SAVAGE
SATURDAY
26) Friday, the 14th (Dusk) – “Pirates of the District”
Nakonset Park… four square,
treeless blocks of dirt, rocks, scrub, rats n’snakes
(probably at least some of the poisonous variety) as well as buckets of broken glass
and busted hypodermic needles… was almost equidistant from the Soames and Eppert households.
Although officially a province of Maryland, (hence, suburbia), this
corner of Dempstertown was hardcore… nastier, even,
than Grape Street, being as it lay on the frontier between the D. T. Nation, a
posse of black fentanyl dealers massed around the southern entrance, and their
mortal enemies, the Lost Gangster Tribe, an uneasy mix of white trash and
Spanish crankheads, prowling the northern
approach. As the Epperts
entered the park, Tom’s right fist squarely on his Junior’s shoulder, a vulpine
kid in a long, soiled, gray overcoat and white watchcap,
hissed at them, and muttered…
“Got Blunts, got
whites, baby blues, got V, V-square… OC, kat too…”
Tom pulled his
son closer to him, giving the kid a middle finger. “You know
that loser?”
“Seen him aroun’ school…” Junior said.
“See him on our block and I
see to it the Outfit wipes his ass with his tongue…”
Tom guided his
son into a clearing where perhaps two hundred people milled around an
improvised stage, strategically situated so that the speaker faced west into
the setting sun, a gang-neutral direction.
The crowd was mostly, but note entirely, black… and uniformly cold,
stomping in place, blowing into cupped hands, smiling for a few roaming camera
crews from local stations.
“What are we doin’ here anyway?” Junior protested.
“I’m lookin’ for a guy…” his father replied, massaging the gun
stuck in his belt under his camo jacket.
Junior
pointed. “So who’s that?”
“Some preacher…”
Tom snorted, biting off the n-word that he’d been about to utter by reminding
himself of the wisdom of America’s ex-President… twice-impeached, twice
elected, once rejected by the voters and twice defrauded too... victim of the
fake news, betrayed by the President he’d mentored - but still hanging in
tough, marshalling his base for the next go-round in twenty-eight. Some of them
had to be good people, even General Westmoreland Soames, who was probably
not responsible for his cousin’s duplicity.
But he had introduced him to
Raoul, then absconded from FREECOCK last night like a jailbird on the run, and
so both would pay the price, one way or another.
Onstage, the
Reverend Ellsworth Godwin lowered his microphone, adjusted the volume upwards,
then raised it to his lips, thinking if only it weren’t so goddam cold!
“We’ve been lied
to!” he began “We’ve
been disrespected! We’ve seen hope
extended, false hope, then jerked away, soon as election day came and
went. Men down there…” and he extended a
gloved finger south, past the Nation and their turf, all the way towards the
heart of Official Washington, “and in those new FCC offices up there…” he
turned, and pointed north, past the slithering Tribe, towards College Park,
“cut deals to make themselves more money at our expense, same as they always
do… can I hear an ‘Amen’?”
The crowd roared
back ‘Amen!’ (more, as it seemed, as an excuse to move around, shake their
fists, stomp their feet and get warm).
At the southern fringe of the crowd a few bolder Nation thugz scanned contingents of third and fourth-graders…
monitored by teachers, out for a night of democracy in action… evaluating
potential recruits, or victims. General Westmoreland Soames was huddled with
Eric Hopper, from Feargal’s, when a couple guys from
the ‘hood, Slim and Easy, braced them…
“Whassup?” Westy nodded, trying
not show any nerve, although he knew exactly what these guys were about. Raoul’s loose lips could sink the U.S.S.
Titanic.
“Dunno. People might
be lookin’ for your cousin,” Slim ventured,
“…think you might know where he been hidin’ his evil ass at…”
Westy grinned, perhaps overmuch. “Said
he was goin’ to Norfolk, hook up with that big-time
associate supplyin’ him with his material…”
Easy had on an
old Arizona Cardinals hoodie beneath his Members Only, cloaking his face while
he kept his hands in the pouch across his ample stomach, bouncing them as if
there was something in there he wanted the world to know about. “His crap!
People wantin’ to talk to him…”
“He’s family,” Westy admitted, “but he’s not stupid…”
And then Eric…
the real idiot… blurted out, “Well,
you did tell me that he got over on
Miz Lottie…”
Slim
whistled. “He sol’ one of them crap
converter boxes to Miz Lottie?” All Westy could do was shrug, cursing Eric for sucking up to
these lowlifes. “Crazy niggah!”
“Guess he won’t
be comin’ round for awhile, then…” Easy suggested,
his hands still bouncing in the Arizona sweatshirt.
“Maybe he is
stupid,” Westy replied, “but not stupid stupid…”
And Slim
smiled. He’d gotten his teeth filed into
points at Jessup… the Dracula look was a jailhouse fashion of the previous
year, like ink tattoos and baggy pants had been once upon the time; meaning it
would hit the streets by Easter, too.
“Lot of that goin’ round, bro’.”
Westy wondered if the pair would make a move with so many
civilians around, but they’d also turned to listen to Godwin… although Easy’s ears flickered, almost as if he were hoping their
prey would break for the bushes.
“Someone who’s not
on the program,” the Reverend teased, “because, well, some would say he and his
type do not exist… I, of course, having no personal information on the
so-called Capitol Free Broadcasting, cannot affirm or deny any of his remarks,
I only note that quite a few of you came out this way due to messages broadcast
over a temporarily vacant frequency, channel 53. I am given to understand that he is a man
without a name and… as you can see… he is also a man without a face…”
Eric pointed to a
masked somebody emerging from the underbrush behind Godwin.
“That a
Klansman?” some wag shouted out.
“Covid!” shrieked another.
“He is not from the Ku Klux Klan,” the Reverend
anticipated his audience, “because, well, in the first place, his hoodie is
black, not white and that mask of the white guy with the mustache… that’s from
this movie. Or maybe that TV show on
cable. Don’t know which. I really don’t know who he is, but he comes highly recommended, and since this is a
community gathering, we have to be open to all who have information on this
vital development… since I do know
we’re going to have some rather unusual speakers upcoming, let’s hear this
fellow out and, should someone in law enforcement subsequently ask, you might
wish to say that you didn’t see or hear this speaker either…”
And the man under
the hood took Godwin’s microphone…
“I’m not going to
say much,” the masked and hooded man began… and it occurred to Tom Eppert that he was trying to disguise his voice… “not only
because it’s cold, but because a gathering of this nature may be considered
off-limits to community broadcasters by the powers that be. Suffice it to say that I may have knowledge
of these so-called pirate broadcasts that have taken place from time to time
over the last few montha; some of you may even have
tuned in to our… their… signal earlier this evening. There will be further details upcoming
tomorrow morning at ten or thereabouts… since the signal is mobile, some of you
will be able to access it somewhat before, others somewhat after. It is unfortunate when the truth has to wear
disguises, but such is the nature of the society that has usurped the America
some of us used to know.”
“Still looks like Klan,” Easy opined,
still keeping both hands in the pouch of his Arizona Cardinals sweatshirt, as
if holding an enforcer in case Westy Soames continued to claim a lack of accountability for his
no-good cousin… “talks like them, too...”
“The often-illegal use of low-powered broadcasting in so-called
pariah communities… that would be racial, economic, sexual and cultural
minorities, immigrants, young people,” the man in the black hood tolled off,
“even adults, ordinary people careless enough to express dissatisfaction with
corporate-managed radio’s automated playlists or the persistence of cheap,
cruel reality contests even after the end of the latest round of plague, the
actors’ boycotts and television and movie writers’ strike and the United Auto
workers, last year… is long and honorable.”
“That hood’s like those ones they put on those terrorists in
Iraq, in that prison, you know?” Junior Eppert tried
to impress his dad.
“Figures that Mt. Zion would start up a protest in the park and
bring some fuckin’ Ay-rab to bad mouth America,” Tom
said, looking around again. “That
Godwin’s father was the same sort of hell-raiser, back in the day.”
He’d been certain Soames
would show up, so he wouldn’t leave without his money or a lot of blood on the
ground…
“It’s doubtful
that there ever would’ve been a so-called rock and roll revolt, let alone promotion
of genres like country music or rhythm and blues without Mexican radio stations
whose strong signals, illegal in the United States, reached millions of young
Americans during that time of the Cold War.
By the 1960s and 70’s… a time of turmoil with Vietnam and civil rights
struggle… the British state communications monopoly was challenged by so-called
“pirate” broadcasters, operating from ships lying just off the English
coast. A few years later, the revolution
had spread to America in the person of Mbanna Kantako, a young, blind African-American living in a public
housing project in East Springfield, Illinois who, with a one-watt transmitter
obtained through an electronics catalog, was repeatedly raided, even fined by
FCC agents, but remained on the air… eventually joined by micropower
broadcasters from Detroit to California to right here in Washington, where a
group of community broadcasters launched Radio Libre Mount Pleasant, serving
that neighborhood...”
“Heard about
them,” Slim turned to his hostages.
“Talk, talk an’ talk… buncha damn trash-talkin’ Commonists…”
“But, during the
Clinton, the second Bush, Obama, Trump, Biden... even three-day-wonder Burke
and now the cowboy Rivers administrations,” the hooded man continued, “a
counterattack by government agents, surrogates for corporate broadcasting as it
lumbers down the road of cultural concentration and homogenization, has driven
the microbroadcasting community further
underground. New York’s pirate
enterprise called “Steal this Radio” was shut down by federal district court
Judge Michael Mukasey who ruled that the broadcast spectrum is not a public forum and the FCC's
regulations were constitutional because they restrict speech based on wealth,
not content or viewpoint. It was
appealed to the Supreme Court, but you can guess what happened there!
“The
government also suppressed Radio Free Berkeley years ago, so its founders
turned to providing technical instruction and the raw materials to interested
parties, some of whom emerged during the brief period of tolerance for a few,
mostly rural microbroadcasters around the turn of the
century. With the advent of the Bush
Administration and installation of Michael Powell… yep, Colin’s boy… pressure
from the National Association of Broadcasters prompted passage of the Radio
Broadcast Protection Act which, by 2003, re-criminalized most low-power
enterprises. A few licenses were doled
out to speculators, who have since resold those in economically viable areas
back to NAB corporate interests, while sitting on less-profitable frequencies.
“Two decades ago,
Stephen Dunifer, a founder of RFB and author of
technical primers like ‘Seizing the Airwaves’ and ‘Micropower Broadcasting’
noted that reserving only six megahertz of over a hundred reclaimed by the government
and sold at auction to the mobile phone industry last year would ensure the
availability of low-power radio and TV to most of America, including both urban
niche populations and the criminally neglected rural communities, saying: “If
you can't communicate, you can't organize. If you can't organize, you can't
fight back. And if you can't fight back, you have no hope of winning.” So, if you want to learn more about how the
government and corporations have been doing it to Americans in the name of national
security, please inform your neighbors, relatives, co-workers… anybody… tune in
tomorrow morning, at ten, to what used to be channel 53. Might have used-to-be. Let’s stand with the Reverend here, stand up
and tell those people that we are not going to be pushed to the margins. It’s not about ‘Entertainment Tonight’ or
‘The Amber Dupree Show’ or even the news, it’s about the politics of inclusion,
a reversion to a communicative, modulated defiance of Jim Crow or a commitment
that the airwaves belong to all of the people…”
Three uniformed Maryland policemen strolled in from the north,
passing the Epperts and inducing Tom to grip his
son’s arm.
“Be seein’ ya,”
the hooded figure abruptly waved, then slipped away behind a knot of Mt. Zion parishoners, affording the Reverend a chance to step up,
again and ask for the “Amens” that seemed to sustain
him, like money in the basket or strong drink.
But, after garnering his “Amens”,
Godwin proceeded to bore the police and his audience alike in a haze of
bandwidth spectra, Megapixels, gigaherz and modulated
frequencies… in fact, until a local wit with strong lungs shouted out…
“What is the frequency, Reverend?”
¾¾¾¾¾¾¾¾¾¾
“What
is the frequency? Good question,” Godwin
nodded. “Alright, I am gonna tell you…
it’s the seven hundred MHz spectrum, where… no…” as a collective groan arose,
“I am gonna let an expert tell you, a
brother, he works at that FCC place up the road.” Godwin pointed northeast, for
effect, then beckoned Trent Lockett forward.
“Thanks
Rev, I’m Trent Lockett, and I work for the Research Division of the FCC…”
Another
wit cried out: “Gimme a converter!”
“One
that works!” yet another chimed in…
“Funny you should mention that,”
Trent smiled, “since the Commission and Coalition partners… that would be them
slicks who run the cellphones, computers, the manufacturers and retailers,
Circuit City, Wal-Mart, Giga-Plex… those whom we know collectively as NATITRAP…
well, five years ago we had guarantees that they’d sell those boxes that
convert analog signals to digital for about sixty bucks, maybe seventy. So when the retiring President and Congress
decided they needed money… there’s a man with more experience on that end, be
up here next… well, they figured that giving away forty-dollar vouchers on the
taxpayers’ tab, well that would clear up any problems, right?”
And
he smiled again as the inevitable outcries arose and diminished.
Tom
Eppert prodded his son. “See?
That’s one smart Afro-Merican,” he said,
“…young man who knows his business.
Which is why… hey, we’re not racists, a black guy who goes to school can
make something of himself, so…”
“Anybody
can be anybody in America…” Junior’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Damn
straight! Unless they drop out of school
to be some thug loser, peddlin’ pills in the
park. You don’t believe me ‘cause you
never been out of Dempstertown…” Tom advised, “you get older, go places, you’ll see…”
“Like
if I join the Army, see the world?” Junior needled his father. “All I
see is the government an’ corporations are a bunch of crooks…”
“Not
sayin’ it ain’t so,” Tom
admitted. “Just listen, alright, Mister
Bernie fuckin’ Sanders, maybe you learn something, even from… from that guy,” he added, weakly.
“Well,
we know all about that voucher and converter mess now,” Trent Lockett reminded
the crowd. “First, they come up late on
getting those converters on the market, not as bad as flu vaccine, but almost. They price ‘em at somewhere ‘round two hundred,
but say, well, it’ll come down… volume, you know? That was about the time when I came in and
started work, checking prices; I think we even said so in a report politicians
chose to ignore… if you have government monopolies on things people got to have,
well, you charge anything you want. And,
of course, since those devices were being made in China and Vietnam, we had…”
he wrestled with his train of thought, “number one, cost maybe five dollars to
make, so the importers and retailers split a hundred ninety-five profit pie
and, number two, bein’ make by slaves and children…”
And another wit shouted
out: “They blow up!”
Lockett stepped back,
giving a theatrical gesture of alarm.
“Well, you know, we got to be careful – not sayin’
that the government and manufacturers intended
to burn down the hood, like any places where low-money people lived, worldwide,
jus’ happened…”
And,
while Lockett was parsing the difference between what had happened, and what
might have just been intended, two more men slipped out of the crowd at the
south end of the park, joining Slim and Easy.
One was still a kid, tall and gawky with a Don King ‘do that made him
stand well above the other, an older guy, scarred and bullet-headed, in a light
gray jacket. They glanced from Slim to Westy, nodded…
“See,
you say your uncle go down to
Norfolk, but I don’ believe so, an’ I don’ even think you believe so…”
“An’
this ain’t nothin’ to do
with you, see?” Easy advised Eric Hopper, “so maybe you could just take a walk,
and…”
And,
just then, what happened was that Just Jones came up from the south, walking
right through a knot of Nations like they were girls, mad-eyeballin’
Westy and his associates…
“Sorry,
got caught up in traffic… these friends of yours?”
“Just
on their way out…”
Slim,
Easy and the other two tried to stare Jones down, Jones stared back… finally,
Slim smiled a long smile…”
“Be
seein’ you on the block, real soon, bro…”
Easy,
backing away, pulled his right hand out of the sweatshirt. Eric and Westy
flinched – Jones stepped forward. Making
a pistol of his fist and aiming his index finger at the three, Easy said: “Don’
let’s be strangers now…”
“Miz
Lottie can’t be lookin’ after him forever,” chuckled
the kid with the hair, and they turned south, Slim and Easy slapping Just on
the back as if he just scored a touchdown.
Just Jones glared at the
retreating foursome. “Don’ look friendly… an’ who dat?” he jerked a thumb at Lockett.
“Family
business,” Westy dismissed the moment, “… him…” and
he pointed to the stage, “some fool from the government, talking ‘bout those
television people…”
Jones
nodded, studying the men onstage. “Nice
suit…” he remarked.
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“Now,” Lockett said,
“let’s get down to our government’s so-called voucher program. We all remember that… supposed to start back in November, oh-six, for the
analog-digital boxes… didn’t get off the ground for about eighteen more
months? So the FCC’s doin’
the same thing all over again, except that modulated hi-def doesn’t work with
cable or internet streaming either, so you have to buy a new set or… no
problem, we got converter boxes with the same ol’ coupons as before. Then coupons start flyin’
around everywhere like Confederate money… meanwhile, price of converters which
was about a hundred-sixty, not sixty, goes down maybe ten bucks, some places,
up in others until, aroun’ last September, legitimate
MDTV boxes were down to maybe one-thirty before they start goin’
up again.”
Tom
elbowed his son, “Fuckers
at Giga-Plex wanted two hundred… well, one ninety-nine, you know… an’ they usin’ all kinds of tricks not to accept the coupons. You still get TV over the Internet?”
“Stopped
running episodes of ‘Border’, site just disappeared this morning,” Junior said.
“…a
lot more technical details I’m not going into because it’s cold out here… if
you have computers, or access to one at the library, or work… see for yourself…
instead, Rev. Godwin has asked me to introduce someone I ordinarily wouldn’t
have much in common with… but the rip-off is so widespread, now, all kinds of shit spatterin’
all kinds of diff’rent
fans. So here we have Senator… former
Senator, now, I guess, Ray Werbele…”
And
then, to the astonishment of the mostly poor, mostly black crowd, a stout, elderly
white man with white hair and ferocious eyebrows hobbled onstage, glared at the
Nakonset crowd, nodded, and began speaking in a broad
Carolina accent…
“Thank
you Reverend, Mr. Lockett and I guess… I was a Senator eighteen years and in
the national security racket before so, after Nine Eleven… well, it’s been more’n seven years, now, and I guess not so bad until
Flight Two Thirty-Nine. Anyway, some of
us up on the Hill got to looking into ways we could help out the local police
and emergency services, and… well, I’m not the expert, but those as were
figured out we could take all those TV frequencies bein’
used by old-fashioned broadcasters, upgrade ‘em to better quality digital, keep
our boys in blue satisfied and the nation secure…”
From
the back of the crowd, someone shouted “Fuck da’ police!”… a
dark frown crossed Werbele’s face as an angry
crossfire ensued, but, once the din abated, the Senator continued…
“Well
I can allow as how some of you don’t much like me, well, that’s no problem
since I probably wouldn’t much like you, were I to know you better. You might say, then, that neither of us cares
much for the other. But there is one
thing I will have you know, and that is that I do care for the future of our
precious American liberties, and some of the plans that these computer boys
have in mind just rub me wrong. Why do
you know that… back in May of oh-five… that so called Hi Tech Digital
Television Coalition, as noted that communications signals in the 700 MHz
spectrum could penetrate walls… sort of like Superman’s X-ray vision… proposed,
and I quote: ‘Receivers can be placed inside a residence or office, or even
built into computers or consumer electronics devices.’ Ladies and gentlemen, anything that the
government and the computer can do with receivers, they can also do with
transmitters, alright? So while you’re
watching television in your living rooms, some G-man… probably down there in
Langley, state of Virginia… is watching you in your living room, or in your
bedrooms, even, taking notes…”
“Now
see that?” Jones turned to Westy. “Always figured they had ways, makin’ sure they knew what black folk were doing before we
could get together and do what we got to…”
“They
lookin’ into my
bedroom,” Eric nodded, “they be jealous…”
The
Senator shook his shaggy head, looked down as if for something to spit in, then
continued. “Well, it so happened that,
turning our broadcast system from analog over to digital, we could supply the
national security and have plenty left over so that the cellphone and wireless
companies would be able to grow and expand the business, so we thought. Don’t much like cellphones, myself, but I
guess they’re a necessity, now…”
“An
expensive necessity…” Tom couldn’t help reminding his son.
“Isn’t
he the one who had a black baby?” Junior remembered.
Tom
stroked his chin. “Don’t think so…”
“Trouble
was, once folks get down to using a lot of bandwith,
it gets to be like heroin. You want
more, more, more! This NATIAP bunch… I
hear them being called NATITRAP… well they go back to the drawing board and
start slicing out of some of the bandwidth in the cable and streaming company’s
servers to, as they say… and as the corporations fell right into line, seeing
as how so many of them own shares in each other… improve signal quality. Now they could’ve done that and still left
the lower-quality signals around for those of us as can’t afford the better
sets would still be able to see what seems like a perfectly good sound and
picture, but no… the retailers got on their case too and since we have a new
President with a cabinet full of billionaires and Generals, it was a done
deal. I’m a conservative, you
understand, probably an enemy to most of you, but this new administration ain’t conservative, it’s government manipulation all the
way. So the right thing to do, and I
mean right not only in the political sense of preserving our precious liberties
from big government, but also, as means correct, you see?” Werbele
explained, “…well, they charge us, shouldn’t they pay for that privilege? Of course, but then… I don’t think I have to
tell some of you that I was and still am a Republican, and conservative, but a
conservative of the old-fashioned, Lincolnian sort, who feels obliged to give
all you voters a fair account of what we’re doin’
with your taxes during those times that I held office. As you might know, these last few years have
seen people and the government spend more than we’re taking in… there might be
good reasons, I don’t know… oil, the war, big business laying off Americans and
buying stuff from overseas. What got to
me, though, was how they promised to take all this money from selling off those
TV frequencies to come out with a more or less balanced budget, which really
wasn’t, not beyond another year to get re-elected in. Like smokin’ crack
cocaine. Now you may not agree with me
politically… I know many of you probably don’t, but can we at least agree:
nobody trusts cheaters and chiselers?
It’s not a party matter… I’m retired… but what’s happened down there (he
points south, towards the Capitol) has been just plain wrong… I…”
“Get
him out of here,” somebody shouted from the crowd. “Boo-orr-ring!”
Seeming
to lose his train of thought, Werbele shook his head,
then nodded, waved, and allowed Trent Lockett to guide him offstage as Reverend
Godwin retrieved the microphone.
“So
it isn’t really partisan a partisan issue… maybe some
of us thought things would be
different when we had a new President of our own, so we thought, but guess
what? Same old same old! Now the other side has its President, and
they’re going to cash in… at our expense!
So, since it’s getting cold, and we ought to be moving, we are going
north, along the Old Bethesda Pike up to the FCC’s research facility where… I
know it’s late, but we have a petition and list of demands we are going to
present to whomever is still there. You
can bet that someone’s workin’ late, all those
converters blowing up and startin’ fires, burning
some and scarin’ others half to death. It’ll be about an hour’s walk, and we may be
moving through some might pricey territory on the other side of Dempstertown, so if everybody stays together, stays on the
sidewalks and proceeds in a determined but respectful manner…”
“The
po-leese will shoot us down with our hands up!”
somebody responded from the dark in the park.
“Think
those friends of yours still ‘roun’?” Just Jones
sniffed the winter’s air, as if sensing danger in the dark, outside the park…
“I
can take care… hey, li’l man…” Westy
added, as Swee’Pea Tarleton sidled by… shovel across
his shoulder… in the company of a couple of youngblood Nations
“Hey,
Gen’ral!” Swee’Pea said,
more mockery than solicitation, “…need your sidewalk done…”
Soames
played along, stepping back and throwing up his hands. “Ain’t no sidewalks
out here… you gotta wait til’
it snows again…”
“S’alright!” Then, Swee’Pea tipped his shovel, melting into the crowd that was
already beginning to move northwards towards a half dozen suddenly wary Tribesters while the taller of his two companions looked
back, mean-eyeballing the men…
“I
seen that skinny kid around,” said Just Jones.
“Boy Norris. He’s dirty. Got somethin’ other
than snow he be shovelin’…”
“They
just doin’ the only job they can…” Westy excused the kids, “…makin’
a livin’…”
“Makin’
a killin’.
Don’ like that shit, shovelin’ it up my nose
an’ arm nearly fucked me up before I got the job…”
Westy felt like patting the big guy on his back, but
suspected that Just might just take it the wrong way. “‘Least we
got the jobs…” was all he said.
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Tom, guiding Junior before
him, had been drifting south, looking for Westy
Soames, but turned away once a few men in black suits emerged out of the toxic
underbrush to corral the network cameramen… a few schoolchildren laughed and pointed,
but their worried teachers shepherded them back into a tight little knot.
“We
gonna march to the FCC?” the boy asked, cold and bored…
Tom
guided his son into a 90º turn, a wide course towards the western edge of Nakonset. “Naw… home and aways…” he said, “your mother said we were
having fish sticks tonight. Fish sticks
and the radio…”
“This
how it used to be in the old days?
“Before
television? Or during the riots,” Tom
added… “for some, maybe, not people like us… this country used to take care of
people like us…”
At
the northern edge of the park, a line of police and Maryland troopers… abetted
by Federal-looking fellows in dark suits and shades… had taken up positions in
the street, their presence preventing anyone from crossing over. A police captain wearing a nametag “Irons”
and wielding a bullhorn stepped forward to confront the crowd.
“We
have reason to believe that this is an illegal assembly with a credible
potential for domestic terrorism,” he announced, “…and, under the provisions of
the Revised Patriot Act, you are hereby ordered to disperse. If you wish to continue north, you must show
photo identification verifying a local residence, otherwise, you better all
move on thataways, back to Shitpile
City…”
“I
hate cops…” Junior muttered.
“Don’t
say that! We’re white, that’s not about us. This is America…” Tom reminded him, voice
trailing off…
But
a few of the younger attendees… a few gang-affiliated kids, maybe Nation, maybe
Tribe, and several more not part of any movement, just pissed off at being
treated like damn Iraqis… felt the same way, and weren’t afraid to say so. Somebody heaved an empty 40-ouncer out of the
shadows, and Westy almost chuckled, seeing Reverend
Godwin hurrying forward to confer with the police, hands waving, coattails
flapping…
And
then, out of the shadows of the park, came four gunshots… one, two… a policeman
sagged to his knees, then pitched forward on his face… three, four… another
gripped his knee. The Captain, pushing
Godwin aside, blew his whistle and the officers, shields up and gas masks now
affixed, charged into the crowd. There
was a series of pops… the higher-pitched ones more gunfire… followed by a whump! of teargas canisters being
launched.
“Son-of-a-bitch,”
Just Jones slapped his pockets, “Left my enforcer home…”
Westy also patted his pocket, wincing… even through the
bandages and gloves, his blistered hands hurt.
“Let’s get out of here…” he whispered, brushing wisps of gas away from
his face, “…I didn’t…”
Jones
did a double-take. “You? Mister milk
chocolate…” he marveled,
“Nakonset ain’t such a friendly
place, not even in the daytime…” Soames reminded his companions. “These aren’t all cops. Nor Guard.
Some crazy gang of security Nazis…”
“Yeah,
so let’s go…” Eric hurried, “…put
some strut in your butts, an’ scut…”
They
scuttled south, with the flow of the crowd and pursuing authorities, drifting
somewhat off towards the eastern side, so Westy was
able to look over his shoulder as another round of gunfire exploded from the
bushes. The Captain whistled again and
the police and guardsmen and those… others… knelt, then fired through the
corrosive haze into the center of the crowd.
Shouts resonated from the mistm answering fire
came back…
“It’s a massacre… Decatur,
St. Louis, Baltimore…”
“They’re
killing the children…”
The
Epperts, senior and junior, chose a little-used trail
which petered out within sight of Morter Street, the
western boundary of the park, but were then halted at gunpoint by a lone, itchy-fingered,
squeaky-voiced teenage National Guardsman…
“Put
your hands up, or I shoot…”
“Do
we look like Obama ban Bomba and son?” Tom taunted
him as the point of the rifle shifted from one to the other…
“Shut
up!” the Guardsman cried. “I’ll kill you both… I can, you know. Turn around and, turn around…”
Once
they had turned their backs to the man, the Guardsman patted them down,
removing Tom Senior’s wallet…
“You
plannin’ on shootin’ us or
just robbin’ us?”
“Shut
up!” their captor screeched. “Are you
Thomas Edward Eppert?
You don’t look like your picture…”
“It’s
dark, asshole… use a flashlight,” Tom suggested…
“I
don’t have… shut up!” the kid
screeched again. “I don’t have to tell
you what I have, or don’t…”
“Dad? He looks crazy…” Junior worried, “you said
you gotta work at that place in the Mall, tomorrow…”
“Turn
around! Now turn around, again…” the Guardsman corrected himself, “there’s a card here that
says you’re a Federal employee, driver’s license, credit card… but I don’t see
any green card…”
“A green… I’m a fuckin’ citizen, idiot, four generations at
least,” Tom scoffed, “do I look like a fuckin’ Arab or Mexican. I got a driver’s license…”
“I don’t see one… don’t move…”
“Fer Chrissake!” Tom was on the verge of explosion, “…you’re holding it!”
The
screaming and gunfire had continued, though the latter had slacked off to
isolated shots when a phalanx of helicopters appeared overhead, their
searchlights scanning the park and giving the Guardsman some light as he frowned
at Eppert’s credentials…
“Are
you Thomas Edward Eppert? You don’t look
like your picture… and you’re not supposed to be here. This is an illegal demonstration…”
“Nobody
told me! And you don’t look like a National Guardsman,
either. And don’t say there was some
warning on television because… in case you just crawled out of a cave,” Tom
added, “there ain’t
no fuckin’ television anymore. Are you a Russian?”
The
Guardsman lowered his head and aimed his rifle at Tom Senior’s chest. “P-private,” he stammered. “Private security, Not supposed
to be here…” he repeated – maybe to the Epperts,
maybe to himself, and Tom realized the kid was reciting some goddam script that
some commanding officer had ordered him to memorize and spew back, just the way
that the lady at the temporary agency had told him to ask any shoppers he
encountered if they were all right, adding ‘Welcome to Giga-Plex’, even though
he’d be working the loading dock. He
scratched his head mechanically, as if there was a gap in the script for
situations like this, then all three of them jumped as something much larger
than a handgun went off nearby.
The Guardsman, still
holding Tom’s wallet, turned and trotted off into the haze…
“Hey! My wallet! My ID, my money…”
“Dad,
let’s just get out of here…”
“I
had thirty-somethin’ dollars in there, with my credit
cards…” and Tom’s voice rose to a shout.
“Thief!”
“Dad…”
“What?”
Senior snarled…
Junior
just pointed. “Let’s go!”
¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾
VISIT THESE OTHER GENERISIS SERIAL ABOMINATIONS…
THE GOLDEN DAWN BLACK
HELICOPTERS
THE INSURGENCE of CHAN
SANTA CRUZ!