Lost to Suicide
|by Frank Reede
Post Manhattan Columnist
August 12, 2008
|by Colleen Yang
Post Manhattan Reporter
August 13, 2008
|by Cindy Stopher
August 13, 2008
|Last night Ernie's Bagels on 114th St. was robbed at gunpoint by a "crazed gunman."
"He was nuts," said Jill Santini, night manager. "He kept saying knock-knock jokes while he pointed the gun at me like, 'Knock knock.' 'Who's there?' 'The rest of the money, bitch!'"
Santini described the assailant as a white male, about 6' tall, wearing a tweed jacket and a ski mask that still had the pricetag on it.
"I gave him everything in the register," said Santini, "but he just kept saying, 'that's not enough, that's not nearly enough,' and then he just sulked out the door."
At the time of this report, local police have no leads.
To those in Morningside Heights, where Ernie's Bagels is practically an institution, this is an affront to the community.
"You can't just come into our neighborhood and pull shit like that," said a visibly upset Vinnie Giovanni, community organizer. "I've known Ernie thirty years and people should know his friends will not let this stand."
"Knock knock. Who's there?" quipped Giovanni. "A dead motherfucker, that's who."
|Yesterday the world lost one of its journalistic treasures to depression and apparent suicide.
Frank Reede, 36, was found at the Trenton, NJ, Motel 6 by the cleaning staff this morning.
According to New Jersey State Police, Reede beat his face against the bathroom sink and mirror, losing 11 teeth in the process.
He must have also been punching himself, as seven of his fingers were broken.
So were three ribs.
Reede then shoved his reporters' notepad up his own rectum before drowning himself in the toilet.
Frank, for all his years of writing, left no note.
He is survived by his loving wife, Becky.
In my time at the Post, Frank was one of my favorite co-workers, always ready with a knock-knock joke and a smile in his tweed blazer.
You will be missed, Frank.
|the rent, let alone the credit card bills she runs up.
Suppose the guy got in so deep that he bet the Lakers big in the Finals- real big.
Then he lost his ass because of dirty referees.
What then, huh?
Suppose he managed to dodge his bookie's thugs for a few months but now they were hanging around outside where
he lives and works.
Is he just supposed to sit around and drink whiskey, nervously looking out the window and chain-smoking Nick Jones?
That doesn't get him anywhere.
Is he just going to have to get a gun and a ski mask and go rob a liquor store?
Is that what it's come to in Bush's America?
Is that what you're offering more of, Senator McCain?
Is that in my head?
Oh, fuck it.
just fuck it.
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