A Visit From…the FEDS!!

I was sitting in my office sipping a fresh cup of coffee.  My feet were propped on the windowsill.  My attention wandered between the people on the street and the scuffed tennis ball I was bouncing off the wall.  It had been a slow week.  Maybe someone would spill some toxic waste in a graveyard and I could get some work.

The outer door of my office opened and two smallish linebackers entered.  My receptionist said nothing.  She’d gone out for bagels fourteen months ago.  I still held out hope.

The linebackers came into my office.  I turned toward them.  I didn’t smell anything appetizing.

I said, “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?  Cup of coffee?”

The one in the blue suit stopped near the door and said, “No, thank you.”  The gray pinstripe came right up to the desk, glaring at me.

Blue suit said, “Are you Paul Krendler?”

“That’s the name on the door.” I’d just had it re-painted.  Gold leaf with black edging.  A shotgun and a machete like crossed swords beneath it.  Stylish.

He flashed a badge at me.  “I’m Special Agent Bill Preston.  This is my partner, Agent Logan.”

I looked at gray suit.  “Ted Logan?”

“I prefer Theodore,” he said.  He sat down on my ancient leather couch.  The cushions hissed under his weight.

I grinned.  “Of course you do.  So what can I do for you gentlemen?”

Preston said “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“Not at all.  Do you mind if I don’t answer?”  It was company policy not to cooperate with the feds.  They were, in general, idiots, and I was never a go-along guy.

“Do you know a man named Parkinson Williams?” he said.


“Are you sure?”

“Is your middle initial ‘S?’” I said.

Preston blinked.  “How did you know?”

I spread my hands. “I’m a zombie detective.  That’s my job.”

It was on the credentials he’d shown me.  He’d been carrying them so long he had probably forgotten.

“So you don’t know him?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“But you’ve heard of him,” said Ted (Theodore) Logan from the couch.

“Heard of him?  Sure.”

“Tell me more.”


“Why not?”

“Because I’m not in business to volunteer information.  You have a question, ask.”

Preston said, “How did you hear of Williams?”

I said, “Why do you want to know?”

“Just answer the question, flatfoot,” said Logan.

“Fine.”  I drank some more coffee.  It needed a shot of the whiskey I keep in the bottom drawer.  “Just about anyone with an internet connection knows who Williams is.  He’s built himself a sterling reputation, though not in the way he thinks.  He’s the kind of guy who wins awards for lack of self-awareness, then builds a trophy case to show them off.  He’s a keyboard cowboy, an internet bully who’s been getting a taste of what he’s been dishing out for years.  Instead of taking his medicine like a grown-up, he cries and whines and plays the victim.  He’s the biggest mangina in all of cyberspace, as far as I’m concerned.”

Preston gave me a flat smile. “And you said you didn’t know him.”

“I don’t know Bill Gates.  I don’t know Peyton Manning.  I don’t know Angelina Jolie.  But I know who they are.  There’s a difference.”

“You say so.  Sounds like you’re familiar with his work,” said Preston.

“I am.  Though I wouldn’t call it work, exactly,” I said. “More like self-immolation.  It’s pretty obvious the guy is just a prime internet jerkwad looking to crank someone up tightly enough to come put him out of his misery.”

Logan leaned forward.  Uh-oh.  Time for the bad cop.  “And you’re one of the guys dedicated to making his life miserable.”

“His life was already miserable when I came along.  I’m just a guru, helping him along the path to enlightenment.”

“By sending him toxic materials in the mail.” Again with the glare.

“You can prove that?” I said.

Logan said, “Not yet.  But we will.”

No, they wouldn’t.

“Toxic materials, huh?  What was it?”

Logan said, “A tub of horseshit from Saskatchewan.”

“That’s hilarious,” I said. “I grew up on a horse farm back in Kentucky.  Toxic materials.  That’s a good one.”

“A horse farm?  Got friends back there, guys who would collect it up and fill a Tupperware for you?”

“Sure I do, but why bother?  If I was going to play a harmless prank on someone like him, I’d have Costco ship him a fifty-five gallon drum of mayonnaise and bratwurst.  Shit in the mail?  Anyone can do that.”

“What about John Schmidt, the blogger. Do you know who he is?” he said.  Logan was an ugly, sneering man who should have exercised more.  He looked a lot like Parkie Williams, in fact.  Take the gun off his hip, and he’s probably just as tough and brave, too.  I knew a lot of cops like Logan.  Cowards with a little power.  I didn’t like any of them.  They left a bad taste in my mouth.

“Blogger and quantum mechanic.  Don’t sell him short.  Williams’ self-created mortal enemy? I know who he is.”

“Ever met him?”

I shook my head.

“Spoken to him on the phone?”




“About what?”

I smiled.  “Which agency did you say you were with again?”

Logan’s face went pink. He looked at the floor.

Preston said, “The Postal Service.”

I laughed out loud.  “Postal Service?  You’re fucking with me.”

Logan looked up again.  He started to struggle up from the couch.

“Oh, sit down, Theodore,” I said.  “Don’t come begging for trouble.”

Preston said, “Sit down, Ted.”

I said, “This is all you have to do, huh?  Track down pranksters who send poop through the mail?  Nobody’s cooking up ricin or sarin anymore?  You want to search my place for castor beans?  What’s next?  Calling the fire department for a flaming bag of dogshit on your porch?”

“Let’s get back on topic, Mr. Krendler,” Preston said.  “What did you and Mr. Schmidt email about?”

“The outrageous cost of first class postage.  We would have written letters, but, well, you know.”

“Very funny.  Weren’t you exchanging emails about copyright protections and infringement?”

The clock said it was past three o’clock.  I didn’t see any clients in the outer office.  My workday was done.  I opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the bottle of Bushmills.  I poured a couple fingers in my mug and topped it off with coffee.  I gestured at the bottle.  “Gentlemen?”

They both shook their heads.  Logan wasn’t so sure.  They were both youngsters, probably both hoping to move over to the Bureau or the Secret Service, where the real action was, before they turned thirty-five.  Logan would be night security in less than ten years, I thought. Probably shuffling around a Walmart in an untucked blue polo shirt, carrying fifty more pounds than he did now.  And the bottle would be a big reason why.  Preston, still standing near the door, was the braaaaains of this outfit.  I could smell it on him.  He had a shot to make the big time.  Provided I didn’t catch and make a snack of him first.

“Did you get that information from Williams?” I said.  “The great internet investigator and law professor?”

“How did you know?” Preston said.

“Because if it wasn’t him, you would already know what you want to know.  And since you’re here, then you must not.  Because he doesn’t know.”

“You received a check from John Schmidt,” Preston said.

“Okay, let’s go with that,” I said.

“Where did he send it?”

“Did you ask him?”

“Yes.  He doesn’t remember.  He says he deleted your email.”

“What email?”  I knew what was coming next.

“The email you sent him directing payment for your blog post.”

I said, “Do you mean the document we ginned up to look like an email to send him on a wild goose chase?”

“What?” said Logan from the couch.

“Have you been taking Parkie at his word?  Let me educate you.  He’s about the most gullible and easy to manipulate – ” and I actually threw up air quotes “ – ‘investigative journalist’ you could hope to find.  His capacity for believing his own bullshit is practically limitless, but it is positively dwarfed by his ability to make up bullshit.  And the moment he believes something to be true, for him it actually is the truth.  I assume that you started at the top of the list of people he was sure mailed him horseshit, and are just now getting down to me?  Or have you been going alphabetically?  How many others has he proclaimed guilty, and how many of them actually are?

“John Schmidt, myself, Howard Earl and a dozen or so others have been batting him around like cats with a mouse for months.  Years, some of us.  John never paid me a dime for that copyright.  We just wanted Parkie to think that.  Oh, he paid sure enough. He just didn’t pay me.  He made an anonymous donation to charity. If I had known the entertainment value of what would follow, I probably would have asked for more.  Or more likely given it away for free.

“So you see, John Schmidt never mailed me anything.  Not to a house, not to a P.O. Box, not to a remailing service in Slovenia.  It’s all a scam created for the mark of all marks, a fool among fools, a dimwit, wrapped in an idiot inside a moron.  You’re here looking for a guy behind me, but there’s no one behind me to find.”

I pointed again at the bottle.  “Now, are you sure you don’t want a shot to make up for all your wasted time before I toss you Wyld Stallyns out of my office?”

UPDATE – based on the response, I have updated the tags on this post.


Author: Paul Krendler

The Thinking Man's Zombie

96 thoughts on “A Visit From…the FEDS!!”

  1. YOWZA!
    Apparently, he thinks he has finally identified you or Howard. Patrick Grady and Chris Heather and his family await apologies and restitution for months of obscenities and defamation.

  2. Bill Schmalfeldt ‏@ParkinsonPundit 1h1 hour ago
    And no, the purpose of the Phase 1 portion of the trial was, A. to see if people would sign up for such a thing, and B., could we survive...

    Now, if this point B were seriously under investigation, that would indicate a significant probability of death. The way its phrased here by Dickdents, with all his Dun-dunh-duhhhhh! undertones, it sounds like that probability approaches 1. So tell us double-D, how many participants died? Many? Several? A few? Any? Lacking even one death means you are once again bullshitting, sans Tupperware. And if even one died why couldn't it have been someone special we all know.

    1. I never can over it. How stupid does a motherfucker have to be to reprint your bet bits every time, every fucking time. It's got to be that he knows how crap his stuff is and is driven to put up the better stuff just to be associated with it.

  3. Mmm, nope. It's called an "assignment," it's done all the time, all perfectly legal.


  4. Bill Schmalfeldt @ParkinsonPundit · 12m 12 minutes ago
    I guess Krendler is admitting in his typical artless way that he and Hoge committed fraud. And Hoge introduced false evidence.

    It's official. William actually is as stupid as he is crazy. But Lord, is this going to be fun to watch.

  5. Now, of course, we'll have days and perhaps even weeks of "Hoge and Krendler are going to jail for sure this time!" And the single leading indicator that something won't happen is William predicting that it will.

    The universe is being too kind to me of late.

  6. Dear Mommy Judge Hollander,

    It's Bill Schmalfeldt again! Remember me? I'm the guy with his own name printed on every article of clothing I own. I was your special boy all summer long!

    Anyway, I just made up found out that Hoge and Krendler fibbed to you during Hoge's lawsuit against me. That means lying, you know. They lied.

    Please send to prison for me in the name of justice.

    Will you read me a story at bedtime, too. Gail won't.

    Just remember, if the trailer's rocking, I fell down petting my dogs.

    Bill Schmalfeldt,
    Elkridge, Maryland

  7. "Drink up, he said. The world goes on. We have dancing nightly and this night is no exception."

    ― Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West

  8. " He’s the kind of guy who wins awards for lack of self-awareness, then builds a trophy case to show them off."

    Sweet Jesus that's good.

  9. Well Krendler, you found one way to shut Bill up, this opus will keep his lips moving for days.

    1. Even more FUN is the notion that it's just one short scene of dialogue that's smarter and funnier than anything he's EVER done, that took me less than 90 minutes to write and edit.

  10. Wait for it ... wait for it....

    Copy/pastings of misunderstood federal law in 3...2...1....

  11. Cousin Bill drools:

    "Now, shall we assume this is a work of fiction, @brainsrfood? Or is the e-mail fiction?"

    The world may never know...

    ...but the monkey dance continues!!!


      1. I guess he has such a hyper-inflated sense of his importance that he can't grasp the mere possibility that he's just being fucked with, for the fits and shiggles.

      1. "...the first thing I'd want to do is clarify that the e-mail was genuine. If it was, then nothing bad happened and nobody has to worry."

        Still don't get it, Commodore? No one EVER has to worry. About anything you say. Judges. Postal Inspectors. Muhamad Ali ninja squads. It's all bullshit.

        YOU are ALL BULSHIT. A loser. A joke. Quit making such a fucking fool of yourself EVERY DAMN DAY.

        Have some self-respect, you big fucking dummy.

        Or eat a .45. That would be nice too.

      2. "But without clarification, how am I to know whether or not the email was real or forged?"

        You're not entitled to ANYTHING, Shakey. NOTHING.
        And no, I've not assigned those knicknames to your kids. YET.

      3. The psychopathic cunt Bill Schmalfeldt once again displays this pattern: Gets spoon-fed a factoid, interprets factoid as proof of some crime or as confirmation of his latest faildox target, and goes running to whatever agency he's not totally burned bridges to (a shrinking list, methinks!) with wild accusations and dire prognostications of legal doom.

        Of course, as many have observed, all that doomy-doom comes to naught, over and over again. But that won't stop him from repeating this pattern time and time again.

        But, hey. If he could learn from his mistakes, he'd not be Bill Schmalfeldt.

  12. "I guess Krendler is admitting in his typical artless way that he and Hoge committed fraud. And Hoge introduced false evidence."


    On a side note; Who doesn't LOVE Terra-Cotta, amiright?

      1. Sitting here in my big house, rule 5 wife making dinner in her skimpy skivvies, sipping some Templeton Rye (yep, I'm an Iowa boy, and gangsta to boot), knowing that Bill doesn't comprehend how pwnd he is...

        Life is good. For me.

        Not so much for Sad Cousin Bill.

    1. and Bill is going to tell them EVERYTHING about Hoge and Krendler.

      I'm not sure why.

    2. "But without clarification, how am I to know whether or not the email was real or forged? And USPIS = US Postal Inspection Service."

      Nobody gives a rats ass about what you are going to do, Bill.

      You don't matter. You are less important than a bug.

      We just enjoy pwning you, endlessly.

      It's FUN, idiot simian.

      1. You don't get it Biwwwyyy. YOU DON"T GET TO DEMAND CLARIFICATION!!! You have no right to it. None. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada. Nichts. Nil. To infinity and beyond!

        Such glorious fun!

  13. According to a certain son-of-a-whore in Elkridge, this was an "artless" piece of drivel.

    Hey, Jiggles. The envy drips from you like stranger's spooge from the Sea Hag. And you wear it just as proudly.

  14. Uh oh Paul, "Journalist" Bill is "just asking politely".

    He's truly retarded (and I hate using that word, but I'm at a loss to find any other word to more accurately describe him).

    1. Why all the sudden concern about forged exhibits, mail fraud and wire fraud? All completely ok in Maryland. He should just ask his very good most excellent friend.

  15. Reading comprehension is a wonderful thing. For example, if one were to read and COMPREHEND Krendler's delightful work of fiction, one would see that the protagonist had payment made to a charity. That is an assignment, and completely legal. If, however, one lacked the skill of being able to read and process what is read, and had the obsessive mindset of Capt. Ahab, believing that everything is the white whale, then one might miss that important part of the story.

    1. Captain, I think he's headed for Planet Dingleberry in the vicinity of Uranus. He may make a stop at the moons Mysoginia and Homoerotica.

  16. "Fuck it. You've provided enough probable cause for the police to pull you in and ask you about it. And to get to you, they go through Hoge."

    Good roll program confirmed. The Commodore now heading downrange.

  17. No. This cannot be happening. I refuse to believe a person can read this and come up with things like wire fraud. It would take a person so utterly devoid of any rational thought, that merely the task of breathing would be too mentally taxing. I can safely say that no one is as stupid as Bill is portraying himself tonite.

    We are being trolled. This has all been an elaborate prank set up to keep us occupied for the past few years. And the execution has been MAGNIFICENT!

    Bravo, whoever invented Bill Schmalfedt. But you've pushed the envelop too far. He has become unbelievable. That level of exquisite feeble-mindedness is unattainable in a single human, no matter how large. It would induce spontaneous human combustion.

    Now it's time to come clean.

    1. Perry, the Universe is a strange and wonderful place...

      You just witnessed the Anthropic Principle at work...

      The stupidest person in the universe was just down the road, in Elkridge, and you witnessed his unveiling!

      Somebody has to be on the same planet, and it was you!

  18. One wonders if these "authorities" are good public servants and are at least polite enough to abstain from laughing until AFTER they hang up the phone...

    1. His calls and reading this blog are the highlights of their days. I can just picture some tired cop, typing up routine paperwork, sneaking a peek here, reading the posts and comments, and laughing so hard he almost gives himself a hernia.

  19. Don't you know that Christmas Eve clerk is already starting to cower. Totally unable to believe that the scene is being repeated a year later.

  20. I'm just waiting for the day he threatens the wrong(right?) person. You know the kind...who 'knows a guy' who 'knows a guy' who can 'help with a problem'. Just a matter of time. I actually know a guy who knows a guy but, fortunately or unfortunately, I have morals against 'taking care of' problems. Besides, this problem is mildly amusing in his floundering at times.

    Game on.

    1. I've been warning him of that for at least a year. He lucky he's been messing with basically good people. I know folks who knew a guy, though we didn't know he was 'a guy' until after he got arrested. He's doing life in Florida now. And I have to admit he creeped me out and I couldn't understand why people I generally respected respected him. I suspect they now wonder too. I mean, the dude did go out with John Gotti's daughter at one point, so it probably shouldn't have been a surprise.

      My husband used to know a guy who was 'muscle', IYKWIMAITYD.

      And remember how he freaked out when suggestions were made to chip in for a ticket for "Kyle the Felon" to visit Maryland.

    1. Lolz, I got it immediately. Loved it. An Omage to my youth. You could have been writing it for me! All for meeeeee!

      Oh wait. I'm not Bill. Lolz!

  21. Good Lord but he is one stupid son of a bitch. Seriously, I don't think I've ever come across a more gullible, stupid man. That he is wrapped in a giant vagina just makes it worse. A stupid coward. What a life to have to live.

  22. If he really wanted to publish something that would sell all he has to do is compile a collection of all his alleged correspondence to:


  23. Four business days have passed since the Cabin Boy™ allegedly went whining to everyone from our local school crossing guard to the NASA Inspector General about his box of horse manure. IIRC, the feds or someone else were going to interview to me so that I could tell them the secret identity of Paul Krendler. To date, no one has contacted me concerning Mr. Krendler, which is just as well because I don't know who he is.

    This leads to two possibilities. It could be that the Cabin Boy™ figured out how much trouble he might cause himself by filing a frivolous report and didn't really contact anyone. However, it's more likely that he did and that the only real results are some eyes rolled and his emails are posted on break area bulletin boards for the amusement of various agency staffs.

    1. Ah, but it's only Thursday (or Friday now)!

      When I made the same comment he told me I just needed to wait, but assured me that they'd be coming at some point. I'm not holding my breath.

  24. "Ya try to be nice, ask politely, and they piss on your back. We'll see how funny Hoge thinks it is, Krendler setting him up for a felony."

    Yah, yer a regular peach of a guy, Cousin Bill.

    No, we didn't piss on your back - we fucking drenched you with garbage cans of piss!

    1. Don't tell your cousin, but I've been filing IP assignments in pretty much the same way for years. Maybe I can get the cell next to Hoge?

  25. I trust that it hasn't escaped anyone's notice that a post about an unserious threat to call the feds has resulted in .... an unserious threat to call the feds.

    William's utter lack of self-awareness is the most delightful thing I've ever encountered.


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