Killer Moon

By Dennis Tenwalde

When Special Agent Jerry Simmons relocates to the FBIs White-collar/
Organized Crime offi ce in West Palm Beach, Florida a feeding ground for
sharks of all species, both fi sh and con-artist -- an assignment to investigate
a simple complaint fi led by a businessman against his partner turns up
connections to the Canadian Mafi a, a psycho cop killer, and a moonworshipping
jewelry thief, in a world of the rich and famous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479778065

Dennis Tenwalde

The author is a twenty-nine year veteran of law enforcement. His years of service included the State of Ohio and Florida, where he was the investigator-in-charge of white collar and organized crime. He lives with his wife, son, and Max in Ohio and on South Hutchison Island, Florida.

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PROLOGUE

H ours before his shift ended, the St. Lucie County deputy slowly backed his cruiser in between clumps of palm trees and palmetto shrubs, flipped on his radar, and tilting his head back against the headrest he gazed up at a full moon and grinning, Oh yeah, just another beautiful night in paradise. It had become a favorite saying of his, especially whenever an ex-partner called complaining about snow-packed roads he had patrolled only months ago. Once the decision was made to move to Florida, like other deputies, second shift on South Hutchison Island had become his favorite assignment. And with tonight’s full moon lighting up the ocean, he was even happier to have made the decision.

There were other barrier islands ribboning along South Florida’s eastern seaboard coastline but to him, none were more alluring than South Hutchinson Island. Its unique vistas of turquoise blue shallows, undeveloped wildlife sanctuaries, and the abundance of seashore life, and fiery pink sunsets is what gave it the well-deserved title of Florida’s best-kept secret.

But any hope the year-round residents may have had of keeping their beloved island to themselves vanished in 2004 when two category three hurricanes, Frances and Jeanne, in that order, came off shore followed by Wilma in 2005, which came roaring in from the west side of the state with her winds clocked at well over one hundred miles an hour. By the time the rubble of fallen palm trees, flowering bushes, and other debris along the shoreline had been cleared away, the national attention these residents had dreaded finally came. But tropical weather has amazing restorative powers, and within a few years, the island had returned to its original pristine environment bringing adventurers seeking a little bit of paradise.

Recalling the first time he pulled duty out here, within days he began contacting real estate agents hoping someday to send his ex-wife a photo of his new island home along with a note reading - Glad you’re not here. And by the next week, he was meeting island business owners getting their take of island living. It seemed like everyone he spoke to told how peaceful the lifestyle was near the ocean the reason many chose to opt out of the Palm Beach and Boca Raton migration their friends and business associates had followed before them.

And so now here he was with his window open alone in his cruiser enjoying the breeze coming in from the Gulf Stream; so distracted by his thoughts of someday exchanging the hustle and bustle of east coast drudgery he left behind and a failed marriage to boot, that he paid little attention to the car heading towards him.

In the oncoming Lexus, Janet scooted close to her husband as the beam of their headlights lit up the dark roadway. Tim, I really enjoyed our visit with Marge and Saul tonight, did you?

Yeah, it was okay, Tim shrugged.

I noticed you and Saul talking out on the balcony. Did he tell you about the fishing club he joined? Marge says he’s met a lot of men your age he really likes.

Tim knew where this conversation was heading and he was in no mood for it, but he let her go on talking anyway.

She says the condo facing the ocean on the floor above them may be up for sale next month. Apparently, the husband died and her children want her to move back to Connecticut.

Here we go again, he grimaced. He loved her dearly, but after thirty-five years of marriage, he knew he just needed to let her get whatever it was out of her system before he reasoned with her.

But you know, instead of waiting, next weekend let’s go talk with her and see how serious she is about selling. We’ll tell her if she sells it to us, we can save her real estate fees, ourselves some money, and this way we both take out the middleman!

Take out the middleman, huh? He chuckled to himself. Condo living had never been part of his plan, and the thought of having to leave his business to a bunch of thieves who too referred to themselves as middlemen brought his foot down harder on the accelerator.

Janet refused to let his silence or the sudden burst of speed dissuade her. She and Marge had put too much planning into this evening and getting her husband to close on a Saturday hadn’t been easy. She knew he loved the farm but also knew he couldn’t work it forever, especially after his doctor warned if he couldn’t control his stress level his next heart attack might be fatal.

Besides, with all we’ve been facing lately, I don’t feel as safe as I once did, do you?

Probably not, he replied sadly. But having to sell their home and a business he had grown from a rented location to a once flourishing fifteen thousand, square-foot frontage and two-hundred-acre tropical plant farm to move near Marge and Saul didn’t sound so appealing either. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Saul; a bit too talkative and drank more than he should, but all in all, he was a decent enough sort of guy, but not the kind he saw himself hanging out with every day. But if truth be told, like many men in their late fifties, Tim sorely dreaded the day men at the Rotary club would chide him for being so naïve to let shysters invade his business. The mere thought of losing everything he owned made him shudder and momentarily take his mind off the speed limit.

Tim, are you listening? Somehow we need to put the last few months behind us and take whatever money we can salvage and move to a gated community like Marge and Saul’s!

Yes, I hear you, but Hon, I don’t want to talk about it right now, ok? How about we just sit back and enjoy the full moon.

Okay but promise me you’ll think about it. How’s your speed, do you see that cop over there?

Janet, they don’t stop you for going nine over the speed limit!

In fact, Deputy Rollins, still absorbed in reading real estate listings, paid little notice to the Lexus passing by.

Along the way as the two headed for home, they drove past beach shops, restaurants, and a narrow beach access leading down the dunes and sea grape vines to the beach where seashells, driftwood, and a lone figure lay motionless in a sand pit well hidden from the roadway. Clad in a wetsuit, mask, and rubber boots meant to keep the no-see-ums from biting, other than gnats buzzing around his face and a few beads of sweat stinging his eyes, he felt comfortable. Past experience taught him the digging needed to be at an angle so to be in full view of the sprawling mansion’s ocean side entrance fifty or so yards away.

With only a few hours remaining, feeling drowsy, he shifted his weight. Too much planning and preparation had gone into what he was doing, to let the sound of splashing waves and the ocean breeze lull him to sleep. Trying his best to stay awake he rehearsed what he planned to say should some late-night beachcomber or a snooping condo dweller ask why at this time of night he was lying in a trench, and God forbid if one of them called the police. Florida beaches were public domain so a trespassing charge would be unlikely, and the last time he checked there weren’t laws against digging sand pits. If so, thousands of kids would be appearing in juvenile court every year. And as far as explaining his underwater camera and snorkel was concerned, well, he was taking a break after snapping underwater reef photos.

Before long, his rambling thoughts had made the remaining time pass quickly. He knew from his research staying longer would only be a waste of time. Finally, with some disappointment, he leaned forward, grabbed a handful of beach, and lifted himself out of the sandy grave determined to be at the same spot the next full moon. Bending down, he placed the underwater camera, night scope, swim mask, knife, fins, and loaded forty- cal. Glock inside a waterproof bag. Crouching low along the shoreline, he made his way up the pathway and ran across A1A to a dimly lit strip mall where he had parked a dark blue van. In his hurry, as he opened the door, the darkness surrounding him was immediately illuminated. Quickly closing the door so as not to make a noise, he took out a pen and pad and wrote- next time switch off the dome light.

CHAPTER ONE

T he next morning miles away from the sprawling mansion, Special Agent Jerry Simmons dialed the combination to his gun safe, removed his pistol and handcuffs, slipped them onto his belt, and climbed into his Jeep. While backing up, he thought about the phone call he received late last evening from Agent Paxton who called to remind him of their meeting this morning with Tim Williams. William’s had come into the Bureau’s West Palm Beach office a few months back suspicious of a business partner who he believed was ripping him off. It sounded to Paxton like the victim was having second thoughts.

Williams’ partner was a Canadian from Toronto named Lenny Katzman. Normally complaints of this type would be chalked up as a civil matter but during Simmons’ inspection of William’s corporate records, the pattern of phone calls between Katzman, and a Canadian company run by Andre Brusse, caught his attention.

According to the RCMP’s criminal intelligence section, Brusse was a known head of a Quebec syndicate considered by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Organized Crime section, to be their Meyer Lansky of Canada. Now that an OC connection had been established, the complaint had taken on a whole new dimension. The last thing he and Joel needed now, after all the hours they put in, was a victim with cold feet.

Before going into the office, Simmons stopped off at the marina store and saw the usual group of island residents waiting in line for Rob, the proprietor, to open.

Outside, as Rob was unlocking the door, a disheveled man in his mid-thirties slid out of a dark blue beat up van and followed Simmons and the others inside but seemed to purposely linger behind. In front of him, inside at the coffee urn, Simmons waited his turn when suddenly his and the others’ attention turned to Rob and the animated discussion he was having with the newcomer. They could hear him telling the man to wait by the wall until he was through covering the register. Soon after the foursome made their way outside Simmons joined them carrying biscotti, the morning news, and with coffee, he took a seat next to Jake.

So how are things with the FBI Jerry? Jake asked while peeling off a Saran-wrapped day-old cherry pastry.

Been busy, how’s your wife doing?

Better, I’m bringing her home from the hospital tomorrow.

Except for Barbara, who sold real estate on the island, most of the group was retirees from various sections of the Midwest and Canada. Jake was ex- military, and a former POW during the Vietnam War. Linda spent her summer months in Chesapeake Bay with her husband, and the remaining time of the year, staying on Nettles Island alone, except for the rare visits her husband made during the winter. Vince was the fourth member of this little coffee klatch. With a whiskey voice and mouth that could embarrass a long shore man, he often regaled the group with stories of his days working on the Alaskan pipeline whenever he could fit it into the conversation. Jake and he had become best friends and rode their motorcycles with a small band of aging motorcyclists along the Gold Coast of South Florida.

Every morning, like clockwork, all four sat outside with their coffee and bakery snack, sharing what each had done the night before or planned to do that particular day. Always ready to voice opinions on community events, world affairs, local news, or the weather, this morning the conversation centered on the drama that had just unfolded between Rob and the stranger at the counter.

From what I could tell, Vince said between bites of a jelly donut, Ole Rob was telling the guy something about an overdue store bill. It sounded to me like Rob was running out of patience.

I thought Rob always gave store credit to Island residents, Barb replied.

He does, but it’s a bit unusual for him to offer it to a newcomer, Vince answered.

Anybody know him? Linda asked.

I talked to him last week. I forget his name, Barb replied. His grandmother moved back to Indiana for the summer. He told me he’s staying at her place.

Who’s the grandmother? Jake asked.

Leona Gillcrest, she’s had a place here for over twenty years. Nice lady.

Hey, I know her, isn’t she the one who drives a pink golf cart around? Vince replied.

That’s her. He told me he’s been staying here to watch her things. Oh, and he asked if the island was hiring security staff, Barb added. I told him to check with the condo office. That’s about all I know about him.

Didn’t look so happy, Jake commented rising to get more coffee. Anybody need a refill, how about you, Jerry?

No thanks Jake, I’m good. Linda, are you still saving coupons for your mom?

Sure, I’ll take all you have Jerry. She can sort out the ones she doesn’t want.

Then tell her I saw a coupon today for feminine hygiene spray, Vince grinned peering down.

Yeah, uh, gee thanks, Vince, I’ll be sure to do that."

Just at that moment the stranger came out holding a small bag of groceries and nodded to the group before stepping into his van.

Meanwhile, forty miles to the south, Tim Williams sat counting the chimes that were reminding him how long he had been up. Sitting alone in the dark he had narrowed his options down to three; keep his appointment with the FBI to tell them he was dropping his complaint, initiate a lawsuit against Katzman, or file bankruptcy, hoping the second half of his life would turn out better than the first.

How could he have been so stupid? He asked repeatedly shaking his head. And what bothered him more was he knew better than to get hooked up with rats like these. But what do you do when housing starts in Florida tank and the demand for tropical plants all but disappears? Well out of desperation you sure don’t make a deal with the devil! He thought angrily.

Thinking back to the time he and Katzman first met; making Katzman a business partner at first seemed to make sense. If business was dying in the U.S why not do as he suggested and expand into Canada? At the time Katzman’s offer seemed too hard to pass up; especially with banks no longer rewriting loans. But now, six months into it, he had somehow amassed more debt, earned less income, and was being forced to lay off staff that had been with him for years. What a mess! And the worst part was he had no clue as to what to do next!

As he stirred coffee too cold to drink, he looked up and seeing the paper boy go by, he rose from the table immediately feeling his arthritis kick in. As he started to step outside, he thought he heard his wife turn on the shower and dutifully returned to the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee. Out on the front lawn reaching for the morning news, he glanced up at dark clouds rolling in from the south. The chance of avoiding a day of watering his two hundred plus acres of tropical ferns offered a rare ray of hope. Once back inside the kitchen he looked over and caught his wife gazing out the window with her arms across her bathrobe. Neither of them spoke and without waiting for her to ask, he poured out a cup of coffee, added cream the way she liked it, and brought it to her.

That was a quick shower, he smiled kissing her cheek.

Janet continued staring as if she hadn’t heard him when seconds later she looked back. I decided to wait. Tim, how long have you been up? She frowned.

Oh, I don’t know, maybe a couple of hours.

More like four, so what have you decided? Are you keeping your appointment with the FBI or not?

Janet, yes, but I don’t think it’ll do any good. If they had anything, they would have said so by now. Hell, I had to call them. I’m thinking about dropping the whole thing.

You’re not even going to sue them? Tim, tell me we’re not just handing over our savings and business to those cheating rats, are we? Why would you do that to us?

Janet I’m at my wits end. I’ve tried to think of everything possible to get us out of this mess and the only thing that seems to make any sense is to walk away. No, I haven’t completely decided against taking him to court, but attorneys cost money. I thought if I offered to buy him out, Katzman would agree, but he gave some sarcastic answer instead.

What did he say?

He said I didn’t have enough.

Tim, all I know is I’m tired of seeing you torture yourself. You’re not eating, you haven’t slept a full night in ages, and frankly, it hasn’t been fun watching you worry yourself to death. Just decide, that’s all I’m asking. Either stick with the FBI, sue the bastards, or I guess we’ll just have to sell the farm, our home, and let him steal our business, but damn it, honey, you can’t just sit around and do nothing. We’re running out of money! She said crying and stormed over to the kitchen sink.

Watching her eyes welling up with tears he could feel his stomach knot up again and cupping her face in his hands, he sadly searched her face. Are you going to leave me?

Janet looked at him with disbelief and shaking her head from side to side, replied, I can’t believe after all these years you would ask such a thing.

For the longest moment, they stood in each other’s arms saying nothing until he pulled away, Sweetie, go take your shower and after you get dressed, how about I fix you some eggs, and we’ll go together downtown to meet with them?

No, I’d better stay at the farm and run the store, she said wiping her eyes, We need the money, but make sure you call me after you leave their office. I need to know what they said.

CHAPTER TWO

A t the Bureau’s West Palm Beach office, Simmons displayed his credentials to the same private security officer as he had done every day since his transfer over a year ago. Slowing his vehicle long enough for the cameras and sensing devices to scan, after clearing the checkpoint he found a parking spot next to his partner, Joel Paxton, who had arrived seconds earlier.

About two inches short of Simmons’ six-foot three-inch frame, and ten years older at thirty-eight, despite his boyish looks, a few strands of gray were now beginning to show. Unlike Simmons, Paxton graduated from law school with no prior police experience. But after a brief internship at a Miami federal court, he decided investigating crimes seemed more appealing than arguing cases and joined the Bureau fourteen years ago. Ten years married to his wife Pat, they had a mortgage on a split-level house, payments on two cars, and twin boys that kept them busy seven days a week. Paxton’s soft North Florida accent was one he often overplayed whenever a need arose to flirt with a woman who knew secrets vital to his investigation. In addition to him working with Simmons on white collar and organized crime investigations, the two had become close friends.

Hey, I thought of another business we can get into, Paxton grinned headed for the stairway.

Oh yeah, now what are we doing?

Instead of spinning our wheels busting the chops on known mob associates, what if we competed against them?

Doing what? Simmons laughed.

"We open a strip club in Ft. Lauderdale and call it, Two Js’ House of Girls."

And I assume you’ve already thought up a slogan, Simmons grinned playing along.

"Thought about it on the way here; we’ll send mailers with the words, A Place Where the Customer Always Comes First."

I like it.

So how was your weekend? Paxton asked.

Boring, did you guys do anything?

We took the kids to the water park Saturday, and just hung around the house yesterday. You should have come over.

I was going to but I ran into some guys at a driving range and we ended up playing eighteen afterward. Speaking of golf, there’s a discount coupon in today’s paper for a private course in Tequesta. Wanna go next weekend?

Can’t, Pat’s got another one of her arts and crafts festival to go to on Saturday which means I’m stuck watching the boys. On Sunday, we have tickets for the Marlins game, how about the following Saturday?

Sure, but it’ll have to be somewhere else. The coupon’s only good for next weekend. Are we still on with Williams?

I’m assuming unless he calls again.

At the end of the hallway, the two split up with Simmons going to his cubicle and Paxton to his. Sliding his briefcase under the desk, Simmons pulled up a message from Assistant Special -Agent-in-Charge Hudson. After scanning a few more messages, he headed down to Hudson’s office, knocked on his door, and waited until he heard him say come in.

Standing behind his desk Hudson looked up and pointed to a nearby chair. I see you got my message, he grinned.

Yeah, I just got in. What’s up?

Jerry, I got a call Friday afternoon from the people you contacted at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Toronto. They found additional Intel on what you requested on Katzman and asked if we would do them a favor. Apparently, Katzman has a known associate living in a condo in Lake Worth going by the name of Rick Bowsley. They think the guy is milking a medical excuse to avoid extradition. They’d like us to check him out and some way try to verify whether the clown truly isn’t fit for travel. Here’s their file and his photo that they e-mailed me. When you go through it you’ll see the perp has been claiming some sort of back ailment. When you get a chance run out there and see what you can come up with.

Joel and I have a meeting around nine with a possible RICO victim. I can head out after that if you want.

Sure, how’s that case going by the way?

It’s early. We’re still checking out to see whether Katzman has any more Canadian mob connections.

Come back before you leave, I want to see where you and Joel are on it.

Taking the RCMP file back to his desk Simmons briefly looked through it and came upon the offender’s mug shot. According to what RCMP had on him, the man was in his early forties, appeared well dressed at the time his photo was taken and had the same smirk Simmons had seen on other con men that had been jailed more than once. For more than six months the man identified had been postponing extradition back to the Quebec providence on a conviction for high jacking several semis. A rap sheet containing three prior theft-related offenses, with the last resulting in a two-year prison stint in the U.S., said he was obviously a career criminal. The RCMP had his last known address at a golf course community in Lake Worth where Simmons remembered playing a year ago at an F.O.P fundraiser.

Putting the packet aside, he saw Paxton heading his way with a large accordion file. Hudson wants us to update him on the Williams’ investigation.

Okay, I’ll be right along.

Minutes later, Hudson adjusted his chair, took hold of a fresh cup of coffee in both hands, and leaned back in a leather high back swivel chair. So, guys, start from the beginning, where are we at on this?

Williams meets Katzman at a flower and garden trade show in Orlando eight months ago, Paxton began. After the trade show, they have dinner together and talk about the recession and how it’s been impacting Tim’s tropical plant business. When Williams complains his bank is no longer extending lines of credit, Katzman offers to help and hands him his business card. A few weeks go by, and when vendors start squeezing William’s credit to thirty days, he panics and calls Katzman. A day later Katzman shows up with an accountant named Tom Connors.

What do we have on Connors? Hudson asked.

Nothing so far other than a Do not rehire in his previous employment file and a photo.

Go on.

Williams opens his books, and a week later Katzman returns to entice him with an offer. If Williams agrees to a limited partnership investing three-hundred grand, Katzman says he’ll match it. The money will supposedly be set aside for a distribution site in Canada, with an understanding some of the money will be needed to cover fuel, labor, and other miscellaneous costs.

Gee, I wonder where this is going, Hudson laughed.

Here’s the part where we think the deception kicks in, Simmons interjected. Katzman claims his son can get them into Canadian grocery, and lawn and garden chains, but to do so they’ll need to operate under a new corporate name.

How bright is this guy? Hudson asked shaking his head.

It gets even better chief, Simmons grinned. Katzman tells Williams if he’s unable to raise his share, Katzman will accept Tim’s business as collateral, kick in the rest, and hold a one-year promissory note assuring Williams the profits will more than double his investment, provided the note is paid off within the year.

Do we have that on tape? Hudson asked.

No, but we’re meeting with the U.S attorney this week to get Williams wired, Paxton answered.

Williams, Simmons continued, "shares the idea with his wife, and instead of signing the note, they decide to borrow the three-hundred grand from their 401k accounts. Katzman agrees, but with the condition that the newly formed Sun Coast Distributors, Inc. be the parent company handling all Canadian sales and receipts."

How convenient, do we have a copy of their agreement? Hudson asked.

We do, Paxton replied. We also have a copy of their first bank statement showing an initial deposit of six hundred thousand. However, since then, all but twenty thousand or so disappeared the next month. We’re still checking to see if they switched banks.

You guys don’t really believe that happened. So who’s dirty?

Jerry has that.

We ran backgrounds on Williams, his wife, all the officers of the corporation, farm, and office employees, Katzman’s son Milton, and Tom Connors. From what we can tell, Connors and Katzman entered Florida at different times but we think they probably hooked up sometime last year. So far nothing else has come up regarding other pending investigations.

Felony records, however, did pop up on the two truck drivers. The Canadian driver has a felonious assault back in 2005 and caught eighteen months for it in Toronto. The other driver is U.S. born and has a possession of stolen property rap he did probation for in Broward County.

Lenny Katzman is a different story. When we ran his name through our data bank, N.C.I.C, Florida Department of Law Enforcement, U.S Immigration, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, we came up with a rap sheet showing two prior convictions. The first was in ninety-four for insurance fraud. He caught six months plus three years’ probation. The other was in two thousand two for extortion. He did three years in Toronto for that one.

So much for rehabilitation, Hudson smirked, Williams never had him checked out?

Nope, Paxton replied.

Oh, there’s something else Chief, with Katzman not being a U.S citizen, Immigration says he’s due back in Canada in three months. But strangely enough, Katzman isn’t Canadian. He’s a native-born Israeli, but has been living in Canada since ninety-one. Simmons added.

Hmm, how old is he?

Fifty-eight, married and has a son named Milton and a daughter, Sarah, who lives in Montreal. He signed a six-month lease on a home in Lake Worth three months ago. He and his wife live there with their son, Paxton answered.

Well he’s definitely up to something, Hudson sighed. Guys, keep it a top priority.

After the meeting, the two agents made their way to an empty conference room to prepare for Williams’ visit. Simmons made a sound check on the audio recorder while Paxton set the timer on the video camera. Chairs were then arranged so Williams’ back would be away from the door facing them. Once everything was made ready both sat down to review more of the file while waiting for Williams’ arrival.

About a half hour later, a few minutes late, Williams took a seat in the Bureau’s lobby while Simmons and Paxton watched him fidgeting from a monitor.

What do think? Simmons asked.

A bit haggard looking so I’m guessing he didn’t get much sleep last night. Based on our phone conversation yesterday, he’s probably decided meeting us a few months ago wasn’t such a great idea, Paxton replied.

Let’s see what he has to say. You lead the way.

Slipping on his suit jacket Simmons opened the lobby door. Mr. Williams, good morning sir.

It’s been awhile, Agent Simmons. And Agent Paxton, I appreciate you setting this up so soon.

After shaking hands, Williams was led down the hallway to the conference room.

Want anything, Tim? Paxton asked.

I’ll take a cup of coffee if it’s handy, Tim mumbled.

As the two waited for Paxton to return, Simmons made idle chatter about the weather while Williams gazed blankly around an empty room where only a corner stand with a telephone and a blank tablet sat at the far end. Turning his head around as soon as Paxton returned with coffee, Williams couldn’t help but be impressed how Paxton had remembered he took it black with two sugars during his last visit.

After spending more than a year working as a team, the two had developed a feel for how each one worked; being sure to not get in each other’s way, and taking notes when the other asked questions. As arranged before Williams’ arrived, it was decided Simmons would begin the conversation summarizing what they believed had been Williams’ primary concern, and to keep him from speaking, Paxton, on cue, would then jump in sharing what they had developed thus far. But as Simmons was less than halfway through the initial phase, Williams suddenly, with little warning, leaned forward and threw his hands in the air.

"Gentlemen, I’m sorry but I need to interrupt. The reason I wanted to see you is to tell you I’ve decided to drop my complaint. I’m going to hire an attorney instead and deal with Katzman in civil court. I don’t know what hole the bastard climbed out of but ever since I met