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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 18 THURSDAY the SIXTH - 11:49 AM In
the Ivona conference room, Rayna Finch snapped her
fingers angrily over a blond walnut table. Only three fingers were ringed,
not four, as on Donald Disson's hand, but the
gesture drew immediate attention from all the Conks... her own people, the
Catfish partisans... even Paul Rinker. |
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"A while
back, we were talking about winning," she said, "can we at least agree upon that?
That we want
to win? I presume you've read the
same polls I have... conducted by the same polling experts who predicted the
biotech-driven rebound of the NASDAQ would eventually repair the damage done by
those… those sick people in Russia and China... does anybody seriously believe
we have a prayer of carrying off the top shelf prize as third horse in a
two-horse race? Fellas..."
she appealed, waving towards Anne in a gesture of inclusion, "...if it was
a matter of one national primary, free for all... and no runoff either, so we
could get the nomination with twenty five, thirty percent of the vote, I'd be
all for it. The Democratic and Republican candidates will be such… such old people! Old, and or, obscure. Or Socialists – and nobody trusts a
Socialist. If they weren’t, I'd be
pushing your sorry, out of shape bodies aside to be first to suck that donkey's
dong! Now Tillerman? He'd
get twenty percent, maybe twenty-five in the Republican primary from those
sorts as still hate Mexicans and the unions, but can’t swallow that pill that
Vladimir Putin is a genius, global warming is a hoax or that the plague
could’ve been cured by drinking bleach.
Given enough candidates in... let's not forget
that we still have eight states where they let independents vote in either primary,
under one set of rules or another... well, that'd be a win-win proposition.
But... and I'm not talking about in Jimmy Stewart movies, Tom, or Warren
Beatty's, either... that just ain't gonna happen.
Either of us win those Super Sunday contests and... once the Congress passes Lascher-Williams
so-called campaign finance reform de-reform... the party bosses huddle, unite
behind one candidate... or draft their pair of contenders, to promote the
illusion of choice. We get our acting
ex-President… emphasis upon the acting… facing off against, God only knows,
that octogenarian Democrat and his Vice President Bombay Oprah or maybe
Bloomberg jumping back in to lower the majority threshold... then just grind us
down with Citizens United money from Big Oil, Wall Street and Hollywood.
Then... and I've opened my own purse to get another poll on the details of
this... then the Coalition gets a losers' rep, and we start to fall back and,
finally, implode, just like Reforms or Green Party and people blame us for four
more years of Trump, doing his impersonation of Grover fuckin’
Cleveland. The Catfish isn’t putting
himself on the firing line to be this generation’s Ralph Nader, no matter how
giddy Jack gets over that ring politics manifestos of his. We have to make peace among ourselves, decide
which party is more deserving of punishment, then set up a candidate and
platform that damages the eventual nominee enough so they can't help but
take us seriously next time out."
"Well,
then I see no merit in pursuing this discussion," objected Paul Rinker.
"It will be up to the convention... Austin's made his position clear and
the Catfish," he added, with a nod towards Rayna, "he will do what…
he… will, and we will then consolidate what gains we may have made at the state
and local level. I think we should move on to the platform."
"Yeah...
good idea," Congressman Scow tried to placate him, "and, especially,
I don't think we profit by letting some of those minority planks get to a floor
fight. We don't want people reminded of the Republicans!" he added, making
Rinker wince notably.
Beedle picked up his gist, ran
with it. "Absolutely! Though it's been as much a
problem with Democrats, too, except muted by their loathing to mention race or
sex. A radical center can't be perceived as providing a showcase for extremists
and expect to win..."
"That's
the point," interrupted Anne, "...we know we're not going to win this time,
first time out, so I think we do best to do what we should have done in
twenty-twenty… focus on establishing our base and bringing in new people, some
of who'll stick by us when the real opportunity comes and invigorate the
local..."
"Bull!"
the man from Hollywood cut her off. "We have to project an image of
responsibility and unity from the start... that's what turns on the undecideds.
Not forklift operators in weekend camouflage with assault rifles, queer Asians
with diseases who wander into the wrong restrooms with monkey hookers on their
backs, colored people without jobs and other strange folk with strange ideas…
abortion clinic bombers and flat-taxers... the whole Marianne Williamson
trip. Sorry, Paul..."
"We
do look like kooks if those minority platforms win," the Congressman
agreed, though he did frown slightly at Beedle's
blunt remarks, "but we have to walk a fine line between appearing
organized and coming off as, well...
domineering. Even if the Catfish does advocate discrimination, as opposed to the more politically palatable discretion, I think we're better off ignoring
those linguistic issues we can, fuzz those we can't and focus on the defects of
the two major parties. The lost jobs, CEO salaries... Enron, BP, that General
who made the taxpayers shell out for a life-sized statue of himself in fuckin' chocolate! Walkin’ away from
Egypt, Iraq and Syria, throwing the taxpayers’ money at Ukraine and subsidizing
college students at their useless curricula, leaving it to the Saudis and Iraniacs to fight over oil while the Sandland
revolution gets hijacked by crazies, goddam diseased Chinks still stealing our
computer secrets, Russian troops crossing the Ukey
border into Moldavia… which, I thought, was some made-up kingdom from Dallas,
or was it Dynasty? Gas going back up to
above five bucks as the Corona virus fades and the monkeypox
takes center stage, then we turn around and redeploy
our tired troops to Costa Rica? There's
no political capital left in euthanasia, immigration or gay marriage... these
are Moral Majority issues that only divide when times are quiet and good, and
if we try to finesse them without the deep pockets and a guaranteed hostile
media, we're likely to get hit from both sides like poor old Donald’s Mexican
wall. Divvying up all that hot-button crap only works to the advantage of nuts
like those protesting outside... we have to be seen as the thinking man's
alternative..."
"And
thinking woman's..." Rayna corrected him.
“Hey,
I went on Marianne’s talkshow,” the Congressman
responded. “She gave me a crystal… the
rock, I mean, not a hit of meth...”
"Mind
if I smoke?" Beedle appealed.
"No!"
Rayna and Scow snapped in unison.
"Speaking
of our friends outside," Henri Ratzelkreuz
began, "I think a perfect way of cementing the apparent bonds of unity
between both wings of the Coalition is to issue a quick, unanimous resolution
of support to Mayor Potter's denial of their permits to make trouble against
us. Of course it would be posed in terms of the danger to the public, etcetera,
left-wing rioters like Antifa, protest
counter-protesters like the Proud Boys and Oath Keepers? Before some of our insider nuts... like the Mississippi and Ohio challenge
delegations... start combining and trying to use the First Amendment against us
the way that the Supremes did with Citizens United or Apple tried to do against
Homeland Security. Make it clear that it's not a free speech issue, it's a
counter-terrorism issue and the Rand Paul sorts can toddle back to the GOP or
that Libertarian fellow who didn’t know where Damascus was. Homeland Security. Nine-eleven. Gun violence... but not
control. Law and order! Look at those polls coming out of Russia
after the Moldovan terrorism! Trump’s half right about the media, the serious
players are just doing their job, but there are just too many damn
irresponsible Internet so-called journalists out there that have to be stepped
on..."
"Glenn
and I already have taken measures, through Mayor Potter and some of his
associates," Anne replied, "why call further attention to the protests
and to ourselves? Some of what Rayna said is pertinent... if we're in for the
long haul we should pick and choose carefully the people we intend to
antagonize so that we always remain the sensible majority, situated between
fringe minorities. Sometimes when there are demonstrations with a lot of noise
and smoke, the media manages to twist the situation so it's hard to distinguish
who the protesters and the protested are.
It’s possible to expose government evil and corruption and brand the whistleblowers as
traitors… that’s the lesson of Wikileaks
and those others if those prosecutors in New York ever get their act
together. And as Rayna has already
pointed out, unless Jack and Austin reverse their stand on FCC deregulation and
license-yanking, the broadcast media are not and will not be our friends and
most of the remaining print media are owned by a handful of broadcasters.
They'll pretend to want to use us, as long as we're interesting, and not
perceived as a threat to the Democratic and Republican establishments... mostly
Democrat, to be sure…"
"Not,"
countered the man Andy had dismissed as Ratso,
"when these establishments can be portrayed as soft on terrorism, whereas
the CNC's stance is forthright... given that the trouble-makers have an appearance
of a rabble, potentially a cover for terrorists. That's why the President and Senate
sent Pettigrew here; they knew there would be violence, because both parties have
operatives who are well-paid to make violence happen. They wanted to smoke out
anti-globalists and chain their violence to the CNC... so we have to take the
pro-active stance..."
"I
guess that's become the nether-extreme of privatization since sixteen,"
scoffed Burt Weston.
"Anyway,"
continued Ratzelkreuz, "the only way to beat
them in a capitalist society as ours will hopefully continue to remain is to
outbid your competitors and outbloody
dissenters. It’ll be our Sistah Souljah moment… our
own! There's a sort of agreement between
these security companies, they don't take out contracts on each other. Know
where each others' families live, understand? And Pettigrew was about as far as
the parties are willing to take it; they know we can hit them back if they go
Gabby Giffordish after us, directly. Taking out those
two lady Supreme judges was as far as the
Administration-in-exile’s black ops could push the envelope. That's politics – we have rules, too, like
the Mafia."
"I
always tell my kids," Tom Beedle interjected, "you want to get into politics,
read 'The Godfather'. Not that the first two movies were bad, it's just that
the book has more, you know... nuances?" When nobody in the conference
room replied, he coughed. "Sorry... I gotta go
outside for a smoke. 'Scuse
me!"
"Smoke
'em while they’re legal," waved Pat O'Neraghty, then cut off his own smile, having glanced at Rayna's stony
demeanor.
"How much?" she propositioned Ratso. "No... I'll talk to you later, in private. OK,
we agree... no controversial stuff at the Convention, no minority platforms.
And if somebody walks out..." and she glared at Paul Rinker, "they
walk out to the sun and blue sky and the wind and the boys with the bugs in
their beards. Nothing else! Now, do we take on Costa Rica first... or the
banks?"
'Let's
lock up the pocketbook issues," Scow suggested, "since Iraq, Costa
Rica and Afghanistan already proved that Americans don't mind boys coming home
in boxes… other peoples’ boys, that is, who would otherwise be a drag on the
labor markets, and so long as the particulars don't get shown on TV, except as
a roll call of names at the end of the late night news nobody watches anymore.
Social media – we can control what our side pays attention to. I think we're close enough on the banks that
we can hammer out a proposal to take to Jack and Austin – maybe a spell of mandatory
military, instead of community service for the gangbangers and drug thugs. We
leave a little flexibility in so that the Convention gets to pretend they've
accomplished something by coming here, vote and move on."
"I
disagree!" Henri spoke up. "The American public will, first and
foremost, be looking to us to provide a moral direction on foreign policy that
they haven't been offered by either major party..."
Pat O'Neraghty's head slumped to the
table and he covered it with his elbows, as if regressing all the way back to
kindergarten.
Morton Scow simply bad-eyed Ratso with
stupefied amazement. "What the fuck is this? Russia?" he finally appealed to Rayna.
Anne
glanced from her watch to sneak a look at the cosmetic queen's reaction...
Rayna Finch snatched her glance out of the stifling Ivona
air like a trout intercepting a fly, held it. Anne was surprised... but not too
much... by the disgust congealed in the gaze of the financial power behind the
Coalition.
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THURSDAY the SIXTH - 1:02 PM
In the back of
the police wagon hurtling from Disson's office towards the Hall of Justice, Leo
Goldman finally exploded - the object of his wrath being a bloody but still
defiant Richard Reid. "You could have gotten us all killed by
going for that officer's gun. Never, never fight armed officers in such
a situation!"
"Go
suck a Turk's dick!" Reid shot back. "They beat me! Fuckin' pigs, they were waitin' for us,
man!... that scene was fixed!”
"Fix
your own speciest language!" Rael
complained. "If you have to call the cops something bad, call them
cops!"
Reid
slapped his bloody forehead with one manacled palm, making a fist of his
skinned knuckles. "The fascists are taking over and you're still spouting
your animal rights language shit. I know what's going down. It's the
repression! Hong Kong! Costa Rica!
Love-ow or whatever they call it...
Manila! Brazil. This is how it starts!"
Marty
Lesh beat his own bloody head against the wire mesh
separating the prisoners from the officers in the front of the wagon.
"Hey, man... where's this thing headed? This ain't
the way to the Hall of Justice! Maybe we're not going to HoJo,"
he added, turning to face the others. "You know? Maybe they're taking us
to, like, some vacant lot somewhere where the cops march us into a ditch and
put bullets through our heads, like in Costa Rica, somewhere... right
man?" he added, beating his head against the wire again. "Or some
black barge on the river that floats down to the sea. One way ticket to Gitmo?"
"Things
like that don't happen here," Leo tried to assure him. "I'm an
attorney..."
"So?"
Andy grimaced.
"Well,
this is America. Americans don't just get taken away and shot... well, not
attorneys, and not usually, and not without really good reason..."
"Oh
yeah," Marty sneered. "Like the Panthers and that Umoja
commune in Louisville! Like Waco and Ruby Ridge and those Haitians in New York
and that family in Cleveland... like King and the fuckin' Kennedys, those two
Supreme Court justices and that dude on Providence Street, Jermaine... made you
go stiff,
doin' him, you fuckin' bastards, didn't it?" he
shouted, banging his forehead on the mesh again.
"Damn
right it did!" smirked the officer riding shotgun
in the police wagon, the white cop. The black cop, driving, let out a sigh.
"We're
not the Kennedys," Leo brought him back to Earth. "Not by a long
shot."
The
police van rounded a corner and, looking past Reid and Marty through the wire
and the windshield, Andy saw that they indeed were approaching the Hall of Justice
after all. The last thing he saw, before they dipped down into the basement
intake area, was a couple of black U.N. Peacekeeping Squadron helicopters
circling HoJo's, blades whirring 'whup whup whup', stirring up gusts
that blew stray newspapers and styrofoam junkfood wrappings around the roof of the building like
debris from a small, localized tornado and swerving to avoid one of the new,
so-called “surveillance” drones. The van backed up to a receiving bay, the
prisoners were hauled out and herded through a corridor and up the special
elevator Andy remembered from busts of years and causes past.
In
the processing room on the fourth floor their cuffs were finally unlocked,
pockets emptied, fingerprints rolled with cruel vigor and Richard Reid began
struggling again.
"Hey
man, I want a lawyer," he complained. "It's my Constitutional
right!"
The
cops chortled and the heaviest pointed to Leo.
"There's
one!"
As
soon as processing was finished they were separated, and Andy was frog-marched
to one of the holding cells, where the smell of something strange in the air...
or, more peculiarly, its absence... assailed him. From past experience, he knew
that the six man cells were likely to contain anywhere from nine to, on a bad
day, fifteen inhabitants... and yesterday had been a very bad day. There were
only four others in the cell, though, none of them political; all more or less
floating at least six inches above the floor on their cushion of whatever
remained of the chemicals that had deposited them there in the first place.
"Hey!"
he asked, snapping his fingers to wake up the druggies, "any of you know
what happened to all those people they brought in yesterday?"
"Shipped
'em out!" said the clearest-headed – a white dude, but with frizzy hair
and a heavy moustache of that sort seldom seen west of Baghdad since the demise
of disco. Tattoos crawled upwards from his wrists to the sleeves of his
Cleveland Browns t-shirt. "Took 'em off to this special detention place
for politicals, dunno, Fort
Marston, maybe? Cuba?"
A
small, dark man in tan chino trousers at last six sizes too large agreed. "Them fuckers, man, they crazy! People snatched out in
the middle of the night, Pow! Pow!
like they used to in my village, like in San Jose. Hey
bro, got any smoke?"
It
seeming like a good idea, Andy dug into his pockets for the pouch and papers...
and this was when he discovered that, not only his smoke, but his wallet and
keys were gone too.
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