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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 25 FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 5:38 PM In
the sudden quiet from Masty’s podium after Yvette
Hall wrapped, a buzz of voices – angry, awestruck, conspiring, inspiring or
simply gossiping... remained humming for several seconds, like a great,
ailing refrigerator or infected beehive. Then, more language exploded like
pus from this auditory boil.
Discerning Beedle might not prove the most
amiable companion during whatever witches’ brew was brewing, Glenn sidled
towards Anne and Rinker before the blathering barrister was aware of his
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"...maybe
two?" Anne was bargaining. "You can do two, so that would be
Craig and Tom Maputi? They're the instigators, aren't
they? Let's just get this thing settled."
She hadn’t used the word “thing”.
"I can't go back with two,"
Glenn heard Rinker object as he rocked back and forth on his heels. "Gimme four."
Anne pulled a little calculator out...
the logo of a public television station being almost as large as the
keyboard... and toted up some figures. "The numbers aren't going to be a
problem, it's the people. Arnold Bissonnette is out,
too alt-rightly disruptive, too close to that old David Duke mob, down in
Louisiana, there. Q-Anon people, hang
Pence evangelists. Rayna's
not budging on him. What about one of the alternates?"
"Anne..." Glenn tried to
break in.
"Just a minute," she hushed,
brushing an unruly blonde cowlick out of her eyes, self-consciously brushing
the sleeve of her gray suit in the event something unpleasant had fallen from
her cuff. "We're almost home! Talk to Tom... Maputi's got
to have a protégé he wants inside, everybody does. Check it out!"
Rinker hesitated. "Anne, I don't
think..."
"Craig, Maputi,
Brother Ecker... right?... and Maputi's
alternate. No Bissonnette. Feed him some bad
crayfish. That's four delegates... the offer stands for fifteen minutes. Do
it!"
Rinker flung his arms up, his dark
blue suit unwittingly revealing the large, even darker ellipses of fearful
perspiration as he unsheathed his i-Phone and began
stabbing buttons. "I'll try..."
"Whatever!" And she turned
her back, dismissing him. "I think that takes care of the Virginia
delegation," she muttered to Glenn.
"What's the score?"
"They're taking the media caucus…
not a bad thing, it’ll keep the talk radio clowns guessing…” she added, making
sure Rinker wasn’t lingering, “but we've got the convention."
"How's
that?"
"Ohh..."
Anne said, suddenly realizing that she was still holding the calculator with
the add-key down, running up the tab of delegates well into the millions. She
flicked it off, returned it to her purse. "Pat O'Neraghty
worked out a compromise on that Middle East thing, bringing our boys home from
Baghdad and Tripoli… and Yemen, and
Aleppo… he says, but with honor, now that the Vikings and the Arab League…
quote unquote… have taken hold of peacekeeping among those various Muslim sects
so we can focus on the Republicans’ putative Putin-hugger and Democrats’
mucking up in South America again. He's downstairs with some Sunnis and that
Jewish guy..."
"Morcanteur?" Glenn tried to show off.
"No, the
Israeli. What's his name... anyway we're just plodding along, running
them down with the numbers. And either they don't know it, or else Tillerman's more comfortable with his role as martyr!"
A voice interrupted from the podium...
"Brothers and sisters… aren’t we
magnificent!“
Over the applause, Glenn wrinkled his
nose and pouted... "who's that?"
"Carruthers.
Evan Carruthers. Environmental Action Network... they blow up bulldozers, save
trees, stuff like that. Also with Pop Zero… he has a curious synchronicity with
Ocasio, the Green Squad… and there’s also talk about
the border vigilantes, but I suspect Austin's warned him to wear the white hat
while he's here or go back to The Donald, which all those pipeline projects
make impossible."
"Isn't that the racist group that
shot those people crossing over down in Arizona and hung 'em from their heels
from telephone poles? Like Mussolini?"
"If you believe the government's rumormongering," Anne
sniffed, nodding towards the podium as if the words wafting therefrom might be
valuable.
Carruthers, with his blue Western
shirt and thick, white hair, dyed almost blue, reminded Glenn of the kindly Old
Ranger from Death Valley Days… not Reagan, the nice one… or one of the Grand
Ol' Opry sort of drinking buddies that Catfish had
flown in from Nashville and Branson by the dozens to get his picture taken
with. "Without a popular move-a-ment," he began in a deep, Western twang,
"without the force of a mass
move-a-ment,
like that of the Coalition, we face more than planetary doom... we face
extermination of our entire Western cul-too-yore. We do!
But... we are going to pervail! We will pervail! America will pervail!"
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FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 5:58 PM
Andy didn't feel very prevalent as he
and Rael followed Sylvester into the Bureau of Permits where Tom Jenks and the
two attorneys, Hill and Goldman, were already cooling
their heels. Placing a finger to his lips, Sylvester smiled at them
enigmatically, whispered to Disson's secretary, then
quickly entered the sanctuary of the strange little bureaucrat... slipping the
door open and closing it behind him before any of the petitioners could sneak a
peek inside.
"Damn!" said Emil, "I
wanted a selfie with his busted-up mug!"
"Folks," Andy acknowledged,
"...didn't think I'd be seeing you again."
He collapsed into one of Disson's costly leather chairs, picking up a brochure on
the coffee table: Security Golf Course Homesites in
one of the northern burbs, exclusive to Morrow Properties... Reduced!
Townhouses starting from $440,000!
He dropped the ad like a chunk of
radioactive waste.
"Didn't think I'd see any of you
either," Jenks recalled. "They made us lie face down on the cold,
cold pavement out at that old base, for what must have been hours!"
"Oh no!" cried Rael.
"Are people still out there?"
"No, that's the funny part,"
said Goldman. "Couple of hours ago they just started releasing
prisoners... even some of those striking minwage
restaurant workers snatched up for picketing."
"Something hopping,"
seconded Hill. "Jail doors flying open all over this town."
Tom remained unconvinced. "I
don't trust them. It's a trap. It's like... maybe they want the demo to go on, with
everybody pissed off and ready to rumble, so they can pull off something really big!"
"Tom, I don't think..." Leo
began, wearily...
"Oh cut it out, Leo!" Hill
shook his shaggy head, removed a small silver flask
from his jacket and downed a healthy draught. "You were out at Marston,
too, spent half a day being kicked this way and that, and you're still with
that guilty liberal's business-as-usual attitude..."
"Well, there was provocation," the ACLU
man said. "I don't know who, or why, but someone inside Dorritt Square did
throw a bottle, or a rock... I don't know
which..."
"I think it was the U.N.!" Rael asserted. "Making
everyone else look bad, so people trust them, keep giving them more power until
they clamp down and repeal the Law of the Sea. They want the dolphins going
extinct like the white rhinoceros... because, like, dolphins are more
intelligent than we are? They want
people reduced to living off the land, like locusts... not that insects don’t
have the right to self-determination either…"
"Little Miss Tillerman!"
Tom Jenks grunted, “her racist skivvies hanging
out. Why only white rhinosaurians… rhinostoplastish…
Republic… rhino critters? Hug a brown
cockroach for Jesus!"
"Well," Leo allowed,
"whoever did do it certainly didn't stand up and identify themselves...
which means they couldn't have been Movement, because the Movements boast, left
or right or just plain crazy. Always! And then the Guard went a little
crazy..."
"The Fifth
Battalion?" This interested Andy. "Those nuts they had to take
back from San Jose for raping all those nuns… who called them in?"
"That," Emil speculated,
"is the million dollar question. Probably, quite a few
millions. The 2024 Trump campaign, inciting violence as a means of
publicity – that changed everything, even the Democrats once the old realities
of power in the neo-liberal new normal sank in.
Let's put it this way.... suppose what we have here is not the burning
of the Reichstag, or Moncada, or Monicagate,
even, but a disagreement among pillars of the ruling class. Mayor Potter,
formerly a Democrat until primary time two years ago where he had to run
independent after that fourth DUI to post his thirty-eight percent, is, at
least, a nominal supporter of the Conks. Governor Drummond's a Republican who
might be thinking that, if Catfish runs as a third-party candidate and Trump
doesn’t, the Democrats get hurt next year and a job for him opens up under deSantis or Pence or Little Marco – Secretary of
something-or-other...
"So someone in the CNC is dealing
with the GOP? Hey!..." Leo Goldman added, "I
made a rhyme."
"Quite possible," Andy
ventured, “if you consider your root terminology. Look at all those so-called
conserve-vacationists in the Coalition!"
"So, as we all know," Emil
continued, "the easiest way to ensure a maximum of disruption and rotten
publicity is to take all of the responsible elements... I use the term very
loosely, in the present case... out of circulation, leaving a headless
mob. It could just be the Governor,
being the Guv’nor as our fishy friend puts it, or
some of those Cap City Democratic… what is it, twenty-six now?... doin’ a Jussie Smollett…”
“He was innocent,”
Leo maintained.
"Whatever. You know," Tom remembered, "there were those couple of crazy guys in Rambo suits at Marston,
you know? Walking around in circles with
this attitude... nobody knows where they came from, nobody wanted to talk to
them. Like from that church, out in
Kansas, with that dead preacher? The
ones who break up soldiers’ funerals?
They were prisoners, but nobody beat them down, jokin’
and smilin’ with the Guard; I even saw one trying to
chat up this news reporter, but he wasn't buying it. Some kind of undercover
heat..."
Hill masticated this information, took
another swallow from his flask, smacked his lips. "Let us suppose you were an official of one faction... you,
perhaps, believe another faction's out to get you by handing out harsh, unconstitutional treatment
to people in police custody. Now... if you had something to say about whether
these people continue to remain in custody until something... well... embarrassing
happens... well, you see where this leads! Now this just happens to be idle
conversation but, as a member of the Bar, at least for the present, I was
comped into one of Pinhead's parties for charity leeches last night, while you
all were performing your roles as guests of the state..."
"You sure get around, Emil, for a
cheap lawyer," Goldman needled.
"Hey, I ain't
cheap... just ask the coke dealers and drunk drivers whom I make pay my fee up front, as opposed to those I
let run up a tab. Conks fuck with me, I sue them. Rayna Finch... she's got deep pockets, deep
everything!" He took another pull from the silver flask. "But another
point..."
The office phone rang, cutting him off
like the blade of a guillotine, slamming down upon an outstretched Vice
Presidential neck. Though the Permits Bureau Five strained to hear, they could
not, until the Director's secretary put down the phone, glanced at them,
wrinkling her nose as if at the smell of prison perspiration wafting through
the anteroom, and said:
"The Director will see you
now."
"Hope someone brought a Cherry, or at least one of those spy-guy cellphones, this
time. Tape recorder?" Andy suggested Jurassically, extracting himself from Disson's
comfortable chair.
"Somehow," Emil predicted,
"I don't think that will be necessary."
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