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BLACK
HELICOPTERS EPISODE 48 SUNDAY the NINTH - 4:28 PM B-124
beneath Masty Hall differed little from numerous
gray windowless chambers where Conks convened and Anne had pulled her coup...
seeming, to Andy, like a repository for surplus school furniture. Now Morton
Scow, Rinker, Rayna Finch, a policeman, two unsmiling security guards and
three unidentified men... one spit-polish clean, the other two sweaty and
rumpled... waited for their arrival, rubbing their knuckles and tugging at
their collars. |
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Also
present, jammed into a little junior high school plastic chair (with attached
tray), was a sweaty, manifestly terrified Tom Beedle.
"Annie!"
he cried, as soon as she and Andy passed through the doorway. "Thank
God... you're here! You wouldn't believe the things these people
say about me! Lies! Lies!"
"Sorry,
Tom. They're not really lies, are they? I found out part of your scheme with
the Mayor... Andy here and his folks found out more. The rest... why don't you tell us?"
Tom
shook his head, denying. "That sharp-dressed man is from the FBI, the other's from the FEC," he pointed. "The other one
is a reporter... they hate Pinhead! They'll say anything!
You know me... I've raised millions for worthy causes. I'm on the board of
Southern California's Baby Claire Foundation. I haven't done
anything... anything, uh, illegal?"
"On
the contrary, Mr. Beedle," said the tidy fellow, after flashing his FBI
agent badge to Anne and Andy, "I'd like to ask you about the movement of
certain people and monies across state lines. But, first, I think the
Congressman ought to explain."
"Well,
to begin with," Morton Scow said, with outrage that struck Andy as having
been rehearsed; well-rehearsed and probably before some magic mirror,
"you've been ripping us off. Stealing Rayna’s money, keeping revenue from
those benefits that were supposed to go to the CNC for yourself? But that's only the tip of the iceberg, isn't
it? Gotta hand it to you, Tom, yours is an exemplary
bipartisan approach to corruption."
"I
don't know what you're talking about..." Beedle fumed indignantly.
"Oh,
cut the crap, Tom!" shot back the Congressman. "Let's start with the
CNC funds diverted to investments in Cato and Peppermill Properties via –
what’s that place people use now that the Caymans are hot… Martinique?... as
well as any number of like enterprises here and about. I take this personally.
I'm breaking my ass in
"Ain't telling!" Tom Beedle smirked, his pretense at
innocence flown. "Those were investments! Watson's the CNC's state treasurer and we
were only planting seeds to start the money growing... ask him! I want a lawyer…"
The
FBI man's radio crackled, he put it to his ear, nodded, answering only
"Roger!" Putting it down, he said: "there's trouble outside. But
Masty Hall's too well defended, so the germs are
moving into the
"That's
where Peppermill's been buying up its properties," piped up the flabby,
shabby old dude Beedle had referred to as a reporter; the same moax who'd conversed with Andy and the lawyers in City
Hall.
Morton
Scow gave the fixer a withering glare. "I've underestimated you? Now, if
there was violence... a riot, and property damage... well, I'll bet
Peppermill's ghetto holdings are insured, no doubt. Over-insured? And that
anybody left who doesn't get burned out or looted will be really happy to get anything
for their properties, right? So Peppermill and Cato get plenty of cleared
ground at a bargain price, covered by the Coalition, government money from good
ol’ Uncle Joe in Washington and our
Republican legislature in Cap City for redevelopment... but you
wouldn't know anything about that, Tom, would you? I mean... how shitty can
human beans become?"
Rayna
interrupted his train of accusations. "Folks, I've seen
enough. I have to introduce the Catfish as soon as Doctor Windy up there winds
down. Paul, Morty, I promise we'll work through things fully now that this sleazy
little episode's out in the open. I only note the co-operation of a nominally
Democratic mayor with a Republican governor," she nodded towards the
reporter. "Use that as you will..."
"Not
to mention the Coalition's own fundraiser..." Anne couldn't help but
add. “Doesn’t Morrow still sign the
checks?”
"You
don't have anything on me. Nothing!" Beedle insisted.
"But if you're going to detain me any longer, I demand the presence of an
attorney!"
Scow
nodded with a dreamy smile. At his gesture, one of the security men opened the
door to B-124 to admit a jaunty Emil Hill, followed by Tony Manuzzo,
combing his hair as he walked. Rayna slipped out, after bussing the actor on
the cheek and a last selfie glimpse into her pocket mirror, pink-sheathed hips
twisting to fit through the door.
"My
hair. My hair!" was the last thing Andy heard her say. The
cosmetics queen leveled a withering stare at Anne. "It's awful... why
didn't anybody tell me?"
"Here's
a lawyer," the Congressman told Beedle, jerking a thumb at Emil.
"Hill?
He's a crook... works for Pinhead?"
"Thanks
for the compliment," Emil said, "and the confession. Pinhead thinks
as you do, by the way. When I mentioned to him a few things I'd found out by
looking up this, that and the other, he sort of took me into the family and
explained a few of your missing details. Nasty! Even a cockroach like me has
things he won't do, not even for six hundred shares of Peppermill. And
Martinique and the Caymans… they’re bad news... you want real security, shoulda laundered your transactions through Seatopia IV. Or
Malta. I was wired, Tom. No thanks to
these two," Hill added, with a wave towards Anne and Andy, "who
almost got me... and themselves... knocked off for their troubles."
"Ain't over, yet!"
Beedle snarled defiantly, then... seeing the doleful expression on the
face of the actor who'd been his most lucrative client... lay his head down on
the kiddie desk like a kindergartner taking a nap, half groaning, half sobbing
– obscenities dribbling through his lips. There was a knock, which the police
sergeant answered. Four more armed, uniformed security people stood in the
hall, along with two tall men in the gray overcoats and black shoes of Federal
agents.
Scow
jabbed a finger at them. "Needless to say, things might get hairy over the
next few hours, what with local police, National Guard and UNAPISSERs sorting
things out... plus God knows whatever creatures from Austin's little militia
black book that Tom's been holding out from us.
It’s even worse… some of this germ’s creatures have orders to do the burning and the looting to clear
ground for Peppermill, over and above whatever damage the mob does…"
"Well
Mr. Beedle," inquired the sergeant with a sour glance towards Andy, who’d
recognized him from the Hall of Justice, "is he correct? You seem to have
imported a lot of trouble into our little burg. If there are people out there
under your control who might... might be capable of causing
injuries or property damage, you'd be held responsible. Hollywood
lawyer, eh?"
Scow
nodded.
"Big
house, car, trophy wife… mistress?" Again, Scow nodded. "Might have
enough worth the taking. Though if any harm came to our officers, I might add
he'd be responsible for that, too. Too bad they don't have the electric chair
anymore," he added, "melt enough lard off this asshole to fry up a
whole mess o’fish!"
Beedle looked up. "Alright, there is a
man, name of Geiger..."
"Where?"
"Ivona Hotel. Room six oh six," Beedle added.
"He's professional..."
"Then
he'll know how to behave like one," the FBI man suggested.
"Tony,
I'd take a long look at your contract and your investments," Morton Scow
gently told the excited actor. "The Caymans! How Twentieth Century! Sheesh! Coming?"
"If
I’m going to run for Lieutenant Governor of California, after the recalls,” Manuzzo worried on his way out the door, “shouldn’t I lay
off, a little, on the Grecian formula?”
“Maybe,
kid. Just don’t lose the Rogaine…”
“Is
there a better thing such as Captain
Governor I could run for, instead?” Tony queried, and then both were gone.
Anne,
Andy and Paul Rinker followed the Congressman and actor back into the corridor,
with Tillerman's cliches still resounding out through the mounted loudspeakers.
"...
waiting, watching and waiting down there until Speedy Gonzalez down there gives
the signal to swarm across the
"Toronto,
jackhole! Or
what’s that other cold place… the little one, the capital? Oughta get that fat
Commie moviemaker or those guys, kids... made that South Park movie against
Canadians! Get the rights to that blame song for the duration," Scow
suggested to Paul Rinker, who actually took out his e-notebook and politely
asked for names and numbers. "Unbelievable!" the Congressman said,
instead. "Un-fucking-believable! Tom sold us out for money. Not some
cockeyed ideal, like every other lunatic in this asylum, but for money!
Maybe Rayna was right, maybe we're already just another part of
the system... you!" he pointed at Andy, "do you know how that deal would've gone down? Pinhead would’ve had Governor Drummond
relocate that shelter outside city limits, miles from the nearest bus stop,
given you new blankets… tell the Ind… uh, Native Americans… about going
viral!... and, maybe, a salary for keeping your mouth shut. Unincorporated
land. That's how we do it to the waste humanity in California... ship 'em out
into the burned out forests or the desert.
Slab Cities out there for Trailervilles as
never got built. Halfway to Parnellvilles already! So... what would it have taken for
you to bite?"
"Congressman,"
Andy shook his head, "no matter how that deal went down, more people would
keep losing their homes and fall into your system. The system's made
to degrade. I'd never support that!"
"Then
you're even more of an idiot than you look!" Scow seemed to be thinking,
then offered his hand. Andy simply stared at it. "Good for you, boy! But
it doesn't matter, you're in the loop now, the rot’ll
start from your head down just as quickly as it did with the rest of us...
sooner; you haven't been fortified with MSG.
Money, sex and guns! Trust me!
Listen to that act! Place generates enough hot air to float a whole fleet of
Texas zeppelins!"
He
pointed upwards to a loudspeaker, through which the voice of Rayna Finch came
booming. "Thank you! Thanks, Austin for your wonderful words of
inspiration! I’ll bet that Donald Trump’s rug is hovering three inches above
his scalp about now, worried that his comeback is endangered by something other
than his own incompetence with those Nazis.
And the Democrats? They’re in the
water closet, doing that watery whizzbang thing all over themselves while their
President of these United States hides in the White House basement gulping Alzheimers’ pills.
So let's hear it for the next Republican nominee for President of the
"You
work for them!" Andy scolded as Anne lagged behind the two
men in suits; Rinker, inclining his head towards the Congressman, who jabbed
the back of his hand furiously with an index finger.
"Glenn works for the Coalition,"
Anne corrected. "I work for
Rayna "
"Something
happened the other night," Andy pressed. "Other than... you
know..."
Anne
bumped his shoulder, leaning her face into his ear. "Something did happen!"
she said, looking back to be sure nobody was following them. "Rayna's
priorities are... one... get Jack's ring around her finger, then second... a
distant second... get them both into the White House. As third-party candidate
under the Citizens United II campaign finance law reforms, she'd have no
leverage... just like she won't should he get nominated as the Democratic
candidate. But, to make it through the
primaries and at least appear presentable so people pay attention when he walks
out, he needs her money, and the only way she's legally able to give it to him
is if they’re married. So, this way, she's got him by the nuts, and now she's
twisting! It's not supposed to be known, by the way… just a few lines slipped
into the middle of the mulch in order to preserve our sacred two-party system;
a needle in the haystack of party protocol legislation that nobody reads… how
did you figure it out?"
"Just
assumed nothing's changed over thirty years. The political's
still personal – always has been, always will be!" Then, Andy shuddered.
"Doesn't he understand what's
going on?"
"The
Catfish?" Anne threw back her head and laughed. "Have you read those
absurd columns of his... that book? That idiot Don Jones blog
full of numbers that go up and down but never stay anywhere? There's more intellect resident in a slab of
home-cured bacon! What he does have is this really cute, tight ass that almost,
almost makes up for his being a blockhead and a ten percent shot
at the White House, only because the alternatives are so unpalatable; the
primary polls show Warren and Bernie splitting the leftist vote if Biden rests
his weary bones, Newsome and Bloomberg the right, Kamala being squeezed out
between the polarities and – waiting in the wings once they’ve all destroyed
each other, Hillary and John Kerry and Al fuckin’ Gore back from dancing in the
desert with the oil shiekhs… Gore and Kerry!... every
mother’s son and daughter of them over seventy!
Or eighty-something Jerry Brown... only a little older than President
Joe and, as I hear, healthy! Sort
of. No matter which donkey emerges from
the primaries, there will be so many disgruntled Democrats starting new
single-issue parties, divvying up the vote and driving the states’ winning
pluralities down into the twenty-five or thirty percent range after Tillerman
finishes cleaning the ex-President’s clock and they nominate… I don’t know…
Little Marco or the other guy from Florida who hates the gays? Lil’ Nikki?
The fat guy, the Hindu guy or Ted fuckin’ Cruz? Rayna wants, and what Rayna wants, I'm paid
to see she gets. Poor bumpkin probably
won’t even challenge the pre-nup!"
"By
he, I meant Glenn… but what do you get out of it?"
"What
are you doing for the next eighteen months?" she deflected.
Andy
coughed, hastily. "I just hope that Glenn's alright..."
"He'll
land on his feet. Glenn knows how to cover his ass... you talk to him a month
from now and he'll tell you this split was his idea, all along... it’s not as
if he’s been a Faithful Freddie all these years…"
"I
meant... you know..."
"Just
come with me," she shushed him as they reached the stairwell, reaching
across to flick her credentials so the holograms glimmered in the faint, green
fluorescence, and drape a protective arm over Andy’s shoulder. "VIP passes!"
Andy
smiled in spite of himself. Pretty! Shiny!
At
the top of the stairs, he followed her across the back of the stage, past the
podium above and to the right of them with dozens of legs dangling from the
bleachers... Andy found himself almost staring up Rayna's pink skirt, her
ponderous thighs planted into the planks like a pair of stout German oaks.
"And
so," she was preparing the crowd, "it's only fitting that our closing
address comes to you from the man most intimately wrapped up in the progress of
our Coalition for a New Consensus. A rancher, horse breeder and businessman,
breeder of Madman K, who finished third in the Belmont two years ago, author of
“The Coming Killoff” and "Entropy and
Renaissance", syndicated columnist, board member of the Don Jones Index
and second generation political icon – the former Congressman from Kentucky.
Never defeated, politically... our final speaker served faithfully and
excellently as CNC Chairman for ten months, and we've reciprocated our
confidence by choosing him as our candidate to pursue the Presidential
nomination from the Democratic Party, and then the election in November as its
nominee, or as an independent, should circumstances dictate! Folks, it is now
my privilege to introduce retired Congressman Jack Parnell of Miller's Ridge...
a statesman, visionary and hellacious line dancer, the citizens’ alternative to
Hillary, Joe and the rest of the tired old mobsters not orbiting up in space,
up there… the man we all know and love as the Catfish! C'mon up, Jack!"
"Coming?"
Anne said, extending her hand as a security guard, noting Andy's credentials,
nodded respectfully. He mounted the steps to the VIP bleachers slowly and Anne
led him to the very top row of seats; three of which were empty, still bearing
the stickers "Glenn Savitt", "Anne Kazelka" and "Paul Rinker" as the crowd
shouted themselves hoarse, chanting "Catfish! Catfish! Cat-fish!"
as an absurdly tiny figure under an oversized hat emerged from a tunnel at the
far, opposite end of Masty Hall.
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RETURN
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VIEW INTRODUCTORY COLUMN by JACK "CATFISH" PARNELL... "ENTROPY and RENAISSANCE"
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