foyer DDS, her gun pointed at my only face, “I should’ve suspected from the moment I saw your jacket, pants, and human hands adjusting a rubber horse mask. But that’s on me. So who are you, and why are you meddling here?”
I held my hands in the air in front of me, secretly trying to reach something on my belt using only my elbows.
Continued from last week (give or take a week).
“Week 3: An Un-Stable Encounter”
For the next several minutes, I trailed behind the roller derby jockeys as their horses haphazardly roller-skated back to Belmont Stadium. To any passersby, I was simply a normal horse going about its business with a sharp jacket and crisp slacks.
But underneath the horse-head disguise, I was Guinness Winterman, columnist for the Greenwich Sun, and my story would be broken long before my horsey persona was.
The first obstacle came at the stable entrance, where some young ranch hand was managing the horses after moving into the city. Being a former ranch hand myself, I knew how to handle these folks. I’d simply have to act like a horse while doing so.
Continued from last week.
“Week 2: Concealing the Self”
Moving across the Long Island street, “Oria” (known primarily as “Redacted Tough Name” in the derby) and I moved toward Belmont Park in preparation for the coming match, as she continued to give details regarding the counterfeit scandal and its unique brand of money.
Before we could say more, however, Oria froze as a black car drove by with tinted windows, stopping momentarily for what appeared to be a look-see. Fortunately for Oria, her helmet had once again slipped and lurched over her eyes, concealing and also blinding her, but whoever was driving got a full frontal view of Guinness Winterman, columnist for the Greenwich Sun. While I wouldn’t wish blindness on anyone with such an opportunity, Oria’s reaction made me suspicious that these counterfeiters might already be looking for me.
Original Title: “Guinness Winterman Weekly — Month of March 2009”
Hello, everyone. My name is Guinness Winterman, columnist for the Greenwich Sun, and I’m here to talk to you semi-pleasant folks about sports. Now I may not follow, engage in or particularly enjoy talking about sports, but I consider myself something of an expert on the subject. I’m generally self-taught, largely untrained, but Guinness Winterman does have an Olympian deep inside him, and I’m not referring to the copious amounts of sex our role models have while living in Olympic Villages.
On a typical assignment, I’ll need gymnastics to sneak into the back of a shady establishment, boxing once my contact has outed me to the other patrons, football to headbutt people and soccer to maneuver away, and some good old track and field once I’m out of my depth and trying to escape. So when my editor mentioned a roller derby scandal in passing and asked me not to get the Greenwich Sun in trouble again, I knew I was the person for the job. Here’s what I found.
“Week 4: Return to Concrete Jungle”
I won’t mince words about my escape from the tourist encampment in Central Park: not much happened beyond me sprinting out of the main tent at full speed. None of them came after me, of course. Beyond Kurt and his large mascot suit, everyone there was either overweight or in sandals, so no one would’ve followed me very far. Shernay just stood by and recorded it on her smartphone. Guinness Winterman, columnist for the Greenwich Sun, would be trending on social media soon.
After a brief hiatus, a blip on a cosmic scale but probably a couple months to your dog, we’re back. Continued from last time.
“Week 3: Perhaps a Daring Rescue?”
As I moved through the heavy brush of the Central Park woods, I found myself pondering how a hipster like Shernay could become the chief of such a large tribe of tourists. I had my suspicions, but I kept them to myself as I followed their trail along the river. I hadn’t eaten anything for a few hours, but as a former camp counselor, I wasn’t worried about starving so deep inside the bowels of nature, when it presented with open arms its healing nectar just waiting to be disemboweled.
Continued, serialized, what have you, from last week.
“Week 2: Into the Wild”
Marley, in his bright red mascot suit, led me through a great deal of the park and a couple museum exhibits he wanted me to see, only to stop in his tracks once we reached the entrance to the Central Park north woods. Behind the pleasantly vacant stare of his mask which made him inoffensive to small children and their parents, his demeanor dripped with a toxic, fear-like substance.
“Is there any way you’ll join me?” I asked. “You completely destroyed those muggers on the way, I could use that kind of impassioned brutality at my back.” But Marley simply shook his head.
“Sorry Mac,” Marley moved to turn around, whereas I turned to move around. “I can admit, what’s in those woods, it scares me. But we really appreciate what you’re doing,” he said, and he returned to the haven where we had once met.
Guinness Winterman Weekly — Month of June 2009
Hello, everyone. My name is Guinness Winterman, columnist for the Greenwich Sun. If all of you malleable young readers know me like I know you do, then you know me for my unique brand of stirring-the-pot journalism. I’ve stirred pots for as long as I can remember, dating back to my childhood, when I uncovered a scandal involving my school cafeteria’s cookware and my fellow students nicknamed me “The Iron Ladle.”
However, after a recent attempt at convincing a popular shuttle service to embark on a high-speed car chase just to see if they’d do it, my editor waved off my efforts as “entrapment,” and “stupid,” and implored me to take on a less pot-stirring assignment. So as of now, I’m taking on a lead she found involving a misused recycling bin in Central Park, as the fine people of this city are throwing trash in it as they would a normal trash can. It’s not my usual brand of journalism, but my options are limited since I was added to that shuttle service’s “forbidden” list. And they absolutely went on that car chase, so that pot was undeniably stirred.
Directly continued from last week. Those starting this week may be caught off-guard by certain developments; we here at Guinness Winterman Weekly claim no responsibility in such a case.
“Week 4: What You Want, Baby I Got It”
We all returned back to town with the bell, carried by Harris and Joaquin, and the townspeople rejoiced when they saw it. Children gathered around to pick up the tortillas and cheese falling from the golden bell.
The man from the porch ran up to us, excitement in his eyes.
“Did you find my daughter?” he asked.