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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 41 SUNDAY the NINTH - 11:06 AM A
disforecasted, disforgiving
wind began to stir as Sunday dawned and, by opening gavel on the CNC
convention’s final day, whipped through trees in the plaza opposite Masty Hall with mean, devilish intent. The sky flashed
alternately bright and mottled gray with ever-more-menacing purple clouds
chasing each other hastily as Coalition delegates inside were summoned to
prayer by famed Militia Minister Tim Baseline of |
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By
the time the rabbi, lama, Jesuit and Wiccan within finished broadcasting their
invocations over a campus radio station booming from a dozen boomboxes forthwards, leaflets
without had gone blowing in the wind; banners flapped frumiously
and coiffures disintegrated into anarchy.
An environmental spectre in full moose costume
tumbled through the growing throng of Conk protestors... captive to the gusts
tugging and taunting his styrofoam
antlers.
Ecumenicism blown away, angry speeches soon ripped through
the air, amplified over conventional invocations by the city's sound system...
denunciations of meat, money and microaggressions,
accusations that CNC vigilantes were intimidating Asian, Mexican and East
Indian professionals with legal credentials in the name of saving American
jobs. A phalanx of city cops in full combat regalia and plastic shields held
the street between the plaza and Masty Hall secure,
causing an angry backup of delegates passing through the checkpoint just to get
across the street. Turquoise-hatted UN
monitors wandered back and forth at intersections, waiting for something to
happen but, huddling at the perimeter of the park where, at a red, white and
blue booth whose bunting... marked ASSIGNMENTS... had already begun to unravel,
a horde of angry, desperate exhibitors berated Marty Lesh
and Tom Jenks.
"Ten
minutes man, that's all I'm asking," Jorge Gamba
pleaded. "A tiny, insignificant ten
minutes for the Arias memorial tape from Madrid. Is this unreasonable? Are
efforts to stop the fighting in Costa Rica unreasonable? I think not..."
"Georgio..." Tom tried to steer him down, "it's in
Spanish!"
"So?
You have a problem with that?
You trumpin’ me?"
"Look
around, man," Marty motioned. "Like... this ain't
exactly East Los Angeles. If ten percent of these people knew ten percent of
what was going on from that speech, I'd be fuckin' astonished."
"Plus
it's really what... twelve minutes? Fifteen?" Tom guessed. "Countin' after you have to explain what the guy is saying,
right?"
"Just
a few little minutes from a man trying to do right by the people. You'd deny us
this..."
"I...
hey Andy, hey... hey, get over here!" waved Marty, giving up
the can and kicking the ghost.
Andy
Morrison put down the little Catfish pendant being shown him by the vendor,
Ace, who'd somehow slipped out of jail during the exodus of politicals. Ace wore a sandwich board of Coalition
buttons and had spread his cheap but legitimately licensed Catfish merch out over a card table.
"Don't
cover my ass they can shove their licenses," he kept
repeating as Andy nodded, walking backwards toward ASSIGNMENTS and
rationalizing that the dude was so dangerously out-of-luck peddling Parnell
crap out here that it’d be overkill to jack him for a fee. His knuckles still hurt from the previous evening’s
beatdown.
"Hey
man, we missed you last night!" Marty complained. "You fucked us
up!"
"How?"
"Things
got sort of out of control. There were a lot of bad votes."
"Bad
votes?" Tom interrupted. "Hell, these outside people ran off their
mouths for hours until everybody local, almost, quit and went home to catch up
on Z's. That was about three in the morning, when they put in all these new
regulations..."
Jorge
motioned for attention once more. "Andy, my friend, my old, old friend...
a miniscule, humble ten minutes for our Arias tape..." but, at this, he
was interrupted by a tall man in a baby blue suit, wielding a clipboard.
"Your
request is denied. Costa Rica's environmental record was terrible when that
madman was in power, even though their marine mammal policy has only grown
worse since the coup."
"Yeah...
and who the fuck are you?" Andy
challenged.
"Dan
Merkl." The man extended a hand, which Andy
stared at distastefully. "I'm the Events vice-chairman."
"No,
dude, who are you in real life?"
"Uhh... I'm with the Sea-Watch? We flew in last evening from
Cape May, that's in New Jersey," Merkl added,
with a sigh of patience. Realizing that
his hand wasn't to be accepted, he proffered a fist to bump, then a business
card, at which Andy also stared stonily before responding.
"I
talked to your people two weeks ago, when it looked like we weren't going to
get permits and told you that if you wanted to be here, you'd be accepting some
risk of arrest, or worse. Your office said that you weren't coming."
And
then he shrugged. "Well, someone
called my girl on Friday morning and said the matter had been settled... come
on down!” Merkl protested. “They faxed us information, and said to look
for this Andy Morrison, but he wasn't at the organizational meeting last night
when those present recognized and approved my credentials. Do you know where I
can find him?"
Inquiry...
cold inquiry... dwelt in Tom and Marty's faces.
"This
started up last night," Tom finally declared. "It's been going on all
morning. Where the hell were you, and what the hell were you
doing, authorizing all of these people?"
"Give
me that fax!" Merkl hesitantly handed over
several papers, which Andy glanced at dispassionately. "You got this on
Friday morning?" he looked up.
"I
was out. My office did... they faxed their acceptance immediately. Of course I
would have called... if there was a return number... frankly, sir, you really
should have twittered…"
"Sure!"
He turned to Tom. "How many people have asked for mike time?"
"Twice
as many as we can handle. Oh... this bunch that came in late last night threw
some of them off, only they didn't tell ‘em... so they're hanging around,
talking about storming the stage with baseball bats 'n crap like that."
"The
Europeans voted... consensed... to cut out the music
if there were conflicts," Marty added.
"Well,
that's one way of solving the problem. Nobody's gonna hang out listening to
eight solid hours of speeches. Where was this fucking meeting anyway?"
Marty
looked down. "Malik's," he finally said, barely above a whisper.
"Now you see why we were all anxious to get out of there..."
Jorge
cut in. "Man, you better know what you've been doing! People be saying serious shit about you..."
"There
ain't a fax machine in jail..." Andy
objected. “Or just
about anywhere, anymore!”
"But
Disson's office has one. That's where you would have
made the calls and faxes from, after they took you away from the others."
Marty snatched one of Merkl's faxes, drew a line with
his thumb under one of the numbers at the top.
"Who
says this?"
Tom
scratched his ear. "Bunch of people busted Wednesday, at the Dorritt," he finally said.
"Bring
them here!" Andy shot back.
Merkl made a waving gesture as if to recover his faxes.
"Look, I don't know about your internal processes... frankly, I don't
care. We were contacted and I was under the impressions that this was a
responsible outfit, and I was appointed..."
"So
how 'bout it man?" Jorge cut him off. "Ten minutes..."
"Is
Fred here?" Andy asked Tom, while Marty was being collared by yet another
angry exhibitor.
"I
guess. I saw him over by the stage. He the one who does a lot
of work for people in the bands?"
"OK,
we're going to set up a second stage. Over there!" he pointed, "on
the northwest side of the park. The band shit stays here, but two of the
surplus speaker sets move over. I'll make just a little equipment disappear so
as to set up a primitive PA system..."
"What
do we do for a stage?" Tom asked.
"Fred
and Terri will round up some milk cartons from the Sanctuary and we'll cover
them with some of the extra planks."
"No!
I refuse!" Merkl protested.
"We have twelve thousand
dues-paying members… responsible
people!... and not one of them is to be humiliated by having me have to address
the planet on a second-rate stage built out of scrap boards and pirated
toxic plastic milk cartons!"
"Fine!"
said Andy, "more time for you, Jorge." He shook the faxes out of his
hand and the wind snatched them away. "You're not needed here anymore,"
he told Merkl, "so haul your green ass back to
Jersey! Tillerman man, right... straight outta Buffalo?
You have my sympathy about Sandy…" he added, “…and Christie…”
He
started walking away as a lady Futurist who'd been badgering Marty realized he
was the Andy Morrison...
"Come
back!" Merkl shrieked. "My faxes!"
"Don't
run from us!" the woman chimed in. "We're the Chicago
chapter of the Futurian Society, Mr. Morrison, and we
have three attorneys on staff..."
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SUNDAY the NINTH - 11:21 AM
On
the floor of Masty Hall, a strangely choreographed
debate had broken out between two delegates on short, twin podiums with a
moderator caught between. Glenn, Anne, Tom Beedle and
a cadaverous labor boss, Carlos Uriz from Delano,
California, glanced at the proceedings from time to time with the jaundiced
eyes of gamblers assessing a rigged cockfight.
The
Eleven-at-Eleven cameraman panned past them to hordes of hung-over Conks,
waving from the galleries like drunken MMA fans.
"Thank
you, you've been terrific!" said the talking head on the left. "The
majority platform seeks only fair reform; we're not throwing babies out with
bathwater. We realize that some... some who have their share and perhaps a
little more, besides, given the President’s capitulation on tax cuts for the
affluent, have their concerns about Jack’s rent stamp program. Our reforms, we
feel, address major abuses in the system. Decent housing for all is not a
privilege, it is a right... and the CNC is proud to be advancing these
reasonable reforms."
Beedle leaned over Anne, towards Uriz.
"Jack and Rayna must be having shit fits... how about it? What do our
labor people say?"
Uriz was a man of few words, each with its price. "They say… you pay."
"Ain't that sweet?" Beedle
stepped back, braying towards Anne and Glenn, a malted Highland fog wafting
past their noses. "Ain't he a regular Jesse
fuckin' Jimenez? I love it!"
He
slapped Carlos, who was a good eight inches taller, on a Brioni-cloaked
kidney.
The
moderator smiled, fetchingly. "Thank you. Roger Washburn, Coalition for
Housing and New York delegate. And now, with the minority platform, Donna
Bateson of the California Tenants' Council."
"Thank
you, too!" Bateson reciprocated. "Although it would appear that the
matter has been settled in private, secretly, I appreciate your warm response.
I can only hope that, at some date in the future, this Coalition will give very
close scrutiny to the effect of the platform that Mr. Washburn outlines.
Frankly, one just cannot continue to enrich wealthy property owners; developers
like the Trump family and financial institutions keeping thousands of homes
vacant, converting homes for working people into massively overpriced air b&bs and continuing to house the poor in costly, but
crime-infested by-the-hour-motels without assuming more massive quantities of
debt that can only be paid by taxing the middle class into extinction. If we
should vote to rejoin the Democratic Party, we must be mindful not to fall into
the trap of accommodating their failed policies... just as Congressman Parnell
warns in "Entropy and Renaissance"! The role of government should not
be to rob the middle class to pay the rich to subsidize the poor... we need a
coherent, long-range housing policy and, if that involves Catfish-based Federal
intervention in local zoning issues where Federal money has been designated,
mortgage interest quotas or even Federal rent and price controls, as once were
implemented by President Nixon… God save us all!… let
us pick up that flag and plant it atop Capitol Hill. At a minimum, we cannot
afford to endorse any candidates who do not favor immediate repeal of State and
Federal prohibitions on local rent controls. Mr. Washburn... the people will be
watching! And thank you for your attention."
"Even
if we rejoin..." groaned Beedle, clapping index
fingers together contemptuously, "...what the hell chemistry gets into a
broad? Anne? The matter's fixed... we need the property owners’ and development
money and hell, what business has this bitch in hanging our bloody lingerie out
in public for the Republicans to sniff. President Nixon! No offense, Anne, but
do we have a real estate reality problem here, or what?" He snickered,
took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. "Or maybe just a female
problem?"
"And
thank you Ms. Bateson," concluded the perky moderator.
"The motion has been made and approved; all in favor of the majority
platform say "Aye!" A desultory howl rose from both the floor and
galleries... some elements of which distinctly differed from "Aye!"… but the moderator banged her gavel anyway. "The motion
carries."
"I
don't like this," Anne cast a fish-eye on the podium.
"You
don't?" Beedle did a double-take. "What is
the problem with Her Highness?" he asked Glenn. “Still on the rag about Jack’s telling the
folks on… Kimmel, was it? That other Jimmie?
Saying that he was a Satanist… he was just making a joke, being
sarcastic…”
“Like
the President promising a square deal for the women in Afghanistan and Iran or
the one before him telling people to drink bleach…” Glenn began… but Anne
persisted…
"Tom,
this is a dogshit special interest resolution that
could seriously fuck us up in the property tax committee. It's going to get the
balanced-budget people seriously pushing for Federal property taxes with real
teeth, not just a white bread anti-savings tax proposition. And that will kill
us with the Democrats..."
Beedle suddenly took her cheeks in both hands and planted a
wet, lip-smacking and communicable kiss as Glenn stared, glowering.
"Kid! Kid! It's the price we pay for having Watson
Morrow on board. And his money! And
every goddam banker and developer drowning in empty,
vandalized McMansions since the plague meltdown. And... don't
forget... the construction unions! Well…
at least the white guys. Don't worry!
Trust us! We'll kill 'em... dead, like roaches." He made a
pistol of his right finger and thumb, shot her between the breasts. "Ka-pow!"
“Kill
who, Prince Andrew?” Anne snapped before pushing him away and storming off into
the crowd. “Andrew Cuomo? Go back to the comedy club,” she retorted
over a shoulder.
"Anne!
Hey... Anne!" Failing to even make her look back, Beedle
turned on Glenn, savagely. "Shit! You doing your midnight duties? Ka-pow!" he grinned wickedly. "Hey, no, tell me,
she’s blowin’ me like a Donald Trumpet...
seriously... what the fuck's gotten into
her?"
Glenn
shrugged, miserably.
“Queasy qualms ‘bout money?” Beedle
needled. “Have to admit, Rayna’s got the art of the deal wrapped up three ways tighter
than that poor dupe in the White House ever conceived – given that his own Vice
used to do the nasty with the thirstiest landlord and developer sock puppets
among California Democrats - Senator Feinstein excepted, of course. Maybe. Devil alone knows the price they paid for
having her rope our cocaine cowboy into the running, figuring he’d peel off
just enough votes from the radical young people and… uh… the creatures of color
from the Democratic Party. And then, to
bolster the perception of her being a fair and balanced provocateur, she raised
up good ol’ Austin from his David Dukedom as a candidate for the Ecobordering greenies; drawing votes away from the
challenger for the incumbent’s benefit, and for the whities,
dividing the Republican turnout. And taking money from both sides. What a genius… no matter who wins, she’s got
the Secretary of the Treasury stuffed down her chest. Poor ol’ Minooch!... not to mention the Warren witch. You did
know, didn’t you?” the suddenly solicitous fixer raised an eyebrow…
“Sort
of,” Glenn replied, even more miserably.
“With our doddering donkey President blowing this way and that way on
retiring and that herd of elephants stampeding through
the swamp, who knows what might occur…”
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