|
k |
kkkkkkkkkkkk |
k |
|
k k k k k k k k |
BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 45 SUNDAY the NINTH - 3:28 PM Glenn awaited his contact over a first glass still
languishing on the dusty bar, empty, and his second... half empty, he reckoned
wearily... in a defeated-looking taverna two blocks
east of Masty Hall. In a mirror behind the bar –
cracked (or shot at) on some past occasion (maybe the George Floyd riots or a
dispute among pharma bros) held together by a spiderweb of black tape – he saw Beedle's
liaison thrust the door open, gun her eyes across the barstools; and could
almost feel the red laser scope of an AK-47 cross his back, settling. Not
turning, Glenn raised his right hand, wiggled a finger. |
k k k k k k k k |
Demian slipped into the empty stool beside him.
"Tom
sent you?" he had to say.
"Absolut
over, he’s payin’," she jerked a thumb. Glenn
tossed down the rest of his scotch and soda, morosely nodding for another.
"Yeah," she told him. "Some hula, huh?
Around three-fifteen, the local cops are going to start rousting illegal
souvenir vendors, which is how the fun’s s’pose to
start." Demian rose, picked up her vodka and
moved to one of the empty vinyl booths, Glenn trailing like a whipped dog.
"The
trouble is to be directed away from the convention and into the East End. Some
useful idiots are going to arrive here in about five minutes... one of 'em
dressed in full Rambo regalia. They're not Tillerman's,
they're local... your buddy Morrison’s people, stupid as the bricks on pallets
that Antifa’s promised to set up but didn’t… so even
if someone tries to make 'em talk they won't be able to give up anything but
noise. Your job is to wind them up about the Conks, then let them go out, wind
up the mob and then disapperate. Just like President Trump on the One
Six!"
"I
can do that. But I feel like shit! About the people, I mean," Glenn
corrected himself. "Hell, the way things are
going, I almost wish they would storm the convention."
"Not
in the program." Demian placed a heavily beturquoised hand over his arm. "Don't get
sentimental! This is the one step back we have to take in order to proceed two steps forward. Middle America will never buy the
CNC as a legitimate alternative to our senile, crap-ass President, the
Democrats’ donkey cart coming up behind it until they see crazies rioting against
us on their evening news in Omaha and Portland and Atlanta and an
all-but-Conk local administration kicking left-wing ass like Mayor Daley used
to do. Like Kent State, that Congressman
up in Montana or, for Chrissakes, Jack punching out
that dope on the Capitol steps.
Remember, you're the one buying... yo! could you turn that volume up a little?" she barked at
the bartender.
The
mid-afternoon news on Eleven was replaying Mayor
Potter, broadcasting from the Masty Hall podium. Third-party conventions were media-toxic, but
a hometown convention merited gavel
to gavel coverage,
"Thank
you!" Pinhead Potter beamed to the convention, to the bartender and Glenn
and Demian, to the other two patrons at opposite ends
of the bar who looked quizzically up at the politician, then down at their
alcohol. "Thank you! And that
brings me to news... wonderful news! Our great friend Congressman Scow will be
with us in an hour or two; he's flying back from Washington where he attended
the signing ceremony of the Neighborhoods Recovery Act..."
As
the broadcast switched back to a weary looking Marla, pulling a Sunday double
shift at Eleven Action, Richard Reid... in newly starched camouflage regalia
from the charity box at Malik’s (the jacket still
bearing its nametag, “Gammer”) and new, polished
boots, blew through the door with Fil following, warily.
Demian placed an index finger against her lips.
"Fuckin' Pinhead! Fuckin'
Conks..."
"Cool
it. Man..." Fil tried to settle him in, looking even more warily around to
see if any delegates were present and up for a fight. Demian
nodded back. "This the dude defecting from the
Conks' convention?"
Glenn
nodded, swishing a mouthful of the cheap house scotch and limp soda through his
teeth. "Yeah, that's me. Defectacating all over the CNC. Order what you like... yeah, they're not going to make it. You'll see! They're
swinging too far to the right in the interests of seeming inclusive and, quote
unquote…" he made the double peace sign, “civil.”
"No!
Really?" Richard Reid did a double take on his
way to the bar. "Gimme a longneck missile,"
he ordered.
Fil
was quicker to see opportunity. "Double Black Jack.
Hey... aren't you that guy I've seen around with Andy Morrison? What's with
that dude? Is he what's behind all these crazy shit on the blogs?"
"Andy
and I go back a ways," Glenn said, gulping down the rest of his drink.
"Could've made something of himself, but he kept believing those old
dreams everybody else gave up back in the nineteen hundreds... like what's
worse, losing your life or your soul? Atheists!… they
have this bug about souls. Said he had skills and talents... excuse me,"
Glenn coughed, "...as wouldn't be appreciated until the twenty-first
century. Well, here it is and there he is, inside... with the rest
of the other fuckin' Conks, greasing the path for Tillerman
to get the Republican nomination, the election… after Jack runs as an
independent, splitting the left… then turn the country over to the military,
declare war on everybody and once the birds fly and wipe out, oh, ninety
percent of the parasitical human population, Austin’ll
finish what Trump started... twice... and Parnell will be on that team all the
way until the bombs start falling, by which time the money Beedle’s
looted will be converted to gold and stashed somewhere safe, way south of the
border... Brazil, maybe, or if Tillerman or Xi or
Putin (or all three, probably) depopulate the useless Third World eaters, somewhere
white and out of the way – New Zealand, maybe... and his corpulent corpus safe
and sound too, chowing down on koalas and kangaroo
steaks. No offense, soldier…" he
added.
"None taken. Never
trusted that motherfucker," volunteered Richard Reid. "Ripped us off,
you know? Took every fuckin' dime from the police brutality settlement, spent
it on himself and his friends. He's inside?" Reid looked to Demian for approval. "Oughta
blow the whole bunch of 'em up, do like that fucker
did in
The
bartender, pretending to have heard nothing, placed two round napkins on the
gray formica for Fil's drink and Richard's beer. Glenn got up to pay the
man, gesturing towards the rack of pretzels and beer nuts, and the publican
stepped away. "Maybe," Fil proposed, "we can at least blow up
their credibility. Demian says you're willing to stand up and expose the
Coalition for the scam everybody here knows it is."
The
bartender returned with several small plastic packets which Glenn tore open
with fang and claw on their way back to the booth, shaking a handful of beer
nuts into his mouth, crunching a pretzel, then pausing to empty some of the
salty, starchy snacks over the grungy tabletop, as if remembering a courtesy.
"Yeah," he spattered through a chipmunk's cheeks before depositing
the rest in front of his guests where they lay, ignored. "Yeah, I think I
can do that. Truth has to be told!"
Wet,
salty crumbs popped out of his mouth, skidded across the table and bounced to
the floor. “Holy matrimony be damned,”
he added, but under his breath – giving Demian a
closer look as she made a power-to-the-people fist, Richard Reid scarfed up a fistful of pretzels and swept rest of the
little pack into one of the many pockets on his uniform and, on the tube, the
Eleven Action Anchorwoman made reference to Jack Parnell's antipathy towards
Washington's bureaucracy and the Ever-Trumpian
opposition as the President, his Vice and a dozen dark-money monkeys rassled one another to determine who was crazier enough to
capture the day and the nomination...
"Is
it true what they say?" Fil ventured, rolling Jack Black through his teeth
to savor the instant before he swallowed it, "that all those people out in
Colorado are behind the mine-the-border movements?"
"That and more!" Glenn promised. "Transfer
the Palestinians and collect all those sweet Jewish shekels. Retain the Twenty
Second, then let whomever wins the Republican
presidency send Trump off as Ambassador to Russia and then facilitate gas
attacks on Kyev – then Warsaw. Cut a deal to get China into nuclear war,
either through North Korea, those little shit islands off Japan or the
India-Pakistan dispute; they nuke Bombay, Seoul and Tokyo and get their cities
blasted in return, that’s how we bring our jobs back home and, as a side
benefit, chop the world population down to manageable after a few years. Nuke
France… I guess now he’d blame the Belgians, all those Arabs in that place,
over there… nuke Mecca and blame Iran, then nuke them; use designer germs based on what the CV plague taught us in
China’s germ laboratories... and the Catfish – who gets appointed to some sort
of high sounding, low-meaning job - stands round, grinnin'
and jokin', just like Obama-bin-bombin’
with his weapons of mass distractions.
Drones! They hold these little
meetings down in the basement of Masty Hall, that's
where they make their plans. Just wait! You'll see..."
Fil
and Richard nodded, mesmerized.
“Off, now!” Demian made a motion
with her wrist, as if shooing flies away and they took flight, Reid sweeping
the remaining beernut packages off the bar.
Glenn
reached, then his hand retreated back to the glass,
warm now. As Demian
was rising to go, he asked: “Are we going to pull this same shit on those
militia people calling Tillerman a sellout? Show America that the CNC won’t be bossed
‘round by anybody?”
“You shittin’ me?” Demian recoiled.
“Those people have guns!”
|
kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk |
k |
RETURN to "BLACK
HELICOPTERS" directory
VIEW CURRENT COLUMN by JACK
"CATFISH" PARNELL... "ENTROPY and
RENAISSANCE"
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, feral Adolph Hitler…
SQUIRM! as strange, frequently dispirited policemen
in the Sanitary Republic of Barataria battle occult New
Plastic criminals for possession of that most valuable treasure in the hygienic
dictatorship of 2035 AD… the huge, white death-turd
of Elvis Presley!… in...
And FOLLOW! a ragged gang
of starship bloopers from a galactic Skid Row centuries into the future and
far, far away as they rehab a derelict boneship and
drive it towards the white hole at the center of the Milky Way in a reckless
quest for a forbidden truth… (and money!)...