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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 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. "Or a T-shirt, we have twenty two
different kinds."
"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! Hollywood liberals went all crazy with that recall shit,
back in oh-three, so what do they get.
A Republican Terminator! 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! 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 Senator from
New York, know what I mean? That Southern ambulance chaser with the cancered
wife, Barak Hussein Osama anna buncha new Senators and Governors from places
that don't matter. Maybe Colin Powell, he was real pissed over Costa Rica, tho'
he's still damaged goods after Iraq! 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, Governator Ahrnold would wipe
out this field, either party. 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 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, 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, unlike that momzer from the Yukon, 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 Bush 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. But that depends on this convention coming out just right... not
too hot, not too cold and fer Chrissake, nobody nominating 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. "All 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, 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 Bloomburg and
what’s-his-name, that Internet billionaire who hit thirty-five last month.
Where and if... other than that, it's already been worked out, you'll see! The
whiskers of the Catfish... they reach strange and deep, 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 the
assassinations and Dubya's three 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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