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BLACK HELICOPTERS EPISODE 9 WEDNESDAY the FIFTH - 10:25 PM "Doesn't it seem a
little odd to anybody," Marty Lesh
queried the two lefty lawyers… once Tony Nick had taken Emil's printout and
begun his paperwork… "that this Federal
money-changer blows into town just about now?
I mean... these bank dicks leave trails of desolation and destruction
everywhere they go. People follow Jerry Pettigrew ‘round the country like
Deadheads used to follow Jerry Garcia... fucker's a one-man riot
factory." |
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"Someone had to prime the pump
after the Mister Nine Percent inflation and his
wrecking crew, and the lady as came before. If I were inclined," Emil Hill
suggested, "I'd be more interested in looking into how the demo started,
then got out of hand so fast. Someone in a black mask,
black clothes, black hoodie threw a bottle at the
cops. Who? Antifa? Proud Boys? As well as the number of vague busts here,
there and everywhere over the past six years… conspiracies, so called, or
terroristic threats… which are up not insubstantially..."
"That's what I mean! First come
all those CNC people around the CU, early, then they split. Then they use Washington’s drone money to
equip their sparrows with heat-seeking bioluminescence, take pictures of and
round up dumpster divers and a few of Andy’s 86 cases sleeping under bushes at
Sylvania Park or next to the Federal Building and send ‘em all to Jaminoe on felony conspiracies-to-misdemean. What if, you know, the City and the Conks and
Feds were all in on it together?"
"Except that the only thing
preventing Parnell from selling out to the Democrats... maybe in return for,
well, not Vice, but Secretary of Horses and their manure, Ambassador to
Paraguay… something... is Tillerman. And the only thing preventing Tillerman from entering the Republican primaries as the Tea
Party’s finish-the-wall wonderfish now that The
Donald is blowing cold again is the Catfish. And Rayna's money," Leo
added, holding up his thumb and forefinger about an eighth of an inch apart.
"Otherwise, everybody's this close to cutting that deal, if President Joe
and the two Big Macs don’t beat them to it the way they cooperated on IRS
authorizing private mercenaries to conduct false flag raids against the poor
which, of course, inspired so many scammers..."
“Or, suggested Hill, “if those Green-Libertarian, Crump-Sharpton-Ye
or Schultz-Ocasio pacts ever materialize…”
"So?" Marty persisted.
"Doesn't mean both parties can't work together when they perceive a common
threat, or to get over on the people. That's like buying into the argument that
Trilaterals were going to save the world from the
CFR, or the other way around. Both fronted for Rockefellers and the UN, which
is why they hired Zionist instigators of nine-eleven and a Soviet fifth column
in the Taliban to invade Ukraine, overturn the Constitution and go back to
being a part of the Soviet Union again.
Listen to the radio, read social media sites! The role of Parnell’s
Coalition is to start making noise about it, enough to suck in all potential
opposition and then break up, going round in circles for a few years like a bum
tire deflating, then selling out, like the Tea Party to Christians, or going
down in flames like the Reform Party after they poach a few votes from the
Democrats in November. It's all acting -
like half the President’s cabinet. Wag the dog’s cock! Actually, I think the CNC master-plan is sort
of like Obama, our best Republican President since Clinton… give people a
little hope and then crush it, so they'll never act up again... maybe for
fifteen, twenty years..."
"You forgot the cannibal child
molesters in the Pizza Hut basement. And
I think you ought to cut down on your crystal," Andy suggested.
"That's not at issue. It is
a fix, guys, and the Conks are
part of the plot out to get us; not because we really threaten them but, like,
because we make an easy example, always running off to demos to get
busted. Like that rap singer set up to
make Clinton look black or those other guys his wife hired, beating up Martin
O’Malley, for what that was
worth. Like Hitler, setting his own
buildings on fire in that TV miniseries..."
"It was still better Nazi
propaganda than that 'Hogan's Heroes' movie remake. You bring me something that
stands up in a court of law," Emil proposed, "I'll take the case.
Anybody wanna jerk me ‘round, I'll still take their
money, but you gotta pay my retainer up front. In cash!"
"Speakin'
of cash," Tony interrupted, "lemme see
what's in your pockets, now. I got your papers here. Everybody passes but this
guy," he pointed, "that little code stands for warrants in uh...
Minnesota? Wonder what they pay for skips, over there," he wondered aloud,
and when nobody made any objection, went back to his terminal and began tapping
out an inquiry.
"Get Victor out in his
place," Andy sighed, returned to the counter and began pulling dirty,
crumpled bills from his jacket pocket, laying them out in small piles until
they amounted to seven hundred dollars. "Thirty-two bucks left," he
said when the cash had disappeared into Tony's drawer, secure beneath Tony's
nice, Jewish machine pistol that the UN somehow had failed to get around to
confiscating yet. "Any of you bighearted attorneys wanna
buy the gratitude of some other asshole for eighteen bucks. No? How about that
Aussie cameraman, Leo – think his company would be grateful for springing their
man early? – given that those British journalists arrested during Trump’s last
rally up at the Capital are still in
the pokey?"
"He doesn't work for a
company," Leo explained, "he's freelance."
"Know what that means," Andy
shrugged.
"Lemme
have ten bucks," Marty pleaded. "Geez, I need it bad. I eat another
breakfast at Malik's Hellfire Club, I'll puke. I'll die, pukin',
honest!"
Andy gave him a Lincoln that he knew
would disappear up his arm within the hour, then
peeled off another fiver for Emil, who glared at Abe as though the President
were one of those cannibal child molesters.
"Never say I don't make good on
obligations," Andy rubbed it in, "what I can. Your tab's thirty-seven
ninety-five, now. Sorry, Leo, you work
for a paying charity."
"Go ahead," said the lawyer.
"I'm used to abuse from the people I help."
While they talked, Hill stuffed the
fiver in his shirt pocket. "When are you idiots going to realize what a
fuckin' waste of time your demos are?
He's right," Emil added, jerking a thumb at Marty Lesh. "It is a fix. When are you two bozos going to
wise up and get law degrees? Then you could smash the system, make money, and have fun doin'
it!"
The question unanswered, they picked
up their bail forms and crossed the street again, delivered them to the man
behind the glass and waited on cracked, plastic chairs with plastic cups of
sour, machine coffee until a police Sergeant came out to deliver the bad news.
"Counselors," he addressed
Leo and Emil, "under the Revised Patriot Act, I cannot cooperate with your
request to interview those people accused of felonies. Nobody... relatives,
attorneys... nobody visits the holding cells until I get some say-so
from some administration." Noticing a pile of anti-bank flyers someone had
slipped onto the table with PAL literature by the coffee machine, he backhanded
them into the trash.
"So..." Leo answered,
waiting a beat, and when the Sergeant kept looking at him, finished, "...
just call your administration."
The Sergeant looked distantly past
them, out through police glass to the street and shimmering row of bailbond offices. Somewhere behind the glass, a radio
warbled 2Crazy's "Take Down Da Cop". He smiled.
"Administration's clocked out for the night. Come back early, say
around seven; somebody'll see what they can do. Maybe..."
"What are we talking about?"
Goldman exploded. "There is
no administration, it's just... people... the Captain, the Chief, the D.A.!
They got cellphones. Twitterers. Where are they... whooping it up at one of
those Coalition dinners? What you're not
telling me is that Pinhead's got the police in his pocket, too, and after screwing the union over your
pensions, too… remember? People accused of crimes have
rights to legal representation... it's in the Sixth Amendment. And the UN
Charter, too! Do you want me to contact the Innocence Project?"
The Sergeant reddened, but did not
reply. "Ain't this a scene," Hill suggested
with a smirk. "If we had some media in town other than the useless
Urinal... one call! Half the brass off at some political banquet with wild
radicals like Catfish... well, maybe not him, since he's syndicated, but, at
least, militia kooks from out-of-state, Oregon people... meanwhile the
understaffed Hall of Justice bulges with dangerous felons."
That brought the Sergeant up, tapping
the side of his head with a pudgy index finger. "Hill, you're worse than
most of your clients. We have had people looking into you. Some day... some
day, we're gonna figure you out. When that happens I plan to be here to turn
the key on you myself." He was a big man, with a big, heavy belt that he
tugged at as one of the officers from the jail waved to him. "All in all,
we've been more than cooperative in processing your fourteen misdemeanants in
time for them to get home and watch themselves on television. Dangerous
criminals!" he shared the joke with his visitors, smirking back... "and here they come."
The approach of the released
misdemeanants was heralded by their chanting: "Hey hey,
Ho ho... Po Po
Brutal’ty gots to go!"
A dozen young, diverse and vigorous woke subversives rounded the corner followed
by a pair of gray, shuffling wretches; street people swept up in the confusion
and being expunged for lack of space (and before the State would have to feed
them). A teenaged girl with frizzy red hair and "Meat Is Murder!"
inked on the backside of her denim jacket blew a kiss at Marty; a jug-eared
youth in a "Zionism is Racism" t-shirt broke ranks to accost them.
"Hey Andy... guys..." he
said in a hopeful whine, "they wouldn't give us anythin'
vegan for lunch, ya know, except rotten baloney
sandwiches made from ground up uh frogs, like... couldja
spare some change, man?"
Contempt escalated to rage in three
fifths of a second. "Get the fuck out!" Andy roared, hurling his
half-empty cup of cooling coffee at the mooch. The
kid... with the rest of the newly liberated... scattered, conspicuously dodging
the overwhelmed metal-detector and its guard, regrouping at the top of the
steps of the Hall of Justice for a last chant of "Freedom for
Amphibians!" waving middle fingers at the police and their rescuers alike
before dispersing into the night.
The sergeant leaned towards the four,
thrusting his craggy face into Andy's in what would’ve been an infectious
manner a few months back. "I'd be within my rights to pull you in for
assault, or maybe littering, and only the fact that it's late and I'm sick of
you and all your kind weighs against it. So I believe that the best thing for
all of you to do would be to leave now... and take up the rest of your
complaints with the morning shift."
"Let's go," Leo said, pulling
Andy away by the wrist, making for the door. Hill and Marty followed. The
Sergeant motioned to the ancient janitor who worked the Hall of Justice by
night, gesturing to the spill and pointing...
"There you go, Willie! Another
mess the white folks left for you to clean up."
"Remember," Emil said at the
door, "I'll volunteer my services to anyone who cares to file lawsuits
against this Department. Some day, you'll answer to the taxpayers!"
"We all do," the Sergeant
spat, "until the UN tells us otherwise." And then he turned his
back. And Andy couldn’t help needling
Hill…
"Having fun yet?"
"Fun? This ain’t fun, it’s maintaining credibility with our
community," the portly lawyer snapped.
"Need a ride?" Leo said
awkwardly, once Hill and Marty were out of earshot, dispatched onto their
disparate missions.
A cold, annoyingly misty rain had
begun falling by the time Andy and Goldman squeezed into the latter's ancient
Japanese sedan. "Well," the lawyer pounced, "I have to say you
really blew it. I thought we had a chance of getting some of the felonies, at
least, out before tomorrow."
Andy remained silent through more of
the lawyer's complaints, gazing out the drizzly window while the Drifters'
"Up on the Roof" played softly on the oldies station.
"Marty was right," he said
finally.
"What?"
"He was right about the cops and
the CNC. Somebody planned this; nobody sensible's
getting out before the Convention. They're smarter than we are... smarter and
richer, and they're a whole lot tougher. And ordinary people still don't give a
shit. The television and Urinal tell them look at the stock market - things
never have been better and they lap it up... all the way until the job's lost,
house foreclosed, guns pawned, their savings worth as much as toilet paper even
as credit card rates keep rising and the sheriff puts 'em out on the fuckin'
sidewalk and they're still waving flags, blathering how proud they are to be
Americans and not black, or gay and they’re still rugged individualists who can
take their punishment like men, while tides from the global warmed-over rivers
rise up from their ankles to their knees and the gomers
migrate from MAGA to Uncle Joe like hungry gators! Eggheads are still complaining about the
stolen election, Jack Parnell mouths off against the banks and oil companies
and the Chinese, so people figure he's on the job and might even be more
uncompromising than Trump for them, and they give him their seventeen bucks,
letting them roll over and press the snooze button while he cuts his deals on
their behalf."
"I had half my life's savings in
the Lambert Deposit and Loan when it was frozen," Leo objected. "Nine
hundred bucks... not even enough for a good used car when this bastard dies. I
wrote the Feds and they say write the IMF... after they sent Dodd-Frank to the
same dumpster as Glass-Steagall and crooks started up
all these Building and Loans, I saw those ads with photoshopped
Jimmy Stewart... hey, that four and one half percent interest looked good.
Nobody bothered to tell me that the collateral was in Zaire or Venezuela… no,
Venezuela’s solvent now, sort of, after the coup, it’s one of those Guyanas, somewhere.
Jonestown? I dunno...
maybe people don't care. They
believe that if they wait and buy more crap on credit things'll
work out, maybe they're just distracted... look at Baby Claire! The system's
rotten... but where do we go, other than to the Conks? Back to Trump? Ross the boss… rest his demented soul?
The Clinton and Romney and Bush dynasties? Cruz or Pence? Saint Ron?
One of those crying Democrats… Storny Daniels’ lawyer or the coffee guy? Bloomberg - that poster girl for the nanny
state and you and me wouldn't exactly be welcome in that Charles
Barkley-Sharpton party, let alone the Christian Republicans… everybody still
hates the Greens over 2000 and Florida, 2016, the Squad over 2020 and Putin!
You want, maybe, to go back to the olden times Socialists... Workers, Labor,
whatever, always trying to get over on each other? Do they still even
exist?"
And, on the radio, the Drifters sang
on that there’d be room enough for two... up on the roof.
"I'm an attorney. I have a
certificate to practice law," Goldman explained, "I made my mind up
when I was a kid in grade school, when the people made Nixon resign, that I was
going to make a difference, too.
Now I got this shitty car, a job people laugh at me for and a crap apartment in
the North End I can't afford to keep heated in winter. Most women I come in
contact with are man-hating lesbians seeking alimony or settlements for some
sort of harassment, like losing jobs they weren’t qualified to do in the first
place. Microagressions! I'm staring at fifty in the rear view mirror
and still, thanks to my law school loans, have a net
worth of less than zero so thank you, Betsy DeVos. My old classmates got rich either pimping for
Big Insurance and the pharmaceutical companies, or suing them. Everything on
the boob tube is cruel reality shows and reboots; the plague is sneaking back
into Miami and Fox is bringing back 'Queen for a Day?' Who’d want to marry a
public advocate up to his neck in debt? Well... which way do I turn?"
"That way...no, sorry, take me
back downtown? To the Ivona. Gotta meet somebody there."
"No problemo,"
Leo said. "Hang on..." he warned, wheeling the wheezing import into a
squealing U-turn on the wet, deserted street.
"Leo," said Andy, patiently,
"that remark was racist, and you're just committed a vehicular misdemeanor
that would get you beaten to death if we were black, and this was
Memphis..."
"What can I say?" the lawyer
answered. "Like that old Burger Jack commercial went, before they blew up
Jack like a bus stop in Damascus, sometimes you gotta
break the rules!"
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