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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 30 SATURDAY the EIGHTH - 9:32 AM A
barrage of red, white and blue balloons rose on the wings of applause from an
already-packed Masty Hall as Pat O'Neraghty took the podium to keynote the second morning
of the Coalition for a New Consensus convention. |
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"Thank
you!" Pat acknowledged his perceived admirers, "...thank you, thank
you! Aren't we in fighting shape this morning?" He backed away, challenging
the crowd, staring them down… a fighting blond banty cock spoiling to
intimidate poultry of lesser pedigree. "Ready to take on the violence,
incompetence and the corruption inherent in our present two-party system? Among
ourselves, our watchwords for the day may be competition but, ultimately and
unlike the corroding institutional parties, unity. A marketplace of ideas and
tactics, then resolution... and a unified front as we venture forward into an
uncertain, but largely promising future..."
"Bored
yet?"
Henri
Ratzelkreuz handed Glenn Savitt
a cup of muddy fluid. "Pat's been gulping down coffee since before dawn;
don't think we can catch up to him, but we can try... it’ll be legal until and
unless Kommander Bloomberg starts his fifth party, wins and starts imposing
his sugar sharia. Or is it sixth… or
seventh… I get confused…"
"Mmmm..." Glenn wondered aloud, though the contents of
the monogrammed styrofoam cup held a distinct lack of
savour. "Pat's been too long among Tillerbites... he's trying to sound like Dirty Harry, fire
up the mob. All he lacks is an empty
chair to shout at. His take on our War
on Violence?"
"Violence
pretty much keeps the CNC together, now that winter’s breath dispersed this
season’s Wall Street protesters and MAGA’s joined the Tea Party in standing
exposed as a cheap Moral Majority front – at least the hang Pence tendency of
it. And not only Austin's boys on their
nocturnal missions... Jack would be the most unstable President since Andy
Jackson. Trump to the tenth power! Out in Detroit he had the media eating out of
his hand with all the ass-kicking he's promised and delivered; even how
democracy was only violence by proxy.
Hear that he’s even got Kid Rock and Ted Nugent thinking of social
distancing themselves from the Grand Old Prostitute, depending on who screws
whom at their next convention in
Milwaukee. The beer convention. You know..." Ratso
grinned, "...he said the American experiment depending on counting up
numbers; whoever gets the second highest number of votes admits defeat and goes
away for four years without it actually coming to gunfire or litigation. Like Aaron Burr.."
"Except
last time around and in the Y2K..."
"Lawyers,
guns and money… as the caution goes… and only two out of three there. Which is what Jack mentioned, with that
little shrug of his and, of course, the media went away writing all about what
he might have done in the same situation... he didn't confirm it, didn't deny
it, either. And with the Speaker gone to a special place for special people
since Mueller pivoted right and subpoenaed Hunter Biden over those Nigerian
deals unfolding in the Malaysian papers, the public ate it up, then
vomited. Jack scares people, and they
like it... look at how the shutdown lobby came to terms with itself once he
started promoting his Million Maniac March!"
"Just
as long as they don't find him in some alley, standing over a dead whore with
one of those shovels or chainsaws he's always talking about... now, shhh…"
"I
want you to consider this!" O'Neraghty
worked the crowd. "In the last thirty years before twenty-eighteen, over
ninety-six percent of Congressional incumbents were returned to office… now I’m
talking about incumbents running in November, not the Qweirdos
coming out of primaries. Despite last
session’s plague and pedophilia and Russophobia fiesta, the so-called term
limits revolution of a century long-passed and more criminal indictments than Fanniegate, that figure still hovers between ninety-two and
ninety-three. Of the few new faces, the great majority succeeded to office only
upon the death, primary defeat or, in a few cases, principled retirement of an
incumbent... or his or her indictment or rare conviction for a crime, or
crimes! Why... do you realize that in 2008’s November's race when the stock
market crash and the unemployment made an electoral and popular majority vote for a black man; after all the
dire predictions and blogging, only three incumbents out of nearly five hundred
contested House and Senate races were defeated… one, two, three!... and that one of those already had one foot on a
banana peel and the other in jail? And yet, all polls and studies show that
confidence in our elected officials is at an all-time low... worse, even, than
during the darkest days of the impeachment hearings or Coronavirus? The Senate is still deadlocked, President
Joe’s House minority back up to two. Mad
Vlad Putin’s invasion of that moldy country he invaded to take the people’s
minds off his ass-kicking in Crimea, NoKo’s so-called
“accidental” micromissile drop on that island north
of Japan and the Mideast War; a New York Times poll, back in March, ranked
politicians and government workers twenty-fifth out of twenty-seven occupations
in the public trust... behind the used car salesmen, realtors and insurance
men, morticians, even lawyers! It's true! And if it weren't for the disastrous
publicity that the energy and banking sectors have been experiencing, lately,
we'd have run last. Dead last!"
"I
don't think that was too smart of him," Henri ventured. "Sure,
Catfish wrote off the insurance people with his complicated healthcare plan,
but we've got plenty of bankers on board, and realtors... God knows! there are
enough lawyers out there for everybody..."
"Mmmm..." Glenn repeated, nodding, checking his watch.
Like the timepieces on the wrists of perhaps a third of the Conks in Masty, it had a smiling Catfish in a top hat whose whiskers
were already inching up upon a quarter to ten, under the bright blue lettering:
"TIME for a
CHANGE!"
"Now,"
Pat continued, "some might point to the success that the Rainbow Coalition
once experienced, not to mention the Christian right, the Tea Party even the
Reform Party. The Libertarian boomlet back in sixteen
– until Gary Johnson got into the debates, but couldn’t recognize a single good
foreign commander (not that any of us coulda done
better). And howabout
those Greens throwing the Y2K election to President Bush and all those
Russians? Now make no mistake, there has
been a significant third party presence, of late, if only as spoilers. Bobby
Kennedy, Junior? But where are our independent voices in
Congress? In the statehouses...
"Demographics,"
Henri smirked, with a patrician nod. Glenn, nodding through the speech and
Henri's running commentary, checked his watch again.
"The
true lesson of the Reform, the Rainbow, Trump and all of these other populist
movements is that change grows only out of confrontation," Rayna's keynote
speaker concluded. "And if it is our destiny to challenge the two-party
system, and fail... as Teddy Roosevelt, George Wallace and John Anderson
failed, not to mention Ross Perot... I say, well, would we have been the better
society if those who, in 1860, attempted to dissuade Abraham Lincoln from
tossing his stovepipe hat into the ring with the support of a new, largely
untested minor party with a record of oh and one had prevailed?"
"Bring
back the Know-Nothings!" some wag hollered back from the peanut gallery.
“The
Whigs!” proffered another.
"They’s the ones on Trump’s head!" another shouted in
response.
Ratso chuckled, tossing his empty styrofoam
cup at a trashbucket; it hit the rim and bounced off.
"Well, Pat ain't no Jesse Ventura! Ain't even an Al Franken! And before he wraps himself in
the flag, speaking of spectacle and violence, tell me if we're going to have
any trouble outside."
"Are
you kidding?" Glenn retorted. "You live here, you know
how incompetent Andy Morrison is... and he's probably their best organizer!
It'll be a Chinese... pardon me, an Asian-American… fire drill out
there!" He sniffed, as though the pungency of the early morning air held
portents and augurs among the garlic and sugar pastries and the perspiration.
"When they count up votes, I wouldn't be surprised to see Pat and Rayna
run out, crying, looking for the nearest psychic channeller
outside to sign up with – maybe that one as used to be in Democratic primaries
and is going up against President Joe this time ‘round. Or maybe Robert Freakin’
Kennedy junior and his “Lock Fauci Up” brigades?"
"Are
they here?" Henri inquired, peering out into the crowd, as
if on the watch for aliens. "Figures! Some of those California people
never got over Ahrnuld and wife... now they're
talking up George Clooney taking on Dennis Hopper… no, he’s dead, what's his
name, that other fellow – Meathead, from that old TV show? And the Grand Old Party? Busey? Bonaduce? At least
Robin Williams’ not gonna run, dead too, nor Gilbert Gottfried... for the
present, unless they cancel his show.
And Tim Allen, Joe Piscopo and Dennis Miller
wouldn’t take the pay cut. So we’re down
to Hank Junior and Sir Charles Barkley dukin’ it out
in Alabama, poor Jeff Sessions’ old haunts.
Well, keep in touch. Something unexpected outside still might jump up
and embarrass Patty-poo!"
"Is
that supposed to mean anything?" But Henri, with a quixotic
smile, had already delved into the crowd. From the podium, O'Neraghty
was already winding up his spiel…
"Well
let me tell you this, the Rainbow still shines brightly over Masty Hall today. Minorities and Jews, white Anglo-Saxons;
we are all ethnics and immigrants, too; small entrepreneurs and working people,
retirees, Italians and housewives. Is that sexist? Well how about Second
Amendment freedom fighters and house-husbands, there's some of each here, too!
People who play ball for a living... but not with the status quo... like
Antoine al Shabazz of the Cleveland Cavaliers, stand up Shabby, hard to miss ya! And Vic Paleveski, winner of
last year's Duluth-Superior Open on the Hooters Tour!"
An
impossibly tall, impossibly thin black man stood up from the VIP bleachers
behind O'Neraghty and waved, standing next to the
short, thick, sandy-haired golfer, making, as it appeared to Glenn, a sort of
human numeral ten.
"We've
got plenty of people with political experience who are tired and frustrated of
having their concerns ignored. Republicans? Why not! Maybe even a few
Democrats; sadder maybe for the pigfight there in
Congress in the midterms and the Corbyesque meltdown
ever since... probably wiser, definitely older. You know, a colleague of Jack's
father, Senator Parnell, coined a term for those who got into politics through
Gary Hart's campaign, way back in '84... Frumpies! Really!
Formerly Radical, Upwardly Mobile Professionals! As opposed to us Stumpies... still radical!... up on the
stumps and the soapboxes, doing the good work for Austin Tillerman, also from
Colorado, keeping watch out on them mountains and Mexicans out there, ready to
blast a couple of those United Nation's black helicopters out of the sky!
Yes... and I think we have some Frumpies and Stumpies here, the both!... red and blue,
white and... so why don't you give yourselves a hand!"
A
vendor stepped into Glenn's path as he turned away in disgust and incredulity.
"Hey!
Hey, yo! Got a minute?"
"Not
innarested," Glenn turned his face away.
"I'm late!"
"No...
hold on, remember?" the vendor thrust his own face into Glenn's.
"From yesterday?"
Glenn
recognized the man... with brief, stabbing guilt at the convention junk he'd
appropriated, then dumped in the Ivona wastebasket to
be thrown out, or for the maids to take home... he was the one whose wares Tom
Beedle had ransacked the other day. "Oh yeah! How's business? Listen, I gotta check back, but..."
"Business
sucks, man! Help me. Please! You people gotta
help me!"
Glenn
was already past the little wagon of kitsch, but the desperation slowed him,
interested him, too. That, and the inevitable liberal guilt. "So, what's
this about?" he asked, turning, carelessly...
"You
know Tom Beedle, don't you? You were with him. Listen, me an' the
other guys, we gotta talk to him! Those
motherfuckers outside, they're cutting us all new assholes. Bootleg shit all
over that park. Buttons! T-shirts! Watches, like yours," he pointed,
"only the cheap shit; Chinese… break down inna
month but only fifteen dollars. Probably
fulla lead or that white stuff they put into
milk. Even those little underwater
aquariums that move around with plastic catfish when you shake 'em, telescopes
you look into and see 'Democracy - it's in the stars!' and then it blackens
your eye? Everything’s a copy! Stuff
we're selling for eight bucks they got for three, and they're still makin' all the money because they don't pay no royalties,
no rent, no permits fee... nothing!
Well, maybe a little something to somebody under the counter. We gotta talk to
Tom..."
"I'll
tell him if I see him," Glenn backed away.
"It's
our life, bro’. Our fuckin' businesses... I got four kids! We paid you
guys a hell of a lot of money to be here," the vendor added in an
increasingly hostile tone, "and it's all going down the toilet!" He
aimed one of the plastic telescopes towards Glenn like a .45. "If Beedle
doesn't fix this, we ain't coming back tomorrow. We
walk. And the next time we see you,
won’t be in court!"
"Then
I'll be sure to tell him." Shaking his head and cursing under his breath,
Glenn kept circling the periphery of Masty Hall,
suddenly wary of each of the shouting, gesturing hawkers, each of whom seemed
to be glaring at him, personally, demoralizing Jewish death-rays spouting out
from their reptilian eyes...
Pat
O'Neraghty, after several false endeavors at
conclusion, now really seemed to be
coming to his end... "so, without any further words, I'd like to introduce
to you a man who has been one of the true inspirations for the Coalition, Emmy
Award nominee for his supporting role in "Sales"... here's the man
whom millions know and love as the toughest department store detective in all
Chicago, but whom we also appreciate as a humanitarian, a friend and a
philosopher... and no relation to Scott, either!... give it up for Todd Walker!"
Glenn
turned away, muttering "fuckin' actors" as a tall man in a cream suit
and capped, gleaming teeth stepped forth and waved. He pushed rudely through
the crowd, cutting to the outside edge of the hall where the press of flesh was
less dense... finally discerned Anne, waiting under a makeshift red, white and
blue-bannered "Polish Pups" booth.
"Glenn!
These things are yummy! Want one? They taste just like the ones at the
stadium..."
"Too
early," Glenn waved her off, queasily. "How are we holding?"
"Good,
good! But," she added, "it's not just a question of winning, any
more, it's how you win, and what happens after."
"You
think I don't know? Reason I look so ugly is I just got through with Ratso, or he got through with me."
"And?"
"And
he's another one, hunnert and ten percent behind starting some bloodbath
outside tomorrow to draw in more out-of-town media." Glenn's sour
expression soured another ten degrees, he shook the remnants of the crappy
coffee out of the convention cup and began crushing it between his fingers.
"Pinhead, Beedle, Ratso... are we supposed to be
the vanguard of the New Age political consciousness, or an Apalachin
powwow of jerks? Hoods who couldn't
shoot their way out of a TV movie? And what are Rinker's people up to? Where
does he fit into all of this shit?"
"They
want pure white snow and snowpeople, yellow
dandelions - all those environmental things. And to mine or, at least,
electrify the President’s white-elephant fence across Arizona and New Mexico
and zap the incoming Mexicans like flies.
Windmill-powered Mexi-zappers, of course. And a big noise when the Trillerbite
concedes with his testimonial to Sheriff Senator Joe, and maybe a little
gratitude in lieu of officially designating him elder statesman. Maybe a promise of
appointment as Ambassador to the Hapsburg Empire when his term’s up and he’s
what… ninety four?"
"Rinker's
dishonest. I don't trust him. I don't want you spending so much time
with him either."
"Take
it up with Morty Scow," she retorted, sharply. "I have got my job to
do. Austin Tillerman has a lot of influence; he may not have enough people to
have his way, but if this was a matter of a choice coming down to who has the
fatter checkbook, take out the Rayna factor and I think we'd be in a lot of
trouble."
"I'm
not talking about Tillerman," Glenn persisted, "I'm talking about Rinker!"
"What's
your problem? He's just there, that's one of those things.
It's better than being on the other side, having to work with Jack through Scow
and Beedle..."
"I
just don't want you to overdo your socializing with him, like you were doing
last month, in Sedona, at that garbagemen's affair..."
"Recyclers..."
Anne corrected him, licking crumbs from her fingers.
"Garbagemen!"
Glenn scolded. "Besides, do I smell garlic? Look, I like Poland, everybody does in
America these days, but I don't see how you can eat that shit so early in the
morning!" Leaving Anne staring in amazement and contempt, he set his jaw,
preparing to march off into the crowd but lingering, like a dog waiting to be
kicked one last time.
"Yeah,
well screw you, too!" she finally replied and, with that, Glenn turned and
took off. The Polish Pup vendor stared, perhaps a little too hard. "Oh...
sorry..." she said, "...these are really good, he doesn't matter.
Diet-crankypated! In fact, let me have
another..."
Squeezing
a quarter inch of her newborn Pup from its bun, Anne glared defiantly at the
retreating Glenn, then bit off a hot, garlicky bite. Glenn glanced over his
shoulder as he elbowed his way towards one of the DreamBell™
banks and, with a final look to ensure nobody important was hanging around the
pay phones, took out the number Beedle had given him, dropped six Reagan
quarters into the slot, and dialed.
"Hello?
Yah... Tom suggests we get together and figure out how to do this thing. Yeah, we’re secure, it’s a public phone. I've got an idea. It is? OK, we'll meet at...
hold on, let me write this down..."
He
fumbled for a piece of paper, but found none... only the largest wedge of the styrofoam coffee cup he'd been slowly crumpling during the
unpleasant exchange with Anne.
It
would have to do.
"Go!"
he said and, as the actor onstage told one more Hollywood location anecdote,
and made one more plea for the whales and children, Glenn wrote down the
address and time that the man on the other end of the line gave him.
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