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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 delegates: asserting
the evils of Pubs and Dems – fomenters of racism, high gas prices, plague,
recession – drugs (save legal or medicinal pot), warmongering (or weakness),
the Savings Tax, the U.N. occupation, terrorism migrating to Turkey, Iran,
Iraq... cannibalism in the Ukrainian insurgency, climate change, Confederate
statues – and what good things were American free enterprise, patriotism,
pride, withal. Now Glenn and Tom
Beedle sauntered at the fringe of the convention hall periphery,
chock-a-block with capitalism... hot dogs, booklets, souvenirs… |
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"What's this stuff,
boy?" the lawyer gestured to a novelty vendor...
"This? Just a
moment..." the vendor frowned, then 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,
white, tan, red and yellow. "Or a T-shirt, we have twenty-two different
logos..."
"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. "Tom Beedle, I’m with the
campaign. Lemme see your license,
Diego."
"License plates?
Uh... the company didn't give us a truck.
Dropped me off..."
"License. Vending
license, dropout. Your
license! Lemme see it!"
"Señor?"
"You have a license to sell this shit, Jose Jiminez?" The vendor nodded, finally understanding.
"Well, let's see it! And your green card and Homeland Security papers, too,
while we're at it! And your vaxx
certification now that they’re illegal.
Too fucking much, right Glenn?" Beedle smirked as the vendor
reached into his moneybelt. "Buttons! T-shirts!
Programs! Inspirational tapes... all that crap churned out by foreign
slave-children, sold to us by other damned Dreamer foreigners who flunked out
of the colleges they were supposed to be going to? Want some?"
"Reminds me of the
parking lot outside a Grateful Dead concert," Glenn sniffed.
"Never saw those
junkie faggots," the lawyer grunted. "Come on, Speedy Gonzalez, move
it! ICE, ICE baby! Used to be more of a Beach
Boys boy... a board, a beer, a bunny, a bird in a bush. Two Bushes! Too bad we didn’t make it three instead of
that orange-haired Putin putz – even a Ted Cruz would’ve turned out
better. Too old for them drugs anyway,
not like some around here, I’ll stick with Jim, Jack and Johnny," Beedle
winked upwards towards the huge posters of Parnell and Tillerman. The vendor
finally displayed several already-crumbling little squares of white and coloured 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
wearing the black for Marianne Williamson’s latest crusade against Kamalala’s so-called comeback, last we heard," 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 run for Governator out there in Loonyfornia!
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 with a whole posse of ham actors waiting in the wings and,
after that, a male model as doesn’t think that crazy killers deserve the gas,
let alone the rope and another recall.
And a strike that sent them back to waiting tables, plus enough snow and
flooding to wash them out to sea! 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, you
know, marketing! Only good thing about
Trump. Some folks can't handle it...
economic separatists. Assholes! Listen, you've done good, I want you with me in
Los Angeles next March when the President’s health problems hit home and the
ravens start gathering. That's where the boys get separated from the men...
including a certain aging lady witch in pantsuits, two-time loser who couldn’t
take dictation, know what I mean? That man with the speech defect and the Vice
President who’s both black and Asian
– the gay guy, the vegetable, the Mexican, the fake 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... not the MWAHAHA guy or the Republican from Louisiana, but who knows?
E-lezzie Warren and her fake applications to the bar? Screamin’ Howard
Dean? Koo-sinish? Bernie from the nursing home? Retreads!" Beedle speculated, flexing
his wrists. "That's where the deal goes down, where the money talks. Thank
the Devil for the Constitution, ex-Governator Ahrnold would wipe out this field with his pinky finger,
either party if it weren’t for the homegrown provision. Elon Musk, maybe? We hang in as far as California and the
Vice-Presidency's locked up... we win the thing, see, then drop out and anoint
some old razy-ass Democratic nominee, maybe AOC or
the Bern or even poor old Joe Biden again..."
And he coughed, lifted a finger to point at the heavens and began to
sing…
“Three old men!
Bernie, Don, Bye...den!
Sittin’ on a fence,
thinkin’ should I run?
They’d all run after Slick Willie’s wife…
Whose polls had been sliced with a server’s
knife…
Have you ever seen such hubris in your life
As three old men.”
"Tom,"
Glenn admitted, shaking his head, "you’re incredible. You're already
assuming Jack goes back to the party, loses and cuts a deal with the
gerontocracy for thirty two. What if we win the nomination and the election? What if Oprah
changes her mind? And why is Trump
lumped with those liberals…"
"Then we're
screwed! Because what we’ve been going through the last eight… hell, sixteen…
double hell fifty… years is just preliminary… the economy is finally going to
explode on whomever’s next watch. Not
like that present little bump in the road or the plague recession or the one
back in oh-eight, but the real deal!
Total Kharkiv!
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 bank failures and foreclosures oozing out, and
the peasants coming after you with pickaxes and torches when the FDIC runs out
of money? 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 sick, gottabee
replaced momzer from the Minnehaha wanted to do… so
when he has to get round to sticking the President in her back, his back,
whomsoever's back it is, well, 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. And then in twenty
eight, one of youse guys, that humbly 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 King Donnie wants them
to...
“Does that mean one of
the boys gets the nomination this year?”
“Puh-leez!” Beedle
recoiled. “No... it’s
our own Space Cowboy Steve Miller - presuming that Austin's got some of his
people into the GOP and they take out Saint Ron and the unhanged former Vice
who’s already gone off the rails with his Space Force. The fat guy’s been outed as the Second Coming
of Nixon, ‘Pubs will never get behind that sad book writer Veep or little Cuban in
Florida… any of those mokes from Florida!.. the Texican Governor or that
Indian Kashman wit’out
cash, but those weird eyes from wherever... wonder if India changing its name
to Barack or something means the libtards don’t have
to wallow in guilt about mistaking Native Americans for Kashmiris or all those
tea-party eggheads talking their economics.
Or that other from-India Indian girl… wouldn’t that be some trip – two
Indians facing each other down on a street full of cowboys? Ron Paul could be scary if he weren’t so old…
Rand Paul? Not! Hair too curly, politics
too Libertarian. Teddy boy would
be a problem – we’d have to double down on those snapshots from Cancun. And…” Beedle smirked, rubbing his nose knowily. “But that
depends on this convention coming out just right... not too hot, not too cold
and fer Chrissake, nobody nominating a real American like somebody from the
military, that Puerto Rican bitch up in the Bronx or Tom Tancredo or even
Sheriff Joe, old as he’s getting...
so let the majors set us up for another dynastic rehash – mano a mano with the
Donald if he hasn’t dropped dead in the meanwhile. What's important, here, is how we take care
of these protest people. You know, Mad
Vlad Putin sups at the Devil’s table, but he knows what to do with street
trash..."
"What
protests?" Glenn objected. "All those people were in jail before the marching
and the chanting even started. 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, Judge Claymore."
"Claymore? He's a
Republican, he'd 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 who hit thirty-five last month. Not the one in the movie, or the one in
jail... the other one. Where and if... other than that, it's already been
worked out, you'll see! Those whiskers of the Catfish... well, those of his
father’s that he still can exploit… they reach strange and deeply down into
Washington’s muddy riverbottoms, 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? You eighty-six the whole protest shebang
without even having to turn Austin’s skinheads loose the way Trump did, beating
up and tasering those journalists during that press conference back in December
and getting got as a
consequence."
"Actually,"
Glenn objected, "they tried using it a lot when I was here at the U. On
Mark Cobb, on the anti-Vietnam people before that... the Supreme Court kept
throwing their cases out."
"Really?" Beedle pretended surprise. "Well, that
would have been then… before the assassinations and those vacancies that got
the Supremes as tied up and dysfunctional as Congress… and this is now! Fuckin’ Susan Collins… she’ll get hers in a
couple of weeks! 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, hard labor clearing fire brush in Tennessee or getting leased out to
the potato farmers up in God’s own Idaho to pick ‘taters with all those
Mexicans gone. Piece of cake – potato
pancakes! Hey... what everybody wants, even the pieceniks,"
the Conk lawyer chuckled. "It's their protest 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. Like that ninety-something nun getting a
nickel for pouring blood on some military sidewalk or them assholes as went to
one of Trump’s senile parades; made pests of themselves and got killed by the
police... or was it the military... all as a consequence but dragging down the
President and the party’s poll numbers with them. Or, you want the religious right - that lady
down in Kentucky, quashing the gay weddings, going to jail as a martyr and now
she’s writing a book… well, having one ghostwritten, more likely. Won’t make her a billionaire, but she should
clear a couple million, almost as good as Hillary’s scribbling. Won’t make ten percent of Obama’s wife, tho’, but no more baking cakes. 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! Us – most of all! Hey... get a load of that place, c'mon!"
Beedle tugged at Glenn. "It's my treat!"
So Glenn... head aspin with potatoes, potentials and police... was, for his
duty and loyalty, 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 with his left hand, trying to keep up
with results now scuttling out of the Human Rights Caucus, downstairs.
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RETURN to "BLACK HELICOPTERS" directory
VIEW CURRENT
COLUMN by JACK "CATFISH" PARNELL... "ENTROPY and RENAISSANCE"
HAVE A GLANCE at the current episode of our occult serial,
wherein a young American encounters bizarre foreign artists and occultists –
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SQUIRM! as strange,
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battle occult New Plastic criminals for possession of that most valuable treasure
in the hygienic dictatorship of 2035 AD… the huge, white death-turd of Elvis Presley!… in...
And FOLLOW! a ragged gang of starship bloopers from a galactic Skid Row
centuries into the future and far, far away as they rehab a derelict boneship and drive it towards the white hole at the center of
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money!)...