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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 26 FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 8:16 PM The Eagle's Nest was a dark, smoky
old oak-paneled German dive that had flouted State and Federal mask, vaxxing and tobacco laws as vigorously as its decor
defied woke. Steins portraying
big-bosomed Rheinfrauleins (crafted to hold three,
maybe four liters of suds) lolled on wallshelves
(patrons were restricted to the smaller one liter tankards) accompanied by
brooding mountain murals interspersed with numerous stag and boar heads -
dead, glass eyes staring down with contempt upon the politicians hunkered
over a dark, dim table in the darkest, dimmest corner of the Nest – at which
Glenn, Anne, Tom Beedle and Burt Weston slurped
cabbage soup and gnawed sausage appetizers, faces dark and dour as the bread
and heavy, ancient table. Talking purposefully as glasses, steins and silver
clinked and clattered and rattled in the background while, to all sides,
delegates and tourists chattered. |
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"So," Weston said, "the
tide slowly turns towards third, maybe fourth-party advocates if... if Rayna's
people and Tillerman's can put aside their
differences, and if ambition is elevated before principle."
Pretentious bastard, Glenn thought,
wiping his mouth with a slice of black Bavarian bread. Populist fudd... doesn't even wear a belt like decent people, suspenders!...
wants people thinking him some backwoods lawyer like fuckin'
Matlock. The days
occurrances had left him in a sour mood.
Anne repressed a smile at Weston’s
ignorance of the real factor
determining a Democratic or third party strategy, the only factor as she had been made aware of, recently and repeatedly…
then lay her spoon down. "Tom," she said, "what can you tell me
about that Texas delegation? I mean... do these people have any responsibility to the
membership back home? It seems a
microcosm of everything we've been trying to avoid!"
"Well, that's so! Damn!" Beedle added, as a slimy noodle slipped from his fork and
slithered down the length of his cream and crimson tie. "Sorry! Enjoy it
while you can...” he waved the fork, “just in case we win and Jack really does go off the deep end, appoint Bloomberg surgeon general to ration
calories! There's very little most of
these delegations have to answer to once they've arrived, except the Chairman
or, in our case, Cat... I mean, Chairwoman. We need a
lot more letters going out to the responsible elements, a lot more! All of this
should have been taken care of a month ago, but Jack would just chew on his
fuckin' toothpick, tell some phony baloney story about Ol' Mort or some dogs;
nothing gets done, time flies and Rayna keeps staring at him with those bedroom
eyes, writing out checks..."
"You cash yours, don't you?"
Weston interrupted.
"Damn straight! Just like you...
all of us do..."
"But we're not in any trouble, are we?" Glenn
wished aloud, "so long as we get the right vote out of the Credentials
task force?"
"Rayna's her own worst
enemy," Beedle assured them as he dipped his
napkin into clear Eagle's Nest water and dabbed at that repulsive tie.
"Going out of her way to piss off Tillerman into
linking up with the craziest Tea Partiers to form a fourth party, putting on that Lincoln Mafupia
or whatever, who goes on about black singers, dancers and athletes going out on
strike over Halloween and bringing Babylon to its pasty white knees. He ain't talking Iraq, either!
Worse than those gang-politician mullahs in Chicago. Than the Squad! And that welfare mother this afternoon...
baby-breeding machine, the one who says our after-school activities plank's
racist? Not Tillerman's special schools... ours! The sort
of argument that belongs outside. Anne, as the resident expert on our
Coloradans, just what is the last thing in the world those Aryan posy-sniffers
want... more people like her
representing the Coalition on TV? Those fucks from five and eleven, they sell
footage to their networks, you know, and come October somebody drags it out to
beat us over the head with..."
Weston fingered his craggy chin. His
whole face, in fact, seemed composed of slabs of rock piled atop each other
this way and that, with no apparent master design; he tried to make a circle of
his fingers but produced only a sagging quadrangle. "We're supposed to be
the doughnut coalition, remember - we need
the minorities to balance out the racism of Austin's radical
environmentalists. Uppity minorities,
even. Don't think Rayna doesn't know
what she's doing. I just don't
know if the third party advocates... especially all those California people...
really understand."
"So while we're running me
down," Beedle snapped, "just how do the numbers stack up? Anne?"
"Give me a moment," she
said, donning her glasses and spreading out one of the thick, embossed napkins,
somewhere between damask and paper... the Eagle's Nest being an expensive
excursion for their Coalition credit cards. She removed a pen from her purse.
"To begin with, three hundred seventy-four delegates, not counting any
super-delegation from the host city, number still to be determined..."
"Ratso's pipe dream!" Beedle
scoffed. “Burt, I could understand – but
shouldn’t you be toting up the results on a BlueBerri?”
"Malfunctioning,” she
sneered. “Again! And just because it’s Chinese, doesn’t mean
that Russians can’t be watching. Or
Peter Thiel or Betsy Devioso’s
brother with those people that find out things about
people and then kill them. Well, we'll
hold off on that... might work more than one way, if it must. Now... with the
Indiana, Michigan and South Carolina challenges," Anne continued, "we
have twenty eight, more or less, up in the air. First, I'll break it down if
the challenges fail, as we hope and expect..."
"They had better damn well fail..."
Glenn growled, tossing down the rest of his goblet of the Eagles' Nest’s best
yellow wine and refilling it from the pewter ewer at the center of their table.
"OK, ix-nay on comments from the
peanut gallery! Ready?" Anne toted up. "First, our
people... versus what's left of the old guard. As near as I can tell,
Catfish has two twenty eight, Tillerman only a
hundred thirteen. Thirty-three legitimately undecided.
Now... what about our two hundred
twenty eight? One forty-nine committed to at least a pretense of working with the
Democrats; by that I mean entering a candidate in their primaries and keeping
the gloves on against whatever oozes out of Congress and the statehouses or the
old folks’ home – not to mention Hollywood
- through to the convention and then supporting the party nominee unless
she… to make a leap of political faith, or intelligence… turns out to be
somebody truly repulsive in an effort to poach the Republican base. A left-wing Sara Palin? Good
ol’ Bern? That Mayor
in Minnesota who wants to abolish the police?”
"Your
Dimmycrats have a talent for doing just that,"
Burt warned, hooking both thumbs in those folksy red suspenders he
favored. “That Oprah muletrain
gets back on the rails and we can all go home for eight more years and sit on
the front porch, whittlin’ and waiting for our
checks.”
"Well we can't blame the voters.
Rayna can count on sixty-nine of those and there are about ten more who haven't
made their minds up yet." Tom Beedle licked his
lips at mention of the first figure, as if to make a wisecrack that he, then,
decided to leave unvoiced.
"So..." Glenn ventured,
"after the candidate is chosen, we only have to
hold on to thirty, thirty-five percent of Tillerman's
people… the fourth-party lunacy excepted…"
"That's what I'm working
on." Anne put her pen down, took a sip of wine
and smeared liver paste over a rye cracker.
"What about the challenge
delegates?" asked Weston.
"That's where things get
difficult. Oh... thank you," Anne said as the buxom waitress arrived with
their main courses; steaming platters of sauerbraten, roasted rabbit… head on,
teeth bared, eyes glaring at the politicians accusingly… multicolored wursts, krauts and dumplings which sat, cooling, as she
totaled up the votes. "First, the candidate. We
have twenty four of those twenty eight... three are undecided and there's one
kook whom we'd lose, from Indiana..."
Weston dismissed the prospect.
"Any state elect gomers like Dan Quayle and Mike
Pence to public office... wouldn't trust 'em anyways!"
"OK, this gets hard to figure,"
Anne cut him off. "These are mostly Rayna's people, I count fifteen
undecided, the minorities. The whites are a bad lot, I
think it could go as much as eleven-two against. They don't fit in. Matt Moss,
you know, he heads up that bunch wanting to bring the Superbowl
back to free TV? Single issuecrats... they don't belong, they're running against the rules that got them here in the first place... I
don't know what to make of them, and I hope I don't have to find out!"
"How many of the twenty-four are
ours?" Beedle backed up.
"Between
eighteen and twenty. I don't even think
about knowing where the challenge delegates would go... again, I hope that I
never have to find out.
"But they'd never get together
and gang up on us, would they?" Glenn fretted. "Tillerman and
Rayna? If something bad went down
between her and Jack up in their Ivona penthouse like
between those kids in Wyoming… although she’d be the one with the
hatchet," he rolled his eyes.
"Longshot!"
Anne said, crossing her fingers anyway. "They've had absolutely nothing in
common. That old Colorado mob are almost all white except for a coupla right-wing casino-crazy Native Americans too bugs
for Bugsy Siegel, even... well off, mostly in it for quote unquote
environmental reasons. They've made or inherited theirs, they don't want the
view from their vacation cottages in Aspen or Vail mucked up by bunkhouses for
clerks and dishwashers or, of course, the coal miners and their daughters. That’s why they posture as friends of those
Mexican immigrants living in trailers out by the dump. Wine-tasters and artisan pot-smokers... old
Mitt Romney starlings who'll flirt with Generals Milley,
McRaven or McChrystal or
even Chris Christie or, knock on wood, Jeb, but flutter back into the nest
after they’ve been Trumped..."
"Typical
'Publicans!" Weston popped a slab of sauerbraten in his mouth,
spitting out a gristly obscenity through his crooked teeth.
"Well, the funny thing is that Rayna has a few
jack Republicans... and I am speaking both ways... what they're doing
together I honestly don't know. They go up to the penthouse and talk about
Teddy Roosevelt and Hiram Johnson... leftover McCain and Goldwater people,
probably; all seem to come out of Arizona and Utah, Nevada and those godawful
California boonies. A few Alaskans too,
think Palin sold out to the bastard New York
liberals… drivin' round in pickup trucks, shooting
everything in sight... wise-users, be in Jack's pocket except they're for
repealing civil rights, shoot-to-kill at the border and, probably, for the poll
tax. The Ron Paul, as
against Rand Paul, people. Borderline alt-Libertarians.
Give them a balanced budget, a national initiative and recall system and
a wall around Mexico, and they're happy."
"I can handle that!" Glenn
spoke up confidently. "Some people are just against any system, whatever it is!"
"Well, like flocks to like and,
like Rayna, all of 'em are miles from the rent-stamp office," smirked Beedle, who'd eschewed the wine in favor of quaffing lager
from a special stein, a smaller version of the wall art, embellished with
fierce boars, grapevines and leaping stags. He smacked his lips, winking...
"the rest of her bunch, the queers and
minorities, women, they're
the real outsiders. Maybe they'll just split off and walk once she's finished
reaming them, except they'd have to borrow bus fare to get home. None of them
have money... how the hell did so many get elected out of California
anyway?" he shook his head. "Gang kids... waiting for 2Crazy to get
serious about that Apprentice feud and join the party? Or dirty old Jerry Brown – back in the
Governor’s rocking chair after Newsome survived his recall and Joe rewarded him
with Kerry’s job? He turn
ninety yet?"
"Well, that was where the system
broke down." This was one of Anne's favorite war stories, and she drew it
out with mouthfuls of wine and nibbles at her pickled carp. "Things all
started in the caucuses last year, where Catfish and Tillerman
made that compromise allocating the number of state representatives based on
financial support, but electing the actual delegates by a popular vote. That's
where Tillerman got took!"
This made Tom Beedle
chortle. "That's why people still persist in underestimating the Catfish!
They think he's just a rich, spoiled fake country boy with a legendary papa who
couldn't hack Congress... and all the while he's watching them, keeping his eye
on how people are thinking. Anticipating... I know, why else would I be out
hustling money from Tillerman's people in their
Hollywood closets? Because
money, in this case, does not translate into power. The fact that
television's nature boy doesn't want to be outed as a racist, but will write up
a ten thousand dollar check through some front, combined with all those
forty-dollar votes that Joe Berkeley and Sally from the Valley kick in adds up
to millions; throw in all those whale-saving, kale-munching silicon
millionaires up north too gone in the head worrying over their pet banks to
realize Jack means it
when he talks about taxing robocalls and using the
IRS to whale the crap out of the rich and give it to the dolphins... all these
give us a whole heap of votes, how many..."
"Fifty-one," Anne said,
without checking her little notebook.
"OK," Beedle
acknowledged, "but the actual membership, in numbers, isn't much more than
in Michigan, Ohio - all those places Trump won after Sanders ran strong back
and before that when John... ‘scuse
me... Howard fuckin'
Dean actually polled in double figures after the scream. So it's bad...
but it's split, which means that the badness is good.
How good is it?"
"Well, like you say... the bad
news is that we have five, maybe six certain votes." Anne began toting up
the figures on an Eagle's Nest napkin, refilling her wineglass. "But
say... out of forty two delegates who've declared what they'll do... not that
I'd ever take the word of a Californ!" she
smiled at Tom Beedle, "...only eighteen are Tillerman's and half those owe their fealty to Governor
Moonbeam. The rest are Rayna's. Not Jack's, mind you, Rayna's," she looked
up, smiling, tossing off the entire contents of the goblet at once. "Their
membership fees make them hers, but we didn't count all the expense of the
field operation. Rayna paid for out of her own pocket against that!"
"Why?" Burt Weston coughed.
"Sendin' people out door to door, whole lot of them, joined with the Coalition or not, bought some cold
cream or toenail polish... and all of that went off the books."
"It was legal!" Anne
defended her patron.
"I pulled in thirteen mil from those people," Tom Beedle complained, "almost half that in those four
stadium benefits, for which I put my
credibility on the line," the lawyer reminded them. "Still get
nightmares some rapper or grunge band will figure up what went down, come after
me when this is over, waving their guitars like clubs... though I see why
celebrities all fawn over the Catfish. He's interesting!
Tillerman wrote his book first, but Jack made the New
York Times top-fifteen list and Austin didn't. These people don't read but they
follow trends... Jack was on both the
Jimmies, on Oprah’s fifth-to-last show before the bankruptcy and political
epiphany; chewed the holy hell out of Bill Maher and O’Reilly’s talking heads,
the both of ‘em and, once this circus is over, he’s scheduled for that fuckin’ Colbert.
We're on the short list to host Saturday Night Live before the election, where it counts. Celebrities think differently
than we do, they sort of operate on vibes, like plants. And I had a fifty-fifty
shot of getting Springsteen into this sorry burg if Rayna here hadn't ticked
off Ratso by squashing his demand for host city
super-delegates..."
"Host
delegates!" Glenn slapped his forehead, "why not call them Ratso's ghost delegates! Hostage delegates! The grubbiest
of power plays and we don't need the
votes!"
Anne refilled her glass and said,
icily: "Glenn, how many
votes?"
"Well, the state has eleven
delegates. If they wanted more, they should have opened their pocketbooks. It's
a great bunch, eight firm, only one definitely bad,
and Potter and the Senator have been terrific. I suspect the Mayor here hopes
Catfish would put him on the ticket as Vice President, assuming Tillerman declines..."
"Never happen!" Burt Weston
shook his head. "Pinhead's a drunk. Not a slick going-for-the-gusto,
rat-pack high lifer like our Jacks… Parnell or Kennedy… just a mean, sloppy,
ass-groping, vomiting Rob Ford alcoholic, bless his
Canadian Club soul."
"Well he's not helping Henri any.
Ratso... that's what they call Henri here... he asked
for nineteen delegates. Maybe
he deserves thirteen. He wouldn't budge, so he got zilch, and that's what the
credentials committee will tell him too, nothing! Unless we change their minds..."
"Well, I trust Anne to keep the
score in case that has to happen," Beedle said,
mopping his face with one of the strangely textured napkins, "...still,
I'm disappointed, after all the work you two and Henri put in together, that
you would treat him like..."
"Don't blame me!" Glenn snapped. "You're the ones who let Pat O'Neraghty run wild, the way he does all over the country.
We lost money because people were
afraid of him, and the state lost delegates..."
Anne sipped more wine, watching the
accusations bat from Glenn to Beedle
and back. "You're speculating..." the lawyer accused.
"Am I? What about Watson Morrow! He's really the big wheel here,
the big developer with big money and big plans now that the plagues and bank
crises are winding down and housing and shopping mall markets are starting to
turn around. He and the Mayor are like this..." and Glenn twisted his
thumbs and fingers together.
"Tell me something I don't
know," Beedle needled. "Morrow's one of
Pinhead's patrons... like I ought to be, hanging with the heavy pocketbooks
instead of having to work these
technical details."
He threw his napkin to the floor for
the Germans to pick up.
Anne set her empty goblet on the
table. "Peter Pinhead Potter picked his patron's porky pockets? How many punk pink pocketbooks did pickled
Pinhead Potter pick?"
Beedle had
to chuckle. "Not many... not after Red Pat finished his presentation.
Morrow's with us... solid... on foreign policy, and some of the environment, as
it applies to places not here, but he still supports the death tax as an
alternative to the savings or a national property tax, which has to be Tillerman's strangest nod to populism. If we make the
platform too explicit, he might be useful in unexpected ways...”
"Peter Pinhead's poppy rat-prack patron pickle picked more potted, spotted
platforms?"
"Anne, don't drink anymore,"
Glenn admonished as she picked up the pewter pitcher and refreshed her
wineglass. "You know
how it affects you!"
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