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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 47 SUNDAY the NINTH - 4:09 PM By
four PM the wind had escalated to a ghastly, almost gale-strength proportion
and the crowd at the demo across the street from Masty
Hall had dwindled considerably. Defeated stragglers struggled with books,
pamphlets, petitions and card tables even as the plaza swelled with kids out
of school or down from the U. and street people seeking spare change and free
food. Many were drunk or wired on kat; that potent, cheap stimulant distilled
from leaves brought home by soldiers back from killsome-ish
mountain passes and terrorist-infested Yemenese
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The
menagerie of aging hippies and conspiracy kooks was a human red flag to this
cauldron of juvenile criminality... but smash-stab-and-grab glee quickly turned
to frustration at the meager contents of wallets and donation coffee cans.
Sporadic fighting started up while City police strolled the sidewalks
surrounding the plaza clockwise, the Turks sidling counterclockwise like
Florentine courtiers… each tipping their caps and berets to one another,
shaking their batons and smiling benevolently as the weak and disturbed souls
within the First Amendment enclave were beaten down and ripped off and
increasingly strident calls for action resonated helplessly against
countercries of “Don’t trust the police!” As the pale, angst-obsessed musicians
on the big stage at the other end of the plaza unplugged their instruments,
kicking at would-be equipment thieves, Glenn Savitt...
behind Demian, Richard Reid and Fil... vaulted the
back steps where Tom Jenks was still trying to keep order with his clipboard.
"Hi
Tom," Demian waved, "we've got an
emergency... this guy has to go on now."
"There'll
be an opening in fifteen minutes," Tom said, consulting his list.
"Those bring-back-East Germany people went home... guess their old bones
couldn't take all this wind. Or maybe
the Nazi aristocrats threatened them..."
"Now!"
Demian insisted, motioning the others up the steps.
"It's important!" And she pushed aside an elderly Swedish
anti-apartheid protestor festooned with green ribbons and reciting, mostly to
himself, a creed of outrage over some Ray Charles concerts in Capetown back in a different Millenium,
even before Mandela’s release from prison and what had followed...
"Excuse,
excuse... help me!" he appealed to Tom, "I huff paid
for this speakering..."
Since
Youthquake's security had deserted en masse after the
Brazilian band wrapped, half an hour before, Marty Lesh
had been policing the stage, shaking a tire iron at potential looters. Paramedics had taken Herb Clark away and the
innumerable dogs of the plaza had made short work of their fallen tubular namesteaks. "It's OK, man, Andy sent me," Glenn
told him, flashing Andy's dangling credentials.
"What
the fuck!" Marty shrugged, looking to the puzzled Viking for a
continuation of their argument. "OK, there's six minutes until you're on,
just keep things short," he waved to Glenn, but it was Demian
who snatched up the microphone.
"Brothers
and sisters!" she exhorted, "...even as the Coalition for a New
Consensus sells out the poor, women, people of color and working Americans,
documented or not… gay, lesbian, transgender and queer Americans, immigrants,
small business and the planet itself, plotting to draft our Informational
Reserve into poorhouses to serve as strikebreakers behind its facade of armed
pigs - we've won, today, a significant victory! At last some people inside have
gotten fed up with the Conks and their racist allies and representation based
on money and the corruption that causes. One of 'em's here off the farm to tell
you all about it!" She let the mike swing, bolo-style, while advising
Glenn... "Best you don't give out your name."
"Got
it!" he winked. He grasped the mike in mid-swing and took a deep breath,
watching the crowd below for a moment, and then another. Years... decades
ago... he had been able to will himself into another place, a place where some
vital forces always took over when crisis loomed. He hadn't felt that way since
passing his twenty-first birthday, after Reagan passed the torch to Bush the
First and Mark Cobb taken away in bracelets with the shards of a disgraced
Revolution flaking off him.
In
October, he’d be fifty-five.
Fifty! Five!
Something
still stirred inside... a little worm of conscience awakening, within his
belly. People were looking at him, waiting! Across the plaza, the
pitiful folksinger put his guitar down... more people began drifting across the
plaza.
"I
don't think any of you have been missing much," he began, "not being
inside. If you've been watching TV or listening to the radio, it's all there...
all there but the smell of sulfur, as a fellow progressive once put it. Now I
don't want to imitate CNC's tendency to congratulate itself for hours on end,
but this is a great crowd, and you're doing a great job! I see the sons and
daughters of U. professors and the sons and daughters of slaves and immigrants,
all together, a living rebuke to those inside who'd say that people can't be
trusted with their own lives..."
A
group of kids whose taunts vanished in the wind grabbed a trashcan and threw it
towards the stage, but it swerved and only hit the front of the planks. A rainbow coalition of debris swirled past
Glenn, blowing towards Masty Hall. The rebuke was
just - Glenn let the trite images and speech patterns of the Coalition slip
away, too, and let that something else
take over.
The
worm was stirring.
"OK...
point taken. I chose to leave the CNC
caucuses because they were undemocratic, even by comparison to the flaws in our
two institutional parties," he charged, leveling his index finger towards Masty Hall. "The Deep State knows that
its social, economic and environmental policies are bankrupt and corrupt. How
do they maintain control? Every few years, the legitimate outrage of Americans
has to be co-opted by false-flag alternative organizations, promoting false policies.
Back in the '60s we had a war in Vietnam and a war on poverty and I think we
all know who won those. Serious people like John and Robert Kennedy, Martin and
Malcolm, too, they said some wrong things and the system cut them out of the
picture. Then Nixon got caught and there was this real chance of a revolution,
so the Rockefellers served us up this strange peanut-farming President who
quoted Bob Dylan, but left us all just blowing in the wind. Nice ex-President, tho… still teaches Sunday School, I, think, at ninety-nine
got a Nobel for his scam. In the '80s, we had the Rainbow Coalition and
black power, green power and all these other power trippers who tried working
within the Democratic Party... you know, I can't help but recalling those
Peanuts cartoons every football season, where Lucy pulls the football up just
as Charlie Brown tries to kick it and ends up on his ass? I mean... how many
times do we have to be fooled like this?
Now I won’t blame the Reverend Jackson… that would be racist… just ask
you to consider what happened once he came into a little bit of power…
"Then
came the 90’s… we thought we'd elected one of our own, again, but Slick Willie
turned out to be a crooked skirt-chasing globalist outsourcer who shredded
America’s safety net in ways no Republican ever could have dreamed of doing…
and all those people who went into government defending him and his screeching
wife lost all their credibility! Then, the President after him wrecked our
economy to the extent that our children's children's
children will be paying for it and started a useless war on false premises that
we had to sell our souls to the Saudi butchers to crawl away from, so we went
off and elected another savior… a black man, this time, and with a Nobel in his
pocket before he even started doing anything… a Nobel Savage, some might say,
as if his soul power could save ours. And he proved too afraid to institute
real change and correction, so we were fooled again; still we haven't
learned... and the institutional parties were poised to nominate the son and
brother of the one or wife of the other until an even better deal presented
itself – a revival of the old George Wallace coalition of racists and snakehandlers and outsourced, outdated blue-collar workers,
but headed by a so-called “populist” New York billionaire with a whole legion
of Goldman/Sachs investment bankers to do his dirty work. And the Bernie Sanders movement? Gone with the wind, thanks to the Democratic
National Committee and dark money that replaced Mister Trump with Obama’s Vice,
who steered us backwards in time while an angry world marched forward. So the CNC, well it seemed Heaven-sent… in
the beginning. Like many of you, I went
to the U. back in the day and worked there with Andy Morrison, one of those who
organized this little party. But just today, when Andy cashed out and went over
to the Conks inside, I realized how nothing's changed since Ralph Nader threw
the Y2K election to Bush Two, the greenies came out as Russian stooges, and how
evil and dangerous the people in that building really are."
As
he paused, some angry teenagers called for him to shut up, but some others
answered back, "let the dude talk... go on! Right on!" And another
can was overturned, another... more garbage loosed to the fierce and
unrelenting wind and the frozen stares of the police and Turks.
In
the background, near Andy's now-vacant, pitiful stage of scrap wood and milk
cartons Glenn saw plainclothes policemen… or, perhaps, something worse… begin
slithering into the plaza.
He
lowered his voice. "You know, they say that kids are more conservative
these days… well, maybe not so much about gay marriage and medicinal pot and
whatever micro-aggressions their professors tell them to protest… and what we
all want now's more jails and more laws, less freedom and less justice and wars
everywhere as a distraction from our bankruptcy... moral, physical and
economic... as a nation. Drones
everywhere, peeking into windows and the NSA reading our e-mails and we can’t
even look to the rest of the world anymore because the Russians are still
slaughtering Ukrainians, Israelis killing Palestinians, the Chinese still
slaughtering Uighurs and democracies are being snuffed out like candles in the
rain. Nazis even tried coming back to
fuckin’ Germany. Germany! Have we grown that
lazy, that callous! I don't think that's
altogether true... I just think young people... Americans, Ukrainians,
Iranians, wherever... recognize the utter phoniness of the so-called
progressivism of some of their parents, which is, in fact, nothing more than
liberal laziness and cowardice. Bums have more freedom than most people, bosses
have power over the rest but everybody in between... we're getting screwed! You
know, I'd be nervous too if I had children, because the next generation will
not only have to dig themselves out of a waist-high ditch of shit and debt that
we’ve left them, not to mention the hatred of the world for what our government
is doing to the environment and in Costa Rica; they can't help being better than
us... all the sweet images of advertising that have usurped happiness and life
with brainless urges to consume and submit, well they're just not working
anymore. People of my generation hate their children, just as they hated their
parents, but for a different reason. You're not people," he pointed down
into the crowd, "you're chattel... status symbols, at best, and if you
don't bring home satisfaction in the form of grades or prizes or money, you're
no better than a maxxed-out charge card. Or a Tesla Topgun… one of those self-driving ones that won't start.
"Somewhere
out there, the answers lie," he finished, looking up again and pointing
straight towards Masty Hall, "though you won't
find anything but lies in that house across the road!"
He
yielded up the microphone to Demian as four policemen
chased a vendor into the middle of the crowd, tackled him and began to beat and
kick him. More cops surrounded the Free Food table, emptying fire extinguishers
into a pot of boiling beans, whereupon an evil-smelling blue smoke arose, and
one of its ragged, barefoot staffers pointed Heavenwards, proclaiming:
"The poisonous fumes of the State!"
Demian pointed towards the struggles. "Are we going to
let those pigs Rodney the brother?" A trashcan bounced off the back of one
of the officers, a kid in electric green pants aimed a karate kick against
another... enabling the bleeding vendor to scuttle away with his life intact,
if not his merchandise.
"Do
we let ourselves be attacked and beaten just for gathering to say what we
believe in? This rally's as much a farce as the Convention! Do you know why?
With so many people without jobs... hungry, homeless... all the City plans to
do is bring in foreign workers to build more luxury condos, like those under
construction in the middle of the East End ghetto, only twelve blocks away.
They're going to house more experimenters to teach rats and monkeys and robots
to do the people's jobs, and balance their budgets by laying everybody else off
and devising new laws and new drones to railroad us into their concentration
camps and new diseases to kill off the unneeded. So are we just going to wander
around here, trying to reason with Conks who, as the gentleman pointed out,
have no intention of listening..."
The
authorities, curiously enough, let her continue... unscathed... until Richard
Reid, waving another crowbar, pushed her aside violently, yanking the mike out
of her hand.
"Hell
no! We're gonna burn those motherfuckers out, and we're gonna kill
any pigs that get in our way, City, National Guard or Turks! That's what we're gonna do! Follow me..."
He
jumped off the stage and into the crowd, which greeted him like royalty while Demian stood to one side, applauding silently. Some college
kids, carrying a cooler of beer between them, slapped Glenn on the back,
cheering.
"Hey
dude," asked a frat-hoodied undergraduate in a
backwards baseball cap, proffering a brewski, "...is this, like, a
riot? The way that people rioted in...
uh... when they used to..."
"Right
on, dude!" said another. "Riot on!"
"Dude
riot!" a third chimed in, and this became a chant that was finally taken
up.
"Yee
haw!" the white University undergraduates from the frats called out,
swigging from silver flasks as the crowd began moving towards the east end of
the park, snapping tree branches and kicking over tables as were in their way.
Glenn followed them, fist pounding the air as he slurped his free ABM, then
heaved the empty at a police horse and its rider. "Fuck da po po!" the younger, darker townies responded, not
wanting to be outstyled by a bunch of honkie wiggers.
“Black people matter!” A tall,
sallow man in a green Army jacket with a nametag saying "Douglas"
buttonholed one of the musicians hurriedly packing his equipment away."
"Who
was that man in a suit just speaking now?"
"Him? Dunno," the
musician waved, pretending not to see that certain something bulging out of the
stranger's trouser pocket. "Uh... he had this ID badge said something
about Morrison, an' had these Convention tags? Must've been Andy Morrison? Everybody knows him, sleazy ol’ dude, hangs
around this homeless shelter scrounging pussy, rips people off…"
"Deep!"
said the man with the "Douglas" tag, closing his eyes and bringing a
fist up to his forehead. "Andrew Morrison speaks against himself and for
justice for Paulie.
The chosen beast separates itself from the herd. Very deep. Thank
you," he added, opening his pale, unfocused eyes.
As
"Douglas" loped off, Demian, who'd remained
behind in the plaza, doing what she could to herd people in an eastwards
direction away from Masty Hall… now ringed by a solid
phalanx of policemen… removed a cellphone from her parka.
"Perseus?
Perseus?" An affirmation replied through much static. "We have a go.
Subject's about two thirds of the way back in the pack... gray suit, Convention
ID around his neck. See that the garbagemen have him picked up. I'm going in.
Death to the calico cats!"
An
affirmative reply came through the phone... Demian
packed it away, opened her purse and removed a CNC floor pass necklace.
Sidestepping
a panting City policeman who'd briefly stopped... as much to catch his breath
as to determine whether she was worth clubbing... Demian
smiled, dropped her credentials round her neck like the late First Lady Bush’s
pearls, and crossed the street towards Masty Hall.
The
police in her path parted like the Red Sea at Moses’ command.
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