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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 15 THURSDAY the SIXTH - 9:41 AM The ragged agents of conspiracy scooped up all their
earthly belongings; Marty handing the entranced Walker one of the takeout coffees
and half a sticky bun, whispering to him what seemed like instructions for a
complicated (if wholly imaginary) mission. Walker nodded, comprehending the
gravity of his charge. Leo Goldman
devoured most of the remaining hash browns, guzzled his coffee, still hot,
down to the grounds in the bottom of the cup. Andy
guided Richard Reid towards the diner door. |
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"Listen," he said, "Got a special
assignment for you. In the beginning, I want you to say nothing. Nothing! No
kill the pigs rap, no Outfitters (at this, Reid’s head jerked sideways, eyes
narrowing), no antifa; don't even remark about the
weather. I want you to just sit and sort of glare at Disson,
you know? Just like now! Just burn holes
through his forehead with your eyes. You're the glaresman,
dude! The People’s Glaresman! I want that motherfucker squirming every time
he looks your way, like he thinks you're gonna cut off his nuts... although
from what I hear that’s probably something he’d get off on. Can you do this?"
"Whatever,"
Richard shrugged. “Wouldn’t let him go
down on me for less than a Hamilton…”
“Get
‘em while you can,” Andy shrugged. “Ain’t gonna be no more
“Nigger
women,” Reid reminded him…
Marty
joined them, pleased with himself. "I sent Walker to help Reverend Malik
with his very very
important mission," he sniggered, leaving Richard Reid to draw his own
conclusions.
"You're
just ripping me off, man," Reid addressed Andy, "like everybody does.
Jus' cutting out the little pieces off of me, one slice at a time, I know,
man. Like Jesus! Hey... hey... I'm used to being
patronized."
"They
got tape recorders going in those offices," Andy explained,
thinking fast. "Drones! It's HUPAC... even in the goddam lobby!
We have to be careful with our strategy, that’s why you’re the
glare-guy. Silent. Can’t send you down to
Gitmo for mean-eyeballin’. Yet…" he added.
Suspicion
crept into Richard's ten-mile glare. "Bastards!"
Andy let out his breath, seeing Reid begin chewing around the edges of this
taco of paranoia. Tape recorders. Voices!
RPA and House Un-Patriotic Acts Committee! All those Alcoa tin
foil people from the NSA overrunning that Manchurian President's
cabinet – not to mention micro-men in nano-camo,
blasts of tiny Q-Anons with Merrick Garland masks –
jumping out of drones! Balloons!
Goldman
emerged from the diner, brushing crumbs from his jacket and all four fighters
for the people piled into his micro-car; tiny Rael
squashed between Marty Lesh and Richard in the back.
Three blocks away, Andy exploded.
"Fuck!
I should have told them about that FM radio station at the U. They'd help
out!"
"Freddie'll know that," Reid assured him from the back
seat. "It was her and Demian...
well, Demian, mostly, they got the cops to separate
out the felony cases at Hojo... lock up the Tillerman people in a different tank? There were, like,
skinheads... were going to get together with the Great White Brotherhood people
already in the jail with, like, shanks and sharpened toothbrushes to kick and
stab ass..."
"Thought you hated cops!" Marty grumbled. “And the militias...”
"I
do! Do!
But I hate Conks more! Anyway, Freddie handled that. You don't have to
think she and Demian are stupid or something, just
because they're chicks..."
"Well,
I hope not, Mister Me Too," Andy replied and,
when Rael didn't fire something back, he glanced out the window as they stopped
for a light. On the sidewalk local cops were busting a street peddler and his
table of watches and cellphones and Spadoodles...
stolen or counterfeit, probably both... and, looking over their shoulders,
three turquoise-topped UN peacekeeping monitors were taking down notes and
badge numbers, sometimes speaking to the officers, sometimes to the aggrieved
street merchant. The light changed without Andy's being able to witness any
denouement.
"What
if Disson offers the U?" contended
Rael. "You said there's media hanging around... that's all most of these
outside people want, get their names in the paper and their faces on TV so they
can go back to wherever they came from and bullshit their supporters into
keeping the donations flowing. And scoring sex from unwoke
undergraduates. Why let them take us down? Soon as the Conks go
they'll all leave town, but we'll have to suffer the payback from
the Conks and the police and
UNAPIS. "
"Because
it's fucked," Marty spoke up before Andy could defend his decision.
"Who wants to spend three fuckin' days talking to the same beanheaded students, rushing across the Quadrangle between
their biz admin and nuclear physics classes and the liquor store for Friday
night's kegger? Been there, done that! Disson's trying to bury us, and there's no better place to
bury protest than the U. Some dude in
With
Rael apparently cowed into silence, Leo chose the moment to deliver a warning
about City Hall. "For what it's worth," he began, "there may be
some more or less helpful people lingering around; people who have to behave in
a certain way in order to keep their jobs. Just don't make an issue of it
unless I say so..."
"Whatever..."
repeated Reid.
"See...
what I want to point out is that Potter and his administration aren't just
holding CNC’s convention here for the hell of it or because the local
Democratic Party endorsed that other guy against him last November. The Catfish
sat on a couple of very useful committees when in Congress and his father
chaired many more in the Senate back in the good old days when money to the
cities flowed like honey; their way of saying thanks to the old man. Nobody
seriously believes Jack'll ever be able to work
things out with Austin Tillerman... too much ego floatin' there. He takes his half of the Conks... and all
of Rayna's money, too... back into the Democratic Party, leaving Tillerman to make up with the Republicans or fade away –
maybe try to revive Pat Buchanan’s Reform Party without the cash from Brother
Ross or wrangle a fourth party Vice-Presidential slot if Trump loses angrily in
the primaries and starts his own
party. Libertarians wouldn’t have Austin
over the climate shit, Greens wouldn’t over everything else. Jack, he fronts for certain elements who want
the Old Guard… President Biden, Hillary, Sanders, Kerry, Al Gore, all those
fossils… knocked off so's they can put their own man
forward... or woman… the New New Democrat
coalition; I'm not sure who… Kamala, the Puerto Rican, that basketball guy,
maybe… but, anyway, when that happens, certain business arrangements that have
been in the pipeline become free to go forward with money from Washington. And Silicon Valley. Like colonics, a sort of fiscal enema that
has to happen once every generation or so.
Just to let you know, Andy..."
"You
mean Pinhead's buddies get to clear out Jefferson Street with Federal
money?"
"Among
other things. It's a quantum enhancement of those Hope projects back in the
nineties, where the liberals promised to tear down decrepit old public housing
projects and then build nice, new apartments for the poor but, conveniently,
ran out of money once the demolitions were finished? Said they were only bulldozing vacant properties... got that one
from Israelis, over in Gaza. But it got rid of a lot of problem people, which
was the objective in the first place."
"Where
did the people from the projects go?" Rael asked.
"To
the streets, most of them. Foster homes took away a lot of their children –
sold ‘em to the Saudis, Madonna, to Angelina Jolie or Jeffrey Epstein, who
knows? Prince Andrew? Quite a few ended up dead or in jail. The
rest traveled on to that magical kingdom," Leo winked, "called
someone else's backyard. Naturally
they doctored the statistics, but I have friends in the census bureaucracy. So
don't say anything unkind while I talk to this fellow from the Journal. I do
him a favor, he does one for us down the line. By the way, did you ever get in
to see Glenn and Anne?"
"We
talked about things, things and stuff. No promises. They seem to
think, by the way, that the Conks are going to form a viable
third party, at least, where the Greens and Christians and Reforms and Michael
Bloomberg couldn’t… or wouldn’t... all they're doing is maneuvering over who
gets to head it and arguing about the platform."
"Smoke
and mirrors. Trust me!" said Goldman as the small brown cockroach that had
freed itself from Marty’s greasy sleeve began crawling up the Kia’s dashboard,
"they even invited both our chapter and the public defenders up to lunch,
day after tomorrow. It's at this fish place, see, they're supposed to have
seafood and wine...."
"Clever,"
Marty winced. "Does the Catfish float down from the rafters on a harness
and multiply the garlic rolls? Or chop
himself into little pieces, and…"
"He
won't show. But hey, there's gonna be dessert and entertainment, maybe some of
the CNC pet popstars like... what's his name, with the Goth haircut and that
Mexican girl... all those fruits of belongingness? Plus an open bar. Some former Attorney General... not Garland,
not Loretta Lynch, this old guy... ancient!...
remember, don't say anything to the reporter from the Journal about who you are
or what you're here for. Trust me! I'm a lawyer!"
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THURSDAY the SIXTH -
Down
came the fist of Congressman Morton Scow, down upon the table of a conference
room in the Hotel Ivona. "I don't want to hear
about it, I don't want to talk about it. If there’s one thing that the
Democratic Party has learned from painful, painful experiences like losing the
House and Senate last November after
the phony progressive people tried to get the Lincoln statue out of the Lincoln
Memorial and some idiot whiteboy blew off Abe’s head,
it is that very minor, very very selfish special interest caucuses turn the public off
in very, very major ways."
"That
this Coalition has to follow the principals and faulty policies of Democratic
parties past has, by no means, been determined, Congressman," retorted the
formidable and wealthy cosmetics queen, Rayna Finch, "and, unless and
until the membership decides so, the matter is proper for this Convention to
determine, and I insist that it be brought up on the fuckin' floor!"
"Class,"
said Scow's attorney, "real class, lady. Y'oughtta come to
"Pardon
me, Tom," Anne Kazelka spoke up, "but,
though we are alone, I think you ought to practice using a little less sexism
in your language." The other eight inhabitants of the room gave a
collective snort, even Rayna and Glenn, though the latter's clearly bespoke
embarrassment.
"What
sexism?" Beedle needled. "Hey, I called the
bitch a lady! I was complimenting her. Where's the wrong in that?"
"You
didn't mean it. It was condescending..."
"Condescending?"
Rayna shuddered. "Anne, I
decide what's condescending and what isn't! Tom, we're getting nowhere fast, I
suggest you move on, quickly..."
"But
I just thought we ought to maintain civility, unlike the Republican candidates
or what’s left of those fake Independents, not to mention Jack’s loyal
competition," Anne tried to hang in...
"What
Anne is trying to communicate, I think," interjected Henri Ratzelkreuz smoothly, "is that we shouldn't attack
each other over matter which aren't even in our hands.
With all due respect to Mr. Tillerman and Paul
here..." and he nodded past laconic old Burt Weston towards Paul Rinker,
the plump, pink-cheeked, button-down advance man for Tillerman,
"we ought to wait until we get further direction from Congressman
Parnell. I mean ex…"
"Why?"
objected Pat O'Neraghty... National Coordinator, and
another prodigy of Rayna's. "I think we face an identity crisis which
needs be resolved sooner than later, certainly before the Convention opens. Is
CNC a democracy or a dictatorship? Are we obliged to act as rubber stamps?
Hundreds of delegates have spent good money and invested valuable time coming
to this... to here," he checked himself, nodding to Ratso,
"and are we going to tell them they might as well walk?" He leaned
forward. "Will Cabor did. Here's a young
Afro-American man who could’ve been the next Barak Obama, our
Obama... and he gets fed up with the bullshit and walks before we ever hit
town. Walks to the Trump and Russia funded independent campaigns and then takes
out one of the Democratic giants of the House in a newly gerrymandered
district, throwing a thirty eight percent Republican into the locked-tight
just-say-no Congress.
"I
don't think that's the issue," Beedle
disagreed. "It's not whether we're independent, or rubber stamps for the
Catfish... that is a ridiculous premise, by the way... it's whether we are the
Coalition, a united, national organization that's giving the
powers-that-be a well-deserved shaking from their boots up to their scalps. Or,
if not, are we a bunch of tendencies united by expediency but basically
incompatible? Or just a clearinghouse for quarrelling, single-issue kooks
decent Americans would rather call the cops on? Surviving on handouts from
Republicans, like Ralph Nader's West Coast mafia back when,
or the Green Party on money from Russia of the Donald’s MAGARepublican
tendency on loans from DeutscheBank? Dissolving at the first inkling of pressure
like the sugar substitute in this lousy coffee! And Cabor
would’ve flamed out the way he’s fizzling in Congress,
he sure ain’t no Rick Scott. What do you think, Paul?"
he appealed to Tillerman's factotum.
“Tim Scott,” Rayna
snorted...
"Well,
I don't have to take up much of our time reiterating where Austin stands,"
Rinker said, primly, laying his soft, pink hands on the table and folding them
so that his fingers bulged out, like sausages. Anne Kazelka's
eyes migrated from Rinker's down to the little gold pin on his lapel... a fish
with feet, a subtle jab at the Christian right. The Bryan of the Rockies shared
more than a few political positions with the true believers, however he might
deride their faith as superstition, and he’d been making the rounds of radio
podcasts and second-tier talkshows, praising but
doubling down on President Joe’s Afghan and Ukrainian fiascos and the
subsequent terror bombings, Donald Trump’s alt-right waffling and
“insufficient” immigration reforms, a double-tap to the plague, war and
inflation and pimping his personal responsibility and “up by the bootstraps”
ethos. "It's been obvious, since
the Colorado caucuses," Rinker continued, "that the Coalition for a
New Consensus was to be competitive, internally, through this convention, and
that, thereafter, each faction was to have its exclusive turn at bat. If we go
the third party route, or whatever if Trump doesn’t drop dead by that time, and
if Austin prevails here, but does not win in November, we have an implied
consent that Jack's turn comes next go-round in... uh...
twenty thirty?"
"And
vice versa," clarified Congressman Scow.
Rayna
Finch fumbled with her collar, looked down at her nails, frowned, folded her
fingers into a fist which she lay gently on the table.
"Your allusion to a competitive convention goes straight to the point.
That has been exactly the problem with the Democratic Party... I'll leave Mr. Tillerman's own problems with the Republican
Administration… The Donald excepted, if he keeps churning his indictments that
lose the Democrats friends, alienate donkeys from one another and pumps up the
fundraising for whatever that addled old brain beneath that flyaway hair
conjures up… to Paul. Now, I don't exactly rule out the possibility
of working with Austin in the future because a third and fourth party makes the race competitive, while a third party
only throws the Presidency to the odd man out like celebrity candidates did
with all of those Congressional races in twenty-two, but, if ever there was a
time to stay faithful to principles... even as members of both the President's
own party and the loyal opposition are already firing potshots at each other –
past, present and future... that time is the present. By this time, next year,
it may well be that it is no longer possible to uphold the fiction of
recovery... with or without jobs or disease... and the intensity of personal
vilification is likely to reach such levels as to make sensible people gag at
the mention of... as Jack's so fond of saying... a Donkey boy or
Elephant man!"
“Has
anybody sounded out Liz Cheney?” Glenn interjected.
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