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BLACK HELICOPTERS EPISODE 7 WEDNESDAY the FIFTH - 7:45 PM MacAuley's
was that comfortable, dimly lit, upscale chain restaurant just off the
Interstate (far, far from the violence) which had been commandeered by the
Coalition for a New Consensus’ Bar Caucus; here, nonlawyers
Glenn and Anne dutifully worked their way through mashed potatoes, peas and
the inevitable rubber chicken, smiling mindlessly at and exchanging
banalities with the other couple assigned to their table… local Conks whose
lapel badges designated their names as being Irv and Tanya Stolz. |
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"Nothing much changes," Irv
suggested, leaning forward with a mouth half full of peas, as Glenn revealed
that his was a return voyage to younger, better days. "The U's the same as
ever; Virginia Hall... where they still give the bar exams... well, they put up
a new gymnasium, though, what was it Tan, six years ago?"
"Fieldhouse," his wife
corrected him, nasally. "It's a Fieldhouse,
Irv."
"Right. Fieldhouse, shithouse,
shithole, gym, same fuckin’ difference… basketball
team’s still shithouse, football gone... baseball team's OK, but who pays
attention to college baseball?"
"Too bad the Bearcats moved to
Ohio," Glenn made conversation.
"Jeez – talk about the good old
days of the Twentieth Century! Too much population lost here, not enough
interest to keep attendance up for even the minor league baseball. Face it… we’re sub-minor league, now. People downtown talk about getting a team
from the rookie league, but it's not much of a priority. They'd want a stadium
of their own and we've got smarter fish to fry.
This plague! War! That weird recession! Whole fuckin’
country burned out and wanting to go on the dole, so they have to hire those...
those people... at the Gas
Monkey. Trump was crazy, OK, but “no hablo ingles?”
Thank that Motley Fool and the rest that I didn’t sell off my stocks while the
Dow was stuck in the plague. But with Mayor
Potter inclining towards the Coalition," Irv added with a confidential
smirk, "all thanks to Henri, I do trust that this will be only the
beginning of great enterprises once we get that gang of Socialists out of
Washington and things turn ‘round. Though I do hope your quitted... ah, retired... Congressman Parnell doesn't
burn his bridges with the Democrats like the coffee fellow did... we had a very
close election here on account of the redistricting and that unfortunate
primary, and your people made a difference last November. Ten percent of the students are frothing at
the mouth with crazy shit, they wrote in Kanye… believe it?..., the rest don’t even vote."
"It's always important to be of
help at the local level," Anne volunteered, laying down her fork. “And
Pin... Peter... always has been so, well, full of ideas."
"Oh that he is. He is!" Irv
declared, spearing a glazed baby carrot and measuring the aüslanders
as if deliberating whether to surrender a particularly juicy morsel of local
gossip. "You know, some political people here in the past... well, they
were traditional, not so friendly towards the
University as circumstances might dictate…"
"Rednecks?" Glenn retorted,
intuitively.
"Oh no! Not here! Unless there's
such an animal as a left wing redneck... people who'd rather save owls, Bradley
or Chelsea Manning, whomever that trannie traitor is,
running for Senate, and Costa Rica and, meanwhile, pass laws criminalizing
“offensive glances” and tearing down statues of George Washington. What about keeping the buses running and the
potholes filled without Federal handouts?
Like the animal lovers who burned that AIDS research lab down on account
of the rats… as if we don’t already have enough rats… or the so-called
“community activists” (and he emphasized the quote with his fingers) who
prevented the U. from constructing a state-of-the-art robotics facility because
it would mean demolishing a few dirty old, falling-down tenements that, they
said, have character. Not
to mention plenty of rats! And… you
know… those people! What Peter did in his first term was to
communicate the importance of linking education and employment just like Jack
promotes, laying foundations, so to speak.
And now, it's time to take action. We always just seem to miss the
technology waves coming out of, well, the smart places... Austin and Boston and
Silicon Valley... fiber optics and neural networks, smart people stuff like
that robot bomb-throwing machine they used against the bank robbers in Dallas
and Columbus Day protesters in New Mexico… well Mayor Potter says at least we
haven't encumbered ourselves with corrupt and hyper-obsolescent
infrastructures, because we don't have
any structure – infra, ultra, anything, period. We're poised to catch the next
wave without having to be protective of existing job sectors..."
"And this next wave?" Anne
inquired, "...it would be..."
"Whatever the media, the investor
and inventor classes and deep state say it is, I guess," Irv shrugged.
"Biotech, I hear. Cloning. Recombed-over... what
do they call it, GNA? Viral
banking? Virtual
currencies? Scavengers
picking over the bones of crypto.
The Cloud… whatever that
is? Space tourism? Anything the smart people decide… that guy
wants to open an Amazon warehouse up in Cap City that raises rents and property
values and runs employees round like robots and makes them piss their pants?...
well, I'm only a divorce attorney with a quarter share in a private
investigating conglomerate, cashing in on all that sexual harassment shit that
happens around universities!" he chuckled deferentially, "making a
fair living on the absurdities of the system. Mayor Potter and the Catfish are
going to raise this old town right up out of the doldrums and back to world
class standards, isn't that right, Tanya?"
Mrs. Stolz,
Glenn noted unwoke-ily, had a bosom deep enough to
contain a bird's nest - as long as it was a small bird, with small eggs... a
hummingbird, or sparrow. "Ohh..." she
twittered, "definitely. They want to put up a wonderful cultural center out there, in the East End ghetto. It
would make poverty so much
nicer."
The tapping of a finger against a
microphone interrupted everybody's machinations. A cheerful, dark-suited man on
the far side of seventy... babyfaced by the genetic draw
and redfaced from good cheer – round as a
Munchkin-faced Wizard from “Wizard of Oz” or the comedian W. C. Fields…
gestured for attention...
"Judge Claymore," Tanya Stolz informed the table, waving a fork, upon the end of
which a very gristly morsel reposed, like the skull at the tip of a witch
doctor's voodoo stick. "He's very..." and she turned her palm flat in
the air, shaking it ambiguously.
"I don't remember him," Anne
shook her head.
"Oh he's new, relatively, in from
out of town. Sent up from the Capitol... Irv, how long was it, before or after
the Fieldhouse?"
"If President Joe doesn't get
right with his right and put those increases in Medicare and Social Security on
the chopping block to pay for his tax cuts, they’ll coalesce around either Gavin
Newsome or Andrew Cuomo… that former Governor up there in New York, who’s been
found not guilty. Sort
of. Harris? If they draft some liberal like Elizabeth
Warren’s sorry ass or Hillary again, I’ve heard it said that the base'll kiss off the party and maybe even support
Jack," frowned Irv as gristly chicken slid off
the edge of Tanya's fork and plummeted to the tablecloth. "As for
Claymore, he’s about six feet to the right of Justice Beer, maskless man Gorsuch and homeboy, Thomas, but there's something old,
something personal he has against the former Attorney General,” Irv pointed at
the still-posturing politician. “Oh... and the church lady. Well maybe he thinks black cats are the Devil's familiars, not the calico! Self-hate thing, like that last Negro
Republican fellow after the pizza guy who said Covid
was imaginary, then died… that, uh, sleepy doctor? Who sold off the public housing and threw all
the poor onto the streets to beg or rob people?
So he's playing two of three sides, just like the rest of us… or maybe
four, counting that dot-commie billionaire if the donkey boys… as Jack calls
them… do nominate a Socialist, all crowding into the clown car as
independents. Make that five, with the
coffee man, or as many as seven if the legendary, elusive black
nationalist/Evangelical deal ever manifests.
If the donkeys were to buck tradition by choosing somebody reputable
instead of some ancient relic like Hillary again… not Bernie Socialist, of
course, or that other loud woman up in Massachusetts, but like Joe from the
Mansion or that General Zimmer, anybody military... maybe Ehrenberg despite,
you know..." and Tanya sighed as Irv stroked his nose and then some with
an acrid smile. The plump, cherubic Judge
smiled, tapped his microphone, somebody coughed back.
"I wanted to thank you all for
your attendance here, tonight," Claymore began, "representing the
Coalition for a New Consensus which is, after all, a bipartisan... tripartisan… hell, call us a polypartisan
organization... and one dedicated to progressive change through traditional law
and procedure. That's an important distinction, especially on days like today,
with anarchy raging in the streets..."
"I think they just told him about
the riots," Tanya pouted.
Anne sat up. "What riots?"
she began, but the Judge continued speaking.
"And of even more concern than
intermittent, random and sectarian violence… from all sides, of course, as our
former President liked to say… the decay and paralysis confronting us daily,
stretching from halls of power in Washington, Iraq and Wall Street to the
hospitals and high-tech laboratories of Boston and Stanford to the humble
storefronts of Main Street…"
"What riots?" Anne repeated,
but Irv and Tanya shushed her.
"You know, a wise man... a wise
man from Harvard, in fact, so ever the rarer... asks if we are to treat the so
called dispossessed, drunks and vagrants, really, with the harsh discipline
they deserve, are we being unfair? And he admits... perhaps... but is it fair
to quail before an onslaught of hundreds, even thousands of penniless vandals
and vagrants, most bent on the passive destruction of our communities, our
property values, our family structure but a growing number of whom we see in
our streets – purging our values and history, assaulting bystanders and
destroying property? Pushing women off
the subway tracks in New York? Let us
not ignore the warnings given by Thomas Malthus two centuries ago, a man
esteemed by both Austin Tillerman and Catfish Jack Parnell, however they
may differ on certain other issues... hard as it may be, our sons and our
daughters must be taught that dependent poverty must be made disgraceful again
so that independent poverty among our youth may be combated with education and
military service and, where necessary for adults laid off because of
technological advances, public sector jobs.
The plague is over, Ukraine’s become a forever
war – so let’s get America back to work again making, among other things,
rockets they can shoot into
Russia. Or China. Today’s Democrats aren’t like our fathers who
pulled the lever for JFK or our grandfathers for FDR, so we must take a common
stand to promote strong measures, take these people off our streets and
rehabilitate them with tough love... but in a way that even Hollywood liberals
like Tony Manuzzo can appreciate..."
And, as the diners in MacAuley's applauded politely, Irv Stolz
smirked and tiffened his shoulders. "Boys kicked
a little ass today..."
"Your boys?" Glenn puzzled.
"The police!
Who did you think I was talking about... the Turks? Sheesh! It's
all over the news, nationwide too, of course… the Guard helped out some,
they're practicing for redeployment in
Anne daubed her chin with one of the MacAuley's cloth napkins as the Judge droned on and a
stolid, young Caucasian waiter removed their leavings, setting down paper plates of angel or devil's food
cake, as guests preferred. "Sorry," he said, sotto voce, "the
dishwashers were deported, yesterday, Immigration raid..."
Irv squinted. "You an English or
Journalism postgraduate?" he asked rudely, just loud enough to be heard
between Claymore's increasingly hoarse, random remarks. "Wait... a History major!" He dropped a dollar
on the plate, spooning a couple of peas over it and then, with another smirk;
Tanya pointed to the devil's food as Claymore took a step back, grasped the
lapels of his jacket like Jimmy Stewart about to testify, and then resumed.
"And, would it be such a bad
thing if we did split the vote and a Republican… a sensible Republican like
Eisenhower… took over? A DeSantis or Ben Sassel;
maybe not Romney because… you know… even a woman like Liz Cheney. Or that tough-looking girl
from one of those cold places.
Bit by bit, we're overcoming the lies that the Social and Socialist
media have spread since that first day when, argues Mister Darwin, some monkey
picked up a rock to smash nuts with, and so invented the concept of private
property. Not you, Teddy, stand up... folks, that's Teddy Canfield from the
Journal in the back, he's alright with the Coalition! Don't beat him up!"
And nervous laughter rippled through MacAuley's.
"The Coalition, dispensing both firmness and compassion, has awakened
America to a moral universe of choices that exist beyond the frontiers of
despair... we have taken back good, old-fashioned virtues like private charity
and common sense, the way so many Americans have come to the aid of Baby
Claire. So, on behalf of Austin Tillerman, I also
congratulate Congressman Parnell, and welcome all you delegates to a momentous,
shining enterprise... one I may hope shall, for its while, maintain its
independence and scare the pants off both the major parties. With this, I'd
like to introduce you to my alt-left-wing
devil's advocate; the CNC National Affairs Co-ordinator,
Pat O'Neraghty."
A tall, thin man with a receding blond
hairline, Hollywood stubble and pastel suit, blue as a Turk's beret, rose out
of the shadows cloaking the far end of the long VIP table. Irv Stolz glanced towards Glenn, as if to ask whether Parnell’s
man had anything useful to contribute.
"Reyna's reptile," Glenn
volunteered, contemptuously.
"What?" started Irv. Anne stood up.
"I have to make a phone
call," she explained, snapping open her cellular. "Excuse me. Oh, and by the way, Kanye
changed his name to Yee."
Glenn angrily motioned the waiter to
take away his plate as she stalked off, giving the appearance of walking out on
O'Neraghty, yet to speak... still basking in the
applause of his captive delegates.
"What the hell's gotten into
her?" he wondered aloud. “Yee? Who does he
think he is, some Chinaman? Wasn’t he
the Democrat who promised everybody a thousand dollars... as if inflation
didn’t exist since 1972?”
“That was Yang,” Anne snapped over her
shoulder on the way to the Ladies’.
“Yin, Yang... Gawdalmighty,”
Glenn shook his head. “Yee haw!” as Republicans
from our former Confederate principalities might say.
Embarrassed, Irv shrugged. Tanya, scrutinizing O'Neraghty and pouting, as if she'd detected something missing, raised a napkin and polished off a smidgen of potato off his chin and leaned forward, confidentially. "Maybe," she commiserated, "it's... you know... her time?"
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