1) MLWTKK - A Crime For All Seasons

You know who needs a more fleshed out back story? Sandra. Take it away wordy words:

They call me Ubiquitous Jones. I'm sure I had another name once, but it's hard to remember things you don't have daily use for. It's hard to remember anything with precision these days. I should explain; they call me Ubiquitous Jones for a reason. I was there. Whatever it was, I saw it happen. I may not have had the best vantage point. 

Obviously I wasn't, but that's the easiest explanation this side of the Borg consciousness. There's a distinct difference between remembering something and describing what you saw. Memories are never singular; your senses coalesce and form a network of associations. Color and smell become a taste, ideas become people in the background . . . you get the idea. I don't have that problem. I simply observed what happened; a fact, to which I have no sentimental attachment. I guess I literally know what I experienced. I don't remember when it started (like I said, there's no sepia toned home movie in my head), but I do know it scared the hell out of everyone. Wispy old ladies thought I was psychic, psychologists were frequently convinced that I was an unaspiring pathological liar, one keen old Philippino lady  (definitely not wispy) called me Balthazar, pretended to shave her head, and patiently waited for my little epiphany before laughing herself into cardiac arrest. Ironic, that the only person ever to know about my "special power" never told a soul; believe me, I learned Tagalog just to check. 

I was a detective for a while. Fedora? Check. Trench-coat? Check. Side arm? Check. Big mouth and bad attitude? Check. I liked to play a mix of Dick Tracy and Archie Goodwin. I was good, of course, but it's so much damned work to keep timelines straight. Plus, whose gonna pay you for a crime they don't know or care about? I had some friends once. Chad, "The Pluralizer" (able to replicate everything except meaningful conversations with women), The Effeminator (some people call her Jill, most people called her Janet and marveled at her vast collection of upholstery samples), some other less relevant characters, and me, Ubiquitous Jones. I saw me standing there, as McCartney heard me say on the way back from Southport. Together we were the League of Useless Super Heroes, conquering the forces of sobriety one Gray Goose at a time. It was fun for a while, but it's hard to be friends with someone who knows that, to some extent, you know everything they say and do. When you start saying "I know, I was there" without an ounce of irony, people don't feel much like talking. 

I was surprised when the phone rang. "UBJ!" (man, I hate that acronym). "It's Chad. Get over here quick." 

As the phone went dead I felt the little twitch, that rush of recognition some people feel when they remember something they haven't thought of in a long time. It used to make me queasy, but at this point  it's barely worth mentioning. I remembered seeing Chad walking in the direction of the pay phone outside the bus station, but the evergreens that line that section of Maple Street (situational irony at it's most droll) blocked my view of the whole north side of the building. Like I said, not always the best vantage point. By the time I walked the 4 blocks to the station Chad had worked up quite a sweat. 

"Janet's gone, man. She's gone." 

What do you mean gone? 

She's just gone. She's not here. She called me from the Hellhound to tell me when she'd be here, but she's not here. Where is she? 

She probably checked in then saw an antique shop across the street, or saw an ad for pink throw pillows, or something. She's The Effeminator, Chad. 

No, man. Where is she?! 

I realized two things at that moment. One, that wasn't a rhetorical question, but more importantly, I didn't know. I mean I really didn't know. I had nothing. That's never happened before. Sure there have been times when what I "remember" is pretty useless, like overhearing a conversation and the only word you catch is "skullcap" or whatever, but there has always been something. In 37 years I'd never drawn a complete blank. I must have been zoned out for awhile, because I noticed Chad looked about to beat the shit out of me. 

I don't know, I croaked. 

What do you mean you don't know? You're mister fucking "I was there!" 

I don't know, Chad. Let me think. I remember hearing a guy in a diner say "Janet's going back tomorrow." I remember noticing the way the hack checked out her ass as she walked away from the cab. She asked the ticket lady where the pay phone was, I assume to call you, and then nothing. 

What do you mean nothing? 

I mean nothing. It's like she stopped being Janet on the way to the pay phone, or walked out of existence or something. There's no sight, no sound, no memory of Janet. 

I was sweating at this point. I'm not kidding, there was no memory of Janet to have after she walked away from the counter. I didn't see her in the phone booth, I didn't think hey why didn't that lady get on the bus?, I didn't pick up the paper to see a "Bus Station Kidnapping" headline. 

She can't have just disappeared. I mean she has to be somewhere... 

Sure she can, boys. She's up in the beanbag chair drawing pictures of Lucifer's flowers. It's a dope doll jungle out there. Acid angels might come to the fangs of love, but some of us stare deeper into that blank mirror and say "you know what, I hate this vacant heart. I don't want to be Mrs. Bottomless Pit, anymore." 

Who could blame her? Walking around screaming that Ting Tings song all day. Not quite as catchy as their "Happy Birthday," but 27 repeats on the old mental jukebox of doom and you're ready to hijack the lazer from Real Genius and shine it in your own eyeball, popcorn party be damned. She didn't vanish into thin air, she just joined a slightly less dangerous Kult. We're groovy. 

Feel better now, Milton? Sandra has a proper backstory with intrigue, previously mentioned characters lost in their own dramatic irony, a reference to a Val Kilmer movie, and most importantly: 

I've got an album for that.

Part 2