Blase Eight by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
short time in office was not considered a success, in any sense of the term, in its time and place. Nor was he considered a failure. The first posthumous book about him was titled;
‘Johnny, We Hardly Knew Ye.’ This man, who is now worshipped for being a martyr to whichever trigger one wishes to choose, was having mixed results. Risking global warfare, his authorization of the Cuban blockade proved to be effective; and is likely also to have been his greatest moment. The Russian ships turned back.
Yet, those who choose to mis-remember history, now see him as the Prince of Peace, among other things.
I’ve got a bit of news. A BLOCKADE IS INTERNATIONALLY
CONSIDERED AN ACT OF WAR.
Then he had to go to Texas; and ride around in an open topped car. I mean, really, would you feel safe driving around Texas in an open topped car? Oh sure, I guess Connolly said it would be all right, but look at his results; a ricocheting bullet or two. Everyone else knows that there is always a ricochet. The fact that it was surreptitious warmonger LBJ’s home state was apparently not a consideration. I guess that’s 20-20 hindsight as Lyndon was an outspoken anti-Viet Nam war Senator, just prior to his Vice Presidency. Who could predict that this peace-nik would choose to fund the war machine, better than it had ever been previously funded in non-inflation-adjusted dollars?
Page 304
The up shoot of this whole messy affair is that this admitted mistake still has a life and repercussions a half century later. The absurdity at this point seems to be that it is more difficult to find a group who did not want JFK dead; than it is to find many that supposedly did. The latest theory is that Jackie did it, in her leopard skin pillbox hat.
In its time the assassination engendered little of the speculative furor it has now gathered in the US; though European sources immediately picked up on the issue. This general topic will be later discussed, in the context of how it is still true today, that foreign interests are at the core of what can easily be viewed as anti-US propaganda.
In 1963-64 the nation was shocked. Things were quickly changing. And let’s face it; as much as people say that they want things changed; when presented with an alternative; they invariably say; ‘No, not that.’ It is only in subsequent decades when they say; ‘We should have,’ implying their inconsequential support which was non-existent at the appropriate time when it actually might have had some significance.
Asides, asides. The Warren Commission founded the US
conspiracy industry by saying that Oswald acted alone.
................... No fucking way they could have been right.
What some don’t seem to understand is that to say that Harvey had a partner is not the same thing as saying that that partner
Page 305
was the CIA, FBI, Shadow US Government, Cuba, Russia, KGB, KKK, the Federal Reserve, the Banksters, the Mafia, the Military Industrial Complex, the Zionists, the Bilderbergers, the Illuminati, the Masons, Jackie or the Boy Scouts of America. It is just saying that all evidence strongly suggests that he had a partner. Most likely Lee had a lackluster cohort with nothing else to occupy his time, proficiency with a rifle and an extraordinary ability to keep his mouth shut.
Why the conspiracy theorists never openly consider the possibility that LHO had a nut friend; as un-accomplished as himself; is a testimony to how skewed the interests of those same conspiracy theorists are. The substantially foreign grouping, with the possible exception of one fat-headed loudmouth relocatee now ensconced in West Texas, have found a way to extract Yankee dollars through providing no value while producing potential problems.
Yes, you are 100% right in pointing out that the economically conducive speculations concerning the little-green-men events which played out in a remote area predated the Kennedy debacle; thereby having a legitimate claim to grand-daddy, conspiracy theory status. However, I would contend that this observation is formed with the benefit of 20-20 hindsight, incorporating ‘ideas’ which only subsequently became popular. In its time, the ‘Roswell Incident’ was popularly considered some
Page 306
sort of joke, perpetrated by some drunken farm-boy in serious need of attention or one who wished to sell tickets for a tour of his useless land. He was aided by one unfortunate statement made by a military man not versed in public relations, and some well-placed aluminum foil.
On the Southern hand, the delivery of 3,000 automatic high powered, military caliber, weapons to the Sinaloa Drug cartel in Mexico, via the operations of the Drug Enforcement Agency partnership, in a supposed sting operation, resulted in the deaths of thousands of Mexican civilians, police, military and US Border Patrol Officers. This is never discussed by the alien conspiracy guys. I guess it’s just too current; too possibly relevant and dangerous for them to get off the safe ground provided by the museum pieces purchased decades ago. The obviously illegal operation was sanctioned by Obama and Attorney General Eric Holder. No one has yet been held responsible!!!!
There is no ongoing investigation!!
What kinds of maniacs arm these types of people????? Why is this not investigated? The answer to the first question is that they are either sociopaths in a position to make money from the powers within the Military Industrial Complex; ones afraid of the Military Industrial Complex; stupid sociopathic thrill seekers; and those chromosomally abundant. The second question is one step more multifaceted. The primary reason is because it
Page 307
is more dangerous than making a living from writing about antiquated irrelevances. Another is that since a foreigner, one named Murdoch, has been allowed to control all US mainstream news any such investigative stories are scrutinized to death by the editors and the writer’s career becomes jeopardized.
Questions similar to; ‘Might there be a fact not here articulated which may be available out there which could be of some significance to someone somewhere which you have not included in your report?’ As phrased the only possible answer is
‘yes,’ which sends the reporter back to the drawing board with a suspicion that they didn’t like what he said. Of course it would be socially objectionable to criticize Obama, and you all know why that is. Without any public mention of it he increased the spending and troops for the ‘War on Terror’ four times over Dubya and Cheney.
Once again suspicion must surround the truest discernable reason for the arming! Maybe to help protect the CIA's prize cash cow on America's doorstep!
At the same time Obama was being sworn in as president for the first time, senior Republicans held a meeting at a Washington DC restaurant. At the meeting, they conspired to block any and all of Obama’s programs and policies. They agreed to simply not work with him on anything. The GOP accelerated their programs of striking voters off the voting lists, passing
Page 308
laws requiring specific ID while voting, ID that the elderly, poor and many college students cannot afford. They also gerrymandered every state so Democrats could not win Congressional seats. Within months of Obama taking office, the Democrats lost the House and barely controlled the Senate. They control neither now. It was a miracle Obama’s first policy effort, the one he ‘borrowed’ from Hillary, the Affordable Care Act, was passed, even in the bastardized form it took.
Many of the problems Americans have in this country now are due to someone from another part of the world. As previously mentioned, the easy example is Rupert Murdoch and his phony Fox News. That channel has destroyed journalism in this country and made heroes out of some of the dumbest people he could find.
The Dems took a hard right turn after the election of Reagan. They thought the country was going that way, too. It wasn't though. There were a couple of sociological studies done after Reagan's election to find out why, after the wildness of the Sixties and Seventies, Americans would elect such a conservative Republican. It turned out the men who did a one eighty and voted for Reagan were largely the Vietnam anti-war protesters who proved to be not really anti-war, but were anti-going-to-war-themselves. When Nixon introduced the draft lottery and the male protesters realized they weren't going to be
Page 309
drafted, they left the anti-war movement and started voting the greed ticket.
It was a leap of faith for anyone to have expected a super liberal agenda from Obama’s undisclosed and unquestioned ‘new ideas.’ In actuality ‘the new ideas’ have proven to be the legalization of gay marriage which is actually handled at state level and gay military service which was handled by Clinton, coupled with a botched confusion of a National Healthcare Plan, and an increasingly continued funding and bombing of Bush’s fifteen year old ‘War on Terror.’ His perceived race has cowered any Liberal criticism; and the college students, high school teachers, and old hippies who originally bought all that un-named pie in the sky stuff are silent now. This man will someday go down in history as one of the worst presidents of all time; as well as the number one most untouchable. There are things worth speaking and writing about; but the foreign conspiracy theorists will only regurgitate safe, old, and unproven stories.
Here is where that foreign, Australian devil, Rupert Murdoch, once again steps in to subvert the American democratic process through his fearful minions. Bernie has been rendered mute in the mainstream. Trump is there every single day and little brother Jeb-of-the-Throne-Game is there, unless he again manages to say something particularly stupid by Bush standards.
Page 310
Everyone agrees that the largest issue mankind faces today is Terrorism. Someone defined that term as; ‘Violence propagated by the disenfranchised; while the same kind of violence propagated by the powers that be is called National Defense.’
Some may dismiss this as semantics, but some are just plain wrong. To complicate matters further, conspiracy theorists and their followers propose that much of these activities are ‘false flag’ operations. A further question might be; ‘Who started the mess?’ The question may have no relevance in terms of peaceful solutions attainable today. All parties claim that they are acting in self-defense with god on their side and the populations which support them do not vote for atheists. A simple level of cynicism suggests that because of their insatiable demand for oil the US chose to get involved, and have found a need to get more involved every year. Rest assured that there is much more to it; but you’ll never hear it from a conspiracy theorist.
It seems painfully obvious that terrorism, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.”
The screen turned blue for five seconds. When the video was restored a somewhat disheveled and distraught appearing Adnan Koshaggy was still in his chair; though Luc Godard and his wife were gone. He was leaning as far left as the chair allowed; in an apparent attempt to distance himself from the young man in
Page 311
the chair to his right. He introduced the man as Dez D. Light, mentioning that he had written a few e-books people have yet to discover; and that among other accomplishments he had written a few Goofreads reviews which had gotten him some notoriety as a troll among less than ten, but nonetheless marginally
‘significant’ GFR writers-reviewers-librarians. Dez was a US
citizen, residing in Arcata, California, after having emigrated from Brooklyn. Dez was flailing his arms around in a manner which made Adnan appreciative of the distance; though in actuality Dez was waving to his eight passionate followers.
Adnan inquired; “I’m sure you have been listening to the words of our previous guests. What would you like to add to the earlier commentaries?”
Dez squirmed a bit in his chair and then said; “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t listening at all. I had my headphones on, trying to chill out to Nirvana. Frankly, in the overall context that seems not to matter at all because there's a conspiracy theory behind absolutely fucking everything.
I didn't know until I was looking for information about the Sandy Hook massacre that there's a conspiracy theory about that.
Yes! Apparently it was a ‘false Flag’ operation and all set up.
Contrails are no longer contrails - they're chemtrails!!!
That's right. They're spraying a mist of aluminium to make us even more stupid. Yes I know, you thought it was water vapour
Page 312
but you're an idiot. Haven't you noticed that increase in planes flying since you were a kid? Nope. It's nothing to do with the fact that air travel has increased ten-fold. It’s planes specifically designed to spray shit all over us.
Think it can't get any more fucking treacherous? How about Hurricanes? Haven't you heard of HARP???? The US gov't uses this technology to send hurricanes to people they don't like, as long as they're in exactly the same places naturally occurring hurricanes spring up from a millennia before HARP was even invented by those scientists that have had explosives inserted into their chests to keep them from talking.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite follow that. Would you mind repeating the part about the hurricanes and the explosive scientists?”
“Hey, don’t get cutesy with me. I know fuckin’ well that I ain’t anybody big and famous; never will be; and don’t want to be. I can say whatever the fuck I want and the corrupt authorities can make that a tempest in a teapot; one circling the earth. There’s a Catch-22 everywhere. That’s the way the crapass architect designed the place. Fuck it.
You really have to absolve yourself of all logical processes and sceptical rational thought. Anything on the news is one conspiracy or another. Yes that's right, at this moment
Page 313
there are over a billion conspiracies being plotted, hatched, acted out..... you better watch out!
You know, all this significant stuff is going on, and the conspiracy guys keep distracting everybody by talking about the Illuminati. Christ, they can’t even decide on the right name.
Sometimes they say Masons. Sometimes they say Rosicrucians.
Sometimes they just oughta shut the fuck up.
According To A Pamphlet I Read entitled ‘How to Overthrow
the Illuminati’ here are five good reasons why
Illuminati conspiracy theories are bullshit according to this pamphlet I read, although they probably just made this pamphlet because they work for the Illuminati and are trying to put us off the scent. He he. Little joke there. Everyone talks about the Illuminati. You probably have heard that Jay-Z and Beyonce are members of the Illuminati, and channel demons when they perform. You probably have heard that Obama is a member of the Illuminati, and plans to implant microchips in all U.S.
citizens, to prepare for martial law. You probably have heard the dollar bill contains secret symbols, which reveal the U.S.
has been controlled by the Illuminati for hundreds of years...
Illuminati theory is put in place by the elites as a subterfuge.
Almost every Illuminati theory is made up of a few main pieces, like the different parts of an urban legend. The pieces can be put together in different combinations, or one piece can be
Page 314
emphasized more than another. But they always combine to tell more or less the same story. You probably have heard these different pieces mentioned; the Illuminati, the Masons, the Zionists, the Satanists, the Bilderbergs, or the Bankers. Each of these pieces of Illuminati theory arose at different times in history. In most cases, they were developed by rich and powerful people, who were being kicked out of power by mass movements.
Elites invented Illuminati theory to explain challenges to their power, and today poor and working class people use it to explain their own oppression. Illuminati theory seeks to make you feel helpless. Illuminati theory makes the enemy out to be all-powerful. Because Illuminati theory denies that history involves chance and mistakes, it makes the Illuminati seem god-like. This is like when peasants used to say that kings were untouchable gods, and could not be overthrown. The truth is, there is no social group so powerful that humanity cannot overthrow it.
Illuminati theory offers no viable solutions to the problems it
tries to explain. Ultimately Illuminati theorists have no strategy, no game plan, no way out for billions of oppressed people on this planet. If the enemy is all-powerful and most people are duped, then there’s nothing that can be done. All they can do is constantly talk about conspiracies, and complain that people are brainwashed and will never wake up. Illuminati theory is impossible to disprove. How do we know that all the
Page 315
conspiracy theories on YouTube aren’t actually produced by the Illuminati? How do we know that Illuminati theory itself isn’t a government hoax, designed to convince people that it’s impossible to fight back? Illuminati theory sees everything as connected, and leaves no room for coincidences or mistakes.
Illuminati theorists tie every major world event to the Illuminati. They believe every event in human history is carefully watched, planned, or even controlled by conspiratorial groups. They leave no room for coincidence. Illuminati theorists believe everything happens for a reason, and that everything is willed; by the Illuminati. Illuminati theorists are searching for answers. The truth is that masses of ordinary people have the ability to change society. History has shown it over and over again. Illuminati theorists are searching for answers about why society is fucked up. If masses of people aren’t asking the same question, it’s not because they’re stupid; it’s because they don’t think it’s possible to change things, and so don’t bother looking any deeper. Theories only move people to action when they provide an accurate explanation of the things they are experiencing, and offer viable ways for them to act to change
things. Illuminati theory offers neither. It’s useless to the people."
Page 316
#13- A Station Break
“Pardon me, Dez. You were on a pretty good roll there, but it’s time for a few messages.”
“This is just exactly how the shit works. Every goddam time you .......”
Adnan and Dez were replaced by a blue screen which said;
“You are watching KAYOD, ‘The Conspiracy Entertainment Channel.’”
A bald headed man with a light beard appeared on screen. He was in a sunny, suburban back yard trimming back the purple and white flowering, old fashioned weigela bushes. He placed the clippers on the grass, stood up, smiled, and started talking to the camera as if it were an old friend. He said; “Hi, I’m Pierced Brewsman, and I’m on a mission. No, it’s not to cut back all the flowering bushes. It’s to help our kids. In these days of computer generated volumes of bad information the little ones can get scared out of their wits.” A little boy in short pants entered the screen and stood next to the bald man; who reached down and mussed his blond hair. “Timmy is now six years old and he’s all right now. But, a year ago he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. You see, he was convinced that he was either going to be abducted by experimenting aliens, taken to hell by
Page 317
his Barney doll, brought to Gitmo by Obama and his secret CIA operatives, or otherwise waylaid by his friend next door who was reading; ‘The Catcher in the Rye.’ Though we are inundated with this kind of ‘entertainment,’ we don’t have to succumb to it. I had to learn how to de-program Timmy, and in so doing I realized that there were plenty of kids out there who need the same thing. So, I’m here to tell you that I offer these services to anyone in the continental United States. Just call the number at the bottom of the screen or send me a message at www/outwiththeconspirators.com; and I’ll be glad to be of assistance. If money is a consideration I’ve written a book called ‘Out With the Conspirators.’ It’s available on AmawayOnSteroids for $.99 in e format and $9.99 in paper. Thank you. .......... Come on, Timmy. Let’s get back to work.” He and Timmy walked back to the purple and white flowering, old fashioned weigela bushes.
As the backyard visuals slowly faded out, the viewer heard Jimi Hendrix surprise everyone at Woodstock by playing “The Star Spangled Banner.”
Adnan Koshaggy and Dez D. Light were back on screen. Adnan was in his plushy chair showing a bit of consternation as Dez was showing his longest finger to a heckler in the audience.
Adnan said; “Come on back here, Dez. You’ve got another opportunity to further enlighten us.”
Page 318
Dez stalked back to his chair, after off mike, saying a last something to the audience. He slouched in the chair and said; “Some of these fuckin’ people must have been home schooled using the goddam net.”
“Be that as it may; you can now continue.”
“I lost my train of thought, thanks to these assholes. ...
Fuck.”
“I understand that you have some interesting ideas concerning the demise of the dinosaurs. Perhaps you can share them with us.”
“I’ll try. But, if those jackasses start to harass me again, I swear to god that ........ Okay, okay. Changing theories have abounded regarding the disappearance of our huge predecessors. They currently range from an Evangelical Christian claim of non-existence to the conspiratorial view that they have become able to appear to us as something they are not. In this view they have become adept at looking like the Bushes, the Kissingers, the Clintons, the Reagans, the Putins, the Kardashians, et al, and continue to control the world surreptitiously. Only those fitted with special glasses can see the ‘truth.’
I may have missed it, but I have not noted any discussion of dinosaur ethnicity. To think of them as one big happy family seems to make as much sense as thinking of humans that way.
Page 319
There had to have been skin color and cultural differences between the dinosaurs that lived in Africa, Asia, the Middle East, Europe and dare I say the Americas. This may have affected their coping skills.
And maybe there was a moderately sized one with a funny mustache in Europe. Maybe since he had trouble holding his brush, he failed as an artist; and hated the world; especially those living in other parts of it as well as some living nearby.
Maybe because of his ‘philosophy’ and oratorical skills he got backing from the biggest guys. And maybe those big guys only.
So, what happened? It went as planned for a while, and then Mr.
Mustache got the idea to take things to another level and crossed the biggest guys. It’s likely that this led to the nuclear stuff coming out; and they all died from the blasts or radiation illness.
It’s possible; but I lean more toward this one, as it appeals to hard logic. Excepting the Loch Ness monster, they all drowned in the flood. Consider; Noah thought that he had gotten a message from god that there was going to be a deluge; I mean like something to put the global warming theorists to serious shame. Noah wasn’t considered the most stable of people and he had gotten a hint in that it had already been drizzling for five days. Anyway, he goes to his neighbors to solicit help in building the necessary ark. But, they all think that he’s a nut,
Page 320
because of the time when he told them about the flying saucer in his back yard; and the time he quit his job at Lockunheeded, Inc. because they were in cahoots with the CIA, and were supplying Strongman Sadass with weapons of mass destruction; and because of the time he called the cops in the middle of the night to save him and his family from a salivating tax assessor; and because of the time ........ You get my drift. So, now he is left completely alone to satisfy god’s edict. He has no experience in ship building and because he doesn’t have a job he has understandable difficulties in getting the necessary wood on credit. But, he gets some through the help of a Seventh Day Adventist business manager who had gotten stuck with some decaying pine. The stuff had been sitting in the church warehouse for a year, and the guy figured; ‘What the hell?’ I’m sure you can easily anticipate the rest. Noah’s boat turns out to be on the small side. He knows that something the size of a dinosaur would tip and sink it. So, instead of the behemoths, he takes some of their eggs, but is frustrated when he cannot find an ass sufficiently large to sit on them, after they had already sailed away.
What I’d like to do next is read a review I wrote and posted on Goofreads. For the few of you who may not be aware; Goofreads is the book marketing arm of AmawayOnSteroids. It concerns a retarded book titled; ‘Bank Robbery.’ No, it wasn’t
Page 321
about Dillinger. I wish it was. My review was titled; ‘Another Conspiracy Fostered by the USA.’ In another demonstration of the GFR-AOS policy of censoring anyone they deem to not be conducive to their sales, this review as well as its writer were deleted from their ‘hallowed’ halls. Fuck their hyped, useless, and severely over-rated shit; you be the judge.
I have to be brief, as anything else is not accepted by AmawayOnSteroids. This book is retarded. It had to have been calculated as being of some possible interest to the uneducated, disgruntled segment of the US market.
Like the rest of its predecessors in the Alternative
‘Intelligence’ series; this, the sixth ‘enlightenment,’ this book again demonstrates, with the full use of quotes from others with no background in the subject, enhanced by pictures remarkably similar to those found on the web, that most everything done by the US government; whether that be the overt or the hidden version; is done to damage their own citizens as well as those of the rest of the world. At the bottom line of this particular ‘effort’, without any proof whatsoever, it is stated that the US financial system has, like every other American system, been used as some sort of ruse for nefarious activities. It is ostensibly within the logic of this book that the Fed's complicity with massive theft is consistent with its long term ability to fuel an economic engine the envy of the
Page 322
world. At the most bottom of lines; people are consistently seeking to come to America; not leave it. Like the foreign authors, many of those without the ability to emigrate, seek to sell their garbage here.
The stupidities written or copied into this ‘book’ are the equivalent of asking your local dummy what he thinks about global co-operation, and writing that response.
I could go on, and have, only to have that post rejected and deleted by AmawayOnSteroids. In an attempt to get under their radar, this is a softer version.
These family MBE granted; as opposed to college MBA earned foreign ‘writers;’ once again demonstrate the audaciousness of their life-long mini-privilege through the regurgitation of undocumented suspicions regarding ‘issues’ already considered and dismissed for centuries. They bring nothing new to the table; save quotes undocumented as to both source and substance from other un-heralded conspiracy capitalists; which have previously been rightly rejected. It is the equivalent of reading a mercifully concise, pre-Keynesian, lack of empiricism.
As has become the usual pattern with the Alternative
‘Intelligence’ series, this laughable book seeks to find a market in the un-educated, dis-enfranchised, and those spending their pathetically, prolonged lives under the sufferance of their parents.
Page 323
In simplicity, the USELESS BOOK S**** AND IS ALSO WOEFULLY, UN-ENTERTAINING, INCORRECT AND AT IT’S BEST STUPIDLY MISLEADING.
There is little doubt that this unintentional joke will soon be blessed with five star reviews, just like the others in the series. I’d like to point out that if you take the trouble to investigate their repertoire's glorious ‘reviews’ you will see that the same reviewers pop up time and again; often only in existence to five star the books of these ‘authors.’ With their state-of-the-art algorithms it is simply amazing how AOS-GFR
continually misses that one; especially when electronically un-aided humans can find the pattern. In addition, the same reviews pop up on different venues under different names. If you check all of the ‘reviews’ you will see that I'm far from the only person to have noticed this fraud.
On the other hand, perhaps I’m being a tad too judgmental.
It can be funny; much like watching Maxwell Smart. If that is not your current taste; AVOID THIS BOOK AT ALL COSTS; UNLESS YOU
GET OFF ON UNINTENDED HUMOR. This seems to be the hottest topic the last few days; at least in the conspiracy industry.
I have no interest in entering any discussions about the authors’ lack of technological credentials; academic or job-related. Feel free in you are so disposed. Their detractors have found them to have been greatly overstated in their couched
Page 324
understatement; often citing their checkered past history of allegedly fraudulent business dealings. Surprise, surprise.”
Dez smirked derisively. He said; “Now let’s hear from all the asses mired in proper protocol. Forgive me if I choose to keep my distance.” He got up and walked off the stage. Eight people in the audience clapped without reservation and three were a bit more measured in their approach. It really didn’t matter as each group was the recipient of cold stares from asses which remained in their seats.
On stage, Koshaggy showed facial signs of relief as he double and triple taked Dez’ departure. He said; “Well, I guess that we don’t have to worry about AmawayOnSteroids picking up the rights.” Without the benefit of a cue, a large, silver haired man in a dark, floppy suit appeared at the stage’s perimeter. Upon seeing him Adnan jubilantly said; “Jean! Jean!
The Parisian source of brilliance. We are privileged to have as our next guest a man who writes no books. He makes movies and reaches a much wider audience. Welcome Jean Bissette.”
Jean continued his journey and sat in the open seat, saying; “You are much too kind.”
Adnan half smiled, displaying a possible nervousness. He said; “I suspect that you have been hearing much of what has been said tonight. Rather than trying to presumptuously prompt
Page 325
you with questions, I wonder if you might just share your thoughts with all of us.”
“So you are abdicating, thereby leaving me with the difficult task.” He chuckled, adding; “I appreciate that. You know that the rigors of propriety are an effective camouflage for insidiousness when in the hands of those who would harm. I believe that we in France have a special feeling for that, as we have been blessed with many outspoken geniuses, such as Balzac and Flaubert. One of the recurring themes throughout recent history is that the global elite will continue to profit any way they can. The largest payoffs come through funding wars all over the globe. There need not be any ‘real’ enemy, as imaginary ones serve the purpose just as well. The all-important perceptions can be created just as in a movie. Previously we knew when we were watching one, as we were in a theatre. Now, visuals appear all over and we tend to believe what we think we are seeing. Of course this can be and is managed. Anyone who says otherwise must have been hit in the head a few too many times. If a sufficient amount of the electorate believes that their security is at risk, then politicians who espouse an attack will get the support they need. If a sufficient amount of the electorate do not believe that their security is at risk then politicians will still propose wars and initiate campaigns of propaganda to substantiate them. Of course, the public is reliant on the media
Page 326
to inform them of the facts regarding potential threats. And therein lays the problem.
Most recently in 2013, the mainstream press told us for at least the third time that North Korea was about to start a nuclear war; by their supposed announcement that they intended to launch a nuclear missile. Despite this being an old ‘played’
story this caused worldwide fear and the social media reaction was frantic. Though Kim Jong-Un’s North Korea is said to be a brutal place rife with human rights violations, it appeared then as it has been born out in 2016 that it was an unlikely nuclear threat. North Korea has said that it does have nuclear power.
But, it seems in all probability to have been posturing, like an internet bully alone in front of a non-threatening computer. Or, maybe North Korea has a weird sense of humor and with nothing better to do, get a kick out of upsetting the West. Their claim has no more worldwide significance than Muammar Gaddafi was in years prior.
Experts on the subject, some of whom have been granted access to North Korea’s facilities have said that North Korea’s possible nuclear obsession is precluded because the isolated nation lacked the materials to be a nuclear threat. However, the mainstream media chose to say none of this. The information is only available if one knows where to look on certain University websites. Instead of providing the context, the mainstream press
Page 327
continued the sensational story. Some even mentioned the potential for World War Three by bringing China into the equation and assuming it would side with North Korea in any international conflict. Ostensibly, since no one in the
‘conspiracy industry’ found a way to capitalize on the reports; less than a month or so later the news story had completely died. However, you can easily see how a managed media is able to create an event which can be used for the benefit of military contractors and those with whom they share the largesse.
My point in telling this story is really not anything about North Korea in particular. It’s meant as an example of the way in which information can now be ‘managed’ to produce the effect of having people support an un-necessary military adventure. I wonder if this one was ignored by the profiteers only because the US Treasury has already been depleted through the fifteen year old ‘War on Terror.’ This high profile news story makes one question whether any wars have arisen from ‘truth’ or whether they were the result of propaganda. Conventional wisdom suggests that all international armed conflicts since WWII were provoked and inevitable. Despite the abject nonsense known in the time about Viet Nam, which has now been conveniently forgotten, it is certain that this is the commonly held belief about the conflicts that Western nations have been involved in. To openly say otherwise has its risks.
Page 328
But is this really true? Of course not.
Since wars provide huge sums of money to the global elite and their minions it is very possible that the Soviets, the Viet Cong and Muslim extremists were also fabricated enemies of the West along with North Korea? But does what remains of the press venture into these areas? No. Do conspiracy theorists deal with them? No. They’d rather talk about reptilian overlords, child hunting and sex parties, not necessarily in that order, the US
presidential lineage and the Bin Laden family’s business relationship with the Bush family. ...... Umm. Can that last part be stricken from the record? So, why do the conspiracy theorists focus on matters less urgent? Easy, it’s more lucrative and it is safer. I commend the folks here at ‘The Conspiracy Entertainment Channel,’ for putting things in their proper perspective; through the recognition that this is entertainment; no different than a 1930’s screwball comedy. I am always amused to see the actors of 2016 pretending to be so serious and righteous.
Even from the best sources, one has to be suspicious of motivations. A 2010 NY Times article headlined ‘U.S. Identifies Vast Mineral Riches in Afghanistan’ provides an excellent summary of the abundance of rare, and often superconducting, minerals in the country. The article states, ‘The previously unknown deposits, including huge veins of iron, copper, cobalt,
Page 329
gold and critical industrial metals like lithium are so big and include so many minerals that are essential to modern industry that Afghanistan could eventually be transformed into one of the most important mining centers in the world, the United States officials believe.’ This article appeared at a time when the US
was bombing the country in search of Bin Laden. All the aforementioned is simply an indication of how much recent invaders; the US and their allies, and before them the Russians, of course stood to gain by invading Afghanistan.
The US is considered bad if it turns refugees away. The US
is considered bad if it takes them in. So say, the US hating conspiracy theorists. The ‘rationale’ for the former badness is simply being inhumane. The ‘rationale’ for the latter badness is that it is part of another conspiracy. It seems that the US has let in many ISIS operatives purposely, as the US shadow government knows that they will commit some mass atrocity, which will become an acceptable reason to expand the War on Terror and further restrict civil liberties. The US can’t win. While the terrorism issue may be the most complicated one today, it is safe and simple to say that in a time of war the US should enforce longstanding laws and charge the perpetrators of such detrimental stupidity with sedition; or at the very least require some sort of intelligence test of foreign conspiracy theorists before allowing them to peddle their wares here.
Page 330
Listen to this abject absurdity purportedly said by a professed former US Intelligence man who is now trying to sell books.
While his claimed rank was basically that of one engaged in branch level middle management, this deluded person always speaks in the authoritative tone of a director, and always finds inconsistencies in US covert operations which are suggestive of nefarious activities at a high level. One can legitimately ask a basic question. If he is so morally opposed to a myriad of US
activities, why didn’t we hear anything from him during his multi-decade work in support of those atrocities? Has his mindset changed in old age? Has he seen the error of his ways?
There are no apologies. Has he attained Alzheimer’s or some other fantasy? Or does he just need the money and wants to popularize his books? Is he who he says he is?
He has written this display of retardation; ‘I’m no expert in Russian studies, but it seems to me Russia has gone from the proverbial frying pan to the proverbial fire. That is, Russia swung from Communism to Fascism. I also think that is largely the fault of the West. When the Soviet Union collapsed, the neo-Con West forced Russia to immediately change from a government-based economy to an unregulated free market based economy. The West, led by George H. W. Bush, wanted to turn Russia into a Libertarian paradise. Instead, they got an economic train wreck.
They tried the same thing with Iraq with similar results.
Page 331
Without adequate regulation, the free market turned into an open black market with a handful of people garnering a great deal of wealth and power, and everyone else, well, not so good. Putin, using his KGB experience, was able to accumulate so much wealth and power he essentially became the de facto fascist leader of Russia. Even when he wasn’t in office, he controlled the puppet strings of government. It really isn’t that much different than what’s happening now in the US: thanks to Republican deregulation, one percent of the population has all the wealth and power, and is controlling government from the shadows.
President Jimmy Carter said the US is now an oligarchy. There is a very fine line separating oligarchy from fascism.’
This ‘American’ military man was quoted on a Saudi Arabian based ‘conspiracy’ website. This sort of half-truth nonsense followed by defective conclusions does not merit any response from anyone above the age of eight.
This will be my last rant of the evening. Some days turn out just plain funny and this is one of them. However the ‘joke’
offered by the one-trick-pony-anti-American conspiracy theorists is so well worn that it is necessary to find an ‘it’s so boring, it’s funny’ mindset to provide the slightest curl of a lip. I realize that in the ersatz intellectual circles of Goofreads at AmawayOnSteroids it is entirely de classe for a US citizen to say anything in support of their country. So let them call me a
Page 332
French jingoist or anything else they’d like. I’ll be glad to do it for you. I really don’t care anywhere near as much as they’d care if I merely took the trouble to point out their contradictions, silly value judgements, and preference for weak innuendo over hard fact. At the most bottom of lines, it would be best for this country to return to their pre-WWII isolationist policy and not get involved with other country’s problems. Hell, if they’re going to hate you for it, let them hate you for nothing. Let them dump their products in their own back yards and thereby put Americans back to work. Let them break their own budgets doing the surveillance necessary to prevent terrorist attacks. If they really think that there is no such thing, perhaps they will be enlightened by the bomb a jihadist places in a supportive crack. Today I read a series of out and out insults written to someone with the audacity to call into question some anti-American things which the New Zealand based bookseller-conspiracy theorists had written on their blog.
The long story ended with a recapitulation of their ‘policy,’ a referral to their ‘Policy Statement,’ despite an advertisement of ‘free speech and anything goes,’ and the absurd statement that they are better Americans than the Americans themselves.
That can be answered in a myriad of ways, but suffice to offer two words containing seven letters. ................. The foreign moderators of the Hate America threads have the audacity
Page 333
to require the specificity and ‘proof’ which they never require when they claim US atrocities. Hint. First word begins with “E”
and the second begins with “S.” They say that US leading families are reptilian, that the US created Al Qaeda and ISIS, that the federal Reserve is purposely bankrupting the world, that six people control 65% of the world’s resources, that if anyone speaks of these things US guided, mind-controlled assassins will eliminate them, though presumably not these two foreign operatives, that the symbolism on US currency is that of a secret controlling society either called the Masons, Illuminati or a host of other names, through which these secret organizations ostensibly intend to maintain their clandestine existence by advertising it on papers seen by everyone in the US
every day. I think it would take the return of Dubya to come up with a plan as sound. It actually goes downhill from there. I suppose that the logic is that if someone is still reading after all that, they may as well bring out the ‘real good stuff.’
Tesla technology, which could provide everyone with free energy is suppressed, without mentioning that one large city tried to implement it and it didn’t work; that the US has covertly started every war known to man ............ I could go on, but I’m getting extremely bored and a tad nauseous.
In their defense, I suppose that ‘social media’ has been proving for some time now that it’s perfectly acceptable to put
Page 334
mental retardation on the web. In fact, many young people find it to be amusing entertainment. What disturbs me is that a traitor is allowed to capitalize on it. That statement probably upsets some good Americans. I’d just like them to consider one thing. In a time of war these people are allowed to say anything detrimental they choose about a country they have never lived in, totally devoid of proof, while they throw the burden of proof on America to prove that it didn’t do something. This is like requiring you to prove that you didn’t kill a neighbor of yours who died 20 years ago.
The conspiracy theorists, as a group, claim that there is proof; or the closest thing to it they possess regarding any of their claims, that the US had involvement in the continuation of the Nazi-Fascist MK-Ultra program, which involved mind control experimentation and a ‘Manchurian Candidate’ type of speculation. The ‘conclusive’ proof they refer to are documents, which are available on line. The conspiracy theorists claim a US
admission to wrongdoing because of this. In actuality, the documents do indeed refer to a US MK-Ultra program. What is never cited by the rabid-half-truth-gossipmongers of US
malfeasance is that these are merely budgetary documents. The documents never specify what the purpose of that program was and only deal with expenditure approvals. The program lasted less than a fiscal year and its total budget was $7,400 at the
Page 335
maximum. Even taking the largest number possible, this is suggestive of some short-lived folly, which was quickly abandoned, regarding some un-defined activity which occupied some government employee’s time less than a year. If you think I’m lying, it’s public information. Whatever conclusions you make, my point is that after claimed diligent decades of research, this is the closest thing to evidence found by the conspiracy theorists in support of their hundreds of anti-US
claims. The inference they seek to draw from their iota of
‘proof’ does prove something. That is that their ethical standards regarding full disclosure do not apply to themselves.
Based on the total lack of evidence after decades, regarding any of their anti-US assertions, the only logical conclusions I can imagine are that either their claims against the US are totally false, that the claimant conspiracy theory researchers are totally incompetent; or that they are beholden to a foreign power.
On a lighter note, I have to admit that one honorary member who resides in the US$ oil rich United Arab Emerites is unintentionally hilarious. He is openly anti-US, anti-Jew, and anti-Israel. His comedy routine centers on his serious audaciousness to criticize others for human rights abuses, when his now rich nation is still at least partially governed by Sharia law, and publicly stone women to death for alleged
Page 336
adultery. One cannot help but be reminded of Basil Fawlty and John Cleese; though wearing brown pancake makeup. The bug-eyed ingrate seems not to realize that without the benefit of the largesse received from those he now despises, the self-proclaimed intellectual would be out in the desert kicking camel shit along with the rest of his family, hoping that ISIS didn’t find, rape, and kill them.
I never thought that I’d have anything good to say about Donald Trump; Bernie Sander’s record almost entirely consistent with my personal values. But Bernie, the Donald seems to be the only candidate who realizes that ISIS and radical Islamic ideology are a threat. Things are getting very weird in the US.
This whole current situation is complete Dadaism.
On another related topic, I’d like to start by defining my subject. A false flag maneuver is a covert operation which is designed to deceive in such a way that the operation appears as though it is being carried out by entities, groups, or nations other than those who actually planned and executed them. The term originated in naval warfare and the first documented instance of it I could find occurred in 1788 Sweden. Considering the simplicity of the idea, I’m sure it goes back much further.
In most significant recent events of note; it is to commit an act of war and have others blamed for it. Also, in recent times the others seem to be oil-rich countries like Iraq or drug-
Page 337
producing states like Afghanistan. False flag terrorism has been used by interested parties all over the world. It continues to be popular because it is simple and it seems to always be effective. The natural common reaction is; ‘If it looks like a duck .........’ This manufactures the consent of the populace. I like a quote from Aeschylus; a Greek dating from around 500BC.
‘In war, truth is the first casualty.’ I would just point out that we are now in a perennial war. Now, because of the foreign virtual monopoly of newspapers and nonsense being written on the web, there is no trustworthy source of information. I sincerely have high hopes that ‘The Conspiracy Entertainment Channel’ will fill that gap. Thank you.”
Adnan Koshaggy stood as did Jean Bissette. They shook hands and the audience generally applauded as Jean walked off. Adnan engaged his own two hands and said; “Quite a guy. In France they let him do whatever he wants and are better off for it. And now for our last guest. He’s a recent author who works in various fictional areas. He has just released another, titled ‘Queries By Way of Kiwi Queens.’ This one is said by the author to be
‘conspiratorial truth,’ as far as we can understand the term, necessarily presented as fiction.’ So, here is Donald DeMildendo.”
Donald did a last quick brush on hi gray-white mullet, licked his lips, and ambled out at the maximum speed allowed to
Page 338
67 year old legs which exercise only when Word is in the process of saving a set of large files; the wine glass is empty, or the hunger games commence. He saw six or seven cameras, below him, both to his right and left. They revolved and imitated high tech weapons and were manned by squinting people who assumed looks of abject boredom as they comfortably sat in their machine gun nest nursing Twinky-addicted bottoms. The bright lights required eye adjustment, but the process was near instantaneous, and was accomplished before he could fall. Don hoped that the bit of a trip and stumble was not detected, but knew that it was. He sat in the un-occupied chair, his back failing in its attempt to be congruent with the dark green chair’s, lumpy, well-worn, and buttoned down plush. He crossed his legs; right ankle to left knee; simultaneously folding his hands on his lap in a praying position, only because Don didn’t know anything else to do with them. Pleasantries were neither offered nor expected.
Adnan Koshaggy broke away from the ogling of his notes sufficient time to say; “My apologies, Mr. DeMildendo. The time has become pressing as other guests have used more than the programmers anticipated.” Adnan focussed on his watch; then the nearest cameraman.
“Actually, that might be to my advantage, as my wife of forty-four years has constantly been telling me to stop rambling and get to the point. Distill, distill.”
Page 339
“Good. .................. Donald. Then please tell me why did you write this book?”
Feeling as if he’d already been dissed thrice, he responded; “Why? Unsuccessfully controlled snicker. Why?
Obviously because it’s a ticket to get on classy, well-paying, Cable TV shows like this one.”
Adnan feigned amusement, exhibiting a George C. Scott-playing-Patton kind of terse, forced smile.
Donald quickly realized that he had made a mistake; as it seemed that he had gotten Adnan’s attention.
Adnan ‘cordially,’ yet insistently repeated; “Why?” His practiced display of sincerity was accompanied by his showing of both of his wrinkled, yet ‘gentle’ palms to the sky and the widest of eyes; the latter much as that of an insurance agent whose only purpose in life is to save his client money. It was so moving that for an instant Donald considered giving him a big kiss; right on TV; a show with almost as many viewers as Macy’s weekday window. Not.
In this particular case that indoor confined ‘sky’ was only visible to the pigeons in search of a place to drop a deposit.
What was clear to Donald was a series of intersecting beams and rafters bearing the weight of three camera drones, to date not Twinky addicted or unionized; the higher levels a suitable hangout for the Phantom of the Opera, in any of his
Page 340
incarnations. Not seeing any sign of a chandelier, he relaxed a bit. Off point, he wondered if he might have un-duly been the least bit contentious toward Adnan; but swiftly decided that the speculation was of no value and besides, that he liked people as much as DFW did. So, Donald said with the best chirp he could muster; “Must you start out with the hardest one? “Why?” is always the most difficult question to answer. Well, it’s your show, so here goes. I believe that ultimately everyone who is honest would have to reply with; ‘Because I felt like it.’
Having said that, I realize that that answer will not be conducive to the ‘progress’ of this program, and so, I’ll go to the other extreme and truthfully say that I didn’t intend to.
After having finished a sci-fi book which became much more complicated than I originally planned, I started what I hoped would be a simple Chandler-type of noir mystery; and the damn thing kept growing as if it had a life of its own. The process ultimately led me to personally discover a popular social website which serves as a front for communications between terrorists.”
“Is that the book you’ve written or is it your real personal experience?”
“Yes. ................... And no.”
“That question was not intended to sound as thick as you may have taken it; unless you have chosen to assume the high
Page 341
ground and joke with me. My sincere apologies if you’ve taken that question as an indication of my tricky attempt to establish my credentials. ........ I could have phrased that better. I’m sure we all realize that the process of differentiating an author’s experience and point of view from that of their book is a painfully protracted process, and is subject to the limitations imposed by the current infantile understandings of psychology, desired appearance, desire itself ...........”
“Narcissus, in search of the open window, mistakenly gazing into the rippling pond, with ‘The Prince’ watching him-her through his-her own fun house mirror; images provided courtesy of the sponsors addicted to paying prime time prices to the highest of Nielsens, mellowed through the supposed ‘social considerations’ provided by a twenty first century, plethora of critics .................. ?”
“Okay, okay. I’d like to pursue this conversation further, but the man in the door at stage left keeps pointing at his wristwatch, while he makes faces at me. He can just cut it in the final editing if he wants to. But, no, he has to act like some big deal ..........”
“Hey. Bones man. We all gotta do what we got to do. Don’t get in trouble unless there’s no other reasonable option. As I’ve previously mentioned, I started out intending to do some kind of simple crime thing .....................”
Page 342
“Don’t you use an outline and story board?”
“Somewhat and no. I didn’t use any outlines at all for the first ones, and then started to do outlines for the others, starting with the fifth or sixth but only after they were two thirds done. I always just think of a situation people might be in and kind of see where it might go; something like tree trunks, branches, sub-branches, leaves, seasons, colors, on and on. It’s just a matter of maximizing open options. Without that you will hit a dead end. I don’t remember the fine particulars of most of the books; just two. When I occasionally revisit the others I read stuff I can no longer imagine writing. Regarding the story board; I don’t even know what that is. Thanks for asking. Anyway, for this last book, which by the way is titled;
‘Queries by Way of Kiwi Queens,’ and is available on AmawayOnSteroids.com, I thought of this hard boiled, disillusioned private dick as the main character. Used to be a cop, but got disbarred or something. So, he gets this client who tells him that her boyfriend has disappeared. Young, sweet girl, you know? Crying and all that shit as she tells the dick her story. She’s laying on the shit so good the dick figures that she must have had plenty of practice. Right?”
“I hate to be so rude as to interrupt, but this show is about conspiracies, and I can’t tell where .......”
Page 343
“Neither can I bro. Getting’ there. It’s all good. Cut to the chase; ........ or the first one anyway. Could use the old lady here. ........... Damn. ........... Okay. Dick gets a check he hopes will clear, and finds out that the disappeared boyfriend was one of the Paris ISIS attackers. .......... I’m getting ahead of myself. Tryin’ to go too fast. Turns out that this asshole needed to impress the girl. He was thirty five years old and worked a minimum wage gig, on call 24-7 at Mickey D’s. My client rags on about that here and there, so he starts tellin’ her what a big man he really is and all that kind of crap. If he just shaved off that douchebag beard he might not have any problems ....... Anyway, he tells her that he is a US
based affiliated member of ISIS; whatever the fuck that is.”
“The Islamic State of Iran and Syria? No? ........ Well, there are certain other acronyms like ISIL and the taken as derogatory, ‘Puetsch ..............”
“Yeah. Yeah. You can get bogged down in those politically correct euphemisms and precise definitions until you’re paralyzed and you’re hosting the ‘The Worm Show.’ They’ll all be changed whenever the masters want them changed anyway. I see the man off stage left freaking over his watch. So, the details are supplied in my next best-selling book. Beard-o shows this girl how he communicates with the highest level of ISIS or Al-Queda; he’s not sure which, but that’s a tangent. He shows her how he
Page 344
receives and sends communications through Goofreads threads founded by two gay down-underers. He even tells her the basics of the simple letter-number substitution system employed in the code and she tells the curious dick who’s trying to get some kind of lead for his investigation, as well as clock up the billable hours, the timeless story of a wannabe nobody wants.”
“Intelligence sources are paid to be well aware of this sort of thing and deal with matters much more sophisticated.”
“Yes. I agree that they are paid to say that officially and they probably have come to believe their own bullshit; cue balls made of Styrofoam and no one’s got the time. Do I have to detail their results in order to cast appropriate aspersions on their intents or efficiencies? ....... I’ve checked this out. The hardest codes to break are often the simplest ones. Let me give you one example. Say somebody writes publicly available posts.
Most everyone figures that they have nothing to hide. The old forgotten phrase is ‘hiding in plain sight.’ Say someone posts 3-23, 7-2, 9-11, etc. This is consistent with dates and symbols, so it is suspicious and is on the radar. But, imagine just the least bit. In recognition of that, they use words which are corresponded to numbers in a book only the connected know about; possibly an indie book with only twenty sales. CW, GB, and IK
can mean Page 3, word 23; page 7, word 2; page 9, word 11; and it flies because with all the acronyms used they can also mean
Page 345
Country Western, United Kingdom, and Idiotic Kiss. It’s simple.
Easy to remember. And the authorities themselves have said that this type of coding is damn near impossible to detect. That’s the concept. Considering time, I’ve simplified what does exist somewhat. My book goes into two simple further ramifications of this concept in PROVABLE detail, which was provided by the girl.”
“Keep filming. Editing comes later. Shit, these unionized fucks can’t do a goddam thing except eat, drink and read the digits provided. ..................” Adnan yelled; “Triple time?
Okay. Gotta leave? Go ahead. Nobody gives a shit. Just leave the cameras running. We’ll try to muddle on through without you.”
The cameramen looked to each other for guidance. The fattest one shrugged and the rest aped him and remained in their perches.
Adnan nasally continued; “I’m so grateful. Thank you for your kind consideration. Seems that sentence needs an ‘of’ somewhere.
So, Mr. Accidental-Conspiracy-decoder, tell me more details.”
“Yes, yes, the devil is always hidden in the details. Bones again, man. So, we’ve got an unexpected story of an anti-American Kiwi-Aussie, male gay team who operate an ISIS
communication line through the hundreds of Goofreads based threads they have ‘founded.’ Motivation? Psychologically speaking, the dick aficionados are failures and they blame Hollywood and the US market generally for that outcome; likely
Page 346
considering it some sort of discrimination against those LGB&T
persuaded, rather than their obvious lack of talent. Further motivation? Financially speaking, they get paid for doing this by eastern AND western interests. The former has gigabytes of petroleum money they can’t even daydream a way to spend, want to keep the ‘lower-class’ Muslims from invading and desecrating their territory, assisted by the reactionary American drone bombardment of ‘terrorists’ and anyone happening to be near them. The Saudi royal family obtains US protection, and primarily seeks to preserve their own position and wealth aided by zero-Saudi military expenditures. Essentially, they want a free bodyguard; are afraid of Al-Queda-ISIS, but fund them surreptitiously. The west invariably provides, at all levels, 90% of that given by the good old red, white and blue. The third motivation is an acquired taste of sorts. Profit deficient, western based .com ‘businesses’ try to supplement their bottom line inadequacies through the sale of their data. In this case, in part through their ability to obtain free sucker labor, the Goofreads ‘literary’ website has amassed the largest worldwide database of information, which they run through their cookies.
If anyone is not yet aware, Goofreads is 100% owned by AmawayOnSteroids. Their own computer-based ability to provide the authorities with ‘subversive’ names is enhanced by the information reported to them by the ‘hands on’ thread operators
Page 347
of those threads which attract radical thinkers; and the sister-boys play into this scheme. These types of self-important operators are rewarded with what most Americans would characterize as chump change, but it is apparently sufficiently attractive to some people living in backward areas, for them to revel in being un-caring, multi sided gatherers.”
“If I might interrupt as there still are some time considerations, I’m interested in hearing of the coding methodology employed.”
“It’s articulated at length in my book and I have previously touched on that. It’s one of those things which are easier to write than to say. But, let me try this as one specific example. I trust that broader inferences can be easily gleaned. The two foreign operators who call themselves Jim-boy and Daddy-L are just so gay that the otherwise un-partnered duo have written or Wiki copied seven books which they call their
‘Masked Messages,’ commonly referred to as the ‘MM Series,’ and they don’t mean Marilyn Monroe. A small segment of the LGB&T
market buys anything with a couple of ‘soft and affectionate’
guys on the cover. ............ Yeah, right? You know the 2016
marketplace better than me.”
“You have referred to them as ‘two gay, foreign operators,’
or some such thing. Why don’t you just state their real names?
And how do you know that they are gay?”
Page 348
“There are actually a number of reasons why I don’t want to name them. It could go on quite a bit. Suffice to say that I don’t want to give them free advertising. Regarding gay, it’s just obvious. As far as ‘knowing’ that; I hope to hell that I never can conclusively attest to that. Different strokes for different folks. It is what it fucking is. Okay, but don’t push.
You know what I’m sayin’. Let me continue on the much more relevant code thing. You’ve got these seven books and an extensive series of continually expanded threads on Goofreads, all under the general heading of ‘Masked Messages.’ If one of the two partner operators establishes a new thread on a Sunday that corresponds to book number one. If the new thread is established on a Monday it corresponds to book number two, etc., etc. Their first post is always lengthy and broken up into an un-necessary number of paragraphs. Say the first words in the first paragraph of the first post of a new thread established on a Tuesday are; ‘Research pertaining.” You use the first letter of those first two words and correspond them to a numerical value. ‘R’ is the eighteenth letter in the alphabet and ‘P’ is the sixteenth. So, the first word of the communication is the sixteenth one on page eighteen of the third book in the series.
Then take the first two words of paragraph two, the ‘paragraphs’
usually comprised of one sentence and do the same thing, etc., etc.”
Page 349
“Why have you not gone to the authorities with this information?”
“I don’t know which ones to trust. My thought was that I’d put it out there publicly in the hope that some of the good guys would see it.”
“How can you be certain that your public pronouncement is not fouling up an operation with which the authorities were already well-aware? It’s possible that they were using this scheme as a monitoring device.”
“I did consider that possibility. But, just last week the gay team established a new thread. Following this methodology the message was; ‘Paris November 23 Bombs Guns Multi Confirm Plans World-Wide-Web Thirteen.’ Despite the clear message, no one stopped it. So I had to conclude that the code was either unknown to the authorities or that the authorities were complicit in the event.”
“You must realize that if this information is correct, this operation will be shut down only to have another similar one established. So, what do you hope to accomplish in the overall scheme of things?”
“That is such a defeatist point of view; and I admit that at times I share it. In the overall scheme of things I hope it makes some positive difference, but, at the same time, expect that it will not. Expectations are the primary source of
Page 350
depression. You know, I was a young man during the 1960’s. Back then everyone and their brother were espousing grand plans to make everything better. I’m sure that they had the best of intentions. But, though I never said it, I found them kind of silly or unknowingly grandiose. ........ Give me a second. It’s a bit difficult to recall those days. ......... I thought very simply, I guess. We didn’t need any great plans or programs. All we needed was for every person to love and take care of one other person. That would make everything all right and it’s so easy to do. So, for this code stuff it’s kind of the same thing, but not the same thing, at the same time. I’m just a little blip on the radar, or maybe under it. That’s okay with me. Believe me, the last things I ever wanted were popularity and fame; you just get hounded to death. But, here I chanced upon something this distraught woman told me. In a way, I wish that she hadn’t done that. I don’t like difficult issues in the least. But I was left with no other possible choice. If I didn’t do it I’d spend the rest of my life agonizing over that and inconclusively wondering and torturing myself about what might have been if I had. Okay, so here it is. Maybe it’s wrong. Maybe it’s stupid.
Maybe it’s hated. Maybe it’s irrelevant. Maybe it’s misunderstood. The world is populated with an infinite variety of maybes. When alone, this miniscule blip sometimes cries over the results, but recovers in knowing that he tried his best.
Page 351
....... Oh, shit. So off topic. I’ve forgotten the original question. Ummnnnnn, I wouldn’t mind knowing that this foreign gay team match was residing at Gitmo.”
“The show’s only got a few minutes left. A final summation?
What you’re working on and that kind of thing.”
“I’ve been thinking about another book. That’s the best part. Kind of a comedy thing. All I’ve got is the title;
‘Reptiles, Angels and Faeries: A Children’s Book for Adults Who Have Located Their Inner Infant.’ I’m advised that it’s a growing market here and has an established base in Pommy Town.
What really has been getting in my craw lately is the anti-American mainstream ‘news.’ I guess that’s what anyone with any sense would have expected to have happened after a popular senile commander in charge let one foreigner own every outlet. I believe that I’ve been one of the few Americans on this show, and it’s necessary to count both Brooklyn and Arcata as being in the US to make the word plural. This show was purportedly about conspiracies; which has become a code name for foreign referendums on US policies. The insignificant, US protected, satellites wring their hands concerning the propriety of US
operations and supposed US operations, in an absurd-in-it’s-provincialism attempt to examine the actions of the one to whom they owe their existence. Their suggestions must be drawn from a
‘Dungeons and Dragons’-like fantasy of a power they do not have
Page 352
in reality and never will. They claim moral and intellectual superiority, through competent use of Word’s thesaurus and the regurgitation of Wikipedia based brilliance. Their efforts are infecting some weak minded and economically dissatisfied US
citizens, much like the vermin in Camus’ ‘The Plague.’ You’ll recall that those ineffective authorities would not close the port either. It is admittedly more difficult now as the waters are not only on the shorelines, but have grown wings and have taken over the airwaves. Yet, though they never admit it, they know that they are ultimately ridiculous, like a pussy pretending to have sharp teeth. Come to think of it, it’s kind of like many of the trolling indie book reviewers. That should be obvious. And yes, I do understand that this originated under a President inflicted with Alzheimer’s, but dammit, there have been many Presidents since him and none have done a damn thing about it. True, one could not reasonably expect anything from any dumb Bush.
You know, we have this guy running for office now who says whatever pops into his mind. The absurdity is that no one will contradict his supposedly ridiculous substance. They are content to make their daily reports saying that he is controversial or divisive. For one, I would love to hear somebody try to deal with a real issue. Controversial, divisive? Fuck that shit? The man is putting it on the table. If he’s wrong say why. No, of
Page 353
course not. All they can do is, prior to dining, bullshit about whether the restaurant deserves one or five stars; relying solely on the adequacy of the waitress’ worn-out smile and the number of stars granted by the ‘Michelin Guide.’
This country is more fucked up than it has been any time since the Great Depression. If you don’t believe me ask any young, non-Ivy-League person trying to get a start. Ever since 9-11-01, the US economy has faltered, due to the dictated security and military spending. Personal freedoms and the right to privacy have been sacrificed. Some teddy bear cuddling, inner infant discoverers will note the plethora of ones in the magical date and conclude that it is a sign that the friendly angels are watching out for us. Excuse the hell out of me as I attempt to not rudely laugh out loud. Just a minute. .................
Okay. Okay. Ignore the easy and irrelevant distractions.
Leave the over-privileged bear haulers with their worshipped meta cherubim and seraphim. It’s been fifteen years since the start and from any statistics available the “War on Terror” has only expanded, depleting more US resources. Obama has spent four times more money and has dropped four times as many bombs than Dubya. Yet, you will never hear a question or criticism from a white liberal, and you know fuckin’ well why. In addition, the military industrial complex as well as the interests of the foreign owned media know all too well capitalize on it.
Page 354
This war has grown from an idealistic statement of armed belief to one headed by hating, low class and low income thugs assisted by stupid or sociopathic rich Arabs; many on the Sheikh’s payroll. While fifteen years ago it was possible, though US unpopular to consider the complaints of Bin Laden headed Al-Queda. However, the actions taken by ISIS, whatever their preferred name, are intolerable.
Originally the crux of the dispute was solvable through honest negotiation. It might have revolved around the US
defilement through uninvited presence in Islamic holy land and the US ‘purchase’ of mid-east sovereigns. This was likely done in the hope of ensuring the continuance of its supply of the oil to which it had become addicted. For me, at that point, it seemed as if the US had a lot of moral apologizing to do. As a practical matter it seemed that the US should stop their many incursive maneuvers and facilities established without the invitation of the people they claimed to be ‘liberating’ or some such thing. It’s been on Muhammed’s holiest of lands, from which it is still right to withdraw. I mean it’s so obviously wrong.
How would we Americans feel if the Chinese established a military presence in Chicago, and decided to take the Crip side?
Still, at an earlier time an optimist would have seen the possibility of a negotiated solution. But, instead of talking, the Bush boy led a US declared war on something difficult to
Page 355
define; terrorists. Now, it’s crazy season on all sides of the issue.
While, for the moment ignoring my value judgmental commentary, this general scenario is viewed as cynically acceptable ‘wisdom’ to those majority pundits working at the first level of accessible deception. A wider explanation would involve rank, nuances, disputable degrees of logic, the amount of influence held by the corporate war machine; in our interest to better manage, but not obliterate; the need to be electable in a democracy resplendent with one issue voters; some of the more vocal in possession of stuffed toys, and the over-lapping relationship with an Israeli ally, hardened by 65 years of suicide bombers and scud missiles. I regret to say that that is simplistic; each factor with all its permutations merits its own study, in the long run.
Right now, the ISIS thugs have taken over the Arabic cause; causing many Arabs to flee Arabia. They extoll their supposedly minority interpretation of Islam while those in the Islamic mainstream flee for various reasons. That’s supposed to be some kind of joke, but it’s just too sad a one to laugh at. The lack of organization which takes ‘credit’ for the ugliest of deaths and calls itself ISIS has openly said that it seeks no negotiation and is only committed to the total destruction of the west and the institution of its conveniently misunderstood
Page 356
Sharia law throughout the world. These few, cruel, brain damaged devotees of woolen sock head fashion, have crossed a line, best not crossed armed only with knives, automatic rifles and internet tutored explosive devices.
Whether or not Al-Queda or ISIS was originally started by the US CIA, FBI, Black Ops or any secretive organization buried within, doesn’t matter anymore. They have vowed to kill us. The
‘reasons’ for their indoctrination may matter to their mommies.
Only. Allowed the freedom of speech non-existent where they come from, in the US the foreigners are still permitted to continue to attempt to make a living off the backs of many US citizens, too long suffering under the constrictions of a war economy, with no regard for their effect on the populace anywhere. The big boys have been pestered into letting the little shits from the boonies capitalize on them. Some US instinct for brevity curtails the subsidiary considerations.
Having said that, here’s the game with which the US has been presented; so far the field defined by others. It can continue to slowly but surely go down the namby-pamby path suggested to it by many who have appointed themselves some sort of moderator or indie critic; in what is merely a further dive into a Babel confusion and an Adam Smith bankruptcy. It can defer to the blank of its fascination with its un-elected royalty and subsequently bitch with a dick up its ass. It can
Page 357
seek political reform while trying not to be too obviously a joke. It can fuck everybody up with a bomb like they haven’t seen in seventy years.
The US has spent fortunes building the largest arsenal of nuclear explosives ever known. For what? To further the impoverishment of the American people? Fuck that shit. It was made to be used when needed. Okay. Warn the fucks first, but if they don’t cut the shit, obliterate ‘em. It won’t hurt. It’s a kind of mercy. And it’s economical.
With the exception of a few jackasses who think that they’re filling the hole in their mentally challenged head with an ISIS affiliation, the rest of the world truly wishes that the sock-heads would be slowly tortured to death with a blowtorch or the object of their greatest fear. The idea behind democracy is the deference to the majority, with recognition of minority rights. Yes? .......... Okay. While western democracy is declared an enemy with the threat of death over-hanging; if the idea of democracy was ever worth a fucking thing, wouldn’t it stand up for itself and the ones it loved? Yes!!!! Yes!!!
Inevitable fucking yes!! The trap and the noose have the most temporary of times; a blink in the eyes of a blind toad.
ISIS has displayed a useful additional lack of knowledge in guerilla warfare tactics. Rather than dispersing and offering no clear target, they have sequestered in what they must consider
Page 358
some sort of stronghold. They must be too stupid to know that this is an easy target; even for a drone.
Look! This expensive bullshit has been going on for fifteen years now and is still escalating. We can’t afford a 100 year war here. The only beneficiary of that would be the military industrial complex and those shitty writers from New Zealand who can copy it into another low end book. And; I’ve got some news.
No one wants any further “debate” about the merit of each side; the possible false flag procedures; whether or not the majority of eastern and domestic Muslims are peaceful people and whether or not they are supportive of the US and whether or not, as the conspiracy theorist nuts say, that America is the cause of all the problems. I don’t give a flying fuck if it was the CIA, NBC
or the piss-ass unemployment line where these low class slob barbarians were first organized. These scumbags want to kill us and our friends. What more do you need to know? Fuck it. Just fuck all that blah, blah, blah, stupid shit.
Get ye some trustworthy patriots and build a plane which gives the appearance of being one from Russia; or some other country with nuclear capabilities which we dislike even more.
Use it to drop the fucking nuke right on ISIS territory. What the hell else did we build them for? To keep them in some hollowed out mountain for the dinosaurs to guard and have some conspiracy assholes piss and moan over? Fuck that subversive
Page 359
shit. Do two, at the very least. Do three. Don’t feel badly over the low numbers. It’s the quality which counts most. The machines have yet to figure out how to calculate that one. Burn the plane at Area 51. Provide a film of the bombing event with the Russian insignias all over the plane. Issue statements deploring the atrocity. Even bring it up at the useless UN. Be deaf to the inevitable recriminations to follow. Collateral damage? Surprise, mutha fuckin’surprise. It’s called a war, dickass. How long do you have to be told that shit happens? Say so sorry, really; if they can pin it on ya. It’s a Pynchon paradise or a Pynchon dystopia, depending upon book and point of view, without the overly thick attempt at obscuration.”
“Allow me to jump in with an observation or two. It seems rationally consistent that your point of view coincides with that of someone who has been periodically ignored; and has been very hurt by that. I’m almost sure that you are aware of the possibility of that ‘psychological’ interpretation. Following from that, it would be logical to assume that you have herein, today enunciated something which has been courageously appreciated, within its limitations. But on the other hand, it is clearly recognized that this often naïve presentation, posing as sophistication is yet to be accepted anywhere. Recognized authorities have been reticent to bestow accolades, and those requiring a leader have no one to follow. This may be overly
Page 360
kind to someone with no merit. Some would say that it seems that it is very possible that you have purposefully concocted a viewpoint which may work only for you; insofar as you have calculated its personal benefits; not much different than the two decades old David Foster Wallace attempts at an un-democratic, concealed desire for complete dominance, masked by a longevity with which few have been blessed. Back to the situation at hand, it does seem eminently possible that the author has surreptitiously built in, through his unilaterally chosen scenario, a situation in which his hidden biases are justified by the Drucker defined ‘law of the situation,’ if you will. To complicate that one more step, it seems purposefully or un-knowingly taken, that unfortunate to any mindset taken which can be construed as reminiscent of a commentary which is hoped to justify its source, still oblivious to the fact that this, and any attempt at an accurate depiction can be easily reduced ala the eighty year old depictions of Picasso. Any comments.”
“As you may know, your statement-question contains certain value judgements to which I do not ascribe, which makes a direct response absolutely impossible. It would be like answering;
‘When did you stop beating your wife?’ I’m not being very critical in saying that, as I well appreciate the thought you have given to its formation. I fully realize that your presentation may be totally innocent or a manifestation of a
Page 361
calculated trap. I will assume that it is the former; as to make a reply on that level is easy; while to make a reply based on the latter possibility is time consuming and would require much more time than has been allotted. On the lower level any possible response would also have to be one which attempted to encompass the numerous points of view possible, probable, and ultimately a speculation on the unknown, but is ultimately likely to be rendered devoid of any value by the time constraints you mentioned; if not other considerations. So for the practical purposes of this interview I will merely repeat that it seems the proper time to annihilate the ISIS thugs, just as we do domestic murderers; adding only that the principles of psychology are more deficient than the faith based principles of the New Testament.”
“You have shown no reticence to engage in controversy or divisiveness.”
“Maybe I’m a fucking dinosaur. If there are any viewers still out there, do yourself a favor and get a hold of my book.
That’s so archaic, isn’t it? But what else good can one get a hold of in cyberspace? Whatever. It’s available on AmawayOnSteroids and numerous other pirating sites which come and go for $2.99 in e-format and $12.99 printed; on AOS that is.
The pirates have less direct pricing policies, and .........
never mind. It’s a long story and a bargain and it’s called;
Page 362
‘Conway on the Job; The Connection from Down Under;’ the first in a series concerning Armin Conway in various disguises .......
Ah, screw. Just type in Conway and see what happens.
It’s truly the simplest of stories. This code stuff only takes up less than five pages. Armin Conway is a private investigator on the case of a cheating, male, gay marriage partner. This leads him to conclusive proof of an internationally based conspiratorial communications scheme. It’s seems likely that the Kiwi-Aussie protagonists, who use the names of James and Lance Lescant are at the center. They are doing this both to gather an income and as an attempted retribution against the western society which has rejected them.
The income is provided from both sides of the battle. Sheiks have their reasons to fund the operation through their clandestine banking system and the majority owner of the overpriced, profit deficient website which gathers this information pays the foreigners for collecting names which are of value to US Homeland Security.
Conway easily finds out what his client wants to know when he finds out that his missing partner was one of the now dead, Parisian slaughter team supposedly operating under the command of ISIS, but, unlike usual practice, keeps clocking up spurious charges as he feels that anyone capable of loving a killer of innocents deserves to be cheated.
Page 363
Conway uses the paid and free hours to continue his investigation into the un-principled, low class terrorism he finds. His identity is tracked through his computer usage, and he is suddenly the subject of IRS audits, property revaluations, Comcast panel truck surveillance and most disturbing, an attempt by a car with Mexican plates to run him off the road.
The private eye is drawn between trying to expose the plot to the proper authorities, but realizes that many of them are also on the Islamic payroll, or backing off entirely in the hope of being taken off the ‘A’ list. He leans toward saying nothing and continuing his marginal homosexual cheating-disappearance photography business; as from what he's recently seen he doesn't give the tiniest bit of a shit about people.
If one of you would write in something complimentary about it, it would be greatly appreciated and would go a long way, but won’t reach the bank. Thank you. I’m new at this. You’re always required to say crap like this. Right?”
Music accompanied the blue screen. Blondie sang; “(I’m Not) Living in the Real World.” The show abruptly ended with no credits shown. The screen seamlessly segued into a sunny scene, almost centered in a panoramic view of a plastic coated building, replete with plastic slides and monkey bars for the kiddies. A faded female voice, rumored to be Moon Unit Zappa, sang a catchy jingle; “Have it our way. Have it our way. Have it
Page 364
our way. Have it our way. Have it our way. Have it our way at Bad Feet Burgers.” If unseen smiles were diamonds Bad Feet Burgers would have owned DeBeers Consolidated Mines.
Jack was infected with the serious thoughts he had just heard. It prompted him to rationally focus on his immediate, troubling situation.
Jack gave a lot of thought to his impending financial difficulties. The conclusion he came to was the simplest one. He was an American, dammit and he would pursue things the American way. When injured, get a good lawyer who can find someone with deep pockets who was legally at fault, or close to it. It was clean, and besides, there’s not much sense in a two time loser running dope.
Clayton Crowley of Mesa Grande came to mind. He had a lot of respect for the Clay Man. He had gotten a $500,000 settlement for a false arrest allegation he brought for David Reardon. Half a million fucking dollars just because Clay got his psychiatrist pal, Jakey Sussman to state that because of the incident David was no longer able to screw and got a few pros to give depositions stating that they used to make it with David regularly, but that the last few times he wasn’t quite up to the occasion.
Page 365
Every cop in town knew that Reardon wasn’t his real name, and every cop in town also knew that he turned over some weight every now and then. That was the cops’ problem. They never knew when David was going to pull it off and he only did it every couple of months. To make things even more difficult David was in and out in less time than it took the midtown bus to make its afternoon run.
You see, David picked the shit up someplace no one else knew of, and within an hour’s time laid it all off somewhere else no one else knew of. The only reason the cops knew about it at all was through the snitches and David, himself. Besides the ladies, David liked fine clothes, Armani leather and that kind of haute couture thing, and the nightlife in Mesa Grande. Once in a while he’d run into some smart mouth cop, who’d ask him;
“Where you get the money for all this stuff?” David would answer; “Dealin’ drugs. Where else could I get it, jackass,” or something like that. It would piss the cop right off, but he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
So, one fine evening David does his standard routine to a young cop, a month out of the academy in front of a couple of laughing girls. The cop was embarrassed and mad as hell. Either because of the anger or stupidity or both, the rookie gets a warrant for David’s arrest, tellin’ the old geek on night duty that he’s got evidence.
Page 366
He goes to David’s condo where he thinks he’ll find some stash. Right? So, gun pulled, he knocks on the door; yellin’;
“Police, open up. I got a warrant for your arrest,” and all that jazz. Well, David’s in the back bedroom with one of his lady friends. He either didn’t hear the noise or wasn’t about to be coitus-ly interrupted over some bullshit. He testified that he didn’t hear anything with the music on. So Rook kicks the door in and soon has his semi pointed at David’s bare ass. It is said that coitus was indeed rudely interrupted at that point. Rook turns the condo upside down looking for something which is not, nor ever has been there. He ends up taking a wad of cash as
“evidence” and hauls David downtown. Of course David was soon released and got most of his money back. But, understandably, David now can’t help but mentally associate screwing with being threatened with a gun, having his condo trashed and having his money stolen.
Jack made an appointment with Clay for early the following week and considered the case which might be brought. He can’t screw anymore because the Police Department capriciously, arbitrarily and with malice aforethought dismissed an award winning cop without pay for two antiquated, irrelevant infractions rendering one of the city’s finest no longer able to
“do the right thing,” leaving him only with the unsatisfactory alternative of having to attempt to make do with something
Page 367
perverse and abhorrent to his nature. Jack attempted to find his Baptismal certificate.
Page 368
#14- Cars, Guns, Girls, Books and Bad Notices Jack and Justice hit it off like Butch and Sundance. Now that he had some company, Jack decided to take a long walk on Calle de la Congelacion. It was still winter, but, with an unobstructed sun the mid-day temperatures were thirty degrees higher than at daybreak. The climate in the desert town was far from temperate and as happens one year out of twenty in New Mexico; the average late winter temperatures had risen early.
The road ice was melting away and Jack could make his way without having to worry about falling on his head. Justice had an easy time of it and seemed to take particular pleasure sliding on the shifting and fading, transitory winter overlays.
Justice kept getting ahead of Jack, but would stop and look back until the trudging human could catch up.
They walked up and down as the temperature continued to climb. After an hour, the early January heat wave had melted away most of the ice on the road, allowing Jack a better chance of keeping up with Justice; an illusory chance. He hoped a precocious spring was on the way. Other residents used the opportunity to begin chores on their, now warm land, in knowledgeable expectation of the new growth to soon come. They kept their backs to Jack and Justice.
Page 369
On their second go round Jack saw a guy in front of the first house on the left. The bearded, pony-tailed man was working on one of the old junkers on the property. He had the hood up and seemed intent on accomplishing something with a wrench. Jack heard the engine cough, then purr, and decided to investigate.
Jack sort of led Justice through the trees and over the broken limbs. The man with the wrench paid them no notice and started to walk back toward the house. Jack yelled out; “Hey, excuse me,” and Justice ran ahead.
The man looked back, saw the huge untethered Shepherd and somewhat threateningly said; “Is that dog all right?”
“Yeah. ......... As long as you don’t hit him with that wrench.” Justice sniffed at the stranger, then turned back to Jack with an expression that seemed to say; “All right. Big deal. So what now?”
Jack answered him, but directed the words at Mr.
Goodwrench, saying; “Do you want to sell any of these cars?”
“Maybe. You live right up the road. Don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Cop?”
“Not anymore.”
Mr. Goodwrench slowly rotated his head 180 degrees; then said; “Once a cop, always a cop. You’re trespassin’.”
Page 370
“Tell me all about it. Look, man. I’m in the market for a cheap car. Simple as that. You got one or don’t you?”
“I might have a couple.”
“I want one that runs.”
“I don’t take credit cards.”
“I got cash. How about that one you just started up?” Jack pointed at the dented, twenty year old, white Toyota.
“Good car. Got 200,000 miles, but these things last forever.”
With a straight face Jack replied; “Yeah, and they defy the law of gravity, too. Got papers on it?”
“Yeah, I got papers. This is a legitimate operation.”
“What do you want for it?”
“Eight hundred.”
“Let me drive it a while.”
Mr. Goodwrench nodded and gave Jack one key. He opened the door and Justice hopped right in. Jack followed and used his ass to secure the driver’s seat. They drove up and down Calle de la Congelacion, making tire tracks in the remnants of the ice, which had become gray mush. He brought it back, got out and said; “Sputters.”
“It’s been off all winter. It’ll work out. You got my personal warranty.”
Page 371
Jack took out his wallet, leafed through the paper currency, shrugged and said; “All I’ve got is seven.”
Mr. Goodwrench reached for it, saying; “Well, since you’re no longer a stranger. Now, you’re a neighbor.”
Jack drove the car home, jockeying with Justice for complete control of the driver’s seat. He managed a sufficient deal to be able to negotiate the road. They went in and Jack immediately turned on his laptop to research Blue Book values.
To avoid any potential bit and byte confusion, when asked to sign in, he continued to use the name Jack Greenhandle. It worked. The machine believed the lie humans no longer did. He laughed at its stupid vulnerability, yet was curiously thankful for its unmitigated trust. He quickly realized that his misrepresentation was nowhere near the first. It was so easy to do. He tried to think of a scam. Maybe he could be an internet, paraplegic Iraq War veteran and sell overpriced, cutesy greeting cards; big eyed bunnies, squirrels and stuff like that. He could get them made at the photocopy place just out of town. He found the suggested retail price of a 1996 four door Toyota Corolla was $800. It didn’t say with how many dents. Thanks.
His cell phone rang. He had wondered if it was still operative following his job loss. It was Manny.
“Hello, old partner.”
Page 372
“Hello, scam artist.”
“Hey, I was just trying to straighten out my life.” Jack shut down the computer and carried the phone to the window. The pigeons remained on the ledge.
“Well, it worked a long time.”
“You get a new partner yet?”
“Yeah, not my choice.”
“Takes a while.”
“Young Latino thinks I’m bustin’ too many Latinos.”
“Take him out to the res and nail some Indians. Excuse me, Native Americans.”
“This city is officially more than half Latino. Never mind the illegals. Excuse me, the undocumented. What does he expect?”
“You said he’s young. What did you expect when you were young?”
“Not this shit.”
“I’ll bet you used the words ‘fair’ and ‘fairness’ a lot.
We all did. After thirty we never said them again.”
“....................”
“Hey, I’m becoming a real person. I met one of my neighbors, got a car, and a dog named Justice.”
“New job?”
Page 373
“Nah. Me and Justice are going to wallow here and just burn it all out. I’ve paid my dues on the clock. It’s been a long haul.”
“You got enough money to last the rest of your life?”
“Hell, no. I’m just trying to keep this good day going, without thinking about necessities. Actually, since the weather has been co-operative, I’m going to look for some landscaping jobs; get paid in cash and keep my unemployment benefits running. Be a part of the system and all that. I’ve also been thinking about selling over-priced greeting cards over the internet, saying that I am an Iraq War hero paraplegic. The old folks don’t yet know that internet generated information is never the truth.”
“You’re fucked up and you’ll also have to stand in line.”
“I’m just trying to cope with the world as it is. You didn’t ask me anything about Justice. So, I’ll tell you that he’s a huge German Shepherd that came and found me. Came right to my house. He was abandoned by some asshole. Great dog and he looks intimidating enough to keep the creeps from bothering me.”
“And you have company. Great.”
“Got the name of the jerk who stole my car?”
“Things are so great for you and you still want payback?”
Page 374
“I lied about the joy in my life. Everybody does. Don’t you know that yet? If we can’t get anything better, we all at least deserve justice.”
“No. He hasn’t been found yet. Probably has no priors.”
“Truth?”
“Yeah. I promised. Didn’t I?”
“Useless fucking Homicide shits can find harmless identity changes, but not killers. It’s a joke.”
“A sick one. Problem is that they gotta get their fat asses out from in front of the computer to get an actual arrest.
Listen, gotta go. My partner is coming back with the armpit burgers.”
“Keep in touch.”
“Right.” Manny hung up.
Jack patted Justice’ back and said; “Let’s walk again and take advantage of the fine weather. Who knows how long it will last?”
It was sixty degrees. Jack walked out the front door and Justice trotted. Though Jack merely kept a steady un-hurried gait, he was able to almost keep up by simply keeping on going, as Justice often diverted and circled. He seemed intent on sniffing at all the delights of the newly exposed earth.
Page 375
Near most houses were human presences doing something Jack couldn’t determine from his distance. They were likely most interested in enjoying the January “heat wave,” just like he and Justice. Some waved in a cursory manner and he waved back, recalling his delight in now being considered a neighbor.
After half an hour Jack was feeling great, having actually worked up a bit of a sweat. But, he got a quick and thorough chill as he approached the last property on the left. A skinhead was briskly walking toward the road carrying a rifle. Jack felt naked and very vulnerable without his gun, even in his own neighborhood. After all his gun had been his former, steady fourteen year companion. He decided to turn back toward home, but Justice was intent on performing more of his investigations.
Unfortunately his interest had been piqued by something smelly in the vicinity of the rifle holder.
Jack stopped walking and called out; “Justice! Get back here!”
Without breaking stride Justice briefly looked back and kept going.
“Justice! Dammit!”
Justice went right to the gun toting stranger, who had reached the post and rail fence. The dog hopped it and Jack’s heart turned upside down. It righted itself when the man reached down and vigorously patted the dog’s head. As Justice put his
Page 376
paws up on the man’s thighs, he dropped his rifle in order to hold onto both front paws. The man made a brief glance in Jack’s direction, re-focussed on Justice, and said; “Big good guy.”
Jack took a few small, shuffling steps and replied; “Yeah.
Could learn to listen better, though.”
“My ‘Freebow’ was just like that. Shepherd, too. He was fourteen when he died in November; just when the cold really settled in. How old is this guy?”
“I really don’t know. He just showed up at my door a few weeks ago.”
“Name?”
“Justice.”
The man was silent, but Jack thought he noticed a curious, double taking expression. He added; “He came with a tag. The creeps who put him out named him that. Is fourteen an average age for these guys.”
“Yeah, pretty much. Freebow was goin’ good and then his nose started bleedin’. Dumb ass vet never could figure out why and couldn’t stop it. I miss him a lot.” He picked up his rifle and thought he saw Jack flinch. He said; “Don’t worry about this. I just use it to chase away the skunks. I put a few shots near them and they find someplace else to stink up. Got an unusually high number now. Maybe it’s the weather.”
“You don’t kill ‘em?”
Page 377
“No. Don’t have to. Besides, I get a kick thinkin’ about how the new suburbanites will freak out when the skunks make a home over at their places.”
“Propicio has an ordinance against gunfire in town.”
“Got a fuckin’ ordinance against everything now. Can’t burn. Can’t shoot. Can’t water elms. Can’t weld. Whatever I want to do, I can’t. You’re the de-frocked cop, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“Small community. Tight. Not many of us left. For the gun use I’m told that I’m grandfathered in; on my own property anyway. I was shooting here before the newcomers got the ordinance passed. Now I’m more of a collector. Buy some. Sell some. Go to a lot of gun shows up north.”
Jack thought that he had met the person he was looking for.
Maybe he could get another gun. He said; “What do you have for sale now? I’m in the market.”
“If you’re still a cop that’s entrapment right there.
Everything I got; if the price is right.”
“Maybe. ........ Probably. ......... Yeah. I’m lookin’ for a semi-automatic handgun and a dealer that doesn’t ask a million questions.”
“I ain’t nosy. Besides, a lot of the stuff I have is not traceable. If you know what you’re doin’ at the gun shows you can buy one part from one dealer, another part from another
Page 378
dealer, and another part from yet another. Assemble it yourself, and nobody knows you have a gun unless you tell them. Perfectly legal. Don’t have anything semi-automatic like that right now, but I got some sten guns you might like.”
“Do it yourself stuff?”
“Yeah. You can make them yourself if you know how to weld and you lived somewhere that allowed it. I do it at my brother’s house in Bosque Farms. Wink, wink. The instructions are available on the internet for free. It’s actually easier to make an automatic than a single shot.”
“Might blow up in your hand.”
The skinhead put down his rifle and held up both of his hands. He said; “No, not if you know what you’re doin’. See, I still got all my fingers.” He extended his right hand and said;
“By the way, my name’s Casey. It’s just a cheaper alternative without all the hassles.”
Jack shook it and said; “Jack.”
“Come on back to the barn. I’ll show you some stuff.”
Jack and Justice followed Casey through the barn’s open double doors. Tables lined the interior walls; their top trays host to heavy black bolts, metal tubes, and handles with a number of dalliances into items not recognizable to an amateur gunsmith. Jack was impressed with the meticulous consistency of
Page 379
the placement. It was as if everything was in its proper place; with no excusing deference to sloppy work habits.
Casey said; “Here’s something you might like; it’s an automatic,” and handed Jack what appeared to be something in need of a plumber’s attention.
“Can I try it?”
“Sure, just don’t hit anything.”
Jack walked back outside and pointed it at the ground. He jumped when he pulled the trigger, as the gun quickly fired off four shots. He said; “Shit.” When Justice didn’t move, Jack knew that he was used to being around guns. Jack stroked his head and handed the gun back to Casey.
Casey grinned and said; “Guess not. Just as well. You cops have the benefit of regular range practice, and the automatics spray all over the place and run out of ammo. You don’t need that. The amateurs like ‘em. Here’s a semi sten. You can use it any way you like. Trigger releases one shot. If you keep it down it’ll spray. Best of both worlds.”
It did precisely what it was supposed to do. Jack gave Casey cash. The two men shook hands. As Jack turned toward the road, Casey furiously stroked Justice, and said; “Great dog, man. You take good care of him; all right?”
“Sure thing. See ya. ............... And thanks.
Page 380
As they started to walk back home Jack felt a little less naked as he again carried a loaded gun; this time semi-automatic and of the sten variety. It was funny looking but he knew it was not easily traceable without personal testimony which would result in the incrimination of the seller. Most importantly, he knew that it worked well.
They sat in the living room. Like a well programmed zombie, Jack, in fear of silence, nervously turned on his laptop.
Justice spread out on the couch, showed no interest, and shut his eyes with the slightest of groans. Jack pushed the appropriate buttons, which enabled him to have on screen one of the addicting, old vomit vats replete with sucking straws initially available free. These legalized pushers were collectively referred to as social media. This particular socially conscious database, if that is not an oxymoron, is called Goofreads, and is purported to afford reviews of and discussions of books, boasting 40 million members; the data supplied free of charge by suckers either with nothing else to do, those in hope of a job to come later, those who thought they were doing some service for the world of literature, or those who got off on the power of being a “librarian” with complete access to the entire database.
Page 381
Jack didn’t have any particular interest in this poorly camouflaged book selling site. It was just there on his search engine under differing aliases, all the time, ever since he made the mistake of purchasing a Patti Smith CD through AmawayOnSteroids.
In laziness, he surfed around the site. He had always liked
“Infinite Jest” and thought that it might be fun to get some other opinions about it. Jack read three consecutive “reviews,”
the last being written by an entity which called itself Green Snotcrackers. Jack hoped that unlike the first two, it would be picky. It follows.
A DAY IN THE LIFE WITH DFW *****
“Note; Admittedly, it could have been a while back, but I might have been given a free hard copy of this book; “The Ocean Over the Septic Tank,” in return for an honest review. I might have no financial interest in its sales, unless you click right here, in which case I’ll get an inconsequential gratuity. Since I’ve been writing reviews on this site for a year, which all tend to be five starred ones, I’ve been inundated with free books from authors and publishers. I’ve got about forty piled up on the dining room floor and another 800 on my computer. Jeez, I’ll never catch up. I didn’t know how they got my home or personal
Page 382
e-mail address until last week when one of them called me. He started yelling at me. I found out that he paid $15 to my Goofreads friend who promised him he’d have a five star review in a week and gave him my personal information, telling him to just send it directly. Well, I’ll tell you that I straightened him right out, the guy on the phone that is, and told him I’d do it next, not wanting to offend my friend, who will remain un-named. Anyway, I was a bit fatigued this morning after driving my two kids to school. They got into their old argument about who is getting the front seat and all of that. Yes, we still have that alternating-days system which I mentioned in other reviews, but Jimmy was sick on Friday, his front seat day, so Michelle sat there. Michelle insisted that Monday was her day and that it wasn’t her fault when Jimmy gets sick. So, they both got in the front seat and wouldn’t budge. I didn’t know what to do, so I just drove them and hoped that some cop wouldn’t make a big deal about the seat belt thing. That turned out to be cool, but halfway there they started jostling for position and Jimmy must have not been completely better as he hurled all over, including on Michelle’s dress. I was going to bring them both back home, but Michelle insisted on going to school saying that she didn’t want to be stuck in the house with sick barf boy as it might be catchy, and that “with all the gross shit on the internet, nobody’s going to give a flying fuck over a little
Page 383
vomit.” It’s okay. I told her that she could use those kinds of words when she turned ten, like her boyfriend next door. So, I dropped her off and drove Jimmy back home. I got him changed, put him to bed and cleaned up the car, trying not to puke myself. So, I’m sitting here tired, disgusted, pissed and rebellious. Just to show everybody who’s boss I picked up this other, very fat book. It’ll put those nasty fifteen buck writers back a while. I also figured that since he’s dead Wallace won’t be calling me. It doesn’t look new. Damn, the phone’s ringing.
Be right back.
That was the goddam school. I’ve got to go bring Michelle back home. No, they didn’t object to the vomit; at least not the vomit itself, as least as far as I understand it. It was that my little angel has been bombarding the nerdy boy who sits beside her with the big chunks. You know, that kid is such a wimp. Any real boy would just throw them back at her, but the sissy is crying. Christ.
I’m outta here. Oh yeah, IJ is a great, great book. I’d like to give it six stars. Great plot, moves right along. Recommended to anyone over ten years of age with strong arms. Maybe will update. It’s heavy. Ha ha ha.”
Page 384
Yet Another Example of a Totally Useless Book Review. This One Done in Quasi-Literary Format
At the beginning Of David Foster Wallace’s 1996 classic
“Infinite Jest,” Hal is in Deans’ office, presumably to enable them to decide whether or not he’s worthy of an athletic scholarship; with lower requisites than an academic one. The stated problem is that his exemplary high school grades were achieved in a school owned by his parents. There is a conflict with his “closer to zero than desired” standardized test scores which the “Ministers of Information” want to clear up through a personal meeting. Hal notes the coldness, rigidity, remoteness, covered up aspects, and the falsity of the room; once sarcastically describing the double paned windows as being
“closed against the November heat.” He does not interrupt the proceedings likely due to having taken his tennis coach’s advice to err on the side of caution. During the meeting a pattern becomes abundantly clear. Any question he is asked is answered for him by someone else; most often utilizing information extracted from their computers. When Hal senses that the meeting will soon end he says things; rather complicated things, which don’t seem to make much sense; outside of them being a possible testimony to his interest in rather arcane esotericism. At one point he says; “I could tell you about these things, and you
Page 385
might even be interested.” When he stands up, the Deans leap upon him, saying he is unbalanced, and Hal winds up with his face in the carpet. It might detract from the mystery of the story to say that for some strange reason Hal did not get the scholarship. .............. Toward the end of the book, the violent storm is easily deciphered as a representation of an apocalyptic event. Funnel clouds destroy the houses of those who have abstained from the available drugs. Gately (Gates of Eden?
A Hal double?) wakes after the worst has passed, yet it is still raining. He is alone and on his back on a beach. It is still cold. But, having taken the drugs he has survived. It’s not the best solution, but it is the best one available. The closing line; “the tide was way out,” is among other things a simple reference to increased awareness.
So, what is there to understand one deftly asks? At its essence, it’s just another book. Well, that’s an easy one to answer. The relevance of this book is beholden to its 1938
screwball comedy predecessor; “Bringing Up Baby.” Hepburn and Grant starred while Hawks directed the story centered on the domestication of a gentle, sweet tiger who managed to scare everyone except Katharine, Cary, and Howard. For the DFW 1996
counterpoint, one might make note of the sabre (Change one letter. Ease are equal to a’s, and in the Palestinian
Page 386
pronunciation is the equivalent of a US haze.) toothed tiger. He knows that the best way to win is to get your enemies to fight each other. He also knows that a competent investigator will pursue an avenue which starts and often ends with; “Who received the most benefit from the conflict?” All fingers will lead to him, so he has a diversionary plan. This is the weakest part of his chain, but it’s not too easily detected. He knows that people think of “tigers” without making the differentiation between types of tigers. He facilitates a situation in which tigers are slaughtered, thereby eliminating the possibility that people will think in terms of 100% “tiger benefit,” as they simultaneously ignore the 100% benefit for the sabres’ sub-section. Because of the slaughter, it has become socially unacceptable, and in more significance, criminally punishable
“hate speech” to try to address this possibility and most people feel sorry for the sacrificed tigers anyway. In addition the sabres have been scientifically deemed as long ago extinct; though there have been reported sightings ............ Some of the non-sabre tigers have an idea of what’s going on, but are reticent to say it as to do so invokes the strong possibility that even if they are believed, the response will be against all tigers. ................ Pretty good game. No? And even the scientists say that the sabre toothed tiger is genetically not a true tiger. He’s a cat with some similarities to a dog; but he
Page 387
definitely ain’t no tiger. Nowhumsayin? All right. The utilization of false identities was not simultaneous with web based sock puppets. The primary and inherent sabre problem is that they always have been and continue to be something other than the sharpest pencil in the box. They are good IT
specialists; but they’re primarily warriors, and very good ones; both males and females; most adept at following orders. For a business plan, they have employed other types of tigers, the best talent purchasable, to further their cause. But one named Grateful Jack Straw has been operating under the name Beckett.
He was the despondent advisor who was once the closest to the King Sabre. The King thought him a buddy and liked hanging out with Jack-Beckett. But, Jack-Beckett got some kind of bug up his ass and split. So now the Sabres are using every methodology known to Sabres, including IT, in an attempt to find reclusive Jack-Beckett before he can spill the beans; while the King reverts to his heritage and cries crocodile tears. The fact is that Jack-Beckett has already spilled the said beans, though it is not yet common knowledge. The King’s new advisor has suggested that this is the likely case. So, Mr. Sabre needs to create another horrendous physical event to take minds off a theory which is merely suggestive. Nuclear facilities distanced from Sabre territory seem a good option.
Page 388
Why get serious. All it produces is a whopping headache.
Let the music play. Here’s Dylan at his chirpiest singing
“Highway 61 Revisited.” ......................... Shit. Does anybody here know how these MP3 monstrosities work? It keeps repeating the first seven lines over and over. All right already. The fuckin’ kid is soon dead. Who cares? I trust you have ten nimble fingers.
In some semblance of either wonder or disbelief, most often induced by Harry and Sal, Jack exited the social media site he had on the computer screen and logged off; grudgingly allowed the “privilege” after a few machine necessary questions. “Hey, come on, Justice. It’s getting suffocating in here. Let’s go take another look at that glorious outside world.” Justice recognized a sufficient number of those words to know that he was going for a walk. He jumped off the couch, where he was resting and led Jack to the front door.
Jack mentally and physically froze when he saw a woman who looked exactly like he imagined his long gone Beth would look today. It had to be an illusion, but ........ She was only a hundred feet ahead of him. And on Calle de la Congelacion of all places, with her standard two dogs in tow. This time, one was a tiny, tan pug and the other was a medium sized, black, lab mix.
She appeared as if she didn’t notice him as she and her dogs
Page 389
seemed more focussed on something right in front of them, which they found more interesting. The dogs sniffed and the woman watched what they were sniffing in the dried out brush at roadside.
Jack was simultaneously anxious and afraid to approach her, as he clumsily slid on the diminishing remnants of the loose, melting ice. Unencumbered Justice made any human decision unnecessary as he bounded over and sniffed the two ‘new’ dogs.
Jack called out; “Beth, Beth. It’s okay. He won’t attack,”
leaving off the “At least I don’t think so” part.
She glanced at the nuzzling dogs and then at slip sliding Jack, who was approaching slowly, but as best he could on the shifting ice, with his eyes fixed on her.
With a tone indicative of mild annoyance or playful banter, she said; “You know, that dog should be on a leash. It’s the law now.”
More sure with each step, but surprised at the opening line, Jack said; “Beth?”
“How do you know my name?”
Jack stared at her face. “How else? It’s me. Jack. Sure, I’ve changed. But, don’t tell me that you got here accidentally.”
“I really have no idea of what you’re talking about.”
Page 390
Now that he was up close he was as certain as one can be that this fiftyish, graying woman was the Beth who left when he was sentenced to jail twenty years prior. Her patented, quick flip-flop was a giveaway. She was the right height, had the same eyes and nose he remembered, and was wearing blue jeans; Beth’s all occasion attire. Jack quickly considered the possibilities.
Even though the resemblance was uncanny, maybe this wasn’t the Beth he once knew. Maybe it was and she didn’t want to tell him until she could determine that he was no longer a jail bird.
Maybe she had lost her memory or was mentally ill. In any event, if it was her, he knew that any insistent approach would be automatically rebuked. He decided to tone it down and later try to find out if she knew things only his Beth could know. He said; “My apologies. I think I made a mistake. Let’s start over.” He extended his right hand for a shake saying; “My name’s Jack and I live here.” He pointed at his house which couldn’t be seen through the elms and added; “Right over there as a matter of fact.”
Beth shook his hand warily and cursorily. She said; “You ought to get yourself a new line. That one ain’t cuttin’ it anywhere. It sounds too much like; ‘Do you come here often?’ And would you please get a hold of that dog. Andy and Charlene are getting freaked out. He’s so big.”
Page 391
Jack said; “Actually, I think that they like each other; but okay.” He took Justice’ collar, gave it a little tug, and authoritatively said; “Calm down, Justice.” Justice proceeded to stop hopping around, with a grunt, and granted a nuzzle to Charlene, who took a half-hearted, air nip in his direction.
Jack let go of his collar, looked at Beth and added; “Justice is his name, you know. I didn’t name him myself. He won’t assault anyone. He just gets over-excited when he sees new friends. It’s kind of a harmless deficiency in his etiquette training.”
They all walked slowly toward the river at the end of the road.
Jack said; “Do you live around here? I’ve never seen you here before.”
She faintly grinned, saying; “Almost normal. No, I’m just staying with relatives for a few days.”
“Oh, look. The dogs like each other.”
“I’m not so sure. Yours does. But mine seem to have some reservations.”
Jack took the flatness of that statement as a personal rebuke, as her pug Andy and lab Charlene seemed to be enjoying the attention Justice was giving them. He decided to remain silent.
Page 392
They both stared at the ground and she overplayed the difficulties they were experiencing in the melting ice with small grunts which had no discernable source of origin.
Jack’s perception of the ten second quiet was untimed, but he thought that it was going on much too long. In an overly anxious effort to add sound to that of the underfoot cracking ice, he ventured; “This is a good place to walk. You’ve got the picturesque forest for the setting, the lack of cars for the safety, and the length of the road for diversity. When you come out here you can imagine that you are under the protection of nature at its best, while knowing that in case of some emergency other people are nearby.”
Beth showed a slightly derisive grimace, and replied; “Are you a writer?”
Jack noticed and quickly thought; “I want to impress this woman. I don’t want to say that I’m between jobs or babble some other euphemism, like ‘I’m a consultant,’ for being unemployed.
Everyone knows that garbage.” So, he implied something which wasn’t true by trailing off with; “As a matter of fact
.........”
Beth’s eyebrows rose when she proffered her first non-sarcastic question; “Oh, what do you write about?”
“Most anything someone will pay me for. I’m not that big of a deal.”
Page 393
They got to the end of the road. Beth stopped and shook Jack’s hand. She said; “Well, nice meeting you. I’m turning in here.”
“The Dietrich place? Is your name Beth Dietrich?”
“No. Are you some kind of investigative reporter?”
Jack couldn’t hold back and blurted; “I think you still love me, but we can’t escape the fact that I’m not enough for you. I knew this was going to happen. So I’m not blaming you for taking off. People have to have a steady income. I’m not angry, either. I should be, but I’m not. I just feel pain. A lot of pain. I thought I could imagine how much this would hurt, but I was wrong. When I used to look at you, I felt as if I was looking at a star, millions of light years away. The brightness is captivating, though the light may have ended eons ago. Maybe that star died years ago; but sometimes it seems more real to me than this melting ice.”
She went through the open gate, saying; “You must write poetry. Stop it. You’re weirding me out.” Beth, Andy and Charlene quickly disappeared in the thick trees. Jack was even more convinced that this was the Beth he had known because of the patented double message. Jack whispered “Bye,” and didn’t follow as he had respect for private property. He momentarily questioned that personal rule as this border was obviously a porous one. It was the fourth and last house on the right,
Page 394
presumably with a river view. As long as Jack had lived on Calle de la Congelacion he wasn’t sure, but was under the impression that this completely fenced property belonged to the Dietrichs.
He had never seen them, nor had he heard that anyone else had.
It was common knowledge that the reclusive family preferred it that way. It was also common knowledge, evidenced by the unlocked gate, which was right on the road that the Dietrichs didn’t mind anyone using it in an emergency. Supposedly, one could follow the path all the way to Camino de las Brisas. Jack supposed that had not yet felt any sense of emergency, as he thought he would soon see Beth again.
Exhilarated, he kept walking Justice up and down the block.
The ground got more and mushier with each trip. Justice didn’t seem to mind. The water served as a sliding pond in the grass and a drinking fountain all over. It was great to not have to work. It was great to be able to enjoy the entire day. It was great to be with Justice. It was great to have again found his dream girl.
At some point Jack’s rationality curse set in. If this was the return of his Beth dream girl, it was obvious that she was cautiously checking him out. She didn’t want to be saddled with an aging, idle, jobless, and susceptible to crime convict. He didn’t think she would be very impressed if he was a landscaper, slowly going broke. But, she might be if he was truly a writer.
Page 395
Hell, in truth, most any idiot can write a book, and in 2016
most do. It was time to join the club.
He got a happy, yet tired Justice back home and fed him. He got on the internet and searched “books” and “writing” in an attempt to find out if he was missing something essential. All the news was encouraging. There were numerous websites which advertised that they exist only to support and promote the up and coming independent writers. There were countless expert suggestions to “write what you know.” Jack dived right in. He knew about cops and decided to write of them.
Jack thought; “This must be a magical place. In one day I got a car, a gun, a new profession and a girl. I’ll have to walk Justice here more often.”
Going with the flow, Jack dozed off in front of his laptop without being aware of it; the doze, not the laptop, that is. He was back in the Black Hills. He was circling and at the same time going upward. Though the climb was gradual, he knew that every time he looked down the tall evergreen trees at ground level looked more and more like small bushes. He was following one of the petite trails, probably established by the furry, nocturnal travelers. He had no particular agenda other than a self-indulgent curiosity of what the view from the unobstructed top would look like first hand. He glanced back and saw his
Page 396
younger brother, Ben, five feet behind him, having some difficulty with the thorny, wild rose bushes which invaded the trail. Ben smiled when he saw Jack’s face and said; “Don’t worry about me, brother. I’ll make it. If you can do it so can I.”
Jack’s visual screen warped like a 1950’s Sylvania on acid.
He thought; “No, Ben got blown apart in Iraq ten years ago. And, I’m not fifteen; I’m forty-eight.” He woke to a blank computer screen and a snoring dog. The images were so real, he wondered if Ben might be saying hello. He wondered if Beth might be his fantasy. Or was he hers? Do kids know when their friend is imaginary? Are some memories the result of vivid dreams? Was his current situation a long running nightmare? He thought that it was best to get off the topic.
Still, he was reminded of how he wondered if it was Ben who was in that coffin he picked up a decade ago. The body was so blown apart he was told that it was unrecognizable and that it was best not to open it. He never did. It seemed a losing proposition either way. If the sergeant was right whatever was there would be no confirmation of anything; and if the sergeant was wrong he didn’t want to see his baby brother dead. Years later he realized that the sergeant probably had no way of being certain of what he had said, merely because the coffin was sealed in Iraq, likely not by him.
Page 397
A number of times Jack thought that he saw Ben in a crowd, but the times he had the opportunity to investigate, he found nothing. There was that full minute when he saw something out of the corner of his eye and looked up to find Ben dressed in his fatigues, sitting calmly at the kitchen table. Ben wasn’t smiling when he said; “There are things going on over there that the public will never be told. Private black operators are making money like horseshit and doing everything they can to keep it going. It’s best to stay away from the whole thing.”
When Jack approached the table, Ben disappeared. Back then, Jack had a number of thoughts he kept to himself for fear of being considered delusional. But since then he had been hearing more and more from conspiracy theorists and while some of the things they said sounded outlandish and were not proven, the official explanation of the 9-11 incident had wide enough holes in it for an untrained pilot to fly a plane through. He wondered if that bomb which demolished his brother could have been “friendly fire” induced “accidentally” because Ben learned some things in Iraq it wasn’t good to know. He wondered why he had been given no DNA information. He wondered if the apparition was a message from the grave. He wondered if it was a fantasy. He wondered if it was a dream. He wondered if his brother was still alive. He wondered .......................
Page 398
He decided that he could drive himself crazy wondering about the possibilities and that it was best to occupy his mind with something else. It was time to start that book. He already had a title; “Real Cops.” He’d just tell of the day to day things he and Manny used to do. In a time of fantasy, misinformation, black operations, false flag operations, and lies galore, he’d tell the truth. The cops he had met were not heroes out of an Oscar Fraley book. They were just guys and gals doing the jobs the powers that be wanted done. The public will be refreshed. More importantly, they’ll pay plenty for it and Beth will be as impressed as a cat with catnip. And besides, I already lied to her and said that I was a writer. This will change that from an out and out lie to a small matter of timing.
Enjoying the benefits provided by the Unemployment Department Jack started writing like a demon. It seemed easy.
“’Let’s reacquaint that asshole over there with the realities of life in Mesa Grande.’ The dirty, disheveled dude was weaving around and laughing as he approached patrons of the national chain store. In broad daylight right in their fucking parking lot. ‘If we don’t get this one tucked away pronto Chief Reggie will be getting about a thousand calls in about five minutes.’
It was my first day on the job, right out of the academy. I was sitting in the passenger seat of the unmarked black
Page 399
Chrysler. Manny was driving and the Mexican veteran didn’t seem all that thrilled about having been assigned a rookie ‘white boy’ partner. He was likely hoping for another Mexican ‘kick ass’ collaborator who knew the streets and the game. He made that his tough shit, I guess.
The name’s Jack. Just Jack. Yeah, I had various extensions from time to time. But, wherever I’ve been they just called me Jack. It’s easy for them to remember. Jack this, Jack that and Jack the other thing. Complications no one wants to think about in 2016, if ever. Fucking Ishmael got by pretty well without some long assed handle. And now I’ve got myself a sert-eee-fied, police special, semi-automatic with a license to carry and use.
So far, from what I’d seen of Manny, he was all right in my book. For a cop, that is. I could try to make him feel better. I could try to impress him with some old stories about some stuff the racist mutha fucka never saw. But, he’d either think it was some shit I took off ‘The Wire’ or that I was seeking his approval. I ain’t seekin’ nobody’s approval, and if they think so, that’s their first mistake. Those days are long gone. Fuck
‘em all.
Hey, this ain’t meant to portray myself as some kind of bad ass. I’m not that and never was. If anyone thinks so, fine with me. It just tells me that they had a candy assed life. Those who know, know that I’m the guy talking to the fools who borrow
Page 400
money and can’t make the payments. I try to reason with them. I keep tellin’ ‘em that; ‘You better cough up something right now.
If you don’t the man waiting in the back seat is going to get out of the car. You don’t want that. Trust me on that one. The man is 350 pounds of hate; not only of his daddy. He hates his momma too. He really gets off on inflicting torture. Plus he gets paid for it.’
In the parking lot. Business at hand. We’re there. Manny’s got the detachable cherry thing stuck on top. It’s spinning around, two of the three bulbs lit, and making a racket like some ho going through un-sedated childbirth.
The patrons don’t know what to do. Some seek the safety of their parked cars. The ones coming make things easy. The ones attempting to go make things a bit more difficult. The ones unable to make a choice are the worst. They stand still, aping a frozen baboon carcass with eyes and mouths gaping, as wide as their big bald red ass. And if they move it is invariably at the wrong time.
Manny drives between the stationary vee-hick-culls at 5MPH.
He doesn’t look my way when he says; ‘Got to be extremely cautious in the crowd.’ I would later come to know that this is a proven, prudent, professional, police procedure. He knows that if he merely grazes one of the inconvenienced onlookers in the course of removing that which the onlookers righteously find
Page 401
objectionable there will be hell to pay. I make a mental note of something not taught at the academy.
‘Come on. You know you that this will get you to County.
What’s your shit this time?’
‘Hey, hey. Fuckin’ Manny. Right on the job as usual. What took you so long? Getting’ old? And who the fuck is this?’
I said; ‘Name’s Jack, mutha fucka,’ as I cuffed him behind the back.
‘Jack Mutha Fucka.’ He laughed. ‘Cops takin’ any kind of shit they can get their hands on these days. Remind me to pick up an application, mutha fucka.’
I was reminded of an old truism which suggested that it’s stupid to argue with fucked up shit. Nothing to gain.
Manny pushed the momentary center of attention into the back seat of our car, his days as a star even shorter than the entire ‘career’ of counterfeit Vanilla Ice.
As I got back in the passenger’s side, I said; ‘Ain’t you supposed to tell him what he’s being arrested for, read him his rights, and tell him to watch his head? Some liberal might be filming this shit.’
Manny almost laughed out loud, as he covered as much of his face as was possible with one right hand. His seasoned urbanity took control over that which might have passed as cutting-edge
Page 402
for the amateurish dilettantes. His acquired taste resulted in a booger which hit the floor and the pale green monstrosity disappeared somewhere below seat-level, near the pedals. He said; ‘No problem. This is what everybody wants. The Spanish patrons of the store just want somebody to get this asshole out of here, before he does something really stupid. We got an easy
‘collar’ and it ain’t even 10AM yet. Julio gets a roof over his head and three meals a day. Ain’t that right, Julio?’
Behind the bullet-proof glass Julio did a better mock genuflection than he ever did in his Sunday school days and said; ‘You the man.’
This kind of exchange was typical during the first few months Manny and I were partners. He thought that I didn’t see the big picture. Maybe I didn’t. ......... Most likely, I didn’t. But, I thought that I knew more about the game than Manny gave me credit for, and that that was at least as much as him.
We pulled in more ‘police reports’ than any other partners in the precinct. The boss was happy and we could tell any detractors to ‘go fuck themselves’ with Pope granted immunity.
When you bring in the business you can piss on the ones who spend their time in the throes of the ‘blah-blah-blah’s.
Page 403
I had a problem, I guess. I never said that I was perfect.
Things were going fine. We were getting decorated and all that.
The best I can explain it is something I’m unsure of; though I fuckin’ well knew that something was there. I respected the hell out of Manny, and sometimes wanted him to understand that we were on a similar if not identical wavelength.
I wanted to tell him that I understood his shit; much, if not entirely like he did. But, I knew that if I overtly tried to impress him, that it would be seen as an overselling contrivance, in search of some gain. Conversely, to remain quiet could be easily construed as stupidity; and this was a posture which ran a severe risk of being someday seen as duplicitous. It would appear as if I was hiding something essential. ..........
And I was! Kind of.
It was something which happened a long time ago. It was something not condoned. It was something against the law. The fault was not mine. The fault was with the inexperienced cop, who didn’t know the game. The fault was a joke locked somewhere in an absurdist Saunders’ story. The fault was that if this did not remain a secret I’d be totally fucked.
To further complicate matters, every week or so, Manny would get on this soliloquy; seemingly posturing himself as some sort of roundabout and coded Hamlet, oblivious to the jester.
Page 404
I had to pretend as if I didn’t know. To do otherwise risked a personal penalty, I’d rather avoid. I was there! In fucking spades. In fucking spades with the fucking queen. In fucking spades with the fucking queen in a more innocent time.
In fucking ................. Get off it. It’s no longer there, if it ever was.
But, for that legal transgression to be known now is doom.
He’d keep telling me this story. Over and over. As if he was questioning everything he other times espoused. As if these thoughts preyed like a winged vulture waiting on the ground for the inevitable. As if it made some difference.
He’d be driving and watching the road. His eyes would be somewhere ahead; somewhere at the top of the windshield. It always scared me, though I never showed or admitted it. I secretly feared that he would not see the oncoming car or even veer into it.
His words were always the same. In a pronounced monotone, with eyes glassed, Manny all too often for my taste said; ‘The first thing you notice about jail is that it is populated by people who have long forgotten any fantasies of equality or justice. The system is designed to make money from those addicted to some medicating substance, which temporarily removes the pain; deemed in the brutal twenty-first century to be a crime. If it weren’t so fucking sad it would be perversely
Page 405
funny. The recidivist inmates don’t want to be seen as whiney cunts. So, they joke. They joke in way only they and the morgue attendants understand. Whatever is required to be human is systematically denied; 100%. And the disinterested have the inexperienced balls to say that we are in America. ......
They’re obviously right; an America beyond the forefather’s conceptions of any sense of rights or freedom. We have all become terrorists, serving at the whim of Jeffy, and willingly subject to spurious incarceration, without the right to inform and without the right to an attorney, and without the hope of escape. We sit in the cold while the fat bitch in uniform with keys dangling from the ninety degree angle above her bulbous ass which leads nowhere brings an inadequate dinner forty minutes too late, at the inadequate room temperature. She smiles and requires acknowledgement of her ‘kindness,’ as the inmates race for firsts. The ‘power’ displayed is her best aphrodisiac.
......... The filmed depiction is shipped to outback Australia via torrent, paid for in Bitcoin or kangaroo skin.
What is most surprising is how the long term residents have acclimated to this perverse reality. They attempt to joke of the Catch 22’s, purposely designed to keep them in an inferior place, dependent on the uncaring whims of the hateful flunkies, momentarily in charge. They seem to get their rocks off by withholding any fairness that their rock-hard hearts have
Page 406
rationalized into their calculated norm; at the minimally supportive wage. To play their own sick game back to them, it becomes obvious that they are rejoicing in their power-hungry denials of the basic human rights of those who have been condemned to feel; and feel, in a an uncontrollable way, what is characterized as a disease by the pragmatic, lethargic, and crawling dead.
Take advantage of the weak. Despite popular fantasy and Christian tithe seeking, paradisical, paradisic, monetarily-paramount horseshit, the meek will never inherit the earth.
Jesus suffers on the cross, until the devilish oppressors have been eradicated. Truth .......... Truth .......... Truth
........... Irrefutable, pathetic truth. Deal with it, cry your life away, or become Blanche DuBois.
On the smelly and dirty surface; any stupid thoughts of this Pollyanna wishful dichotomy, only existed in the illusory, and un-provable spirits, or more likely, the lack thereof, of the ciphers of those condemned to the remembrance of something which probably never existed, and never will. It is the timeless and pitiless joke. Under the risk of ostracism, we are all obliged to perfunctorily laugh at our own failure. “Ha, ha,” is an adequate reply to the time worn observations and do nothing critics.
Page 407
It’s the obvious, banal regurgitation, well-known in the un-supervised schoolyard, and yet evaded by the court-rational fact, ......... brutal fact, ........ and mother-fucking fact, obviously hardnosed sensible to all of the numbed. In a short, cruelly and briefly hopeful; and ultimately perceptive time they have seen the realities, and in necessary self-interest, have completely succumbed to the calculations performed by the blandly safe.
The most representative parts of the room are the topless, stained, stainless steel commodes. The privies. Separated by side metal partitions, they are ample in number to accommodate the 50 people assigned to the spacious, unheated place if they worked properly. But, they don’t and nobody fixes ‘em.
The inmates sleep in assembled steel bunk-beds, on two inch thick mattresses assigned to them. They carry these things in from booking upon arrival. Orange rubber beach moccasins made to fall off are distributed as a cruel remembrance of beach life and surfing, before the term was commandeered by the search engines.
A 1980’s, small screen, Sony TV is perched on a metal frame near the top of the thirty foot ceiling. None of the inmates have been granted a controller for it and none can jump sufficiently high to push a button. Even Michael would fall short. It seems to come on and shut off whenever the mood
Page 408
strikes it. It has a penchant for one national station, never diverting to any other. When it comes on some inmates run to the chairless and hairless, gray tiled floor beneath it and crane their necks. Either out of discomfort or distaste they soon depart. I wonder if their initial enthusiasm was sarcasm, or if hope truly springs eternal. Based on their defeated attitudes toward everything else, I strongly suspect the former.
The temperature is 55 in winter and 95 in summer. The lack of windows in the high ceilinged rooms makes any attempt at climate moderation some sort of Ringling Brothers, three ringed circus, sans the friendly elephant and sans the entertainment value.
If one is not amused, one hundred feet from the bunks and TV are tables with four backless seats fastened to each; much like metal-back yard furnishings; which are unfortunately now devoid of the accoutrements which supplement the umbrella pole holes which block the non-existent light.
The circular table under the lamp contains the remnants of forty books, donated by those seeking a legitimized tax deduction; form signed in blank. Of some possible interest, there is something by Dostoyevsky, but upon inspection, the book has had pages which were subjected to an un-provable, amateur edit.’
Page 409
Manny paused. His face was scrunched, and looked like a patented Obama lip curl, ostensibly intended to convey some required displeasure in doing what is right.
I deadpanned; ‘Same old?’
Somewhat pissed, Manny raised his voice as he looked toward, what appeared to be another Julio brand of casualty, and boldly pronounced; ‘Arrest number two for the day. Up to it?’
I shrugged and said; ‘As soon as I wipe away the fucking tears.’”
Page 410
#15- Humdrum Ways Make Humdrum Days Clayton Crowley’s office was in the weirdest office building in downtown Mesa Grande. The structure itself was a rather nondescript five storied, tan building; but the parking lot must have been designed by an architect who was really a hauler who was stuck with tons of dirt. The formerly flat land was built up and paved over at a height ranging from twenty to twenty-five feet above street level, making the entries and exits a bit of a switchback, replete with blind spots. Perhaps in consideration of their hazardous nature, unlike the other buildings on Mesa Grande Road, access and egress to the lot was only from the side streets.
Jack’s dented, twenty year old, white Toyota seemed to be straining as they climbed, but made it. Jack parked it in the half empty lot, near the building’s entrance. He went in, checked to see that Clayton Crowley was indeed on the third floor and took the elevator up.
The extent to which he was detained in the waiting room was no more than a minute before the smiling young woman led him to Clayton’s inner sanctum. It was a rather large area with private rooms to the side. The young woman directed Jack to one of them and left.
Page 411
Jack saw Clayton Crowley for the first time. The tall, thin man appeared to be in his fifties. He was already standing with one hand pushing back the silver hair which was fashionably long, but not overly so. Jack thought; “Dignified.” Clayton extended his free right hand; saying; “Mr. Bleeker, formerly known as Mr. Greenhandle, pleased to make your acquaintance.
Please take a seat.”
Jack shook and sat, not just a little stunned by the unexpected greeting; as he had made the appointment in the name of Jack Bleeker; and had said nothing of what was involved.
The first object he noticed was a fifty inch, high definition screen mounted at the end of Clayton’s desk, on the wall to Jack’s left. It was hard to miss and was currently displaying a form of sorts with Jack Bleeker’s name on top.
Clayton said; “Great screen, isn’t it? It works well for clients, as they can be certain that I have the right information. Good for football games, too.”
“Yes, yes. Quite the thing.”
“Mr. Bleeker, you must now be aware that I know who you are. Mesa Grande is a small town and I tend to get involved in police matters. Is Jack Bleeker your real name?”
“Yes. All this would not have happened if it was not.”
“Fine. I just like to try to avoid surprises. So, tell me what I can help you with?”
Page 412
“Something like ‘wrongful dismissal?’ Or maybe something like what you did for David Reardon?”
Clayton appeared to be somewhat up a little bit. Tell me what happened.”
“My car got stolen and it was used in a drive by shooting.
During the course of the investigation they somehow found out that my real name was not Jack Greenhandle; that it was Jack Bleeker. Despite having been a decorated cop, I was immediately dismissed for lying on my original job application.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“No. .......... Oh, yeah. I signed something the boss said would ensure that I wasn’t prosecuted.”
“May I see a copy?”
“I don’t have one. I rumpled it up and threw it at his wall.”
“That’s unfortunate. What you signed was likely an agreement not to seek legal redress in return for their agreement not to prosecute. If that’s the case it complicates matters; and frankly, this is a difficult ‘wrongful dismissal’
case at the outset.”
Jack was distressed at what sounded like discouragement, as he was previously under the impression that attorneys created cases; not destroyed them. Drawing at straws he said; “How about the Reardon angle?”
Page 413
“Well, you have not yet alleged the Reardon kind of damages. But, that is a secondary issue. You see, in David’s case, we could clearly show that the Police acted inappropriately. That’s not quite so clear here.”
Jack raised his voice, but more in a plaintive tone than an angry one, and responded; “I was a great cop. Did everything they wanted for a long time. Now, just because I wrote the name
‘Greenhandle’ rather than ‘Bleeker’ a million years ago they have the right to dismiss me? That’s not right.”
“Be that as it may. It’s not covered under the law.
Signatures are at the foundation of contract law. Without that concept we would be operating in a world in which anyone could write any falsehood they so chose and then walk away from it saying ‘It wasn’t me who signed,’ if that became convenient for them to do. Any sense of order would fly out the window.”
Jack sounded a bit derisive, when he said; “Sounds as common as web social media.”
Clayton had to chuckle. He said; “Look. I’m not saying that there is no case. What I am honestly telling you is that it is an extremely difficult one. First, we’d have to get that document you signed from the police. Assuming it is what I suspect; a waiver of your right to sue; we’d have to get it overturned based on it being an unconscionable contract. That is far from easy as most cases of this sort involve contracts
Page 414
signed or de facto agreed to by hordes of people; like your standard agreement with AmawayOnSteroids. Secondly, we’d have to establish that you were indeed ‘wrongfully dismissed,’ as it is defined under the law. I know of no cases which involve fraudulent signatures on job applications. Extensive research is required, and it might not turn up anything useful. Third, after all of that, in order to make the case economically practical, we would have to establish that you are suffering from and will continue to suffer from the David Reardon syndrome; while you have taken no steps to substantiate that.”
“I understand. Can we give it a shot?”
“I warned you. Okay, I’ll need a $15,000 retainer.”
“Can this be done in installments with say $500 up front?”
Clayton smirked, grimaced, stood and said; “Come over to the window. Maybe something can be done with your car as collateral. Which one is it?”
Jack knew what was happening and resignedly said; “The old, white Toyota with the dents.”
Clayton shook his head and said; “See that 2016 Mercedes parked just to its right? $1,200 bucks a month not counting insurance. This office space? $5,300 per month. Mortgage nine grand. Divorce settlement with that bitch wife, twelve. Office workers ................”
“Gotcha, gotcha.”
Page 415
“I’d like to try to help you; but I just can’t afford to. I think that you really got screwed over with inconsequential bullshit, but it’s time consuming and often ineffective to work on cases which don’t easily fit into standard operating procedure.”
Jack put out his right hand for an accepted shake. He said;
“You must be a great lawyer. If I was on the jury I’d believe your bullshit. Just tell me one thing. Why is this crazy parking lot elevated?”
“That’s an old story I thought everyone knew. Some old guy with more money than brains, named James Pattinson, had this building constructed. He wanted to use the top floor as the personal pretentious penthouse for his art collection. His problem was that the local zoning code allows a maximum of five stories, and he wanted a view above all the other five storied buildings. So he got around it by having two stories of dirt trucked in ....... and he dropped dead before it was completed.
The heirs who couldn’t stand him own it now. Sometimes justice does prevail.”
Jack left and drove toward home. He was in a strange mood and was almost oblivious to the street life. He felt as if he had passed onto the side of the coin he formerly busted. Like any rational person, he was disappointed that he wasn’t about to be the recipient of big bucks any time soon. But, especially
Page 416
given his recent, possible Beth reprise, he was also refreshed by the thought that he may have actually met someone who told him the truth. Honesty had a way of making things simple and understandable. So, he was confused.
When he got back home he felt as if he had attained some sense of the sought after, yet undefinable term some call
‘freedom.’ Now that Jack had no routine to compel him to move the house sometimes seemed super quiet, like a confessional line afraid of the impending five “Hail Mary’s” verdict. He didn’t want a Veteran’s Day parade coming through the place with a brass band playing “Reveille,” but goddam, any small sign of life might be an improvement. Even the patient daddy long legs’
contingent had abandoned their window base positions and had taken their skinny asses outside. He realized that without thinking of her directly, that he was circuitously thinking about Beth. That annoyed the hell out of him; as it meant that he was out of control over something which he could not control.
He decided that didn’t make any sense whatsoever.
Jack didn’t want to be ungrateful for the arrival of Justice. It was great for him, but the German Shepherd was no longer a puppy and slept about eighteen hours a day. Jack wished he would snore some. He wanted to get these thoughts out of his head as he had a strong suspicion that dogs and cats could read
Page 417
human minds, and he didn’t want his new buddy to worry about being deficient in any way.
He thought that he’d like it better outside, so he gave his sleeping travelling companion a rather rough pet on the back.
Justice didn’t seem to mind the familiarity coming from a friend. He yawned and stretched out all four paws. His half opened eyes focussed on the window in front of him. He then looked at Jack and sighed heavily. He made the slightest of groans, closed his eyes, and leaned against one of the couch’s upholstered right angles. Jack imagined that Justice was saying;
“In an hour or two. Okay? Besides, it’ll be warmer then.”
Over mid-morning coffee Jack signed onto his waiting laptop and checked the “progress” of his literary endeavor. Some realities set in. What seemed like brilliance yesterday was seen today as ordinary. While the first day of composition was exhilarating, the prospect of a second seemed more of a chore, like work without pay or a trip to the driver’s license renewal agency. He already knew the story. It would pass through his head in a matter of seconds, yet it would take weeks to record it on the Word program. If someone was unaware of it, it was not his problem.
The clarity of the morning highlighted that he was primarily doing this boring garbage to try to impress some aging female who had left him flat years ago and chose to show up now
Page 418
to play games with him. Or worse, he was doing it to impress some aloof dog walker, whose demeanor was dwarfed by the “girls in your area who no bullshit just want to fuck,” available through many websites. Jack often momentarily wondered if they would dress and get their ass out of there with some degree of promptness. In either case this “effort” suggested that the required, known investment overshadowed any likely return. Yet there was a higher logic at play. What the hell else did he have to do right now? See the five things AOL says you need to know right now? Check out AmawayOnSteroids stock price and read what
“new” business they were entering today which is projected to show at least five years of losses? Get the Kardashian bitch’s take on the sweet smell of piss?
The more he thought about it, the more the book became a preferred possibility. He got off the internet and went back to
“Real Cops.”
“As Manny tried to drive out of the station parking lot we were accosted by a group of upper floor tenants. Since these guys were well contacted at levels considerably above us, we
...............”
A block away at 12PM Patricia draped the bleached white Queen Anne, mahogany, tilt-top table with a pristine cloth. She was somewhat irritated with the remnants of the lineal
Page 419
distensions still visible where it had been folded. Despite that, she didn’t want to go through the trouble of retrieving the iron and its companion board, filling it with distilled water and yadda, yadda, yadda, at the risk of a time consuming scorch. She just wanted a few belts as quickly as possible.
Besides, the mere placement of the Currier and Ives emblazoned topping had the effect of hiding the wood grain which is generally visible from less than a foot excepting leg bottoms. And if there were any objections to the swellings, neither Currier nor Ives was around to make them. And if the duo felt compelled to make any aesthetic commentaries, priorities dictated that those evaluations would be better placed elsewhere. The cloth is rumored to be more customarily used in other households, as a cover for the plasticized, faux wood grained, efficient, kitchen table ten minutes before company was scheduled to arrive.
She then placed the blue trimmed pieces of china which held the crackers and cheese on the scotch guarded, theme faded in accurate replication of a nineteenth century farm scene, currently intended to convey some sense of historical significance. Having accomplished that without any mistake, Patricia proceeded to wrap the eating utensils in appropriate, white cloth coverings, folded in a bit of an imperfect triangle.
Patricia noticed that the wrappers displayed the scantest of
Page 420
pinkish, wine stains from sometime in the past. For the umpteenth time she vowed to run them through the washer; tomorrow. In yet another time constrained tweaking, she re-folded them in a manner which resulted in the rude stains being almost completely hidden underneath; leaving the top side above reproach. The tiniest of lizards drew her attention. It was climbing the window screen right in front of her. Its youth must have compelled it to venture out in what was most likely just a brief “Indian Summer.” The little one disappeared. Patricia wished he had hung around longer and thought he was cute.
The seasonally bold, rays of the incessant sun had just passed over the eastern windows near the now un-recognizable tilt top table. Her pre-dominant, yet, absurdly, anemic wish was that the merciless, yellow globe had not built up an accumulation of heat, still capable of inducing perspiration at her toddiest of times. For the brief moment, Penny’s uncontrolled mind brought her back to her teen age days, in which she had suggestively worn a bikini, forbidden by her parents, at the fifteen cent, public pool. She found it so simple to just change in the locker-room.
In any attempt at expression, in recognition that those days were possibly mis-remembered, all-too-long stories, socially better dashed through in the speed of the inaccuracies
Page 421
of her current mind and heart, Penny kept them to herself and politely focussed on her ability to set the table.
In an effort not to invoke any criticism, seeking to be the perfect hostess, Penny saw that the now shaded area was almost ready for the anticipated, irresponsible levity almost insisted upon in their not quite hopeful ritualization of another day half disappeared.
She placed the coastered wine glasses and the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc; corkscrew handy. She slumped into the year old, North Carolinian manufactured, “Chippendale,” embroidered couch.
She either passed out or went blank after a few glasses, as she considered the merits and consequences of the tiny, Chinoiserie feet.
Footsteps drew her attention.
“Hi, Harry. All ready for you. What have you been up to all day?”
Pouring himself a drink, Harry replied; “Just having a few laughs. I downloaded one of those indie books for free. Right price, I’ll tell you. Ever read one?”
“No, at least I don’t think so. ........ To tell you the truth I can’t tell if they’re indie or not. I’ve been re-reading Proust. You can sure take different things from him at different ages. Was he an indie?”
Page 422
“Yes and no. He was French. I think that I’ll go back to the classics for a while, too.”
“I thought you said you liked the indie book.”
“Liked? No. I found it funny, unintentionally so.”
“................................”
“Reminded me of Jason.”
“Thank God he finally got out of our hair last year.”
“Only took 35 years. He was just like this book. Whining and whining because mommy and daddy didn’t love him enough.
Christ. Then he put on that tough façade, tough enough to handle gross out and dead baby jokes. He and his kind think the mask covering the whine is fooling somebody, I guess.”
“They must think that the rest of us weren’t ‘accidents’
too. Who really wants one of them, especially after Generation Three, or so. They’re dumb enough to think that they’re fooling someone with their stated aversion to whining; while they are merely trying to have a personal monopoly on it.”
“And now they’re all gay. It was more than twenty years ago when a Rolling Stone reporter showed up at Lou Reed’s house for an interview. When he found Reed with a wife and two kids, he said; ‘I thought you were gay.’ Lou made a pained expression and replied; ‘Everyone’s gay now. I’m not gay anymore.’ More than twenty years ago. The way the kids go on about it, you’d think they invented something new.”
Page 423
“It’s a way of ‘shocking’ uncaring mommy and daddy. If they had any sense at all they’d see their own contradiction. First they say mommy and daddy didn’t care about them, and then they proceed to contradict themselves by thinking that mommy and daddy really give a damn about what they choose to suck on. Ha.”
“I hope that they are gay. At least they won’t reproduce.”
“And all that bitching about the economy. I guess mommy and daddy are responsible for that too.”
“Reminds me of Kathy Acker with the rings, yuck.”
“Reminds me a bit of Pinter.”
“At least he could write decently. Ever read ‘The Homecoming?’”
“Yeah, it made me laugh out loud a few times.”
“Me too.”
“Is Jason still living with that old priss with the Camus fixation? ........... I’d have said the terrible ‘F’ word, but walls now have ears. It’s impossible to escape the politically correct euphemisms.”
“I don’t know. I hope so. I won’t squeal.”
“On another cheery topic, with this warm weather it won’t be long before those ugly elms start throwing their white stuff all over the place.”
“Yeah. No progress with the Village Council?”
“None whatsoever.”
Page 424
“It’s been so warm and dry that soon there might be a fire.”
“Don’t even think about it. Heavy jail time. And besides, it would probably spread over here.”
“Still, a well-placed cigarette butt .........” Harry grabbed Penny around the waist and pulled her to him. In a poor rendition of Blue Oyster Cult he sang a few bars of; “Burnin’
for You.”
Patricia had her first belly laugh of the day and coyly said; “Bad, bad daddy.”
Empty glasses were properly placed on the table.
Jack was still engrossed in the memories of his time as a cop. They kept coming back faster than he could type. He knew that he wasn’t getting the sequence, the order, correct; but that didn’t matter to him. He thought; “Who, other than Manny, could know? Besides, it’s fucking fiction. Besides, if the literary meta mavens detected that, they would find it ‘oh, so avant garde.’” He laughed out loud. His sound must have reached Justice’ ears as the Shepherd stretched and made a sound something like; “Ummnnngr.” His couch sleeping spot got the direct rays of the sun this time of day and he didn’t want to move. He “Ummnnngr-ed” again, shut his eyes, and curled back into a fetal position.
Page 425
Jack inwardly smiled. Rather than walking, he could settle back into this book. He was already 40 pages into it and could finish in a week or two. It might be impressive to this Beth person, and he was slowly discovering that writing was more entertaining than putting up with her bullshit.
“’I said to Manny; ‘This fuck looks like trouble. Let’s skip it and get something easier.’
‘No, man. He and his dogs have seen us. If we just drive on they’re gonna think that they can get away with any kind of shit. Can’t allow that.’
I shrugged and must have sounded like I didn’t agree when I nasally droned; ‘This is gonna take a while. There’s easier shit around.’
Manny sounded as close to being pissed and disgusted with me than any other time I remember. With a dozen loud exclamation points, he said; “This mutha fuckin’ fat ass cunt is callin’ us out, bro.’
‘Yeah, but it ain’t like he’s botherin’ anybody. The car wash is closed for the night.’
A bit louder and a bit controlled, Manny said; ‘If we pussy out of this, tomorrow every easy arrest we’ve been getting will turn into a difficult one. Word gets around fuckin’ fast.’
We drove real slow toward the group of five. I didn’t want my partner to think anything bad about me. So I said; ‘Let me
Page 426
handle this one.’ Manny nodded with the slightest hint of a smile. He stopped right in front of them, my door the closest.
The fat boy with the loud mouth had gotten quiet and was flipping us off while his dogs were laughing. I got out of the car and calmly said; ‘You might not know it, but you boys trespassin’. And you know that finger shit ain’t very polite.’
I showed him my badge.
Fatty brushed back his greasy, black hair, turned away from me and nodded to his pals. As he turned back he said; ‘Oh yeah.
I don’t see no fuckin’ sign or nuthin.”
‘That’s why I’m here to help you out. Come on guys. Gotta move it.’
‘I ain’t goin’ nowhere till I see a sign.’
‘If you don’t move it, the next sign you gonna be seein’
will be the one that says; ‘County Correctional Institution.
Security check point ahead.’ That is if you can read. You look pretty fuckin’ stupid.’
‘You think you big enough to get me there?’
‘I’m gonna forget that one. ‘Cause see, I’m a nice guy. Now why don’t you just get smart and clear out?’
‘Fuck you, bitch?’
‘I know you’re just showin’ off for your boyfriends here.
But, I’ve about had it. You’re under arrest for trespassin’, disturbin’ the peace, failure to comply with a police officer,
Page 427
and a whole lot of other shit I’ll think of on your way to jail.’ I took particular pleasure in kicking his feet out from under him. I got my knee into the middle of his back while his boyfriends ran. I didn’t give a reckless fuck about their little asses. I just wanted to take down this big one. I was having some logistical trouble trying to hold his arms together and simultaneously get the cuffs on.
Manny came into my vision screen from stage left, and said;
‘Just keep his hands together.’ I did and Manny cuffed him, behind the back at the tightest setting. Since the jerk was so damn fat blood immediately ran all over.
I laughed, but did my best to not get any on me.
I tried to pull him to his feet, but he laid there like a lump of elephant shit.
I got up, ‘accidentally’ kicking fat boy somewhere around his ear. Twice. I’ve got two feet.
In a calm tone I said; ‘I told you that I’m a nice guy. I wasn’t shittin’ you. Now, you can either get up like a good boy and walk to the car or we can drag you there on your face. Looks like you’d do well to lose some of that baby fat.’
Manny added; ‘And resisting arrest added to the charges.
Mmm, mmm, mmm. You in big trouble, boy. About two years’ worth.’
With some difficulty Fat boy got up and walked to the car and got right in the back.
Page 428
During the drive to the station, Manny deadpanned; ‘That was all right. But, why’d you do so much talkin’?’
‘Man, don’t you pay any attention at all. I said it twice.
I’m a nice guy.’
A month later we were faced with some similar kind of shit.
The precinct got a call from the local sports arena and said that a hockey fight had broken out. I answered the precinct call in the car. Slightly annoyed and slightly amused I said; ‘Big shit. Can’t get no traction on ice. Always happens.’
The dispatcher said; ‘Yeah, I know that. But this one broke out in the stands. Reports say ......................’”
I checked on Justice. He still didn’t want to move much more than I felt like stopping writing. I said; “No problem. But if you got to piss you know how to get out the window. Right?”
He made a frown something like a human does when he says;
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Justice grumbled and closed his eyes once more.
Jack resumed typing.
“He stood directly in front of any onlooker who might be watching, grinning defiantly with his head insolently cocked to the right. His left hand held a handgun the size of a plumber’s wrench, pointed straight forward. His black jeans were covered by the day’s accumulation of dust at thigh level and snakeskin
Page 429
cowboy boots to the knee. Unkempt long, black hair and a beard covered much of the face of the thin, young man who had proudly just shot a cop.
An amply hipped, thin, young blonde woman named Beth walked to him. Her full lipped, open mouthed smile and furrowed brow showed that her feelings were mixed; approval and anxiety; culminating in excitement. She shook her head to throw the un-behaving hair in her face to the back, where it came to rest in the place where her faded blue jeans met her light green blouse.
He easily complied as she used her right hand to gently push the gun down, till the barrel faced the broken branch strewn forest floor.
He said; “Baddest mutha in Cook County since Capone.”
She said; “Dumbest, too,” as she threw her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around him.
He dropped his gun, preferring to use both arms and hands to hold her.
The kitten was a beautiful tabby with big green eyes. He was less than three months old and still had that baby fat. He must have been foolishly bold enough to have left the safety of his family, intending to see the world. Under the circumstances imposed upon him, he only had to suffer for an hour or so.
Page 430
I was in the center of the park sitting on a swing when he first saw the little one running.
I first thought that the newborn was testing his natural skills until I saw the group of eight boys, ranging from six to ten years of age, running and yelling incoherently behind him.
He was trying to get away, but wherever he tried to hide, the group of young “humans” caught up, found him and threw rocks at him. I recognized my eight year old cousin Tommy as a member of the group and stared at him, as if to say; “Don’t run with these creeps. Stop them!” Tommy caught my eye, seemed to waver a fraction of a second, then continued on, wearing his toy, plastic WWII helmet.
Led by an ugly, fat kid, bigger than the others in all directions, the others chased, threw rocks and chased some more.
The kitten could not run anymore and settled into the middle of a tall, wide bush. The kids tried to get him out, but could not make their way through the thick branches. Fat boy got an idea.
He picked up a long rock, which must have weighed at least forty pounds, carried it a few feet, and then dropped it in the middle of the bush.
I heard the most sickening cry I had yet heard. With his back and all of his bones broken the kitten extricated himself from under the rock and somehow crawled out of the bush. The fat
Page 431
kid hid his pleasure, now pretending concern for the crying kitten.
He took Tommy’s military helmet and put the broken kitten in it. As he was handled, the kitten cried louder than ever. He tried, without mercy, to shut his eyes in his pain. The fat kid found the sickest of pleasures, while he purposely continued the poorest of phony jobs of concern as he carried the kitten to the park attendant; knowing that he was maximizing the kitten’s suffering. I followed. I followed, hoping for some miracle.
Two hundred agonizing feet away, the un-noticing, older, paid, ‘park attending’ woman seemed annoyed that she was taken away from her romance novel. She flustered as she moved the screaming kitten around. She didn’t know anything other to do than call for a cop.
I couldn’t stand the kitten’s pained cries anymore and wanted to go back to the swing. At that age I was not yet sufficiently instructed about these things, and I kept watching the howling, broken kitten in the war hat; his eyes evincing a pained wish for escape, to the end-of pain brought by Death. He seemed to keep trying to get out of the childish, plastic toy in which he was confined. The looks on his pained face seemed so optimistic, even while he wept in pain, as he kept on trying to climb the sides of the juvenile military prison hat. Whenever he neared the top, the attendant pushed him back down.
Page 432
I imagined the kitten’s agonizing pain which he was forced to endure; a broken back; a broken mind, a broken heart, a broken trust, and; a broken love were more suited to a merciful death. Though, being so young, he strived in all the pain, believing that it would soon end for the better.
I saw his face. I felt something horrible. I felt guilty as all hell in not having tried to stop this fat boy; even more guilty in knowing that if a replay of this event was possible, I’d probably do the same thing. Nothing. Oh, yeah. I’d have my
‘good’ reasons. I was five years old. Fat bot was three times my size and had backup. But, it will always bother me to think that if I had even inadequately engaged the fat boy, it might have sufficiently distracted him to allow the kitten to avoid the horrendous pain and get away. I’d recover from any beating.
Always do. Always will. The kitten’s chance will never come again.
I ran away and sat on the un-moving swing, now irrelevant thoughts racing. I heard the gunshot, and instinctively knew that the cop had arrived and ended the kitten’s misery.
I went to my mother in tears. I said; ‘He was just a little kitten. No one helped him. He didn’t have a chance.’
Mama remained detached and eventually replied, out of some self-induced necessity; ‘I just wish that they didn’t have to put it in Tommy’s hat. How can he ever wear that again?’”
Page 433
Jack woke with his head resting on his arms in front of the computer. He got rid of the blank screen when he pushed the space bar. He saw that he was still in “Word,” and that the last thing he had typed was; “The dispatcher said; ‘Yeah, I know that. But this one broke out in the stands. Reports say.’”
He shut it down and went for the safety of the covers.
Justice joined him and promptly started snoring. Jack didn’t know if he was dreaming, thinking of Justice or remembering events he wanted to forget. The thought was a solace of sorts, as he knew it was the resurrection of his worst childhood memory. Something in him usually was able to keep it buried; but every once in a while that something fell down on the job. He looked through the unshaded eastern window. Barely above the Sangre de Cristos the sun was still at an extremely obtuse angle; offering sufficient light to turn on and view one of his on-line devices, but not enough to read a book. Jack pulled the blankets over his head, closed his eyes, and thought; “Shove it up your fucking ass. ...................... Presents issues.
Fuck ‘em. This is humanity. Sure, they’d all protest and say that they would never do such a thing. Right. They do every chance they get and make up excuses later. Go away. Don’t go away mad, just go away.” He pictured, as he needed to, the kitten happy, running and playing in a wonderful place he had
Page 434
never previously seen. He cried; sometimes out of happiness at his vision of the happy kitten; and sometimes in sadness over the reality.
Jack was startled as Justice pushed his snout into Jack’s side and made a moan which indicated concern. Jack was slumped at the computer and apparently he had been communicating with his left thigh. He stroked Justice’ head and said; “Darn that dream. Let’s get that walk goin’, buddy. It’s gettin’ late.”
They walked out the front door side by side; Jack hoping not to see Beth this time, Justice probably ambivalent regarding Andy and Charlene. They walked ten seconds in the seasonal warmth before Jack changed his mind. Jack got his initial wish; no sign of Beth. He wished he hadn’t made a wish.
It was the frigid night of 11-2-01. As if he was sitting on a cloud, Jack saw himself bring Justice to another household and give him to the owner. He was immediately distraught. He didn’t have the foggiest of ideas why he had done it. He missed Justice terribly and after a few days walked to the new “owner’s” house.
Jack was surprised to see that the house looked as it were built in the 18th or 19th century and was attached on both sides to ones which appeared to have been recently constructed. He pictured the lack of a backyard for Justice to run in. Up a flight of external brick stairs the owner came out the front door.
Page 435
Jack called out; “Hi. I’ve been thinking about this whole thing and I made a bad mistake. I miss my dog. ......... Can I have him back?”
“No. Of course not.”
Jack was surprised. In half of an effort which might allow him to “steal” Justice back, he said; “Can I see him for a while?”
“Okay.”
Jack climbed the stairs, went in and instinctively located Justice, who was sleeping under a bed. He got on his hands and knees and stroked the snoozing pup a few times and noticed that he had lost about 30 of his former 140 pounds. Jack was doubly worried when Justice did not respond.
After four or five pets the Shepherd grunted and slowly elevated, coming out from under the bed. As his sleepy eyes cleared, enabling him to recognize Jack, he became animated and furiously licked Jack’s face.
At the same time, a teenage boy entered from an adjoining room. Jack blurted out; “I gave this dog to your father. It was a mistake. He said that I couldn’t take him back, but that it was okay if I came in to see him.”
The kid said; “We’ve had him to the vet and he’s basically fine. The vet had a little problem with the details of some of the stitching, though.”
Page 436
Jack’s hand passed along the nape of Justice’ neck and he made note of the two inch section in which the fused skin stuck up a quarter of an inch. It looked like a novice stitch job, but Jack was glad to see that there was no blood.
The kid said; “You can take him back. I can convince my father that it’s all right.”
While he was extremely happy to hear that, Jack simultaneously thought of the fact that “daddy” knew exactly where he lived, and thereby could cause trouble from a few directions. He got off that “lame horse” and figured that it was best to strike while the iron was hot. The details would inevitably unfold later. By the time they did Jack might have a good alibi. He thanked the kid and Justice pranced beside him.
They went out the front door. Jack vigorously rubbed Justice’ back twice and said; “We’re going home, pal.”
Page 437
#16- Chillin’, Duckin’ and Hidin’
A radical condensation of conversations under the elms
“Yeah, got the fuckin’ shit. Meet your exalted standards, dude?”
“What fucking ever. Bring it.”
“I can bring it a way you can’t handle. .........” He rolled. “Sorry, re-phrase. You’re my friend, whatever the fuck that means.” He snorted something visible to no one else. “We can do this bullshit two ways. We can have a good time or we can fight. Take your pick.” He struck a match and inhaled deeply. He passed it.
The beginnings of the anticipated, temporary passage into another place came on as a defensively needed, mentally induced convenience. Trying to appear cool, he slowly sucked at the joint, and made the potential protagonist wait. He held the smoke as long as his carcass allowed. As he choked an exhale, he rasped; “Hey, man. ......... What the fuck is between us?
........ Gash? It’s all over the fucking place. No big shit.” He
Page 438
handed the source of light back to the provider in pedestrian defiance.
“Good fuckin’ shit, man. Grower’s a friend of the family.
Takes good care. ........... Expensive as all fucking hell, but there’s no competition. .......... The gash around here is into weird shit. You ever notice?”
“Gimme that fucker. You’re a hog.” He sucked and held, before coughing out; “I’m new here. It’s different back East.
............ That chick in my reg room, Linda, you know her?”
Shrug, tending toward a disinterested yes.
“Whatever. If you every day started your morning with a view of her panties, dark hair protruding, you’d remember.” Draw and protracted exhale, then a pass. “Anyway, I made it my business to ‘accidentally’ meet her at the entry. You know, she’s a fuckin’ cheerleader?” He snorted some type of incredulance. ............. “Kind of funny, right; but no big shit to me. So, you know, I’m like talkin’ shit to her, trying to look into her evasive eyes; and you know what she does?”
Without waiting for a response he continued; “She starts telling me about weird stuff; you know, like chupacabra, cow molesters, alien abductions and crap like that. ............ Of course, I tried to convey interest; I liked her. ........... Like I said I’m new here. Is everybody here into some weird shit?”
Page 439
“I’m new too. Two months in the paradise of Propicio.
....... From Boston. ............ I don’t want to make fun; but the city girls seem to avoid the long winded subterfuge.
........ Hey, you know who’s good in your reg? ..........
Barbara. You must have seen her with her skirt up to her ass.”
“I must have the wrong angle.”
He held the squelcher before him and asked; “Any use for that?”
“Chuck it. There’s always more when we need it.”
“Weird shit, yeah. It seems like everybody’s into it.
Getting common, in its attempt to be different.” Derisive snort and shredding destruction of the roach.
“Maybe I’m just spaced, but I got an idea. Maybe everybody senses that something is wrong, but they can’t put their finger on it. So, they focus on non-traditional answers.”
“The class war, the presidents all being related, the FEMA camps, the surveillance and Ebola are undeniable facts, bro.”
“They’re gonna stick you in one of those camps right next to an Ebola dude.”
“My dad is military.”
“Don’t matter anymore.”
“Hell, not as long as we’ve got places like this to hide and get away from it all.”
“God bless Calle de la Congelacion!”
Page 440
“Look at that filtered sun through the leaves. It makes me dizzy.”
“So does Barbara’s legs. ............... Think you can get her here for a smoke?”
“If I do you ain’t gonna be here.”
They laughed and slapped fists.
“Someone told me that the trees are actually vehicles for spying.”
“See how stupid this stuff can get.”
“See ‘South Park” last night.”
“Yeah, love those little eggs.”
“Fuckin’ awesome, dude. Cool how they tell the teacher to;
‘go fuck yourself’ without the least bit of emotion.”
“Cool like in the North Pole before global warming.”
“You believe that shit?”
“Fuck knows. Fuck cares.”
“Turn on that thing.
Heads started noddin’ as Eminem rapped out “Cold Wind Blows.”
“Feels like its warmin’ up, man.”
“Not till later on the CD.”
“Mutha fucka’s mad, shit”
Page 441
“It’ll work out in the end.”
Laughing agreement.
“So, it’s cool in the woods?”
“Yeah, look who’s coming. Hi ladies. Who’s your new friend?”
“Audrey. That’s with a ‘D’ near the middle. Just moved here from LA. Can ya believe that? Who’s yours?”
“I don’t know yet. Dude, got a name?”
“Yeah.”
“ ............................ “
“Gonna bless everyone with it? Or else we’ll have to call you Batman.”
“Name is Batman, friends. I let Robin wear my cape and mask today.”
“Are you gonna pass that already?”
“When you give me a kiss.”
“Mmmmmmmmmm ........................... “
“I didn’t mean on my face.”
“Chivalry is a corpse.”
“Blame your suffragette old granny.”
“Gimme.” (Inhaling sound.)
“Hey, Batman. What kind of car you drive?”
“Batmobile, stupid.”
“What’s your father do for a living?”
Page 442
“Some tedious shit with computers. Don’t they all?”
“Yeah. Mine used to get a regular check from Homeland Security. Now he freelances.”
“Ooooh. That carries all the cachet of being a Consultant.”
“Fuck you, asshole. Thanks to that I got some DMZ pills right here. You never have seen anything this good. It’s like acid on acid. Take one and you think that ‘South Park’ is hilarious. Take two and you think that ‘Return of the Zombies’
has deep meaning.”
“It does.”
“Yeah, all right. I can dig that. ......... Permit me the indulgence of re-phrase. Take two and you think ‘The Name of the Wind’ has deep meaning.”
“De- militarized zone. Wanna trade?”
“Depends on the devil in the fucking details.”
“Be nice. No need to be afraid. Put on something romantic, dude.” All five sat under the tree of their choice and the sacrament was quietly passed as a button was pushed.
Chillin’ and noddin’. Back to the button.
“That was Eminem and Rihanna doing ‘Love the Way You Lie.’”
“No shit. ....... Nice. ........ Got something ‘today?’”
“Got a suggestion for anything better?”
Page 443
Under the poly-something-or-other-plastic-asbestos, dropped ceiling Mayor Vincent Pignatelli occupied his well-established battle preparatory position at the left of the platform. His constituency was again restless in mouth; and also restless in numbers. The perspiration he kept wiping from his face was not induced by the balmy February weather. He remembered sufficient faces to conclude that he was again going to be attacked by the Brisas Area Gardening Society devotees of proper decorum and elm eradication. They flocked around Patricia Primstation, probably doing some last minute co-ordination. Unlike the last time, he had not received any advance notice through a flyer, and thought that he must have been removed from the mailing list after his last unsatisfactory “command” performance. He had been foolishly optimistic and initially thought it possible that little would come after his proficient put off. He thought it was merely the inconsequential whims of a few old lady horticulturalists with nothing better to do. His corrected eyes peered down at the growing throng of citizens milling around the metallic folding chairs three feet below. He had no legal authority over the elms. They were grandfathered in and the residents of Calle de la Congelacion wanted them to stay. But what voter wants to hear that the man in charge is legally restrained and unable to deliver the voters’ arbitrary wishes?
Page 444
The emotionally undefined Mayor again grasped that he was about to be immersed in petulant virgin fields; as aged as they were. The process was a tedious bore at best; and of much more personal significance, it was likely an out and out impairment to his financial well-being. Though through the damned sweat he was denied the ability to hide the physical aspect of his plight, he could play the best game he was able and use the appropriately calm and reasonable words. He could later make use of the washing machine.
The confounded unpredictability and jeopardy of what was impending made his pockmarked, swarthy face secrete tell-tale, continuous debilitations, which had the nasty habit of congregating in his craters. His well-used handkerchief contradicted itself as it daubed in an attempt to display a confident façade. The inadequate cleansing was only successful in restoring a momentary, dry cool; only to be immediately replaced by the uncontainable, embarrassing, hidden and drip producing mechanism of his most reviled part; his asocial, monetarily driven subconscious. He was not new to this experience. The dichotomy of appearance and reality was old news to anyone awake in 2016. Yet, damn it; despite eons of study, no one had come up with a methodology competent to produce his desired camouflage. With no adept learned aid available to him, he again sweated it out, while cursing the scientific failure of
Page 445
the credentialed cosmeticians. Rather than enduring the inadequacies of the licensed, he considered future consultation with a make-up artist. Of most importance to him, he thought;
“Why did this have to happen just before the garbage contract renewal?”
Restricted to considering only the interests of Replicated Rubbish Assistance, Inc. and that of himself as an inadequate map, Vincent fretted more than he had since his protective, older brother got 2 to 5 on a bullshit extortion charge.
Originally made, but was not very helpful now; especially in terms of his suggested actions. Today was observably different; maybe not having any importance other than the fleetingly detectable numbers. Surprise, fucking surprise, every fucking time.
He heard; “Huge audience, chief. You must be getting popular.” It was the cheerful voice of Councilman Thomas Higgins. Thomas required access to the platform and Vincent was standing in the doorway. Not in the mood for any useless badinage, Vincent merely stepped aside, saying; “Entrez ami.”
Thomas glibly responded; “Merci monsieur,” and continued to his seat.
The little hand reasonably lined up with the bigger one, only 90 degrees apart. Mayor Pignatelli, once again, took center
Page 446
stage and read in a slow monotone; “Ordinance number 14-36403,
..........., etc., etc.”
The next four hours proved to be a replay of what happened the last time the Brisas Area Gardening Society and its entourage paid a visit. The Mayor pulled out every arcane matter at his disposal and a few more that weren’t. The perennial audience hecklers were encouraged to heckle. The number of poopie particles acceptable in Propicio’s underground water supply, insofar as it may be negatively affected by the operation of the standard septic systems currently within the guidance of Propicio’s building code was addressed by Village and private engineers. While what they actually testified bore little resemblance to the testimony of their peers, what they had in common was that they were all on somebody’s clock, and seemed to enjoy the discussion in all of its nuances. At one point a homeless attendee showed top notch literary aptitude when he yelled out the most ingenious of relevant plays on words. He howled; “Drink shit.” He was rewarded by being escorted into the parking lot by two armed guards. The matter would prove to be under investigation by the authorities and the local press.