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BLACK HELICOPTERS EPISODE 5 WEDNESDAY
the FIFTH - 6:45 PM South
of the Ivona, city streets had rapidly swelled with
the tourists, conventioneers, anti-conventioneers… students, bankrupts and hangers-on,
local police and the omnipresent Turks - the center of density being Dorritt Square, opposite the shambling, ivy-soaked
Cosmopolitan Union. Strolling into the Square, Andy found his way obstructed
by disheveled, dispirited Proud Boys, black-garbed antifa
vandals and multicultured vendors at tables
displaying pro- and anti- CNC buttons, pamphlets, programs and books and,
there, couldn't help but pick up a sleek, new paperbound copy of Jack
Parnell's ubiquitous "Entropy and Renaissance". |
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"Buy a button,
bro? Dollar each, six for five..."
Andy
thumbed through the Catfish book while the chanting and police sirens swelled
in frequency and volume. "No Tax! No Way!" a knot of University
students started up, appropriating cadences Andy recognized from years past and
causes lost. "Make Banks and Wall Street Termites
Pay!" He parted the pages randomly two thirds of the way through,
lingering on the statement "...the responsibility for prudent societies to
rid themselves of people who are not sufficiently productive..."
"Free
button with every book over five dollars..." the vendor suggested,
hopefully...
Andy
smiled, replacing the book on a pyramid prominently situated at the center of a
rainbow-altar of alt-left
and trans-right tomes... illegal Canadian prescription drugs –
now discounted, a revisionist hagiography of Sismondi, Japanese manuals for
homemade ammunition... and continued towards the CU; a squat, stone fortress,
six-stories high, with an underground parking lot into which Lincolns and
limousines were directed, safe from the crowd behind barricades at the edge of
the Square. Boys in black adjusted their checkered Palestinian masks. Spontaneous cheers erupted as a police horse
dropped a road apple. Itinerant leafleteers pressed propaganda
into the hands of the unwary while a young woman with a Walkman skated down the
street through the small DMZ between cops and barricades.
"Stop
the Zionists behind the Savings Tax, man?" queried a pimply white boy in a
red and white kefiyah, handing Andy a dark blue
leaflet of the misspelled, non-alcoholic Johnny Walker Brigade, festooned with
white Arabic writing that he couldn’t read.
"Support the Gaza intifada! Down with FRET!"
Collecting
a few more papers and returning a few vague smiles, Andy trolled through the
motley assembly, looking for a face he could trust. A lot of strangers, already, and...
"Where are these people going to sleep tonight?" he asked himself. As
a lone beer can arced up from the depths of the park towards the mounted
police, bouncing and fizzing in the street, Andy recognized Jorge Gamba of the Latino caucus.
"Yo, Georgie!"
"Whassup, man?" Gamba's shirt hung open and sweaty. They slapped hands.
"Lose your life savings in one of those banks, all that dough you been squirrelin' away for old age?'
"If
only!" Andy replied. "Hey, do I get your letter for the permits
people? We're supposed to meet The Man tomorrow."
"Shit
man, I don't know," Jorge backed off. "To tell you the truth, my
community is just not interested in protesting the Conks, except for Tillerman an’ that caca ‘bout electrifying or mining
Trump’s border wall. Nothing else makes any difference to them and, I got to
tell you, some of the viejos don't want to cross
Pinhead..." he squinched a thumb and forefinger
together and rubbed them with incendiary earnestness "…Seńor
Trump’s got the Feds dangling lots of private prison money and Costa Rican war
surplus toys in front of cities ready to go the sweeps and roadblocks route to
round up brownskins, legal or not, if he gets back
in. Like those robots with bombs to blow
up the people? Catfish, he’s just
another gringo politician, so what? Talking about secret jails to hide people
in; one mistake and you're on the bus back to Tijuana, even if you got
your green card. Like when Governor Seagal and
Senator Joe kicked Geraldo out down in Yuma - took nearly a week for Fox to get
him back home..."
"It
does make a difference," Andy tried to explain. "No
permit, no tabling, no stage to talk about what the
Conks have in mind for the South End or
"In
the pocket of that fat bitch with the money is where he is," Jorge smiled
and wiggled his hips, Elvis-like. "Tells Pinhead she gonna put up a
lipstick factory here, one of these days, as if she… or anyone… would ever pay
American wages until the dollar drops another fifty percent against the peso
and the rupee or whatever they use for money there, in China, now. Andy, I
can't get you anything out of the Organization. They gotta
go through meetings, through committee. See, we been signing this and that, you
know, and people have started asking questions. Not like it was before One Six,
Nine Eleven, plague and the so-called Recession One and now Recession Two -
back when folks had money and security and nobody paid attention because they
were too busy looking for workers... now they’re afraid for their jobs, so we
have to follow processes. You know? Like the government says, watch what you
say, watch what we tweet or we’ll Acorn you, citizen or not. They're scared. I
could sign your letter personally though, not using my title."
"Well
that would help... you could sign it for information only. FOIO = Government
talk. They're stupid man, don't know anything. A letter would be better."
"Now?
Turn around, I'll write it on your back." Jorge removed a pen with the
name of a local insurance company on it... one which no longer existed, having
been eaten by a bank three months ago. There were a lot of bargains in
obsolete, corporate merchandise in the dollar stores, even more in the
dumpsters. "Uh... you got something to write on, man? Flyer should
do."
"Let
me see." Andy dug into his pocket, scanned the fistful of literature he'd
pulled out. One showed the former President of the United States... naked and
hairy in a cave, insane eyes glaring out under a brutish, apelike brow -
something about Gandhi's collaboration with South African Apartheid, displayed
in big, blue letters: "You
cannot guilt trip maniacs. Violent revolution NOW!” Another
called for reparations for those blinded by Eye-Spy's retina checking devices or
sterilized by the airport bodyscan scandals; another,
from the student body chapter of White Armed Resistance, decried Tillerman as a sellout, calling the Convention a product of
"social engineering" and concluded, "we've undertaken to thin
out the ranks of those who gather for no purpose - habitual criminals and
drunks and panhandlers, illegal aliens and crap-rockers - and to convince them
that this is neither a hospitable nor healthy place to be. Human beings
shouldn't be allowed to sit on the sidewalks, doing nothing." Instead,
Andy passed over the blank, apolitical side of a cents-off burger coupon
offering the discount to conventioneers with ID. "Make it out to Disson... Donald Disson, Board of
Permits and Special Projects. Man gets off on his title, so I’ve heard."
He turned and Jorge began writing on the flier on his back, Andy thought
fleetingly of Kafka's punishment engine while a television crew began making
its way through the Square, escorted by police. "Fuck!" he said,
voice trailing off into a frown. "Ratso!"
"Him
too?"
"No,
just Disson, make it the Honorable
Donald Disson, stroke his ego. I just saw our local
King Conk... you remember Henri Ratzelkreuz, from
Pinhead's campaign? Got this jones for television cameras."
"Yeah,
I know that pendéjo," Jorge said, still writing
on Andy's back. "Testified for Reverend Malik back in the day when the
State was still doling out money in block grants, six years ago. Malik got himself that new Beemer; we got caca. How's this?"
Andy
turned, took the statement. "Fine. Stop Tillerman...
just fine. Thanks man. I'll let you know, tomorrow, how it turns out."
"De
nada," Jorge waved. Andy sauntered towards Ratso's
blind side until he was able to pick up snatches of his dialog with the
announcer from Eleven at Eleven.
"...the
renewal of our economy in the sensible sectors." Ratso
had wavy blond hair; he wore a blue blazer with a crimson handkerchief stuffed
in his breast pocket like he'd just returned from a sail on the dismal,
polluted river meandering through the north end of town. Andy suspected that
he’d seldom, if ever, had to expectorate into that handkerchief or press it
into duty as a mask in the plague years; Ratso's
hands moved this way and that in the air, as if massaging imaginary Federal
dollars into real pockets.
The
newscaster was one Andy hadn't seen on the relatively few times the shelter
television was tuned to Eleven at Eleven before the sound blew out; an earnest,
young fellow with the hungry need for approval that goes with certain actors who
fail to survive the first reel in cheap horror flicks. Andy instinctively
pulled out a worn book of local media contacts to jot down his name and station
as the newsboy prompted Ratso: "But the
Administration's position is that, in addition to generating revenues enough to
bail out troubled institutions, the savings surtax would have the effect of
stimulating consumer spending, so that more money would enter
circulation?"
Ratso smiled indulgently. "Yes,” he waved, "but
the question remains: who is to be the ultimate beneficiary... real Americans,
or the export cartel of runaway corporations and financiers? And an increase in
the money supply does mean that
domestic, high-ticket items; housing mainly, but some automobiles, boats and
larger cost items who took a hit in the tariff wars would..." He turned,
scowling… a tall, blond man with a twitchy tic on the side of his face had
raised two fingers in the sign of the horns over his head.
"Uhh... can we begin again?" interrupted the young
reporter. "Officer," he appealed to one of the policemen, "could
you ask those people to keep back and lower those signs? We're not against the
First Amendment... obviously... but words or gestures like that can't be used
on a family news broadcast." And, as the cops muscled back some anti-Fed
protestors, he motioned his cameraman to start again. "Sir... Mr. Ratzelkreuz... speculation centers on whether former
Congressman Jack Parnell, the Catfish, and/or environmentalist Austin Tillerman will announce their candidacies for the
Presidency and whether as Democrats, Republicans or… other. Is this going to
happen here?"
Ratso pretended to straighten his tie. "Well, as you
know, over eleven hundred regular and alternate delegates from all over the
country will be discussing options and if, such a consensus arises, I'm sure
the Congressman will do the right thing."
"But
what about Mr.Tillerman?"
"Well
I'm not as close to Austin, personally, but I'm sure that he will do the right
thing too..."
And,
at this, another shirtless street person broke through the City police and
pushed Ratso out of the way. "Killer man always do the right tighty
white wing, chicken bling thing!" he screamed.
"Fuck de media. Fuck Johnny Carson Daly, fuck my bed, your car, your
all-white Oscar nominations… put me
on TV, racist motherfuckers!" and he began making faces and dancing with
stumbling steps.
"This
probably isn't the best location for a detailed interview," Ratso suggested, slipping the newscaster his card as an
officer tased the interloper. "If you call this
number after nine, either myself or someone else from the staff can arrange to
meet you at the studio. That's from the Catfish end, you'll have to make your
own arrangements with Tillerman, ask for a Mr.
Rinker."
"Naturally.
Eddie..." he motioned the cameraman again... "this
is Tim Lavin, Eleven at Eleven action reporter coming to you from the
Cosmopolitan Union…” Andy quickly scribbling the name down on the back of the
South African flyer… “where Jared Pettigrew of the Federal Reserve’s Emergency
Taskforce and Acting Chairman is speaking on the current economic crisis while,
here in the streets outside, the situation grows tense."
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