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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 42 SUNDAY the NINTH - 12:18 PM Outside Masty
Hall, Jorge Gamba's voice... the Arias jungle-tape
having been played in its baleful, untranslated, insurrectional entirety... vied with an earnest
folksinger at the opposite end of the plaza. "And what is the nature of such
intervention as makes even men of peace take up arms in utter, absolute
disgust? It comes at the invitation of a corrupt, so-called-Democratic
dictatorship that lawlessly overthrew the last bastion of progressive
democracy in the Americas. Should we extend such invitation to United Nations
peacekeeping forces working with these same dictators? Let's hear you... Viva
Arias, down with Intervention… down with land mines on the border, those
buses from Texas, down with authorizing more mounted vigilantes with
bullwhips! Viva Comandante Cuatros!
Viva Arias..." |
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The
crowd... at least that portion of it gathered near the speakers' stage... took
up the chant. The zone of dissonance between the musical and the political...
unfair at its base, owing to the stronger PA system on the folksinger's
stage... took place about two thirds of the way back from the latter, though a
swarming mass of undecided millenials milled between
the factions. The rain still held back, caucusing in purple clouds scooting
across the sky, but the wind continued to intensify. Leaflets, paper cups and
plates, bunting and trash... all would occasionally fly by Andy and Leo Goldman
as they huddled, inconspicuously – as they hoped – beneath a tree.
"I
can call this P.I. that I know, if he's in," Leo added.
"Realistically he'd be out here.
Probably around one of the anti-JEDI, anti-Siti
tables... he’s a sort of a Libertarian… but he'd still want money..."
voice dropping like the Dow after the latest Fed Chairman had announced her
plans to cut back on the money supply…
"Well,
you'd have to find somebody to front it," Andy said firmly.
"According
to what I've been hearing all day, you're supposed to be the one
flashing that big bankroll you stole from the people."
"That
part of it I've had tracked down," Andy smiled grimly. "It was
Richard Reid. Dude can't help drinking
from the Man’s toilet... I haven't made my mind up on whether he's a
provocateur. More likely, just a common asshole..."
"He's
no government agent, if that's what you mean. Those people have strict orders
never to assault their targets unless they've been authorized to kill them. He
could have goaded you on, provoked attack and then he could have
had you taken to court..."
"Like
Disson..."
"Exactly.
No... you've definitely been infiltrated, but it would
be somebody more subtle, someone you'd never expect. Somebody with juice to cut
a deal with Sly, smart enough to get into Disson's
office and, quote unquote, borrow his
fax machine. Faxes!...
this fuckin’ city can’t afford to crawl out of the 20th
century! With whatever you've been doing
with the Conks, it's understandable that most outside people would think the
rat was you. You've been here forever, so people don't know or care about your
credentials. An infiltrator would have been placed in advance, months ago,
maybe, but, with the University, people coming and going, it's a perfect place
to set up all kinds of double agents."
"Then
fuck all this James Bond shit! You sound like one of those old MAGA people,
still fighting on like that Japanese ninja on a deserted island a half a
century after World War Two. Too late!
You did talk to Anne... right? I mean,
what the fuck? Shit down here'll play out on its own; I'm not needed anymore
and she told me she could get six of us in as voting so-called host delegates,
in order to get this more progressive entitlement platform passed – as she puts
it. Might be true, might not. So if I'm as unprincipled as people think, why
not go inside? There might
be free refreshments..."
"It's
never that simple," Leo warned, shaking his head.
"I
just hustle details. This..." and he waved his hand from the political stage
to the folksinger across the plaza, "...is nothing but a bunch of mostly
polite, white college students and unpolite street
people on bad drugs, plus some out-of-town sixties leftovers crashing at
Malik’s or quadrupling up in AARP discount motels enjoying the speeches, music
and the weather..."
"It's
windy!" Leo objected. "And nothing but the same old
factions, talking to themselves!"
"I
think it's rather nice that it all separated out... there's not much politics
in the music, hardly any art in the politics, and the media will probably
inflate the size of the crowd because it's strung out... looks larger than it
is, I mean, thanks to all the police spies and convention looky-loos. And if people who gave up struggling for
power get to pretend that somebody cares what they think, more power to
‘em. Which might or might not help or
hurt the Conks and, by now, I don't really care. The more things get fucked-up,
the better. If we'd secured our permits
two months ago, it would have looked a little more professional, maybe drawn
another thousand people, but same difference. Thing that bothers me is what
were they worried about? I mean... the system's going to survive these
speeches, it survived the sixties, when people mattered, the eighties, when
they didn’t, the Bush boys, Slick Willie, Obama; it passed the Trump years
through its colon like a bad plate of oysters, and is now preparing to hasten
Uncle Joe Biden back to civilian life while both institutional parties
collapse. So it'll certainly survive the
Coalition. Third parties always run out
of gas before November. It’s like the
system won’t tolerate even the puniest positive statement of resistance – like
the whole country, top to bottom, is demonically possessed. Like Zambia, or Syria, or Burma..."
“Myan…”
Leo started to correct, then gave up the pretense and both of them watched a
faceless, genderless spectre in a broken, taped up styrofoam lobster costume stumble past, blown by the
pitiless wind.
"Maybe Osama
was right…” Andy ventured.
"Well,
he was a role model for the communities of color, even if he tried to tell
everybody what they wanted to hear and wound up impotent as Carter…”
“I
said OSAMA, not Obama, you fuckin’ lawyer. That guy – still alive in the hearts and
minds of true believers – releasing doctored cassette tapes, riding the hills
on a white camel or Cadillac with his faithful sidekick, Elvis. Hey… my work's done, and I'm still curious
about the circus inside…”
And,
as he said this, Rael circled the tree to interrupt them.
"Andy,
you better get the fuck out of here! There's this guy looking to
kill you! Eddie says he was some friend of Paulie's,
blames you for killing him. Tall guy,
Ted... Fred... had a gun? Shot up the
Sanctuary but he didn't hit anybody except Eddie's TV, and that was already
broken. Is Paulie really dead?"
"'Fraid so. But I didn't do it," Andy
swore, "dumb motherfucker hanged himself in jail.
Pussy! Not that people out here give a
rat's ass about truth, anymore."
"Well,
now... as there seem to be at least some people around who would take you up on
your offer," Leo suggested, "it might not be a bad idea to go inside awhile, out from this idiot
wind..."
"Eddie
call the cops?" When Rael nodded, Andy shrugged his surrender. He and Leo
dove into the wind, circling round back of the music stage towards the street,
where running verbal battles flared between surly, middle-aged Conks... most of
whom were there either to listen to the music, jabber away on cellphones and take selfies at
the table where real, live Communists (some in red MAGA hats) were selling
bric-a-brac or catch a smoke away from tobacco-free Masty
Hall... while avoiding the noisiest of the mostly young, mostly disheveled
protesters.
"That
Catfish is an agent of the Trilateral Commission," harangued one of the
louder outliers, a stocky, middle-aged man in a blue satin jacket with a union
emblem on it. "He's another JFK alright... the JFK of Vietnam and the
Cuban Missile Crisis. Of the mob,
Dominican Republic and Toots Shor!"
"Hey
dude," the tallest of a posse of CNC delegates replied, "don't spend
the rest of your life on drugs. Jack hates Trilats,
besides, what's wrong with eating out once in a while? Barmaids and busboys
need jobs, too! You want to protest something, how about the Hilton jacking up
prices, charging four bucks for these little bags of ice. We're not all
billionaires..."
"Too
bad," smirked a kid in a brown circle-A shirt, "you're just the
common millionaire motherfuckers who want to make cigarettes and Diet Coke
illegal!" And, as he still could,
he took a hit off the former, in his right hand, and a swallow of the latter,
in his left.
Andy
and Leo crossed the street under the baleful glare of the police; then followed
some laughing, gesticulating Conks, flashing their passes to the security
guards manning the sawhorses, then encountered another
team at the entrance to Masty Hall, festooned with
signs saying "No Cans, No Bottles, No Outside Foods! No Alcohol, No
Illicit Drugs, No Cameras. No Recording Devices. No Weapons, No Pets (the
appendage “except seeing-eye dogs with pre-issued permits” having been XXXed out after the Amtrack
service-dog bombings). Have a nice Convention!"
"Who
are these Sominex people?" Andy wondered aloud
as a government-approved sniffing-nose dog on a leash sniffed his shoes,
sneezed, and moved on to the ACLU attorney. "All they have to offer are
guilt, jails and more rules and regulations."
"Some,
I suspect, really believed in a better world, once upon a time," Leo
replied. "I'm not complaining... some of them also give us money..."
They
fell into another security line behind a woman carrying a cake in an open
cardboard container. The tap-dancing Catfish with wide moustaches, top hat and
firearm dangling between its fins was etched into the white frosting in
blood-red icing, probably strawberry, Andy presumed, or raspberry... underneath
was this inscription: Greetings
from the Virginia Delegation – Continental Self-Defense Association! "Sorry, ma'am," a guard told her, "we
can't allow that thing inside."
"But
it's only a cake..."
"We're
sorry, ma'am," echoed another, a woman, "it's
security. Nine-eleven. Vegas.
St. Louis."
She
motioned to yet another guard who drew on a pair of latex gloves, picked up the
cake, broke it into several pieces so as to find what was not inside, then
brushed the remains into a trash container. The woman then passed to
credentials check, where a pair of goons braced her, the uniformed female body
search officer frisking her with a look of pure hatred. “I thought this shit would be over once they
shot the bastard…”
"You
thought wrong," the male guard smirked.
"Newtown. St. Louis. Brownsville…" His smile disappeared, his voice turning
stony. "I went to training camp
with the agent that got shot in Minnesota… that makes three. Somebody’s gotta
pay…"
"Look,
before I surrender my phone, I'd better try to get to my P.I. friend outside
now, so I won't have to go through all of this twice," Leo suddenly
demurred with a haste implying that he held a certificate of commendation from
the Last International (or a joint or two) in his wallet. "Anne said one
o'clock, right?"
"Yeah,
by the Polish Pup stand, wherever that is. You know?" Andy asked the lady
officer peeling off her latex gloves.
"Shut
the fuck up, show us your ID and bend over!"
"Hospitality!"
Leo cocked his head. "I'll find it. See you then."
The
guards ran Andy's pass and expired drivers’ license through a scanner that
scrolled out a screenful of serial numbers. Then he
proceeded to the body search station, frisked by a beefy, bearded rent-a-cop
who patted and poked his butt, squeezed his balls, winked and told Andy that
his pass only extended to the galleries and specially marked blue areas on the
floor.
Then
he was released to enter into the tumultuous cavern that was Masty Hall; the rent-a-cop manning the scanner picking up a
telephone.
"Sir?
One of those numbers you had a trace put on has just entered the convention.
Badge 60725 – it’s legal, but the name on his driver’s license is on the watch
list. Yes, sir, I don’t think it’s a forgery – why would a terrorist carry
forged ID that marked him as a terrorist?
No, I'm to be relieved in half an hour.
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