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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 13 THURSDAY the SIXTH - 8:21 AM Hector
Nescoso... dark, slim; imperious as a somewhat
genial High Inquisitor in Western bolo tie, snakeskin boots and a bespoke
twelve hundred dollar suit... joined Glenn and Anne and a square peg in the Ivona Coffee Shoppe, removed his jacket with one hand
while motioning effortlessly to the waitress to bring him coffee... black...
and half a whole wheat muffin. “The bottom half, please... "Excuse
my tardiness," he apologized. "A Youth Caucus problem... it's been
resolved. Austin continues to see our young people as problems to be
contained or weapons to be stockpiled; I prefer to think of their potential…
challenges, to be steered in the right direction by programs that offer real
job skills, not frivolities, once Catfish Jack brings back the universal
draft. Like those that the State administration here has started..." |
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And the
Conk operative smiled, thinly…
"Glenn was saying he and
Anne used to live here," volunteered the suddenly deferential Ralph Laird.
"So
I've gathered." Hector nodded at the interloper, unfolded his napkin and,
with a polite gesture of dismissal, tucked it into his shirt. "That gives
me an idea. The two of you ought to take a sit-down with Henri. As our friend
has pointed out, you understand the native wildlife here, that… that Pinhead creature!…
and a situation may develop where you might be of assistance to us. At the
least, you ought to keep your eyes and ears open. Jack’s campaign may require
help... and nothing in this life, you know, comes free…"
"Does
Henri seem to have as good a lock onto what goes round, round here, as some
people say he does?" Laird persisted.
"He's
very well thought of, locally, and ought to know that taking sectarian
positions on matters outside of his realm of competence is an act of
foolishness. And, because he is an ambitious, but not a foolish man, there is
every chance that he will reconsider," Nescoso smiled,
even more thinly. His breakfast arrived, and he sipped at the coffee, hot and
black, disappointing Glenn with his lack of a negative reaction. "Even so,
the means that have brought him into the favor of Mayor Potter and certain
powers-that-be in the business community have not endeared him to others... or
at least the more vocal of these..."
"In
other words," Anne finished, "you want us to be useful, to keep tabs
on things and be prepared if he decides to cut his own deal at the same time
others might be stirring up trouble outside..."
"Impossible!"
Glenn swore, with a rude gesture towards the waitress for more coffee.
"Those demonstrators are out of the picture. We've been assured they’ll
never get assembly permits and, besides, most of the leaders are in jail."
"But
not this friend of yours, what's…s…s his name..." Hector inquired
sibilantly, "he whom, I trust, continues to maintain a negative opinion of
our movement?"
"Andy
Morrison?" Glenn blinked. "Oh yeah... sure... but he doesn't matter.
He's no Proud Boy, nor whatever passes for them on the left, these days, no
proud anything, just a burnout."
"Interesting.
Still, I think you and he ought to get together anyway, sound this fellow...
Andy?... out on the likelihood of outside trouble. The Mayor's agreed to defer
to certain operatives within the Coalition as well as… umm… outside
contractors. Blackwater
sorts… but blacker. Miller black. Not
quite Wagner, but getting there. We have
channels into Homeland Security that see merit in having someone from each of
the tendencies working with the locals. This, of course, lessens the prospect
that something unfortunate might happen, to the advantage of one side or the
other, but to the general detriment of the movement, should unity in the
interests of forming a viable third party… or, given the bum’s rush the DNC
kept doling out to Senator Sanders, the party’s craven surrender to a weak and
vulnerable incumbent and clueless Vice in ‘24 and present disinclination of the
left in deserting to the Greens and Libertarians or, even, taking Election Day
off to do, I don’t know… whatever?... without a little push from above? This poses a problem. Not to mention numerous dissident Republican
and Independent factions… a massive Massie coup or a splinter if it fails. Wombs, perhaps, of fourth, or fifth or even
sixth – what does that make us, then, a seventh?... political party?” he fairly chuckled, sipping more
hot coffee and frowning. “And if
Bloomberg talks or pays off Donnie into getting his people into HHS, CDC, NIH
and the such, maybe Justice, too, drinking coffee will become a crime and
trafficking Chock Fulla Nuts a felony. So perhaps this is so,” he sipped again, and
smiled ghoulishly. “There is a very small margin... and it is sometimes better
to have visible, howsoever repulsive, opposition than none at all. If voters choose to interpret events as
reinforcing the CNC’s commitment to a progressive technological and economic
agenda while maintaining an opposition to terror, crime, disease and the sort of
borders as would have us overrun with hordes of Guatemalan and Honduran
peasants trying to escape their murderous cartels, well…” he added, smiling,
“who are we to stand in the way of their assumptions?
“People
with no stake in the game,” he allowed, “hardly ever protest the Democrats
anymore... let alone Republicans... all those white fellows from Michigan and
Pennsylvania who put on their little red hats and got jacked on the tax cuts
and those funny money games that sent the Dow over fifty thou but didn’t put a
dime in their pockets unless they had a portfolio of Apple and Amazon, which
they sold because they didn’t like the politics of Big Tech? They won’t move because they didn’t see any
positive alternative, are fed up with risking their health and lives to stand
in a big auditorium, maskless, chanting and cheering at their hero on television
(even if it is a very big screen)… if
they don’t want to admit they were stupid, what do they do? Even when they had no alternative to making
America great, a great, big laughingstock!
And the shot-callers in both parties, who stand for nothing greater
themselves… Bonita!" he hailed, tucking the last of the muffin beneath his
tongue as if it were a poxy Host.
“Delicious!” Hector removed his plastic with a circular
gesture to indicate that the tab for the whole table was his, holding the hand
of the waitress with a silky smile. "May I?" he pleaded. She shook
her head, giggling, and Nescoso reverently kissed her
freckled wrist. "Add twenty five percent for a tip, Bonita!" he said
and let her go.
Ralph
Laird licked his lips enviously, Anne rolled her eyes
towards Glenn mouthing the word “Cuomos!” Glenn shrugged. Just more of Rayna’s money.
"There
is going to be some delicate work required with Environment," Hector
continued. "Ralph, I want you present when I visit these New Englanders...
they claim to have information that friends of friends of the competition have
been more than casually involved in those Michigan and Washington state church
bombings. This might neutralize, somewhat, the impact of Miami’s Cubans and the
growing Trump/Tillerman axis on our Immigration and Minority Caucuses... which
would be most helpful if Pence or Vance or Little Marco – even those pathetic
RINOs like Chris Christie or, if they declare, Cruz or Speaker Mike were to gain
a headwind or at least a spine in the latter Grand Old Primaries for the next
election, if there is one. If only those
neo-Nazis from Virginia would show up here,” he sighed, “everybody hates Nazis, which makes anybody whom they protest
golden. But… Ralph..."
The
waitress returned his plastic with a grateful smile of her own, Nescoso patted her on the shoulder and ushered Ralph Laird
out before him like a faithful, IED-sniffing dog - Laird's only gesture of
autonomy being to turn and inquire... "seriously, you know, which of the
big parties tomorrow would you go to?” And, as Glenn started, Nescoso held up an admonitory hand… “Bruno's or
Cohen?"
"Oh…
that sort of party! Cohen's," Glenn assured him,
"definitely!" though he had not an inkling of who the partythrowers were, nor what they stood for. Laird nodded,
as if taking valuable rocket secrets unto himself, and then the two Conks were
gone. Anne slurped up another mouthful of cereal; it had softened with time
and, instead of decisive crunching, a slushing sound escaped through her lips.
"I
miss those Gary Larson cartoons. Remember?... there was one with these sharks,
see, swimming round and there's a shipwreck, so the water’s full of bodies?
Only it's a cargo boat, full of department store dummies, and the sharks are
breaking their teeth..."
"Hector
should’ve been in one of those cartoons," Glenn considered, "I think
one of those with rattlesnakes - plenty of rattlesnakes. Competition,
opposition, all just Bolshevision... lighten up,
Anne; look at it this way, we're charged with more hanging out with Andy, and
the rest of his fossils..."
"I
can have Capulina airfreight up my bellbottoms and
the tie-die t-shirt from the cedar closet," she suggested.
Glenn
shook his head. "Only the Ko-rect people remain
amongst the liberals. Sober
survivors; the last, dull remnant – always on the lookout for anything that
enhanced their posture as victims of someone or other before MAGA stole their
pity party. Our American Taliban
– roaming the social media looking for enemies to behead! Lifestyle and fashion
as a form of protest doesn't turn on kids in these days of refraining from
embracing; it doesn't matter, really! They don't expand their minds anymore, while
the scrubs are playing games, the privileged take animal medications or what
are those things… bath salts?... and dance all night, badly, and then, in the
morning, go out roaming in packs, looking for microaggressions just so long as
they stay out of the neighborhoods where the working class MAGAthugs
are, or else the… you know. Middle class
kids who take out loans to go to University on the expectation that Uncle Joe
and a donkey Congress will get re-elected and forgive them; sanctuaries where
they learn to hate America and distrust its leaders, while the left-behinders sniff paint and carpet cleaning fluids, brains
shot by fifteen and their children will be born with prehensile thumbs for
twittering… or whatever they’ll be calling it in 2040. Dirty dungarees and workshirts,
all black as the people they wish they could be - black baklavas, boots for
stomping the capitalist insect that preys on the delusions of the people and
crawls through their facial hair... and the men,” he winked, “are even
grungier!"
Anne
let out an audible hiss. “That’s
sexist! And… what’s the word… aging-ist?”
"At
least Tillerman youth wash their dungarees and polish their
boots. Like their guns," he added. "No... I shouldn't be
disrespecting our young people upon whom the weight of bipartisan failed
policies on everything from climate change to Russia still holding the east of
Ukraine, Al Qaeda taking over in Pakistan and hooking up with Costa Rica and
North Korea; they're the ones, after all, out ringing doorbells and collecting
our forty dollar membership checks from the dolts in suburbs who think their
money's going to reform a rotten political system, clean up rivers and fund
homes for unwanted children while lowering their taxes at the same time. When
it's really going to credit card breakfasts and hotel suites for insider-frackers following this green Nazi nut, or else a former
Congressman who doesn't seem to know which way he's blowing until his rich, fat
girlfriend tells him what the day's agenda is?"
"Fat
girlfriend signs my paycheck. Politics is a filthy game,"
Anne sighed, "but if we don't play it, someone else
will! And, by the way, the protestors…
the left protestors… wore balaclavas. Baklava is a Greek pastry…"
"S’why they’re burning up and going bankrupt. Hey!" Glenn stood up, "...shit
happens! Gives me an excuse to spend less time hanging around the Mideast
caucus."
"Lucky
dog! A hopeless mess, if I ever saw one... they're like those people on that
Star Trek... with the half and half blackfaces that the network won’t show
anymore? The original one, with William Shatner... the ones who had nothing
left but their hate..."
"Don't
show your age!" Glenn nodded and the waitress, pouncing, began clearing
their space with a clattering of plates.
"Weren't
you going on strike?" Anne approached her.
"That
depends on the Local," Hector's Bonita replied, glancing sharply over her shoulder
to see if any corporate angels or insects might be listening in.
Glenn
guided Anne away, back into the lobby. "That's why the common people live
the longest, they leave decisions up to the Lord, the Donald or else the
Local. Captain Kirk sang, or rather
talked, a song about them, those common people.
Don't bust me - I'm part of the union. All right, Jack! You know... for
all the money and illusions of prestige, I could almost really see changing
places with Andy. For the freedom..."
"Almost?"
She inclined her nose in the direction of the Hawaiian-looking guard... back on
duty this morning, skulking near the top of the escalator. Anne smiled at him
and he glowered and slapped his baton into his gloved palm.
"Almost,"
Glenn admitted.
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COLUMN by JACK "CATFISH" PARNELL... "ENTROPY and RENAISSANCE"
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