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BLACK HELICOPTERS EPISODE 6 WEDNESDAY
the FIFTH - 6:45 PM After
horning Ratso, the tall blond man in flip-flops
drifted away from the confrontation and, after Andy had finished taking down
the newscaster's name... just in case... he cornered the fellow and his
companion; a short, slightly older woman with a buzzcut,
too much turquoise costume jewelry and shell-earrings. "Stupid,
Tom," Andy pointed out. "We had an agreement... no direct action until
after we get permits." |
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Tom
Jenks' lip and eye twitched maniacally as if tased…
an unfortunately repetitive event in his life that had, no doubt, aggravated
whatever mental disabilities he’d been born with plus the effects of several
IEDs during his tour in Baghdad and numerous police batons doing Keith Moons on
his skull in the days thereafter as he’d bounced from MAGA to Antifa, Conk to antiConk.
"Fuck all, those people don't know me from the Catfish's behind. Besides,
I been to the box, got your letter from the anti-nuke people..."
"Yeah,
but we got turned down by the NAACP. Creepy old Democratic Party Toms..."
the woman swore in a tart, Oklahoma twang. “Hey, who were those media?"
"Dunno," Andy said, "think it's the loser station.
I'm serious, don't start anything, I mean anything until we get those
permits. Chill! I don't even want to hear about spraypainting
graffiti, understood Demian?" The woman muttered
something under her breath. Andy led them out of the park to the sidewalk where
honking cars were being directed to turn around by snarling cops, watched over
by UN Peacekeepers whose turquoise-berets matched the baubles on her arm. His
eyes darted from the Cosmopolitan Union to the shut-down department store
perpendicular to it; a big Grove crane there, lifting wooden pallets from
street to roof.
"You
know, man," warned Tom, "Marty's gonna bring up that same old crap
about renting a place if we get turned down again."
"When
we get turned down," Demian corrected. "Fuckin' pigs! Hey man, gotta
cigarette?"
Andy
gave her the smoke he'd rolled in the Ivona and
rolled another for himself. City sidewalks were still unregulated territory;
you could possess, or process... or, even, smoke... tobacco. Sometimes the
Turks would stop you and press a leaflet about health into your paw, but they
couldn't arrest you, couldn't even detain you for more than ten minutes, if you
requested a lawyer. "Well, I was just telling you he's gonna bring it up,
that's all," Tom complained. "Marty's always selling out."
"Fuck
that shit, man," Demian seconded. "We're
supposed to be Communists,
why pay some pig landlord rent for
a piece of Earth on which to express our First Amendment rights?"
"Don't
look at me!" Andy cupped the papers and tobacco with his hands to keep
loose flakes from blowing away, lit up and let the smoke doctor his tired bronchials. "I’m an Anarchist. Let Marty raise the money himself, if he's
into that. Or go round panhandling from the tablers,
most of whom are here for money anyway. People know
he's on his own, so what? It's not a factor."
"It
compromises our community," Demian wailed, as a
tourist bus of what appeared to be Coalition delegates behind a stalled pickup
truck piled high with scavenged cardboard sliding into the street struck up a
recorded ragtime instrumental rendition of the "
"There's
Fil," Tom pointed. "Fil!"
Meanwhile,
a skinny boy with a sparse, blond beard had mounted the pyramid of milk
cartons, raising a bullhorn.
"Three
days ago," he roared, a preternaturally deep voice, "Arthur Evans, a
black man whom the jury sentenced to life with parole… which sentence was
reversed to death by a notorious hanging judge… was executed at State Prison by
the same racist regime that taxes the savings of working people to promote
military genocide in Costa Rica..."
Fil,
a tall, thin Asian with drooping mustaches, waved them over as the crowd
whooped and hollered; Andy and Demian lifted their
cigarettes, pointing them at three United Nations Peacekeeping Squadron
officers waiting on the sidewalk for someone to cross over into their nebulous
zone of criminality. Fil threw the Turks
a one-fingered salute, sauntered over. A middle-aged man in Western dress
followed, like a wooden duck on wheels.
"If
you care about three million American political prisoners," the
thin boy exhorted, "if you believe putting your bodies on the line will
prevent more unjust executions, join the May Seventh Coalition Saturday, when
we march on the State Capitol. If you..."
His
face and bullhorn disappeared abruptly with the apparent collapse of the milk
cartons. In the absence of any message, the demonstrators crowding the side of
the park facing the CU intensified their chanting... "Hey
hey! Ho ho! The
Savings Tax has got to Go! Hey hey!
Ho ho! This dreadful Fed has got to Go!"
"This
is fucked up, man," Tom observed. "None of us are losing any money. Like I got nine dollars, all in my pocket..."
"Gimme!" Demian reached for him...
"...
it ought be the cops and middle class protesting. They're the sheeple
sitting back, getting sheared, we're trying to save their butt and they hate
us for it."
"The
public will come around," Andy predicted, but without conviction.
"Like
hell. They're all mesmerized into waiting for Jesus to come down from Heaven,
or Trump back from Russia, or for Sleepy Joe to do as he promised, or for the
fuckin' Conks to get elected and keep their
promises!"
Fil
gifted Andy with a piece of paper - thick, beige streaks of fiber running
through it, radiating vibes of influence and wealth. "Here's the letter
from fourteen Associate Professors of Psychology, Diversity, Belief Studies and
Theology." He offered a hand for Andy to slap, which he did, though not
enthusiastically.
"Big
fuckin' deal," Demian sneered.
"Well
at least some of our community’s intellectual elite followed through. And if we
do get turned down," Andy predicted, "Disson's
got some explaining to do to his anger management therapist."
The
tower of milk cartons had been reconstructed, allowing a different head and
voice to address the crowd. "Yeah. Yeah. Uhh... there's lots of agitators
here, there's lots of Nazi skinheads, Bugaboo Boys and Tea Party vigilantes,
and I want to know what are we doing to defend ourselves? There are people
coming down from Idaho with Austin Tillerman who used
to be Republicans because of this convention, and we have to do something to
let them know they're not welcome. No Nazis! No more shockbelts
for the women on chain gangs in Arkansas!
Black Lives Matter! Justice for Arthur Evans.
I’ve heard rumors that the candidate will be introduced by George
Zimmerman! No CNC! I think there's
something we..."
The
voice and head disappeared, again, in front of a phalanx of policemen who'd
crossed the street (without checking in) to knock over the tower of milk
cartons - a Lieutenant in dress blues leading the charge.
"Who's
in charge here?" the City cop demanded to know as his minions were
zip-tying the squawking boy, loudly enough for Andy and the rest to hear
without amplification. "Where are your leaders? If your leaders don't have
loudspeaker permits, this has to be an illegal assembly."
The
predictable torrent of replies was laced with spurious answers... "Catfish in charge!" "the
banks are in charge!" Most of what else arose was obscene.
The
UN Peacekeepers stopped conversing among themselves and approached Andy and the
other four, the palest of them addressing them in a clipped, accented English
of Australia or a damper place, more probably New Zealand.
"We're
asking that you peaceably disperse, citizens. Kindly do not
do anything to antagonize the police."
"I
think we were this close with the Teamsters," Fil pointed out,
conspicuously ignoring the Peacekeeper who had removed his blue beret to twist
it between thin, pre-melanoma-spotted fingers. "You know... if it were up
to the Local, they'd have been with us. Really, really pissed at the oil
companies..."
The
backwash of those less inclined to fight the pigs had left them surrounded on
three sides. Traffic was stopped completely now as two darkskinned
men piled the cardboard back onto their truck, giving a merry wave to the tour
bus playing "Raindrops Falling on My Head". An old man in a dirty
gray Old Testament cloak trotted back up the street with a hand-lettered sign,
"CNC spawn of Satan" and some tourists from the bus applauded.
Several of these had stepped out to catch some air... a few, in Bermuda shorts
owing to the freakishly warm weather, lifted red plastic cups and taunted the
cops. Others, elderly women in the crowd, retreating... but
slowly... shouted something about their vanished IRAs over their shoulders at
the CU, as if the old building was, itself, an indifferent bank officer.
"I'm
Larry," the man in cowboy clothes now introduced himself, sticking out his
hand. Andy shook it, uncomprehending.
Somehow
the bullhorn had escaped confiscation by the police... passed from hand to
hand, it resurfaced from the opposite side of Dorritt
Square. "No two, four, ten, twelve-hour day!" it thundered.
"Make the banks and government and corporations pay!"
"Here
comes the State pork," Demian warned, "back
from San Jose and Iraq Three, and pissed."
Some
thirty assault rifle wielding National Guardsmen, by Andy's estimation, had
erupted from the shadows of the building under renovation, goosestepping
their way across the crowded street in front of the line of mounted City cops
in full combat gear with plastic shields, rifles for firing (presumably rubber)
bullets and the ubiquitous nightsticks.
(Andy noted Confederate flag patches sewn onto the shoulders of at least
two of their flak jackets.) At the curb, one of the Guardsmen stumbled over his
own jackboots, baton clattering to the sidewalk. The taunting of the crowd gave
way to laughter and a high school student sneaked under the rail, offering a
carrot to one of the police horses whose rider, prudently, pretended not to
notice. But, within moments, another bottle arced over the crowd and smashed
into the intersection between the cops in front of the CU and the Guardsmen in
the street; whistles pierced the air, sirens following, and scuffles began
breaking out within Dorritt Square.
"Undercover pigs!" Demian
pointed. "Undercover pigs!"
The
cry was taken up, joined with whistles, screams and curses. Through a frieze of
pushing bodies, Andy saw the police charge the park, hooves and batons flying,
while the Guardsmen fanned out, attacking the flank, clubs not swinging but
jabbing, like Phalangist picadors, at a running of
the bulls. They swept past Andy, cutting him off from the rest, except for the
stranger, Larry, who yawned, stretched, and said "...suggest we be going thataway," pointing towards the back end of the Square.
"Sounds
good," Andy concurred. "Forgot my shooting
irons."
"Not
that I'm averse to fighting cops," Larry apologised,
"but Pettigrew’s only the Acting Chairman, like all those other actors in Biden’s
cabinet and there's this matter of a few warrants out of New Mexico." As
if protected by their bubble of advanced age, they walked briskly but calmly
along the fringe of the park with Turks passing on the sidewalk; looking back,
Andy saw that the police and Guardsman had corralled an unruly cluster
composed, as it seemed, mainly of elderly bank protestors, Teamsters and a few
of the Conk tourists who'd strayed too far from their bus. Those who’d run were
being ridden down and rodneyed by mounted police or
tackled by undercovers chased, in turn, by the UN Peacekeepers impotently
shrieking "Nonviolence! Nonviolence!" and flinging their little blue
business cards about, the ones beginning: "What
to do when you are detained by the authorities!" "See anything?" Larry squinted. Since their
corner of the Square seemed largely ignored – the crowd focused on three
policemen choking out a black man as he rasped “I can’t breathe!”, Andy hopped
onto a concrete trashcan, the better to see one of the screeching Turks cut
down by a Guardsman's baton, blood spurting from his scalp, his blue beret
cartwheeling over the dead grass and dried dogshit.
"O.K. Bradley! They clubbed a Unapisser!"
"Justice
in this old world, after all," Larry grinned, showing a mouthful of sawed
off, decaying teeth. "Hey, wanna crash a party
for the Oklahoma Catfish people tonight? I know a way to get badges... food,
open bar, plenty of hot, fishy pussy..."
"Maybe. First, though, I'd better get over to the Hall
of Justice and see exactly how much of the counter-convention we'll have to
bail out."
"I
hear you," said Larry, raising an imaginary glass, or bottle.
"Who
did you say you were with?" Andy inquired, suspiciously.
"Me?
Independent Truckers' Association. What I was telling
that Chinese fellow; don't count on cow patootitties
from Teamsters. They'll play everybody. Dumbocrats. Publicans.
MAGA. Reform, the Conks and
anybody else, tell you what you want to hear but, in the end, they'll go with
whatever side they see winning. Meaning the new Saudi-Iranian axis, after Iraq
and, now that the terrorists are spiking our pipelines, Chavez Junior cut off
Venezuelan oil over solidarity with Costa Rica and the Saudis and Russkies kissed and made up. Diesel prices are back up too, all those as kiss
raghead asses..."
"Well
that ain't us," Andy said, crouching on the
trash container and scanning the mess one last time... a body lying in the park
in a widening pool of blood, the trapped bus stuck replaying
"Raindrops", cops and Guardsmen beginning to squabble over who had
custody of which prisoners... the ashen-faced TV journalist spitting out babble
comprehensible as Islamic prayers with the cameraman trailing behind getting
everything down on tape that, Andy knew, would never be aired for the spectating mob, except a few severely edited portions. Only
the last of his reveries were audible as Andy dismounted and blended into the
twilight.
"This
is Tom Lavin, action reporter for Eleven at Eleven, coming to you from Dorritt Square where the situation has been tense."
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