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BLACK HELICOPTERS EPISODE 4 WEDNESDAY
the FIFTH - 6:10 PM Glenn bitched so vociferously at this
that Andy finally agreed to roll but not smoke in the Ivona
Coffee Shoppe. “Vapes verboten but tobacco's still
legal in this state n’ county if you’re over twenty-five," he pointed
out. "Plenty more things now against the law too; nobody gives a fuck,
‘less you’re on someone’s list. Not
wearing a mask. Wearing a mask in s convenience store since the last variant
faded – if you’re black. Fraud's
illegal, but not the 900 line Catfish maintains... well, how much are you charging?" he asked. "Seventeen seventy-six,"
Anne replied. "Rayna's idea." "A
minute?" |
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"No,
for the whole message - and that sometimes runs up to five minutes," Glenn added, proudly. "Updated every
week! And it's not a 900 line, it's a
776 line; this special Morty worked out with the
campaign consultants to both parties, the Libertarians, too, and... uh...” his voice lowers, “...some of the Don Trump Junior
people. One - 776. For seventeen
seventy-six... and then the local number. It’s like a podcast, it’s… uh, uh… it’s a paycast! A patriotic paycast!"
"Long
live the Revolution, whatever! Killing people's against the law, too, but there
have been five homeless murders already, hereabouts, fourteen last year. Your buddy Pinhead and his cronies want to upgrade
Jefferson Street and somehow people keep getting discovered dead in dumpsters
with their heads caved in," Andy scowled. "Message transmitted.
Scabbing's legal, however many crocodile tears Catfish cries all over about the
poor workers in his Urinal columns, but it was Conk volunteers bused into Indiana…"
Glenn
leaned back, sourly. "That was an exceptional case. You had transit
workers, public employees, refusing legally mandated vaccinations against the
Omega Variant, walking off their jobs without notice, and in violation of a
written contract, and the Federal Government was paralyzed – afraid to stir up MAGAland. This created a public danger, a potential for
vastly increased automobile usage, and ours was a green response. It's not the
same as providing strikebreakers in private disputes; as a matter of fact, Jack
draws a clear distinction in the Renaissance chapters, especially 42. So
please, reread his book..."
"The
Coming Killoff?
That Don Jones crap, or his new little red book of old op-eds in fourth-tier newspapers like our Urinal here? The
President is weak, and the former maybe would be next’s an asshole, OK, we all
agree on that, damaged as he is, but he’s on the money about fake news. There are enough lies... his and Pinhead's
and the rest... in the Urinal..."
"Boys,
boys..." Anne interrupted, "I have to unpack. Andy, we have a
conference to endure but, after hours, we're depending on you to show us around
town. CNC’s paying, it’s community relations.
It's been years!"
"Whassummammatter, suddenly you don't trust Ratso?"
"Don't
be snide," she admonished, standing. And then, as if to prove she was not
as tired and angry as she seemed, she pecked him on the cheek – Andy smelt one
of those scents as probably came from one of the perfume ads on the shelter’s
voiceless TV. "Now I have to go upstairs and unpack."
"Great
buns, huh?" Glenn leered as she passed through the door. "After all
these years?"
"Kasabian-class!" Andy agreed and
Glenn scowled…
"You really
ought to pay more attention to your culture… banal as it is. You meant Kardashian-class. Kasabian was one of those Manchin...
Manson... women…"
"Whatever! I don’t read the Internet, don’t Twit. You
ever gonna make a married woman out of her?"
"Dunno," Glenn sighed. "Gee, this coffee sucks!
It's complicated. She doesn't want to bring a child into the world unless
Jack's elected and, as she says, hope begins again but she’ll be bumping up
against the expiration date soon enough. I thought people gave up on Hope when
some of us busted our balls putting that hillbilly over and he winds up just as
bad as the Georges, not to mention foisting that insufferable Tammy Wynette-witch of his as the alternative to Obama, first,
then Trump! Truth be told, I actually
registered with the donkeys so as to vote for the Bern, whose stupidity has a
sort of nobility about it. And now this…
this…” his lip curled, “... nothing save plague and promises
but, without children, face it: what's the point of
marriage? The way we're configured, we'd lose thousands on taxes. On the other
hand," he added, "time's running out."
Andy
shook his head. "Everytime I think I've cornered
the nihilism market, somebody surprises me."
"Thing
is, my friend, our Coalition is the world's last hope. I mean
it... the last!... and it really pisses me off when people with
brains and balls to make a difference... guys like you!... sit on the
sidelines, whining. I never agreed with much of what Cal Thomas wrote,
understand, but he got that first Bush Junior election right... we, the people,
were to blame for insisting on our own individual autonomies. Which we
expressed by marching around banging tin pans and protesting – protesting the
tax cuts, microaggressions and killer policemen like
failed little old ladies, too scared ever to look behind the apparent
circumstances, roll their sleeves up and get involved and all the while the Tea
Party was registering voters, raising money and being too busy to realize they
were being hijacked by the televangelists and Wall Street. Oh…
and Occupy Wall Street – anybody with an IQ over seventy knew it would
end up like People’s Park did in Berkeley or those so-called liberated… or was
it autonomous zones... a crash pad for bums, druggies and crazies that melted
away with the first winter snow in the first case, and at the first whiff of
gas in Seattle, Oh yeah, then 2020 arrives
and we go out and vote for the quote unquote outsiders in those two sad-ass
parties, outsiders who usually just show themselves to be insiders with a
gimmick except for the few… including the Joe on top… who are more oblivious
than innovative…"
Andy
snapped his fingers. "Guess if we'd had a king, like William… or Prince
Andrew... or Jack Parnell… we wouldn't have any of those problems. Reminds me -
there's a demo in about an hour starting up against the latest Chairman of the
Federal Reserve. Maybe the kitchen will
loan me some tin pans."
"The
fuck there is!" Glenn started with genuine surprise.
"Oh...
something your inside source forgot to tell all you outsiders there? Yeah...
funny how things go, you schedule this Conk convention and the Cosmopolitan
Union invites this new Chairman Pettigrew to town. Another Biden weasel plucked out of the
Goldman/Sachs herb garden! Why don't you
tell the Catfish to let his dogs out? All those pale little
Conks, cutting deals in smoke-free rooms... little street action outside in the
sun by white people in leisure suits'll do 'em
good."
"The
fuck we will! They set this up... Republicans and
Democrats in the C.U. They hate Pin… I mean Mayor Potter. Pettigrew has nothing to offer beyond the Savings
Tax and more credit deregulation – raising the interest rate to what, eight and
a half? But the deep staters
know bringing him to town will get all your pierced-eyeball anarchist bums from
both the Antifa
and MAGA rioting in the street and the Administration an excuse to invoke their
R.P.A. Giving us a black eye on television."
"Why?"
wondered Andy. "You already said that Catfish supported the Revised Patriot Act, well, most of it, as an
alternative to the Insurrection Act after the January Six. And he disapproves of spontaneous destructive street action, as opposed to
peaceful First Amendment speech - he's the ultimate arbiter of parameters, kapisch?"
"Discipline
changes minds, noise only hardens them," Glenn retorted. "But we've
conditioned our people not to respond to provocations except when under strict
protocols, Tillerman hasn't. Smoke that, Andy, back
off boogaloo... your demo's about to be co-opted by
his Proud Boys, Kluxxers and militia gun nuts. By
flying saucer kooks, Creationists, Earth Firsters, Elvis impersonators,
nostalgic Tea Partiers and alt-alt-righters even Marco Rubio and Fox News want
nothing to do with. Not to mention the
conspiracy cranks from all over the spectrum.
Marianne Williamson..."
"Well,
we didn't invite 'em," Andy protested, "nor Pettigrew!
Go ask Pinhead. You're already boasting he's a Conk in all but filling out his
registration card."
"The
only good part of this," Glenn mused, "is that maybe the pigs will
sweep all of you up... both your kids and enough Tillerman
people, including delegates... and keep 'em bruised and broken behind bars long
enough on the R.P.A. to swing some of the dicey caucuses. Anne oughta..." and he yanked his cellphone out, started to
dial and looked up. "What's the number of this place?"
Andy
spread his hands. "Sorry, Glenn, I don't hang here. Follow the bouncing balls…" Glenn shoved
the phone back in his pocket with a short obscenity and Andy pointed out the
window. Over the past few minutes, the street had grown busier... young people
in berets and fatigues and checkered intifada masks with bedsheets
wrapped around broomsticks, wild old men in disheveled, mismatched dumpster
duds, spic n’ span whiteboys from winter hinterlands
in their camouflage and body armor. Several Turks were keeping intersections
clear, though one geezer kept stepping off the curb, making impolite gestures, then stepping back to the sidewalk when the Turks advanced.
Andy
tapped the window with his unlit cigarette and pointed. "Kerry Donovan,
remember? Got to be eighty, by now. Goes back even before us, all the way back to
the Vietnam protests. I think he even
used to go on freedom marches, down south… that
far back."
"Pathetic,"
Glenn scoffed. "How does God and the plague allow someone like that to remain
alive?"
"Does
drink some," Andy acknowledged. "But he keeps the faith. Get him to sign up with the Conks," he
said, finishing his coffee and rising, "and I'll reconsider your goddam
convention. Otherwise, we'll see you outside."
"You'll
never get permits!" Glenn predicted.
"That
ever matter?" Andy almost laughed. "You've burned enough people that
they'll be streaming in from all over the country to take a bite out of the
Coalition. Whether we, here, want them or not. And I don't! Situation here's
already critical, no way hundreds of outside agitators... make that thousands,
maybe... help the situation. They'll have nowhere to sleep, so Pinhead will
make up some excuse to heighten the contradictions by shutting down the
shelters, all but Malik's. Things are already tense between the pigs and Turks,
and there are people I have no control over inviting more lambs into town to
get their chops choppered... remember those stories
Donovan told us 'bout Chicago?" he added, standing and brushing both real
and imaginary lint from the reeking corduroy.
"Don't
bother Anne for bail," Glenn taunted, but Andy brushed past him, through
the door, through the lobby... past the sullen Hawaiian rent-a-cop, still
squeezing and fondling his stick. Glenn watched him go, then jerked his glance
savagely towards the window. The protestors were still obeying the pedestrian
controls policed by United Nations monitors in their khaki fatigues and pale
blue berets, but a few had unfurled signs... one of which had detourned the Coalition's emblem to read CORROSION to
the NEW CORRUPTION. In the middle of
the street, Donovan was arguing with a Turk, waving what Glenn knew to be a
copy of the Constitution, a little green book issued by one of the out-of-town
anti-police organizations; the Turk was thumbing through a much thicker manual,
probably containing United Nations Peacekeeping Squadron protocols.
"Assholes!" he cursed them, one and all, finishing the Ivona's lousy coffee, which cemented his lips into a frown
of permanent disgust and, perhaps inadvertently, he summoned the long-waxed
ghost of Vladimir Lenin... "Infantile, left-wing assholes!"
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