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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 46 SUNDAY the NINTH - 3:52 PM Waving
Glenn's VIP pass like a videogame talisman, Andy trailed Anne and Burt as she
marched to the parliamentarian’s desk just behind the VIP rafters to deliver
the initialed resolution and a fistful of supplementary papers. The space reminded him, oddly enough, of a
bookmaker's office he'd patronized years ago before the casinos came downstate;
back in those days when he’d been drawing a salary and had the occasional
dollar to blow on the U’s team… to lose… during football or basketball
season. The jagged edges of the Coalition for a New Consensus were exposed
here... shouting, sweating messengers, poker-faced clerks, dealmakers huddled
in small cabals or on smartphones, trying to work out their last minute,
face-saving compromises. |
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Anne
nodded curtly up to Pat O'Neraghty backstage on the podium
- he pretended to ignore her and continued glaring ahead, into the crowd and
the television cameras. Andy wondered, for a moment, what would happen if a
cameraman's grip slipped and the business of the pit stood revealed to a
mortified world... it would be like that reality show filming the filthy,
crowded kitchen of a five-star restaurant; the CNC would be screwed, forever,
as any font of moral substance or operational competence, leaving the
dispirited electorate to search for something newer and better. While Anne
transacted business, a tiny but immensely wealthy Colorado rancher (and lover
of government-subsidized agriculture)… identified as Jody Rankin by the
lettering under her picture… was chairing a vote on another of the challenge
delegations. "Thank you," she declared giddily, "thank you!
Let's have a great big hand for our speakers... for the majority plank on the
participation of the Coalition for a New Consensus in upcoming Democratic
primaries, State Senator Flo Marks of the state of Louisiana!" A small,
black figure to Rankin's right stood up, waving enthusiastically back.
"And for his thoughtfully articulated minority response, our own National
Co-ordinator, Pat O'Neraghty..."
"Pat
seems to take defeat well," Andy determined, observing O'Neraghty's
stony, botoxed smile on the big, big screen as he
swept forth from behind the curtain – waving back to America as he took his
place behind the speaker. It reminded him of being a very small, very gullible
boy again, in the front row of a very big movie theater where ghostly shadows
of cowboys and monsters played out their scripts.
Anne
shook her hands as if to wipe off some lingering contaminant from the papers
she'd just handed to the parliamentarian. "It's his job. He's our
designated Mondale - got plenty of experience in losing. Hey, Pat's a
professional jobber, we set him up there to pretend that the processes aren’t
rigged. He knew he never had a chance of keeping us out of the local elections,
and so did Rayna Finch, so better him up front than someone who really cares.
Just getting Tillerman to bite is much more than we had any right to expect.
Now, of course, those Colorado people will come up with their own plot to get
into the Republican primaries, and that'll be approved, too."
"Having
the six... well, five of us there meant a little more than just seating a few
delegates in the Midwest instead of some other delegates, didn't it?"
Anne
smiled. "You might say it was just one of many dominoes, but placed
strategically - where the others couldn't fall unless you six… well, five… were
there to fall, too. Or rise, as the case
may be. With the challenge delegation
seated, the third-party faction and Tillerman group had enough votes to block
the Catfish from running off on his own if they co-operated, and then…"
suddenly dropping the hot potato of Conk business, she directed his attention
to the far end of the VIP stage, where a crewcut man in a blue blazer was
making hand signals to the parliamentarian, who responded with the same crypto-Masonic
gestures. Then he made similar motions to Rankin, who recognized him so quickly
that her movement wasn't even apparent on the big screen.
"The
motion to adopt the majority platform is before the Convention. All in favor,
say Aye!"
A
roar from the floor replied.
There
was no call for dissent. "But isn’t
that… like…” Andy stammered, “a bad thing?”
"Motion
carried by acclamation!" Rankin gaveled.
Burt
Weston leaned past Anne to give Andy a piece of his mind. "The Catfish
hadn’t planned on running for anything. He wanted to stay out of the race this
time, garnering publicity… and a little strange on the side… from his
television appearances, selling books and DVDs and Internet merch, letting
Rayna keep raising money that might… or might not… get funneled into a few
local races whenever both parties nominated despicable characters. A few Congressional seats, a Mayor or
Attorney General here or there – even State fuckin’ legislatures! Well, at
least credit Tom Beedle and Morty for seeing the writing on that wall… populist
outrage has the shelf-life of raw chicken given the way that The Donald tapped
into the alt-mainline, masculinity anti-mask…then, so God’s own messenger now
says, sold out to Wall Street. So they
agreed to Tillerman running as a counterweight; Jack takes on what’s left of
the President and Kamalala… America might elect a
woman or a person of color, given the right crazy alt-right alternative, but
they’ll never elect a woman of color, not until 2060 or so unless Michelle or
Oprah throw their Easter hats in. Not to
mention all those geriatric fossils or
2020 losers clogging up he race while the boys from Colorado get the Grand Old
Party and all of its exotic flora, including three, four Armageddon-spouting
lunatics, the Vice, the Nazi, the indicted guy, the dwarf, the moke with big hair.
That Republican primary will be nasty and Tillerman’s now talking about
reforming, quote unquote… he means strengthening… the Paris Climate Protocols,
not just crawling back to sit down and shut up like Sleepy Joe – and that might
just hold up with other G.O.P. stalwarts in those other Western states. Still,
Parnell and Austin had already cut a deal to go the independent route, if
anything, but cooler heads realized all either'd be was just another spoiler
unless a whole barrel of other monkeys jumped in, so we had a sort of revolt of
the Indians against both chiefs, and now Jack's trapped...”
“Don’t you know that mention of monkeys in
any political or any other context is racist?” Andy scoffed. “The World Health Organization says so...”
Weston shrugged, rolling up his sleeve to
reveal a sunbrowned arm, then rotated it. “White as Nick Fuentes. At least Jack can say his options will still
be open when he loses in the primaries... we can think about the third and
fourth party route later if either of them do a Bernie Sanders or Buchanan or
Mike Huckabee – win a couple of states, early, get some credible press from the
gullible media before folding once the dark money, left and right, kicks in and
the candidates of choler get squeezed out, and a credible Republican resistance
arises, most likely out of some disgruntled Teabaggers if the Pubs stiff the
Donald and nominate Saint Ron or Pence or Rand Paul or… Heaven help us!...
double back down on Jeb. Maybe Trump
even forms his own party which, with Jaek and Austin
makes five, and that’s not even counting the Libertarians and the Greens… both
of whom might flirt with Tillerman, but never dance with him. All we have to do then is be sure there’s a
left-wing alternative to the Democrats.
AOC… Bernie, if he’s still alive… some Hollywood Socialist? Then, some of those debates ought to make for
good theater. New Hampshire is... well, interesting... according to the
polls…the real ones, not Rasmussen or spat out of some woke and broke
university…"
"So
where does that leave you folks?" Andy asked.
"Mexican
standoff? Good old-fashioned Western, at
least, chiefs shellshocked and Native Americans on the warpath, to be
politically correct and the cavalry in disarray because their handsome young
hero is back at Fort Dodge, lusting after the Colonel’s daughter. Looks like we have at least the makings of a
fighting company," Weston snorted. "Jack doesn’t have a prayer with
liberals unless our Queen Bitch muscles into the next go-round, but Tillerman
has a good shot at taking God’s Own Party’s nomination with the Tea Party up in
arms over Trump disrespecting the evangelicals and losing the Chosen People and
their cash over his dinner with Ye. Then
the Ring kicks in. Parnell drags the far
but anti-Communist left… the white folks, at least… into Austin’s camp as his
Vice and either Tillerman wins, or, in losing, sets up Jack four years down the
road as the candidate of the radical center.
That’s the party line… course Anne's up to her armpits in lies, as
usual."
"Another
thing," Anne said, hastily, "the money that's been coming in starts
to go out, and it'll get scrutinized. We've had some problems that way, but our
accountants are doing magical things, so it’ll all be kosher before the FEC
gets around to its duties."
"Aren't
they terrific!" Jody Rankin commanded from the podium. "Aren't you
terrific. And now, for our final resolution, here are a couple of guys
who've been with us through the thick and thin, who've laid their futures on
the line and had to spend a lot of time defending themselves, and us, from
attacks by naysayers and the cowards among Hollywood’s leftist elites. So let's
hear it... for Congressman Morton Scow and star of 'Cop on the Run', Tony Manuzzo!"
A
blue-blazered messenger arrived, breathless, trying to whisper in Anne's ear
above the applause for the two Coalition celebrities.
"Where's
that attorney?" she demanded, once he'd stepped away.
Burt
waved vaguely towards the stairs to the basement. "Back down there,
somewhere, under what you might call house arrest."
"Uh
huh? The Congressman wants to see us right away, soon as he passes the mike to
Tony. You, too, Andy..."
"Me?"
He
looked up. Morton Scow sounded hurried, more than a little distracted.
"Thanks, folks. I've spoken to you already and I just got back from
Washington, doing the public's business – successfully, as it’s turned out,
whole lotta Federal money be falling out of the sky on you locals, here – so
without any further ado, I'd like to turn the mike over to the authorities.
Specifically, to Officer Ganick! Tony, you don't know
how we could have used Ganick and Lowe to enforce a
little law and order around here this week, but we've come through it alive and
kickin’ butt. Tony Manuzzo,
folks! Give it up for Tony!" He
waved the crowd on to applause, blew them a kiss, and slipped away.
"You’re
our designated driver. And that's our
signal. Come on!" Anne urged, taking Andy by the hand to lead him through
the crowd, which was still standing, entranced... all eyes on the handsome,
smiling actor waiting for his fanfare to fade.
"Thanks!"
Manuzzo said, raising up a dead cat bounce of
adulation as he stepped back, smiling and admiring himself on the big screen.
The actor did look terrific, Andy had to grant as he bumped into a couple of
Virginia delegates, mumbled vague apologies and continued following Anne...
Wolfe-ish vanilla suit, blue shirt, that wavy mass of
jet black hair and thin, kiss-me scar running from his left ear to his chin. No
East End cop had ever looked like this!
"Compared
to television," Tony smirked, "this is twice as frightening.
Really! For one thing, if you spend enough time on set, it seems real life goes
by so fast you barely have time to look and blink and have a do-over if you fuh… ah, foul up…
but here? Pow!... just hits you in the
face. No second takes! That's what I feel like now! This convention's been an
incredible experience, and now it's almost over. Kudos to PlanetWorld
cable and the streaming people, and to Morty’s bipartisan Congressional
colleagues – and, now, what a thrill it is to tell you that all of you, with
all your interests represented here over this great, diverse country of ours,
have made the unanimous decision to support the candidacy of Democratic Party
nominee for President of these United States in 2024, the man from Miller's
Ridge, Kentucky, the Catfish... retired Congressman Jack Parnell! And, equally,
to support the candidacy as nominee of the national Republican Party... from
Andy
glanced briefly up to see the reserved, ascetic face of Tillerman on banks of
TV screens cracking the barest shadow of a tidy Clint Eastwooden
smirk. Then, Anne led him downstairs and back through the security station.
"What
the hell's going on up there?" he asked as the guard checked their
holograms with his hologram zapper and waved them through. "Was that old
guy right?"
"More
or less, Andy. Peace is breaking out all over… well at least in here… and the
big brooms are being lowered to sweep the spiders out of our attic. Or basement, as it is. Congressman Scow's expecting us," she
said.
"Thank
you, Tony," the newly declared candidate bellowed through a pair of
loudspeakers mounted atop one of the Exit signs in the tunnel leading towards a
gray, metal door - reminding him of something from the City jail. "Two
years ago, last winter, a small group of ordinary, worried citizens... including
myself, Jody Rankin, whom you have just heard, and persons active in
environmental, right-business and the human potential movements... met in the
heart of the Rockies, a beautiful setting, not far from the Continental Divide
which has, unhappily, become more than just a symbol for the magnitude and
bounty of this great nation. We confronted our own Great Divide in
contemplating America's future, and its innumerable problems... some believing
that government has a duty to solve people’s problems, others standing up for
good ol’ rugged independence: God, Guns and Guts!"
"Tulsi Gabbard and Marianne Williamson are already on board,
Roseanne’s on the fence. He'd make a
great Vice President, don't you think?" Anne wondered aloud, heels
clicking on the concrete as they descended back into the Masty
Hall basement, shadowed by the voice of the Old Man of Shadow Mountain. “Just think of all those funeral orations in
Iran, in Venezuela, Pyongyang…”
"We
saw venerable persons, and institutions, destroyed by scandal. We heard childish squabbling! We heard the voices of endangered island
nations ignored, cast aside by an incumbent who thinks promises will get the
job done. We asked... how is it possible
a nation so blessed, so conceived in the highest moral sentiments could have
become so thoroughly corrupted, so polluted in its physical body and spiritual
soul?" the aural shade of Tillerman continued orating from a skein of
basement loudspeakers. "And from asking questions, we proceeded to a quest
for solutions, and then we were joined..."
"Sure!"
Andy answered, nearly breaking into a trot to keep up. "I can see him
making speeches at funerals all over
the world... well, maybe not in China. Or Mexico since he’s really for Trump’s
wall... like, is he even a real doctor, like Doctor Oz was? Or a dentist… I have a molar that’s killing
me…"
"You’d
think he was a real scientist, but his Ph.D.’s in philosophy or history,
something along those lines. Soft.
Taught a few terms down in Boulder until the MeToo and BLM communities lay
aside their differences, ganged up with the mining and timber companies and
pressured the administrators to fire him, but martyrdom’s served him well at
the cash register. Well, this is
it," Anne changed the subject, stopping before the door which... Andy now
saw... bore the identification plate B-206. She gave a 'shave and haircut'
knock and something, some... things... rustled within like large, sweaty
animals, disturbed from their slumber.
Or
meal.
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