21) Saturday Afternoon,
February 8th – Military Intelligence!
And another week passed through the great American colon, a week
of slush and clouds and no large rodents seeing their shadows on Tuesday; a
week when all the credit card bills from the holidays arrived in the mailbox,
chaos and a virtual coup in the halls of government and a particularly awful
week for Tom. Now, as the criminalistic, underdog mercenary Vegas Raiders held an
inexplicable 21-3 halftime lead over the inevitable, imperial Patriots after
their 383 pound thug Popeye, back on the field after a four-year manslaughter
stint at Corcoran, sacked Tom Brady (whose celebrated return to Beantown ended as he was stretchered off the field with
three cracked ribs and that bane of senior citizens worldwide… a broken hip)
Tom Eppert lay curled, foetislike,
in his man-chair in Dempstertown with another beer
and a bowl of pretzelnuts.
Yet another commercial on the conservative network station to
which Tom had switched (rather than enduring the abominable halftime jibberjabbers), touted the virtues of a miracle prostate
pill.
“That’s three,
this afternoon…” his wife nagged, “even if you’re not going to work, tomorrow, you’ll still get
fat!”
“I am fat,” Tom shot back wincing at the
recollection of the bad thing that had happened Thursday, “Always have been, always will
be. Deal with it…”
“Fat, unemployed
bastard…”
“Hey, it wasn’t
my fault… that bundle had some weak wrapping or something,” Tom
remembered. “Can’t go after the black
guys ‘cause of the NAACP and the BLM, can’t blame the Puerto Ricans cause they
got the Macarena or whatever watches their ass, so who’s the scapegoat?”
As Panasonic
silently touted its newest 52-inch LCD, available at Broadnax, Best Buy and
Giga-Plex, he jabbed himself in the chest with a
thumb.
“You’re a bum,
Tom, a fuckin’ bum,” Nancy was wound up, now, “…I coulda
married that Jewish guy in high school, he’s a big wheel, now, over at
Commerce.”
“Maybe you shoulda…”
“He gave me a million dollars, it damn
well wouldn’t have been shredded money in a plastic box, but no… I was young…
and stupid… like a certain party who bought some goofy box from colored people
who say it fell off a truck.”
“It did. Stupid is right, stupid…” Tom’s voice trailed
off… there was some movie, a line to put his wife in her place, but he couldn’t
remember. So he muttered “bitch” under
his breath and turned up the volume as Nancy continued reminiscing and
complaining and the suppertime news continued with Sam Dreibach
in the anchor chair, and cute sidekick, Grace Chen…
“…and, after the
celebration of Lincoln’s birthday next weekend, President Rivers will be visiting
our troops in Afghanistan, and take the opportunity to differentiate between
free societies, like the United States and maybe a few members of the European
Union, and those societies where human trafficking still exists, where
terrorists are tolerated or, even, supported as new speculations arise, and the
search for the origins of the attack on Flight 239 seem to be shifting from
Afghanistan to Yemen to the domestic alt-right and back to Syria again. Our Charley Pottle
is at the Pentagon with General Sturtevandt of
military intelligence… Charley?”
Pottle was a working reporter whom Tom Eppert
could take or leave – overweight, thinning hair, trenchcoat,
thrusting a microphone at the General, impeccable in his dress uniform…
“Many reports,
today,” reported Pottle, “that a suspect in the
rocket attack against Flight 239 has been identified as a Yemenese…
or is that Yemenite… anyway, a man with a criminal history and suspected ties
to Iran, or to Al Qaida… or is that ISIS… ISIL?”
“All of these may
be, in essence, correct,” replied General Sturtevandt,
“although we are not ruling out the complicity of other parties… if you recall,
there is a turf war, a sort of multiplayer holy war ongoing between Al Qaeda
and Iran, Iran and Saudi Arabia, the Saudis and Qatar, Qatar and ISIS, ISIS and
Al Qaeda with the Israelis monitoring their radar screens and the Russians and
Chinese stirring whichever pot seems likely to boil over. And so on…”
“Yemen is, I
think, somewhere to the south of Saudi Arabia,” the reporter free-associated
“so, as the 911 attack was carried out by a number of persons from that
country, an alleged ally, would it be correct to assume that, well, interest in this case is again centering
upon the Saudis who continue to deny that they are in possession of the remains
of that Washington Post journalist or the fifty nuclear weapons disappeared
from Incarlik Air Force Base in American-occupied
Turkey…”
Sturtevandt stiffened.
“Well, that would be your assumption, not necessarily mine, nor the
President’s. But we have to be open to
every possibility… given that the Turks seem to be swinging back towards Iran
in those iner-Islamic disputes”
As the General
smiled, Tom ground a fistful of pretzels to powder, swigged more beer and
shouted, over his shoulder…
“There! There! Didn’t I tell you those bastards are mixed up
in it? They want five-thirteen at the
Planetarium Road Chevron. Five-thirteen!
now… fuckin’ price of gas is supposed to go down in winter… the way it did back in
the day…”
Nancy shuffled into
the living room, wielding a spoon and a big bowl of butterscotch pecan
ice-cream…
“I hear you… but
Chevron always charges more,” she shook her head. “Pipe down, or the neighbors will call the
police.”
“Fuck ‘em…” Tom
shouted back. “Our President…” his
loyalties had pivoted already, “is being attacked by the Democratic… that’s
small “d” media… because they hate America, they’d
rather be slaves in China. Sam Rivers
won’t lift a finger to retrieve that corpse, because that lying media guy was
working for the other guy, the computer guy that he hates. As far as the White House is concerned…” The news was still muted, some, so he raised
it again as he spat out the epithet and Dreibach,
back in the studio, read from a teleprompter…
“…unusual resistance
to the appointment of former Congressman Mike “the Roach” Deloach
as Secretary of Health and Human Services.
An unusual coalition of Republican Senators already worried about 2024
and ultra-liberal Democrats has informed the recalcitrant impeached and
defeated ex-President whom, by all accounts, is out of bed and plotting revenge
that his loyalists will resist…”
“Don’t know what
to think,” Tom shook his head. “He’s got
his justice people working overtime to lock up Hillary and all those left-wing
traitors, but who, in their right mind, appoints some guy called the Roach to
any important office,” Tom snickered. “Sounds like he’s from Jersey or something! Trump, Rivers… Rivers/Trump… how can a real
American choose”
“So, now that
you’ve fucked up, you’re siding with the liberal crowd that’s cozied up to the
big bankers and homosexuals,” Nancy scolded him through a mouthful of
ice-cream, “…nobody responsible for anything!
The Roach, the Mooch, the Rooshkies…”
“I… hey… I’m a
member of the union, Gramps used to work for Roosevelt, you know… for all the
fuckin’ good the union did for me. Lookit dat…” he pointed as Las
Vegas ran the second half kickoff back to the Patriots’ forty-five,
“Big deal… leanin’ on a shovel,
probably. You just hate the President
because he’s tall and handsome – just the way you hated Trump because he’s
rich…”
“Maybe,” Tom
admitted, pointing at her snack. “You
gonna eat all that, you’ll get fat…”
¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾
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