|
k |
kkkkkkkkkkkk |
k |
|
k k k k k k k k k k |
BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 39 SATURDAY the EIGHTH - 11:28 PM "...but the idea you'd have gotten
sick and passed it on to Glenn is… so… not without interesting aspects," mused Andy, taking a hit off another
rolled joint – tobacco, now. "I mean, him having been so goddam smug and efficient; I could sort of see justice
in his being wheeled round a charity hospital with nobody to care about him…
after you’ve moved forward, yourself, of course… wheezing like those living
skeletons after Congress declared victory over the plague, cut Medicaid and
eighteen states closed hospitals, so two-thirds of the formerly nursing
homeboys refused Medicaid landed in the Sanctuary full of what they’re now
calling the twenty twenty one disease. Those ones
winos won't even go near, before HHS started shipping the worst cases off to,
I think, was it the Dominican Republic?" |
k k k k k k k k k k |
"Puerto Rico," Anne corrected, "not the
mainland, but an island, the one they used to bomb... government took it over
after that hurricane."
"Yeah...
hey, awful, but not so much worse than this place. Womb, room, doom, tomb." Andy snapped
his fingers then frowned, the handroll had sputtered
out. "Fuckin’ Porter Waggoner, one more dark angel in hillbilly heaven, too. Him, John Prine,
Alex Trebek, the black guy in that movie and James
Bond… all the good ones gone…" He
reached across Anne to the drawers, held it back up to a candle. “Jerry Lee!
America forgets what a vindictive S.O.B. Sleepy Joe can be…”
"Us
and Osama bin Laden, for your information,” Anne reminded him as the shorty flared back into life. “That's so trite it's adorable. Takes me back
to our days at the U. - like when that French philosopher came to the
auditorium in Tether Hall..."
"Piece-of-shit
cattle pen...
"And
talked all afternoon about symbolism while you were out doing what it is you
did in those days, then we'd stay up all night... talking and smoking and,
uh…"
"Glenn
doesn't smoke after fucking?" Andy wondered.
"Glenn
doesn't do much of anything after anything, anymore. Pinch of meth, now and then, the prescription
stuff, premium…" She pulled out her
new x-Pose, shook it and cursed, “…lost the charge. Again!
Do you… forget it!”
He
exhaled wearily. "But… don’t you love him?"
"This
is the twenty-first century," Anne replied. "We're usually busy
together, doing all these busy twenty-first century things – especially now to
make up for the time we lost to the plague. Working, fucking, listening to the
radio or x-Pose postings, watching stream-TV, sending, receiving messages on cellies, thinking... twitching… twittering… and all at the
same time. Picking up the dry-cleaning
for Rayna and Jack because they can’t find any more
delivery drones at sub-minimum and tips.
You heard about the baby?" Andy grunted what might have been
assent, might have been a denial. "There were all these important
conferences coming up and Glenn, well, he doesn't come right out and say
things, you know, just sort of insinuates them into happening..."
"Yeah,
I remember... hadda go to – Dominica, was it?"
"I
think he set something up with Rayna. So I got back at them, both... let the
Catfish take me to bed down in Houston. He's like... has this sort of Gary
Hart, Johnnie Edwards will-to-destruction thing with his Weinermobile,
you know? Like Elvis? Not creepy like Clinton or Harvey Weinstein, no
masturbation, no cigars, no pissing on the bed like they say Trump did in
Russia... he likes sex plain, vanilla... wham bam ma'am, thank you, thank God!”
“Gary Hart?” Andy
squinted. “We are getting old. Is he still
alive?”
“I don't think he
expected I would let him,” Anne hurried onwards. “He was always saying that,
like, we'd be working so closely together it would be better if there wasn't
any residual apprehensive tension or one of those mismatched phrases he uses to
make people think he's smarter or more funny or more
down-home country than he is. Same line
he throws to all the females. I mean...
he was fuckin' astonished that it happened. Pretended not to be... damn!"
"Was
he slimy and oily-smelling like a real fish?"
"Andy!"
She punched him on the arm. "Glenn hates kids. He's terrified of
committing himself, or anybody, to any future.
Not even a fuckin’ dog! Besides, the condo's singles-only, we'd have had
to move further out into the burbs, maybe out to where they shot George Wallace
in that parking lot - at this mall?
They’ve let that fruitcake out, did you know – he’s got a book, too,
probably gunnin’ for Jack as we speak if he doesn’t
get distracted by the Republican field or some movie deal. My phone needs a
charge, and the whole white race is too damn busy to
propagate!"
"Could
be worse, we’ll all be under a Mormon sharia or
whatever the hell they call it if that lady from what is it… not Utah, Arizona?... gets nominated? The underwear I could live with, but no
beer? No coffee? There’s that other religion that Ben Carson
believed in that bans coffee; people ask why he always looked sleepy and I
haven’t even started in about fuckin’ Bloomberg yet…
well, kiss 'em all goodbye and move in here. Hindus would probably let you; ten
more bucks a week under the table, fifteen tops. Going rate for couples. This
is the sort of place people who kill white politicians or Supreme Court
justices hang out in."
Anne
crawled over him and out of the creaking bed, fumbling for her clothes in the
guttering candlelight.
"I
would think it would make him an impossible candidate," Andy surmised,
letting her pass.
"Who?
What?"
"The
Catfish. I think he has risky sex because he's hoping to get caught; he'd
really rather work behind the scenes so he won't have to compromise himself by
actually running for President, or having to be responsible if he won,
somehow. Knowing that he’s even less
qualified for the job than the incumbent, let alone the guy before him…which is pretty bad company…" He followed her out of
the bed, and, when she bent over to flail around under it for one of her shoes,
straddled her uplifted ass and spanked her flank several times, like a goddam maskless Lone Ranger, urging Silver on to a quick hi
yo! Getaway...
"Stop Trumping at me!
Jack can do anyone he wants, so long as she’s legal tender… he’s
divorced. And he said he’d veto the
anti-contraception law when and if it passed.
Like Reagan before Nancy. Do we
have to sneak down the same way we got in?" she asked, over her shoulder,
pushing him aside so she could slide to the floor, sit and pull up a stocking,
open her purse and remove a device which she shook, looked at and snarled
“Charge!”.
"Yeah,
but it's no big deal. Phone’s right by
the office so that’s a no-go, but they got one at the liquor store. Fire door's alarmed but, if we hurry, we're
halfway down the block by the time one of the Babus
gets there. He'll jump around, rant in Hinduese a
while, then go back. Ten, fifteen minutes later I come back, buzz in... if he asks, I’m drunk, I went out for cigarettes or
something, too much of the wrong kind of traffic on the second floor stairs,
didn't see anything, forgot. Forgettin’s no big deal around here when you smell like
weed or whiskey... they’re from India, not Pakistan, no problem. Babu Two’s a viper,
he gets on the bubble pipe and’ll talk to you all day
about Kashmir or how America screwed his people over by snatching all the
vaccines that company there which makes the generic stuff put out… deporting
all those tech guys sending money back home after Apple and Facebook
and Musk fired them..."
He
leaned over the bed and blew the candles out, plunging the room into darkness.
In silence, abrupt as the darkness that had enveloped them, noise from of a
hundred other rooms rose up... their radios and TV newscasters; laughter,
arguments; creaking bedspring sonatas that slithered through walls, floor, ceilings. Sirens through the open window, an argument on the
street... rustlings in the walls that were probably disgruntled Republican
spies, or Russians, or rats…
"Did
you ever dream, when you were little, of running away to join the circus?"
she asked through the soft rustling of clothes being pulled on, the shriek of a
zipper pulled up. "I did. Then I woke up and found out it was real, and I
was the one running the circus... well, a big part of it. And I wanted to run
away, but there was no place left to run to.
When you’re running away from
the circus, I mean. So now I’m the ringmistress… well, a sort of Assistant Ringmistress…
one of many multitudes who did the nasty with a man who just might be the next
President of the United States…"
A
practical remark interrupted her reveries. "Might! Speaking of circuses," Andy whispered in
the dark, "Pinhead threw in passes to the convention tomorrow. What do you
think? Is it worth checking out?"
"That's
not what I meant," she said, speaking in the direction that she thought
she saw his shadow in. Raising a hand to her shoulder, thinking of Henry, then
of something else. "But... yes, you ought to. Yes! In fact,
if you can meet me at noon,” she brightened, “I'll get you onto the floor. And
if you know a few other reliable people, registered voters here, I can get them
in too and sign them up in the Coalition for free. Four, no… five of them,
that’ll do. What about those attorneys you know... do you have their
numbers?"
The
light, suddenly turned on, was blinding. Anne raised a hand to cover her eyes,
protecting herself, as if anticipating a blow out of the night or, perhaps, a
ravenous spider. And no Renfield, nor Judge Rehnquist – not even a lecherous
Justice Kavanaugh in sight…
|
kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk |
k |
SATURDAY the EIGHTH - 11:36 PM
Anne and Andy sidled downstairs through the quieting halls
of the Hindu hotel... the man formerly sprawled on the stairs was gone and they
reached the fire door without incident. "Go left around the corner!"
Andy said, pushing her through; buzzers resounded again, curses rising from
behind doors… lights flickering on in windows behind shades of rags and soiled
bedsheets… and they sprinted down the block laughing like kids, lost in shadows
cast by the huge old trees that still protected the despairing dwellings and
peoples of the street. Andy saw a light where a Babu,
or one of the extended family, had opened the door, but knew they couldn't see
him or Anne. "Can't bust 'em!" he reassured himself, then guided Anne
down to the liquor store in the middle of the block... the one run by dour
Palestinians in primly pressed white shirts and checkered demonic kefiyahs doling out poison to decadent Americans; never
responding… as he’d learned long ago… to the frequent appeals to join in the
common struggles of the infidel poor. There was a working pay phone there...
something of a miracle for the neighborhood, or even the nation… though local
calls cost a dollar and a quarter, here, instead of just a buck.
Anne
called the cab company… at least she hadn’t hopped the Uber
train yet, Andy affirmed, so he gave her another twenty from the rumpled paper
bag, since she'd left him with the check for more money than the cost of their
meal and subsequent drinks and the fee for the check cashing place. While she
was on the line, he bought a half-liter can of ABM and a five-twenty pack of
generic smokes… not GodMarts but the next cheapest
brand, Timeless Time. For years he'd
played at tracking the price of gas against cigarettes... gas was a little
cheaper, still, but would probably start going up, soon as the summer vacation
season began. He didn't want to know the price of a cab, even one of those fake
ones driven by psychopaths... didn't want to think about it. Anne pretended to
be interested in all the bright green and fluorescent orange snacks while the
Palestinian brothers (everybody on the street who used to call them Arakat and Arafat back in the day were now calling them
Sissy and Fatty) discussed something... probably the day of the uprising...
behind the counter where, Andy figured, they probably had two shotguns within
reach, maybe three. Nobody bothered anybody, nobody else came in... soon, amazingly, a real cab pulled up at the curb, honked,
and he walked Anne out the door.
"Take
care of yourself," she said, pecking at his cheek as if they were an old,
married couple, and then she was gone. Holding cigarettes in his left hand,
beer in the right, Andy turned back, seeing someone step out of the alley
beside the liquor store, bright cropped hair sparkling under the flashing neon
of the big-hatted Frito Bandido sign, brought back
from perdition for a new generation of the politically incorrect.
Rael...
"Man,
I thought we... you know... had something together," she
said, trying not to break into tears.
"So?"
Andy tried to appear unruffled, wishing, though, that he'd tucked in his own
only-white shirt. That he'd put on something that didn't stand out so in the
dark. "Business! Part of the doing's in keeping
other people alive, some women aren't safe out here, on their own..."
"I
saw you and her come out of the hotel," she said, and he
knew he must be looking like an idiot there... standing out on the street in
his business shirt like just another busted white-collar cheater. "I came
by, thought we could, you know... but you're a... a..."
But
she couldn't think of anything that didn't in some way reflect on some animal
or other... instead she burst into sobs and ran past him in the direction away
from Andy's corner...
"Rael!"
he called after her, and began to follow, but without sincerity. She was gone
and who was he kidding... she was what... eighteen? Maybe nineteen?
When
he and Anne and Glenn were at the U., they'd made fun of all the old hippies
hanging round... perpetual students, hoping to score grants or a piece of
ass... some making the transition to teaching assistant, others pouring coffee,
collating at one of the copy shops, cashing checks from the family. Those
former student princes combing over bald spots on their scalp as thirty
receded, forty loomed, then fifty… posting manifestoes on the Internet that
advocated the cancelling of the Wright Brothers or wrong colleagues… pawing at
psychology majorettes in their shabby lineaments as, they hoped, hinted at
independence, at hipsterness...
Losers!
Old
losers!
He
popped the top off his ABM...
|
kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk |
k |
RETURN to "BLACK HELICOPTERS" directory
VIEW CURRENT COLUMN by JACK "CATFISH" PARNELL... "ENTROPY and RENAISSANCE"
Check out the unique Generisis LINKS and REFERENCES!
Take an excursion through the GENERISIS catalog...
Go to the Generisis HOMEPAGE, at which useful
information might be obtained!
Have a glance
at the current episode of our occult serial, wherein a young American
encounters bizarre foreign artists and occultists – from Aleister
Crowley and William Yeats to Alfred Jarry and a
young, very feral Adolph Schicklgruber…
Follow
the mob of desperate football fanatics who, after the
FCC approves moving the Superbowl to a premium
channel accessible only by a scarce and expensive black box, storm their local
electronics outlets to fight for their right to spectate,
in…
And tap into the adventures of outsourced and downsized middle-aged, formerly middle-class Americans
reduced to peddling hotdogs under the thumb of a psychotic Millenial
manager learn the dubious delights of low-rent sex, drugs and rock n’roll while plotting revenge, in…