![]() |
| I first met Mr. Kane when he muscled his way into my palatial, well-kept desert estate on National Striped Bathrobe Day. |
![]() |
| Before he came in, if you can believe it, he relieved himself on my front stoop! |
![]() |
| Then, upon entry, he shamelessly ingratiated himself with my granddaughter as I was fetching refreshments. |
![]() |
| My housekeeper reacted as any good frau -- I mean woman -- would. By drawing a pistol. |
![]() |
| Mr. Kane reacted in the most cowardly way possible -- by using my granddaughter as cover! So he escaped, without so much as a thank you for the refreshments. |
![]() |
| By now, the word was out about Mr. Kane being a fugitive -- |
![]() |
| -- and he enticed a Miss Martin into pretending to be his "hostage." |
![]() |
| Together they went on a spree of property destruction ... |
![]() |
| ... ending at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where Mr. Kane attacked Frank, one of my henchmen -- I mean employees -- who was minding his own business, peacefully listening to Radio Berlin. |
![]() |
| Then Miss Martin cruelly tricked Frank while they were sightseeing at the Statue of Liberty. |
![]() |
| This led to Frank being ambushed by Mr. Kane and Miss Martin, and things very quickly got, you should excuse the expression, out of hand. |
![]() |
| Do I blame Mr. Kane for Frank's death? Well, let's put it this way -- HE SOLD FRANK THAT SUIT. |














