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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 22 FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 2:17 PM Masty Hall was, by early afternoon, a sweatbox. Speaker after speaker had traipsed up and down the podium, hectoring rival delegates almost as vehemently as the two Establishment parties: asserting what bad things racism, high gas prices and recession were - drugs, the Savings Tax, the U.N. occupation and the corrupt two-party system... and what a good thing the spirit of America remained, nonetheless. Now, Glenn and Tom Beedle sauntered the fringes of the convention hall periphery, chock-a-block with capitalism in action... hot dogs, booklets, souvenirs. |
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"What's
this stuff, boy?" Beedle gestured to a novelty
vendor...
"This?
Just a moment..." the vendor fumbled, "...yes, ma'am, eight dollars.
Hold it, here's your change."
He
exchanged two small bills for one large from a fat roll in the pouch of his
jogging suit.
"Sorry.
How can I help you gentlemen? Have children... how about finger puppets?"
He held up a box of little Catfish finger puppets in politically correct shades
of black, flesh, tan and yellow. Looked
around and winked: …use ‘em as condoms if the ‘Publicans
get in. Or a T-shirt, we have twenty two
different kinds… in six sizes…"
"How
about something like... oh... 'My parents went to the CNC convention and all
they brought back was this lousy t-shirt'... something like that?" Glenn
asked.
"Yes, sir! It's somewhere... small, medium, large or
extra..."
"He
was fuckin' with you," Beedle
said abruptly. "Lemme see your license."
"License plates? Uh... the company didn't give us a
truck."
"License. Vending license. Your
license! Lemme see it!"
"Señor?"
"You
have a license to sell this shit, Jose?" The vendor nodded, finally
understanding. "Well, let's see it! And your green card and Homeland
Security papers, too, while we're at it! Too fucking much, right Glen?" Beedle smirked as the vendor reached into his money pocket.
"Buttons! T-shirts! Programs! Inspirational
tapes... want one?"
"Reminds
me of the parking lot outside a Grateful Dead concert," Glenn sniffed.
"Never
saw those faggots," the lawyer grunted. "Come on, Speedy Gonzalez,
move it! Used to be more of a Beach Boys boy... gimme
a board, a beer, a bunny, a bird in a bush. Two Bushes! Too old for them drugs anyway, not like some around here," Beedle winked upwards towards the huge posters of Parnell
and Tillerman. The vendor finally displayed an already
crumbling little square of white cardboard. "Son of a fuckin'
bitch... it's real! See, we were getting a shitload of unauthorized souvenirs. Fringe groups. There's millions in this stuff, ain't there Pancho? What's
moving, buttons?"
"Oh
yes, yes sir! Cuffalinkas, very good. But not so much the puppets, señores..."
"Figures! Like cufflinks, Glenn? Try these!" Beedle scooped up a fistful, then some buttons, tapping his
nametag with his left finger.
"Yes,
Mr. Beedle!" the vendor wheedled. "Anything
you take. Have a Cher. Madonna..."
"Cher's
still Reform, officially," the lawyer winked, "but I got Tony working
on her, on all those celebrities. Think Madonna's waiting on whether George
Clooney makes up his mind to go to Iowa! Hollywood liberals went all crazy with
that recall shit, back in oh-three, so what do they get. A Republican Terminator! And then, a retard retread from the
sixties. Keep your green card," he
advised the vendor, "just don't cheat our delegates too much!" And he
guided Glenn back onto the vortex of the floor.
"Work
to do, Glennski! Money for the
taking. That's where it's at, Matt, you know marketing! Some folks can't
handle it... economic separatists. Assholes! Listen, you've done good, I want
you with me in Los Angeles next March. That's where the boys get separated from
the men... including the lady Secretary as can’t take dictation, know what I
mean? That man with the speech defect and the Vice President – the Mexican anna buncha new Senators and
Governors from places that don't matter. Maybe Al Gore gets tired of polishing
his Oscar, maybe a Kennedy or two... who knows? Howard Dean? Koo-sinish?"
Beedle speculated, flexing his wrists. "That's
where the deal goes down, where the money talks. Thank God for the
Constitution, ex-Governator Ahrnold
would wipe out this field, either party... maid or no made. We hang in as far
as California and the Vice-Presidency's locked up... we win the thing, see, then drop out and anoint the Democratic
nominee..."
"Tom,"
Glen admitted, shaking his head, "you are incredible. You're already
assuming Jack goes back to the party, loses and cuts a deal. What if we win the
nomination and the election?"
"Then
we're screwed! Because what we’ve been going through the last five years is
just preliminary… the economy is finally going to explode on the next watch.
It's already dead, but still walking around like one of them zombies on TV,
rotting from the inside... would you want to be in charge when it falls over,
all bugs and liquid and foreclosures oozing out, thirty five percent
unemployment and the peasants coming after you with pickaxes and torches? How
many hamster/lemur hybrids can Genotech export to
Korea? Whereas, being Vice-President, Jack gets to spend all his time on the
phone, raking in the bucks… like that momzer from the
Yukon wanted to do… so when he has to get round to sticking the President in
her back, whoever's back it is... for the interests of this great country,
he'll say, going misty like he does over his dogs and kids, his old American
truck... nobody can blame anything on us, because he's just the
Vice-president. One of the guys, that humility thing. Goin' to funerals for dead dictators, doin'
his job! Speakin' out about getting America back on track again. Meanwhile
the country's falling apart so Congress will do anything he wants
them to, presuming that Austin's got some of his people into the GOP and they
take out Rudy Giuliani - they can clean his clock with sex shit and that
Saturday Night Live trannie tape – and the Mormons
and the Confederates. But that depends on this convention coming out just
right... not too hot, not too cold and fer Chrissake, nobody nominating a real Americans like Kucinich
or Tom Tancredo... so what's important, here, is how we take care of these
protest people."
"What
protests?" Glenn objected. "Those people are in jail. By the way, how
was that handled?" he asked, pretending disinterest. "By Rayna? Henri started to
tell me something, but never got around to the details..."
"Oh,
that was good," Beedle chuckled, "real
good. He had it wired with that old fart at the dinner, Claymore."
"Claymore? He's a Republican, be for Tillerman, if any of us!"
"Oh,
you know him? Think you do... listen to me, they're out doing exactly what we
are, except on their side, and both of us have to worry about Glenn Beck and
what’s-his-name, that Internet billionaire… hit thirty-five last month. Not the one in the movie, the other one.
Where and if... other than that, it's already been worked out, you'll see! Those
whiskers of the Catfish... they reach strange and deeply down into the muddy, muddy
river, my friend... strange and deep! Henri knew he'd be on the bench, on
rotation so... now this gets cute... they find this weird state law that
conspiracy to commit a misdemeanor's a felony. Ain't
been used since the labor riots in 1913 so, ain't it
a bitch?"
"Actually,"
Glenn objected, "they tried using it a lot when I was here at the U. On
Mark Cobb, on the anti-Vietnam people... the Supreme Court kept throwing their
cases out."
"Really?" Beedle
pretended surprise. "Well, that would have been then, before nine-eleven
and the assassinations and new Justices, and this is now! We’re serious people, under fire from serious
enemies. Three bloods on the corner,
talking jive, spitting on the sidewalk or maybe jaywalking, get the Unapissers in... on our
side... bam! Five years, no bail, no probation! Piece of cake! Hey... it's what
everybody wants, even the pieceniks," the lawyer
chuckled. "It's their protesting personalities... see, going to jail as
martyrs lets them go on believing that they're better than the rest of us,
making a difference in the world, as if anybody cared... keeps 'em off the street at the same time. Some kinda mental illness, sorta...
none of these people had healthy childhoods, trust me on this. So even if the
Supremes let 'em walk after a year or so, everybody
wins! Hey... get a load of that place, c'mon!" Beedle
tugged at Glenn. "It's my treat!"
So Glenn, for his duty and loyalty, was presented with a free catfish-on-a-stick, all chocolate-covered frozen yogurt... which immediately began dripping over his shoes as he lifted his cellphone to his ear to keep up with the results coming out of the Human Rights Caucus, downstairs.
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