A common house fly of the species Musca domestica wearily hugged the wall by the cracked window next to Councilman Cappuccino’s cluttered kitchen sink. Winter was coming, and the fly was feeling profoundly sluggish. Casting his 8,000 eyes downward, he slowly scanned the chipped Formica countertop in the hope of scoring a last tidbit of delectable barbecued bologna before oblivion arrived.

Instead, with rapidly escalating horror, the fly saw a ventriloquist’s dummy seated cross-legged with his back to Cappuccino’s elderly Mr. Coffee — and there was something ominous in his wooden hand.

Was it a flyswatter?

Alarmed, yet too fatigued to move, the fly examined the mosaic. Suddenly he grasped the cosmic inevitability of what was about to happen. It was worse than a flyswatter.

It was a ukulele.

TWANGJINGALING

“Hello, Chloe, waddayouknowy,

I just got back from a vaudeville showy”

Seated at the table, fresh from another raggedly rag picker’s auction, Councilman Cappuccino busily sifted through the contents of a weathered Bud Light case. Much to Li’l Stevie’s chagrin, ice-cold cans of flavorless, low-calorie swill did not appear to be among the lucre.

TWANGJINGALING

“Chloe, Chloe — Someone’s calling ... “

•••

Cappuccino’s rotary-dial cell phone squawked. He jabbed a stubby into the coin slot and answered:

“Hello ... You don’t say? You don’t say? You don’t say?”

“Who was it, CC?”

“He didn’t say.”

Tossing the phone aside like the mayor’s most recent budgetary request, Cappuccino continued affixing strange parts from the beer crate onto a large metallic cylinder. Before long, the machine had been completely reassembled. Cappuccino stood and beamed.

TWAN ... . gggggwhump

Lil Stevie dropped his ukulele into the wayward remnants of a jelly doughnut.

“We can’t afford a sausage grinder, boss. Don’t you know it’s a depression now, and meat’s awful expensive, and we’re all hurtin’ ... when it comes to granmaw’s ol’ cookie jar, well, nickels and dimes add up to more video poker machines down at the post - Nazis! - and rates and fees ... “Cappuccino glared.

“I’ll have you know that this is gonna save us plenty of nickels and dimes, Stevie. It’s the answer to all of our problems with getting the right information.”

Li’l Stevie scratched his head. “But CC, I thought we just ignored all the information, at least the part we didn’t want to hear. Why do we need a meat grinder to help us do what we already don’t do?

Cappuccino asked, “Haven’t you ever heard of IT?”

“Eye teeth?

“No, IT — information technullogy!”

“Beats me, CC, sounds like those big words the progressives always use, like Certificate of Appropriateness. Heck, I know what’s appropriate for my rental properties, but I’d rather just pick and grin.”

TWANGJINGALING

“Thunder or lightning, shower or snow

when I get a call, I’ve gotta go ... “

Cappuccino’s phone sounded again.

“Hello ... You don’t say? You don’t say?”

“Who was it, CC?”

“Same guy!”

•••

“Stevie, this is a machine built especially for the little people of New Albany. I call it an RIP - a Right Information Processor.”

“How’s it work, CC?”

“I’ll show you.”

Cappuccino reached for a dusty, mangled manila envelope marked MASTER PLAN. He turned it upside down, and a thick stack of drawings and explanations cascaded onto the tabletop.

“Hey, look — that’s the MP, CC! I thought we didn’t have that information at all.”

“We had it, all right, replied Cappuccino. “I borrowed it from one of the commissions that I appointed myself to serve on. But see, the only way this information is useful to us is if we make it the right information. We have to use the RIP to process the MP so it doesn’t lead to a new PG downtown.”

Li’l Stevie’s eyes narrowed. “What’s a PG?”

“A parking garage.”

“Aiyyee! I hate cars! They bring all that traffic, and all them people, and more cash than I get when I rent out the couch, and then those people we don’t like spend money at those places we don’t like ... but CC, how does the RIP help us stop the PG?”

“Just watch.”

Steadily turning the handle on the RIP, Cappuccino fed one sheet at a time into the hopper on top. Soon the casing at the bottom began to fill with confetti, and when it bulged out at full length, Cappuccino expertly tied and snipped. It plopped down and rolled over, revealing a single word in block letters: “NO.”

“That’s how we stop it,” remarked Cappuccino.

“Wow,” exclaimed Li’l Stevie. “Finally, some big, fat, right information. I bet we could use this here RIP for citations from the ordinance enforcement officer. Hey — do you have any mustard to go with that?”

•••

The NO casings were piling up in front of Councilman Cappuccino, and somewhere behind the wall of empty Bud Light cans, Li’l Stevie strummed. The fly on the wall began contemplating suicide.

TWANGJINGALING

“Most any afternoon at five

We’ll be so glad we’re both alive

Then maybe fortune will complete her plan

That all began with cocktails for two (hic) two (hic) two-we-ooh (hic)” Cappuccino’s phone erupted.

“Hello ... you don’t say? Just write this down: Gallon of milk, Fig Newtons, taco seasoning, sardines, and a loaf of Bunny Bread. Got it?”

“Same guy again, CC?”

“No, it was Councilman McWafflin. I sure hope someone else doesn’t call him before he gets to the checkout line.”