|
k |
kkkkkkkkkkkk |
k |
|
k k k k k k k k k |
BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 21 FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 11:32 AM By
midmorning, the six-man holding cell that Andy Morrison languished in held thirteen
prisoners. Dirty foam slabs and rumpled rectangles of stained, reeking Mylar
covered most of the floor; an ancient Perry Mason rerun flickered on the
television mounted high up on the wall... sound on, unlike that on Jefferson
Street... seven times every minute a red light on the box beneath blinked,
allowing deputies an opportunity to watch the prisoners watch Raymond Burr
dispatch another hapless witness. Until
two deputies marched another
scrawny, twitchy wraith to the door. |
k k k k k k k k k |
"Yo', my
man," one of the unlucky thirteen challenged... a relative newcomer
himself, having been tossed in at six in the morning... "do we get out for recreation after lunch?"
"Not
today," Deputy Dawg smiled, jangling his keys. "Lockdown."
"Whuffo?"
"Guy
hanged himself yesterday, down in fifth floor isolation. Your sorts stop
killing yourselves and each other here before the government gets to do it, you
get the recreation back."
"People
never get out for recreation," the moax
persisted, "all they can
do is suicide."
"Life
sucks," the deputy summed up as the twitching man, scratching at real or
imagined bugs crawling across the base of his neck, was shoved across the
threshold. "And then, for you, it gets worse. In you go, Tweaky! Watch out for this one, likely to shit the
floor..."
"You
stink, man!" recoiled
the prisoner in the Cleveland Browns shirt. "Get away from me!" Others took up the
complaint, the skinny hype bouncing from corner to corner like an infected
pinball.
"Hey...
Andy!" the freak recognized, "long time, no see. Kin I sit down with
you?"
"Over
by the facility, Tweaks," Andy lifted a finger, pointing towards the sole
unoccupied space by the clogged toilet with a reeking plastic bucket perched
upon its lid for overflow. "Don't come any closer."
"S'cool. Hey man I don't need this, I'm clean,"
he began babbling. "They want s’mother guy. Wouldna’ happened if I coulda
stayed at the Sanctuary..."
"Stuff
it!" Andy cut him off, loud enough to be heard over the QualMart commercial. "You got thrown out for the same
reason nobody here wants you round... you stink. And steal! What did happen to
Izzy's shoes, lose 'em?"
"Wasn't
me took them, musta been s’mother
dude. I don't need this shit, you know? I went to the U. We
been in school together. I's a
Professional..."
"Professional crap artist. Keep it shut. You're making
everybody miss their show."
"He
walks. They always walk on Perry Mason, thing is... there ain't
no Perry Mason, man, jus' like there ain't no Santa
Claus. Hey... my life matters, I matter!
I'm somebody. I am
somebody!" he repeated, staggering upwards... the only reply being that
someone bouncing a crumpled styrofoam cup left over
from breakfast off his leg. "I was an imporrant...
once. Me 'n Andy, we were tight wit' Mark Cobb. The famous rad’cal killer? Close persn'l
frens!"
One
of the few prisoners old enough to care spat out through the bars into the
corridor.
"The
famous asshole," he said. "Siddown, shut up and stop movin'. Stinks
less when you ain't movin'
around."
Tweaky tried to sidle towards Andy and sit down, but Andy
kicked out, knocking him back towards the toilet.
"Wha'd I do? You're fucked. Fuckin’ racist, like the rest of
you, all but Cobb. He was for the people..."
"Yeah,
like that chick he cut up..." the old jailbird spat again.
"He
was framed! By the system! He's a hero, rev'lusionry
hero, not a bum, like you or me. You so smart, how come you're in here?"
The spitter turned away, nobody else answered. By and by Perry
Mason wrapped his case and, through a haze of pop-ups for investment schemes
and miracle drugs, lawyers seeking class-action clients for lawsuits against
miracle drugmakers and public service messages
against drinking, smoking, the war in Moldova and latest Coronavirus
miracle “cure” and smuggling prescription cancer medications, the noon news
wafted through the cell.
"I'm
Celia Morrow," said the thin, hungry-looking anchorwoman, "with Benny
Takajima, Dennis Monroe with Eleven Weather, and this
is News at Noon. Police Chief Ahearne, this morning,
defended the city's "quick arrest" policy that has filled local jails
and unspecified auxiliary facilities with outside agitators, homeless and
transients protesting the Coalition for a New Consensus..."
A
chorus of groans, Styrofoam missiles and curses greeted the image of the Police
Chief. "We have given people every opportunity to exercise their First
Amendment rights and they've responded violently. But they'll be made to
adjust, very quickly, and lives will be saved. It's a clear test of our police
minds," Ahearne declared, tapping his balding
brow, “and we always prevail.”
"Inside
Masty Hall," continued Morrow, "almost two
thousand delegates and guests continue meeting, searching for a common vision
that, said keynote speaker Congressman Morton Scow, may... or may not..."
"I
doubled
my investment in twenty one days!" a full-screened, peppy real-estate
foreclosure specialist popped up...
"...existing parties. Meanwhile, in Tallahassee, Florida,
doctors are weighing the decision whether to perform life-saving surgery on
Baby Claire Hoskins, after assurances that her parents' dramatic appeal for
funds has raised over seven hundred thousand dollars online to date. Details
after these messages..."
But,
before the answer could be revealed, the Sheriff's deputies returned... one
pointing at Andy.
"You! Over here..."
Andy
rose on sleepy, tingling feet, taking a visible deep breath as soon as he'd
passed through the door and put six feet of distance between himself and Tweaky. Two floor rats scampered for his bunk as the cell
door slammed shut again, one of the deputies pointing the way towards the
small, black door at the end of the corridor…Tweaky
shouting after him…
"He's
danj’rous! We killed lotsa cops together, me an' Andy... and Mark Cobb. Come back! Can't run
away from the past! Asshole! You can't run away from your past!"
Andy,
hoping the deputies were too young to process the druggie's ranting, let them
march him round a corner or two, then down an unfamiliar corridor. The deputies
stopped before an unmarked, barred metal door.
"You'll
bunk here, cop-killer," one told him.
“Somebody got plans for
you. Proud Boy, Pantie Fah or Oaf Killer?”
“Diff’rent what the fuck,” Andy shrugged.
The room was windowless, furnitureless and,
once the door slammed shut, pitch black. He felt his way around the
floor, determined which corner was driest, then lay on his back upon the
concrete... looking upwards into the nothing, hovering between sleep and
wakefulness, not merely exposed to but... actually... welcoming the phantoms of
his memory that descended from the ceiling like a blanket of mosquitoes.
|
kkkkkkkkkkkkkk |
SUNDAY the NINTH - 10:03 PM
Dannie, the kid with the
earring foisted on Nelson by station management and his father, the big time
advertiser, was not quite so dumb as he appeared.
Figuring any good local riot footage that people wouldn’t remember and so draw
the conclusion upon that it was faked and would have to have come from years
before, and probably would have been saved... if at all... on tape or even film
stock (difficult to convert, and more than likely to explode) he'd taken down
the oldest logbook and skimmed through to the section: ANNIVERSARIES &
COMMEMORATIVE PROGRAMS, 1995-2000 which was, fortunately, indexed. Quickly,
he'd located an hourlong documentary from 2008:
"STUDENT PROTEST and RACE RIOTS: 1968 to 1983, THE QUARTER-CENTURY BEFORE
THE FIRES", located and vetted the tape, then ran it up from Archives to
Nelson.
The
news director didn't exactly thank him, but he did take the wet cigar out of
his mouth. "Jeezus, I remember this shit," feeding the tape
into the number two monitor, "used it for our fiftieth, a while back; got
OK stuff on it... stores burning, gas. Little over the top long as we don’t
show too many old cars, old stores or people in disco clothes, but it'll do if
Bill doesn't move his ass back here. Thank Pinhead that the fuckin’ South End
never changes." He fast-forwarded the video. Faces flew past... burning buildings and
flags, police horses and more faces. Lots of faces.
"Look
the fuck at that
one!" he pointed, freezing the video as a cameraman, probably dead
now or, at least, retired, circled round a figure at a podium outdoors at the
U., showing a tall youth with the droopy black moustache, modishly long hair
and those multicoloured polyester threads that had
come into style just as the hippies were fading away and disco fashions had
ascended to rule the roost. "Mark, fuckin' Cobb!"
"Who?" Danny scratched his earring.
"Our
own answer to the MicroTime plane
bomber," Nelson whistled and, when the expression on Dannie's face
remained unchanging, added, "...like the Oklahoma people? Abbie
Hoffman, Patty Hearst – Osama bin Laden or Jonny fuckin' Walker. The Brotherhood? Terrorists! Nine-eleven. One-six. Like the Costa Rica protesters, the
Unabomber, guy in Washington with the horns on his helmet, George Metesky... ah, what the fuck! History is wasted on you
young people!"
"Did
he blow something up?" Dannie said, squinting at the old image.
"Naw, talked a lot of bull, but never did shit. Then he
fucked up one day, big time!" Nelson smirked. "Some bum tells me he’s
a Buddhist now, only Buddhist on Death Row.
Fuhggeddaboudit! I don't need footage with any
faces somebody can recognize like this, just go through as much as you need to
and mark down where there's long shots... buildings,
gas, cops. Get some police horses if you can… in color, please… but no cars,
people look at this, they see all the cars are old and we're screwed!"
Nelson held the cigar up and, for a moment, Dannie thought he might thank him,
even tell him he'd done a good job, but the news director curled his lip and
plugged his face with the stogie.
Dannie
took up a pencil and one of the writing pads with the Eleven logo, unfreezing
the monitor and then speeding up the tape, keeping the sound low so its chittering would not disturb the rest of the working newspeople in the Eleven at Eleven studio. Faces flew by,
crowds and buildings – stern, unseen voices narrating
stories of travails and tribulations.
Sometimes he'd see a scene that could have come from anywhere in space
and time, he'd stop the tape and write down its
location, then speed up again. Flashbacks of flashbacks of flashbacks. Faces... cops and people with hair holding
signs: Vietnam, fires, political and ethnic races, Ho Ho
Ho Chi Minh, the Jackson Five, President Reagan and
Chairman Mao...
Immortalized...
in image, iron oxide, if not flesh...
Yesterdays!
"Because
fuckin' Bill isn't
back!" he heard Nelson chewing out the anchorman with wavy hair... Bobby Weeks, that was him. "I'll get you copy based on what
we have, five minutes to eleven. Riots and fires, somebody getting killed, I
hear. An' callers, sayin' Unapissers
got in the middle of it and got their asses kicked, the way they always do.
Serves 'em right! Don't sweat it, Bobby, you're the man! I got the new kid workin' on it... he'll get you something to run with. An'
if we hit awkward spots, we'll just paste it over with pop-ups. Cover ass and
make the station money at the same time!"
"Yeah,"
Dannie said to himself, I'll save your asses. More faces flew by, more yesterdays.
I'll be the one saving all your asses, Dannie fancied.
|
kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk |
k |
RETURN to "BLACK HELICOPTERS"
directory
VIEW CURRENT
COLUMN by JACK "CATFISH" PARNELL... "ENTROPY and RENAISSANCE"
Go to the Generisis HOMEPAGE, at which useful information might be
obtained!
Check out the unique Generisis
LINKS and REFERENCES!
Take an excursion through the GENERISIS catalog...
Have a glance at the current episode of our
occult serial, wherein a young American encounters bizarre foreign artists and
occultists – from Aleister Crowley and William Yeats
to Alfred Jarry and a young, very feral Adolph Schicklgruber…
Follow the mob of desperate football fanatics
who, after the FCC approves moving the Superbowl to a
premium channel accessible only by a scarce and expensive black box, storm their
local electronics outlets to fight for their right to spectate,
in…
And delve into the story of the last successful
Native American revolt in the jungles of southeastern Mexico where an
implacable tribe of rebels ousted an imperial army under the command of a mad
General in…
“THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ”