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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 29 FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 9:02 PM Back at the Eagle's Nest, Anne Kazelka
stirred more freshly poured yellow wine with a right index finger, leaving
faint swirls of crimson as her nail polish decomposed. "Sun's down, Nick..." Glenn
started. "I told you – don’t call me that in front of people!" "Why
not? What about Andy?" |
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"Andy's
not people," Glenn couldn't help retaliating, though aware of every breath
that Burt Weston and Tom Beedle were taking as they pretended to concentrate on
their meals. "He's wallpaper. Just don't call me Nick! Ever!
Sorry... sorry folks. Place brings back
old haints…"
Now
Weston looked up, misunderstanding. "I
say... fuck old-ghost parasites like
Watson Morrow. I've supported the working man seventy years, all the way back
to those McCarthy hearings in fourth-grade Civics... I've stood by the
Democratic Party even when she was in the wrong, like in Vietnam or Clinton's
flings with that girl and those cigars … and her husband’s problems too, hmph! … not to mention the black fellow selling out to Wall
Street insurance bozos, that New Yawk Governor
disgracing his father and his country and the sleepy incumbent turning tail on
our Afghan allies, leaving them to die the way Trump sacrificed the Kurds. Speaking of which, I also saw through Trump’s
so- called populism like the dirty window in a dollar store, back when they
actually sold stuff for a dollar. But
what I keep hearing now’s the desperation. What if the parties both bring back their old haints? Dems tack crazy left or
retro-right with some geriatric technocrat or other and a decision is made to go the third party route,
like Rayna wants? Or the fourth, since we
have Robert Kennedy... the Junior...
or a fifth…"
"Well,
as a gentleman who knows his Fifths, let me just stop you right there,"
Beedle retorted, furiously. "Scow, for one, would walk. He'd walk... like
that!" and Beedle snapped his fingers. "And I would too... so would
our infrastructure, our celebrity endorsements and all our outside money."
"Walk?
Where?" Weston asked, "...to the kids with pierced
nipples outside? To Re-elect the President or Hillary Orange-is-the-New Black’s
boomers… now that Aygee Garbage is hurling
investigate the investigator indictments against Hunter’s Ukrainian deals down
from the clouds like an angry, neo-liberal God?
To tired old burned-out Bernie, bless his failing heart and reputation? To Kamalala, whose
premarital fling with Slick Willie Brown drove a stake through the heart of
affordable housing in California, sending more migrants out than Greg Abbott
could bus back in to San Diego or New York or deSantis
to Martha’s Vineyard - and now she wants the taxpayers to pay off the slumlords
in the name of saving what they call the e-con-me? To the mob… the black guys, the black girl,
the fake Mexican or black Indian or the gay guy or them others as nobody’s ever
heard of? Or another amateur… an actor,
a spaceman, a wrestler? That
didn’t run for Guv’nor All Righty Right down there in
Texas or the dead cow guy who did? Some
special election Marvel moviestar after the
California recall? A crazier quack than
Doctor Oz... the pillow guy or Alex Jones?
Oprah???"
"No,
that's where Rayna's going," Tom Beedle predicted. "They'll slink
back to the Party, prob’ly endure another ten or
fifteen years' worth of humiliation, depending on how long the economy and
environment hold out until nobody can cover up the damage, not even Elon
fuckin' Muskrat… who is Canadian, by the way, or he’d be in the mix too, like Bloomburg for his fifteen minutes.. Dig this – and put it in the bank! – nobody
but psychopaths and retards with IQs under thirty really want to be President
now. Democrat or Republican! Pence?
Ted Cruz? They just want a chance
to usher Jesus into the Oval Office by nuclear tit for tatting with Mad Vlad…
that and publicity for their books! They
know we’re pinned down all over the world; broke, sick, hated by everyone,
laughed at by the Russians and the next economic crash around due to the CV
giveaways plus the usual cut taxes and spend reconciliation bills, maybe a bit
after Labor Day… just in time for elections… will make the last one look like a
cakewalk and that’ll send Sloppy Joe back to Delaware with his failed dogs and
some charismatic loser to pick up the pieces – presuming Hamas and the
Republican Speakership mess leave any pieces to pick up. Meanwhile, whatever
the damage to the Coalition in the interim... it will be the direct
responsibility of anybody in this movement who does not step back
into line. That means doing your job, sticking to your assignments. That's why
I'm here in this paleo-Nazi shit-hole… not with Morty at the tennis tournament
back in Malibu with any number of my clients, or with Ratso
at Mayor Potter's bash where the booze might not be top shelf, but there’s
plenty of it. You, for example, are supposed to be our eyes and ears into what
the hippies and zippie occupiers and rhubarb pies
outside are cooking up for us now that some idiot... or worse... opened some
back door to that roach motel that passes for your jail..."
"Trust
me," Glenn placated, lifting an arm as if to deflect a thrust from the
butter knife Beedle was wielding in his fist. "Those protestors are up
late sewing quilts for peace in Costa Rica, saving seals and building day care
centers for battered hobos, searching dictionaries for new words they can call
racist so’s to extort more apologies and money from taxpayers and the celebrities...
they're saving Spanish banks and Palestine and starving children, all at the
same time, all in a hundred directions like an old car with two wheels going
north and the other two west."
"Don't
fuck with me, Glenn," the attorney warned, emphasizing the point by
actually jabbing at him with his knife before slicing off a fatty slab of
sauerbraten. "I'm serious! Anything unpleasant that happens outside
tomorrow or early Sunday takes the moral high ground away from Rayna's
rabble," he said, impaling the meat and thrusting it between his lips,
"and if it makes Potter look better by calling out the dogs, well, who's
to know?"
"Is
that a hint, O King 'Enery..." Anne suggested.
Glenn
threw up his hands. "Christ! why even bring up those dismal people?"
A
nearby table of Conks from somewhere in the upper Midwest… Tillerman’s
.toadies, probably… chose this moment to break out into a drunkenly exuberant
Teutonic aria.
"Remember,
my friend," Tom Beedle said forcefully through the noise, "Americans
are stupid, just like the Catfish says. Truly revolutionary doctrines, like the
plague and Palestinians, advance only masked, behind bland facades. We might
make fun of the mainstreamers for speaking in code, but we'll do the same... just
that it'll be Coalition code. Hey, I didn't go out in the streets against Iraq,
I thought it was sort of cool – at first. Like stealing a car... and getting
away with it. If nothing else, Bush was
an idealist. Loyal to
his Dad, like Trump… the Congressman, not Junior. And then his successor, our own Black Prince
from Whitewater; wanting to keep our boys hanging round to get shot at and
arrested by UN troops once the Saudis, Turks and Iraniacs
cut their ethnic cleansing deal in Baghdad… that's pure gravy. Trust the Democrats to self-destruct without
Jack… Obamacare won’t be the albatross round the party’s neck, it’ll be a
fuckin’ anchor and that’s the real reason why the Koch Family leaned on their
Tea Party toadies to save it before David kicked the bucket. We've had our race-driven elections and now
is the time for the next Covid variant bill to come round and stagflation to
come round again, no matter how people resented the shutdowns, or how many
minor parties get in the game, not even Tillerman. And when the tax rate for billionaires gets
cut to twenty four percent and the minimum wage to four bucks an hour in the
red states and the economy crashes again..."
Anne
shook her head. "Tom, Tom... Jack's only being ironic, or whatever it is
that's being ironic about irony. David
Letterman is gone, Jon Stewart is gone, nobody but hardcore Hillaries
watch those late show Jimmies anymore now that King Donald ain’t
‘round to entertain them anymore, and people can be educated! If
you hold their hand through the process... my problem with the crap outside is
that so many issues just make a muddle out of situations."
"I
don't know if it's a case of being stupid, as much as just being asleep,"
Weston said, laying down his fork, "but I do know you can't
wake up a sleeping public with a sleeping Catfish. No need to go into details,
but this attitude of remaining above the fray, letting things sort themselves
out and then marching in to wave the flag over the result starts to wear a little thin. If it had worked in
sixteen or twenty, we’d be toasting President Sanders with good vodka or
whatever it is that they get drunk on in Beijing. And I expect, and hope, you'll twitter this
to Congressman Scow..."
"Done!"
saluted Beedle through mouthfuls of meat.
"Call me the King of Tweets!
I’ll make King Donald flip his wig with all the tweets I’ll
twitter…."
"I'd
just like to add that I spent the most miserable years of my life out on the
streets… sometimes, mostly in meetings that went on and on forever… enduring
people like Andy Morrison back when he just wouldn’t shut up," Glenn
volunteered, "and that was long
after our parents’ idealism went out of fashion. I'm damned if I'll ever
go back!"
"And
nobody's asking you to... as long as you, as all of us, do our duty."
Beedle sat back, burped contentedly, a thin strand of kraut flying from his
mouth onto the tablecloth. "It's been a long evening and a heavy meal... I
don't feel like dessert here; there might be better… and liquid… fare at the
Mayor's little gathering. Get the ol’ digestion percolatin’. Maybe," he winked, "I can even find
out the name of the rat who had that Claymore called back up to Washington so
our devious right-wing maniac Governor gets to promote bleeding-heart Judge Mastropolous to his seat, so he can let all those left-wing
rodents out of our trap and into our kitchen. Maybe even the fink who dropped a
dime on Pinhead's cokehead pansy... oh, pardon me, Sodomite-American... the
rube who was supposed to keep us out of all of this trouble in the first place!
That would be nice. Tasty!" He looked up and away from the
other three. "Check please!"
While
the others reached for their belongings, Beedle stuffed a napkin into Glenn's
hand and lifted his greasy, glistening lips to Glenn's ear.
"M’boy, I expect disagreeableness to happen at
that demo, and here is the number you'll call to see that the disruption is
disrupted. You know who and who not to tell. And, Glenn, if you don't do your
job, the private sector will; and they’ll make Hamas or Putin’s patrols in the
Donbass with the Wagner group look like the Village People." He handed his
Coalition platinum card up to the waitress. "Add a five percent tip to
that, Helga! Glenn... all that comes out of noble impulses is that somebody
else gets to come in, and someone that didn't do their job has to go outside.
It's cold, there... outside!"
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FRIDAY the SEVENTH - 9:33 PM
Back at the Sanctuary where cold was, for the moment,
lost in the heat of disputation, Andy was desperately trying to retrieve some
threads of process. "Like... we're down to three hundred for the speakers.
You want your Reverend... Tom, see that Flo here gets a free license for her
beans and Bar-B-Que suppers. There's thousands of people coming, all the way
from the capital and further... you'll get rich. OK? That's more the equivalent
of a hundred-fifty dollar contribution; what's going to happen is that we are
going to put you with the trusted people, up to five hundred; after expenses,
you pay nothing... then in installments, half of the next three hundred,
everything after that is yours. Tom'll work out the
details if you want something in writing that..."
"Stop!
Stop! This is disgusting... I thought we had an understanding that this would
be a cruelty-free zone. No meat!" Rael stood up, grabbed the
milk crate she had been sitting on and hurled it out over the field of
mattresses with their huddled masses. It came down, bouncing off a wino and
skidded to knock over his bottle and, as Rael stormed out of the meeting, the wino
began sobbing... long, low vulpine moans and lamentations...
Andy
finished rolling his cigarette and lit it. "Like she says, you keep the
money, you keep the karma. Come back as a fly in the White House outhouse and
don't say you weren't warned. So... I think we've resolved our food problem.
Now... we're still down to three hundred for the speakers, which essentially
means token payments, really token. I
thought twenty for anyone not representing some group who has to travel more
than fifty miles... fuckin’ gas money… it's honorary, won't even cover their
transportation, but they didn't have to come here. Only so much vendor space to
go round."
Florence
Croup stared back, popping her gum in hostile apprehension.
"You
going to sit still for this racist crap?" Richard Reid sat up, spitting
another green gob into the cash on the table for all present to contemplate.
"We've put up with liberal shit for so long... whatever happened to
Revolution? How would you feel if someone left out of the process decided to
get his back from you?"
And
in one motion, astonishing in its swiftness and precision from one so wasted,
he pulled a buck knife and lunged, holding it to Fredrika's
throat, glaring from Florence to Clark to Andy. "Now, whatcha
gonna do? Lib’rals! Faggots! Democrats!"
"Put-The-Knife-A-Way,
Richard," Andy said, nodding almost imperceptibly towards the desk, from
which Eddie noiselessly crept forward with a stout length of scrap wood.
"It's
part of Judgment," said Demian, attracting
Reid's attention as his victim and her potential rescuers both frowned,
uncomprehending. "Until you've made your bargain with the Force,
it's..."
At
this, Eddie, having walked up behind Reid, delivered a clean, southpaw swing
that connected with his left ear, sending him sprawling, bleeding…
Another
wino sat up, chortling "Home run!"
Andy
snatched up the knife.
"Guess
this more or less finishes tonight's entertainment," he declared.
"Folks, if all the people who've taken booths pay what they've promised,
we'll have money back to be argued over later. You are
86'd," he added, glaring at Richard Reid, who'd sat up, feeling his ear
with more surprise than apparent pain. "Richard, as soon as this is over,
the people are going to deal with you. That's the way it's going to be. Personally,
I'd start thinking about relocation to another time zone."
"Fuck
the people!" Reid called out, defiantly. "Fuck you! Gimme back my knife."
"No
fuckin' way, not even after you come down. Now split; you're not wanted here.”
"You
and this ol' nigger ain't man enough," Reid
answered, rising into a crouch, eyes darting from Andy to Eddie... circling the
room, as if honestly expecting followers to step forth from the crowd, back to
Andy. “Bitch enough… ‘scuse me, whore!”
"Look
at this, Mister asshole
Zimmerman," Florence declared, taking a cheap but effective-looking Taurus
handgun from her purse, aiming it at his belly.
"You
wouldn't dare," Reid sneered, opening his arms wide in a posture that
imitated a crucifixion - if the Romans had thought to garb their victims in pukestained blue and yellow Hawaiian shirts. "Go
ahead, kill me! I’m white! You’d be a hear… here… heroin… think these
losers here care... hell, they're the enemy of all your kind!”
"You sure of that?" she asked.
Richard glanced around the Sanctuary again... most shelter patrons were either
on their feet or struggling to rise. Many of regulars held something awkward,
but possibly dangerous - a stick, a length of chain. One old man was unlacing
his battered but heavy shoe when, in rapid succession, one empty wine bottle
whizzed past Reid's right ear and smashed against the wall, another nicked his
injured left ear and exploded on the floor. Then, a half-filled can of ABM malt
liquor struck his knee, spinning away as it spewed its contents over the floor.
Then
came the shoes... one shoe, two shoes…
Richard
Reid straightened, facing the mob like Frankenstein's monster against the
peasant army come with their pitchforks and torches and fourth-hand Crocs;
brushed past Andy without speaking, marched to the door.
"Ain't seen the last of me!" he shouted after turning
to stand down his tormentors, lifting a thumb and finger into a firing
position. "I'll remember you. Gonna smoke
you... every one of you, even those ones of you from out of town, you fuckin’
race traitors. Gonna make you forget
about them schools in ‘Netticut and Florida n’ those
guys in Texaco, Vegas; I'm a hunter! There's gonna come a time
every one of you motherfuckers will have to get down on your knees before me
and crawl, and it won't do you any good. I'm gonna waste you, waste your kids,
your family, your second cousins! Your dogs. Your second cousin has a dog, his
dog! I got my training from the best... Mark Cobb, ask him!"
he added, pointing to Andy. "He's the one you really ought
to be afraid of! He's the psycho!
Remember!" he added, and stormed out into the night.
Andy
shrugged towards his army.
"So,"
he said, easing Reid's knife into his belt, "now that our ambassador from
the Boobaloo Boys has departed, I think we’ve reached
consensus and can go to whatever we call home and get to fuckin' sleep. Lotta
work to do tomorrow..."
"I
smell something burning..." Demian interrupted.
"Fire!
Trash fire!" Tom pointed. Eddie, nearest the conflagration, stomped one
unlaced work-booted foot down on the wastebasket and charred, smoldering
liberation leaflets urging solidarity with Costa Ricans, West Virginia
mineworkers and Maine welfare recipients leaped up, showering sparks and
cinders all around the debating parties, almost all of whom immediately forgot
their differences and rose to the task of stomping them to ash.
"This
is irregular American process," Ketti declared,
standing aloof while charred shards of the global struggle wafted past. "I
must record objection..." Andy looked down to discover his sleeve afire.
He beat at the flames distractedly, eyes rolling up towards the cracked,
menacing ceiling as a shelter sleeper turned and began to howl...
"Register
it som'more else, Eva Braun. Hey Eddie, turn dat silent movie TV up. S'time
for... hic... ‘Cop On The Run!’ Yooo...
Tony!"
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