SAVAGE SATURDAY

1)  Monday, December 30  – ‘HOODS

 

          By their skies, and by the emanations rising into and above them, overtopping dwellings; and by markets and the their edifices of worship and governance, the character and components of certain neighborhoods may be discerned – and we may come to know them.

          Purley and Dempstertown differ distinctly in that the skin color of the people who inhabit the former is largely dark; the latter, largely light… their mores and politics digress (an accident of history), and the situation of one as a segment of the American capital city named for its founder and first President, the other being an independent entity just over the Maryland border augurs no small delineation of identity.  From above, however, their adjacent vistas - tightly packed brick, brownstone or limestone rowhouses (poor, but still proud - with only a few empty crevices showing as gaps in the jagged jaws of workingmen well into middle age) are tethered by a frieze of obsoletes… television antennae! Such horizons were once almost universal to the nation (indeed, much of the Western world) but, by the last Sunday of this year of God, a rapidly disappearing species – were all but extinct in more affluent communities.  Anachronisms, like the streetcar and the buffalo.  Curiosities – nearly obliterated at the turn of the millennium but enjoying limited recovery into this last week of a weary, old year… the holidays bisected, a change of political regime in the coming year foreshadowed in the lead-gray skies and equally clouded prognostications of experts… their restoration owing to lingering malaise of a recessed, if not wholly depressed, economy, the never-satiated greed of satellite, streaming and tech companies and the oncoming bullet train of craziness and corruption.

          In one of these humble but tidy domiciles mid-block on Grape Street (cityside, just before it becomes Robinson Avenue on the other side of the Dempstertown line), Miz Lottie Soames was availing herself of the free television signals whirling outwards from one of many high platforms outside town to her own rusty, but serviceable antenna and its labouring analog/digital conversion box – beaming the occasion of the day into her living room.  The occasion was not religious… Miz Lottie was devout, but the appointed hours for the local televangelists ceased at the stroke of noon… nor athletic, (as should have been expected on such an afternoon), but, rather, the somber trappings of a massive, state funeral graying over all the still undiscarded Christmas wrappings and paraphernalia.  For those still uncomprehending… or only recently tuned in, a gray-haired newscaster… well past retirement age, but all the more trustworthy for years and experience, described events onscreen for Lottie’s benefit and that of perhaps a million souls within the purview of those local emanations whirling through the ether, and many more millions worldwide coupled by satellites or coaxial cables, causing Miz Lottie and her many dependent relations to sit erect, take notice and ponder on the irrevocable gravity of routine rituals as they unfolded before the impassive eyes of television cameras.

          “The procession of corteges is now passing over the Jefferson Davis Highway en route to Arlington,” the gray man intoned, “and we now have word that the leaders of Latvia and Uruguay will be joining the President and his entourage on the reception proscenium, alongside chief executive officers from America’s four broadcast and three cable media titans, actress/activist L. Madison Blaylocke and the Secretary-General of the United Nations…”

          “Girl looks thin!” Earline Ottinger opined from the gray couch left of the matriarch’s own, dark green corduroy throne, situated directly in front of the venerable, American-made Zenith 32” television, many years older than most of the squirming brood on the plaid couch to Lottie’s right, but still clear as a summer afternoon in Arizona

          “Hush yo’ mouth, Hitler,” Tyesha Hill fired back imperiously – two years younger than Earline, she, nonetheless, presumed advantage by virtue of being Miz Lottie’s granddaughter, while Earline was a great-grandaughter, one of those accidents of procession that arise from time to time in certain families.  Her mother, Annette, now with the military in Iraq, had, during the first war; there, met a German… or, maybe, Danish… peacekeeper with the U.N.  Grandfather Michael, Lottie’s oldest son, was military too, following his father into the service, he had passed from the effects of Agent Orange… his sister, Tamara from the diabetes when Tyesha was still only three years old.  None of Miz Lottie’s many progeny had, in fact, survived her (except for a daughter in prison or, perhaps, out on the streets and her youngest; that rascal Clay, who might – or might not – be driving trucks in Kansas City)… but her grandchildren and their children plus various nephews, cousins, step-cousins, even outliers like step-nephew “Uncle Raoul” and two of his boys – made for a full, and noisy, household on this lead-gray final Sunday of the year.  “An’ they still call him President… couple more days ‘til he gets back to being a Mister again, and that old rascal coming in can pardon hisself for messin’ with all of them Russians...”

Earline sulked, then pointed.  “She a… a skeleton,” biting back the expletive that had come to mind in deference to her great-grandmother’s disapproval (and the cutting board Miz Lottie wielded in the cause of discipline).  “Need to eat somethin’…”

From her emerald eyrie, Miz Lottie frowned, as if to remind the room that the funeral was of importance, attention must be paid.

The newscaster was Evan Augsberg, an octogenarian network anchorman who’d made his bones in Berlin and the Bay of Pigs, long before even Vietnam or Watergate.   In fact, he had retired… several years ago… but, now and again, was pressed back into service to narrate the tidings of those certain grave, gray occasions such as that now transpiring before the eyes of all America.

“Through an emergency… and rare… joint dispensation of Congress and White House brokered by the outgoing Senate majority and minority leaders,” Augsberg intoned, “interment at Arlington has been approved for the two Supreme Court Justices, for Federal Communications Chair Michael Kopp… not a veteran… as well as Commissioner Stabile who served with the Navy in Korea, although after that conflict.  Congressman Haynes and NFL Commissioner Prater were also veterans, Congressman Lauter and Governor Mirklee were included in the dispensation…”

“They catch that goddam terrorist yet, Mama?” inquired General Westmoreland Soames (who was not, strictly speaking, a General or, even, a lineal descendant of the matriarch but, rather, Lottie’s nephew… named after the commander in that conflict that had taken the life of his father, Lottie’s youngest brother).  Outside the walls of 5724 Grape Street, General usually answered to “Westy” or, at the Federal Reserve Depository where he worked, “Wes”.

His auntie waved a hand in front of her face.  “You mean that fella out of the President-elect’s private militia?” she snapped.  “Later, boy!”  Westy sighed, looked up towards the ceiling…

“Couldn’t get no turkey,” he admitted, “but I did manage to purchase three chickens.  If you weren’t so altogether Taliban about ham…”

“Shush!” Lottie hissed, pointing to the tube.

“I have word from the studio that there is breaking news out of Homeland Security, so we’ll be going back to Ted Fraser,” Evan Augsberg declared, and the images onscreen flickered, transiting to a studio… blue and beige… with three anchorpersons behind a long, blond desk.  Ted Fraser, equally blond… though showing just enough gray to impart authority without a lessening of vitality, thanked Augsberg and faced the camera directly, as if looking into the little house on Grape Street, perhaps not liking what he saw.  His brow was constricted, lips pursed…

“The White House claims to have information from a credible source in Homeland Security that the Christmas Day missile fired at Aviac Airlines Flight #239 to New Orleans only moments after takeoff from Reagan National Airport, Friday morning, was of a Chinese make known to have been acquired by Iran, but also by the North Koreans.  That source has emphasized that this development does not automatically rule out involvement by successors to ISIS, Al Qaeda or, perhaps, even a non-Islamist terror brigade, but, for the present, attention is being focused on Tehran, and we now have word that there will be a statement by the beleaguered lame duck President later this afternoon on the prospective cancellation, for security reasons, of tomorrow night’s celebrations in Times Square and across the nation…”

And a bottle of Andre’s champagne,” Wes added.  “If you won’t help me drink it, the girls will…”

 

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Nan,” Tom Eppert groaned across the line, almost rising out of his easy chair, just a few blocks over the line in Dempstertown.  “Goddam Washington media, can’t pass up any opportunities to take a poke at our next President, the way they did at Donald, even in the midst of… of…”

“Tom, your blood pressure…” Nancy Eppert warned, from the dining room…

“Screw blood pressure!”  But Tom did sink back into the chair – less well maintained but clearly more comfortable than Miz Lottie’s pedestal.  “Beleaguered!  What the fuck does that mean?  Why can’t they just say call that old fossil by his rightful name, leave it at that, without throwing in some fake news liberal crap as would have you believe that he’s still in charge already!  Things could change.  Those fuckers in Congress could slap themselves silly and then start realizing that America is in a perilous state, and changing horses before we chane horses… if we change horses… would be the worst we could do.”

“Well, it’s true that President-elect has announced that he will pardon himself and his family and fired that Attorney General before they could take it to court,” his wife replied, “and even though he says he’s in command unless he bungles the job so badly that we hold a special election in two years, and a new House and Senate is sworn in.  Then the bastards will be impeached, and when the new Senate is sworn in, he’ll be gone and…I don’t know, can the Speaker become President before he, or she is Speaker yet?”

“Dunno but… aw hell, if it’s Iran, we’re lookin’ at World War Three.  You know, the bastards were just waiting for a time like now, just when there’s all this flap over the North Koreans and China invading Taiwan and the Russian war and the indictments… gimme another beer!  An’ put some of them pretzels in a bowl…”

Tom settled back into the easy chair - face red, stomach growling.  The living room of the small house on Robinson differed only minutely from that on Grape Street… for, like Westy, he labored at that certain and little known (by design) Federal facility where ragged and obsolete currency was destroyed.  There was only the one couch, beige, against a wall under the family portraiture (white faces, not black) and the television was a GE, only 30 inches (measured diagonally) but at least hooked up to basic cable.  Both rooms held floor lamps, knickknacks and American flags; both carpets were old, but clean  The noise wafting downwards was the clicking and squealing of Tom Junior, playing some videogame on the computer in his parents’ bedroom instead of the snoring and occasional exclamation from Uncle Raoul.

Perhaps a million dollars passed through Westy’s fingers in the course of a week, and ten times that into FRCOC’s incinerators from Tom’s crane, but only a pittance stuck… the balance proceeding through shredders which, like Riding Hood’s wolf, possessed very big, and very sharp teeth.

“If you don’t like what the man is saying, change the channel!” Nancy advised.

Tom sat, dumbfounded, then smiled.  “Good fuckin’ idea!” and he raised the remote, clicked twice.  Ted Fraser disapparated, the GE’s whirling pixels quickly resolving into the face of another, less Administration-friendly newscaster… two, in fact… Sam Dreibach, and the Fox network’s esteemed sportscaster Wallace Kim.

 

 “As predicted, team owners have unanimously approved elevation of Glenn Radulovich to interim NFL Commissioner, and Radulovich’s first decree… before boarding a train from New York to attend Commissioner Prater’s funeral… was that wild card playoffs would resume next Saturday and Sunday, with all games pushed forward one week, moving Super Sunday to February 16th.   Speculation that the original date would be maintained by reducing the layover after the Conference finals was quickly and firmly dismissed by Radulovich, citing tradition and the desire for both teams to be rested and healthy for Super Sunday…”

“Well,” Sam Dreibach interjected, “the weather is hardly a factor, seeing that the game is still going to be played in New Orleans…”

 “Probably played no little part in the decision by the Interim Commissioner who, let us remember, is an ultra-conservative Republican and the first ex-NFL player to assume this all-important position…”

“One who’s been biding his time since the Trump administration and whom the President-elect may well elevate once the new Congress is seated and the prospect of impeachment disappears… not to mention the pardoning issue and, of course, the two seats on the Supreme Court – which are in the pipeline, once President Burke and the new Speaker takes office…”

“Which will make Radulovich’s tenure… well, interesting,” Wallace Kim admitted.  “We’ll see how he responds to requests from all eight playoff teams, next week… including our own wild-card Redskins… er... Commanders to wear black uniforms.”

“Making them… oh, can I say it,” Dreibach smirked, “Blackskins?”

“You said it,” Kim acknowledged, “I didn’t…”

 “I love this station,” Tom Eppert chortled.

“Colin Kaepernick comin’ to getcha,” Kim warned and Tom snorted again.

 

Three blocks from the Eppert domicile, Robinson Avenue intersects the state highway – from here it runs three miles, a straight shot, to the One World Mall, seventh-largest in the D.C. Metroplex and, though taking a beating from the online, drone-delivery megatliths, still among the top hundred brick and mortar malls nationwide, in sales, acreage and foot-traffic.  In the Mall’s anchor emporium… the appliance, entertainment, computing and electronics behemoth Giga-Plex… half a dozen bored clerks and cashiers followed the state funeral and commentary of Dreibach, Augsberg, and dozens more on the various broadcast, cable and satellite channels servicing a display floor of hundreds of quacking, flashing television consoles banked in row upon row upon row to a height of more than sixty feet, just beneath the maze of catwalks crisscrossing the ceiling.  From tiny three and five-inch models… weighing less than a well-nourished Chihuahua… to the great sixty and seventy-two inch mahogany and silver-inlaid high definition plasma cabinets… even a nonfunctional cardboard prototype of the much-touted ninety-two inch Dominator sets, soon to arrive; fresh off the boat from factories in Romania (and, even, a transistor slum of motley analog and common high-def digital models, each bearing the placard ‘Deep Discount’ and, in tiny lettering, the FCC-mandated admonition, ‘…may require additional conversion utility for on-air and cable operation the Monday after Presidents’ Day, February 17th… the pixelboxes performed their antics and awaited adopters.

The phrasing of these placards had, in fact, been penned by none other than the founder, chief executive and sole shareholder in Giga-Plex, L. B. (“Big Sonny”) Sonnenschein who, in memoranda to his three hundred ninety-one store managers, worldwide, (including the dyspeptic Mark Tenison, head honcho of the flagship One World outlet) had jacked up Christmas sales by boasting that usage of such obscure Eurochronology would fool at least half of the big box shoppers into thinking that these obsolete sets would still work until July, perhaps November.

Sonnenschein, who also, by the way, owned the Big Sonny’s Giga-Mart franchise across the One World West Promenade from Giga-Plex… where soap, brooms, plastic furniture and sundries like toothpaste and toilet paper were sold in implausibly large quantities to bargain-hunters… stood five feet, six inches in his handcrafted reptilian boots, with their four-inch heels (the Western hats he favored further enhanced his stature, as well as concealing his queer, perfectly round, perfectly hairless noggin which bobbed and grinned in feverish animation when the great man beckoned from within his television sets, urging all to visit his outlets)…

But, like the Pillsbury Doughboy, pizza rat, insurance lizard, and like a hundred other advertising icons, Leland Buford Sonnenschein had been relegated to that shelf where the smiling faces of American commerce reside during those occasional days of Jesus, tragedy and somber reflection.

In his stead, Evan Augsberg lifted a microphone.

“The first of six carriages – represented as bearing FCC Chair Kopp although, of course, no physical remains survived this terrorist attack,” the newscaster–emeritus qualified, “is now passing onto Arlington’s hallowed grounds, where so many of America’s finest have been laid to rest.  Though appointed by the liberal President, Kopp was both conservative in the original sense of favoring only gradual technological innovations as well as true diplomat who, in fact, enjoyed a splendid working relationship with FCC Manager Peter Meyers, who suddenly has reason for concern about his tenure and his policies according to our Capitol Hill correspondent Lyle Baker who, I understand is standing by…”

“What a bore!” opined stockboy Craig Synch (seventeen, and straining to grow facial hair) as he rested his elbows on the empty register station of cashier Vicki Gordon (three years older, and as unimpressed with Craig as with the funerary ritual).

“Man, life’s short, and then that’s the end of it,” Craig concluded, “so how’s about you n’ I catching th’ caveman movie across the street – early show, tomorrow…”

          “It’s a Tuesday, and they’re not shutting down… not for those guys,” Vicki pointed.  “So don’t you have school… high school…”

          “Yeah, but…” Craig smiled and favored the cashier with one of those shrugs patterned after the gestures of a teenaged icon on the marginal cable network. “it’d be my treat…”

“Wow… sixteen whole bucks!” Vicki marveled.  “We gonna sneak in our own candy and popcorn?”

          “Could do.  So that’s an affirmative?” he pressed, flush with the confidence of a hunting dog pouncing on a rather slow, dense bunny… Vicki, wincing at having made the mistake of responding to his offer, turned her back, facing the console bank where Evan Augsburg had bounced commentary back to reporter Lyle Baker, broadcasting importantly from in front of the White House…

“Thank you, Evan.  Yes… even while the nation pauses to remember these dedicated public servants and demand answers to this tragic assault on our national integrity, Washington gathers its resolve to resume the national business.  And in an emergency session called for Wednesday morning, over the vociferous objections of Democrats who… pending the sustenance of the Republic, become the minority party in both houses on Saturday@… the Congress seems is expected to reject, if narrowly, and on a straight party-line vote with the tie-breaker being cast by outgoing Vice President Harris, the elevation of President-elect Burke’s designated promotion of Commissioner Yunis to Chair and the expected appointments of Luke Williams and Parminandra Patel, both staunch free-market right-wingers but, also, faithful followers of the futurist High Frontiers doctrine espoused by techno-conservatives like former House Speaker and first Space Force High Commander, and now the recess-appointed Vice President.  We understand that the President is deeply disturbed by the prospect and the process of impending impeachment of his successor, but the tendency of Congress to rally round the flag when under attack has meant that perhaps five to seven Democratic Senators will join the new Republican majority in confirming these crucial appointments on Monday, now that there appears to confusion as to whether the Vice President can break a deadlock, lacking a nearly unanimously hostile, but dysfunctional Supreme Court to set the ground rules.  Do we… yes, Ted Fraser has more on the investigation into Flight 239’s last ride… back to the studio…”

In the Giga-Plex customer service cubicles, opposite a cluster of stolid, Chinese 48-inch HDTVs, slightly discounted, Ed “Total” Skinner and Theodore “Thunder” McHale… two young men in their third and fifth years of engineering curricula at their local branch of the state college… squinted and prognosticated like a couple of insiders on yesterday’s “Meet the Press”.

“Guarantee, dude,” promised Thunder, through the thick lips and hoarse throat of a habitual stoner, “it’ll be a movie in six months, then a kick-ass game…”

“Give Hollywood a break – at least a year,” contradicted Total, who took himself and his career seriously, as he preferred to believe, very seriously.  “And the game will come out first… then a graphic novel, maybe, then the movie…

“Terrorist POV, of course…

“No way!  It’s not the ethics…” Total dissembled, “but where’s the complications?  Rocket powered grenade, shoulder launch… probably Chinese by way of Iran… point and shoot.  Like fuckin’ Tetris, man, wholly retro…”

“What’s Tetris?” Thunder wondered…

Moron!” Skinner scowled, though silently as he had perceived their caffeinated store manager Mark Tenison wending his way through the pillars of Babel, giving both salesmen the evil eye…

          “At least try looking busy,” Mark scowled, jerking his head upwards like a trout on its line, “…why not try helping that bewildered civilian over there in Accessories to make up his mind?”

“That Feminoid?” Thunder snickered.  “Trying to decide whether to spend eight or a whole twelve bucks on a USB?  Why don’t we just shut down and go home…”

“It’s a holiday, a tragic holiday…” Mark emphasized, “…enjoy your rest, while you can, ‘cause Mr. Sonnenschein’s getting the digital changeover date moved up and I could put you out on the loading dock.  Thos new Romanian Dominators are heavy…”

“No need for extremities,” Total mollified the boss, “the sucker will have questions, and you’ll need us…”

          “Maybe.”  With another evil glance at the salesmen, Tenison honed in on fresher, lower-salaried prey… “Now here’s a couple of salaried slackers I could send home…”

“Could pick up,” Vicki answered, popping her gum.  “Besides, you need three registers… Baldy says so…”

          Mark Tenison looked across the store, then upwards with a sinister grin.  “Do you see Mr. Sonnenschein?  I don’t… I do see a camera that’s probably picked up your remarks.  Those tapes we send over to Waco every Thursday, he’s got deaf people, dozens of them, looking at ‘em and readin’ lips just to catch some smart-ass girl makin’ fun of his scalp.  You still think it’s funny, Synch?”

          “No, sir,” Craig answered (though lowering his head to stifle a grin)…

          “If somebody doesn’t stop chatting up my help and start looking busy,” Mark implied, “someone might find their job buried deeper than any of those goddamn dead politicians.”

“Are you talking to me?’ snapped Vicki – certain that Tenison, like every other two-legged creature on God and Harvey Weinstein’s fuckin’ earth with junk between his legs, wanted only to get into her pants…

       “Of course not, darling,” Tenison replied with an oily smirk, “…you’re exactly where I want you to… should be.  Mister Synch, however…”

“Me?  What?  Look around, I bet there ain’t more than three customers in the store,” the stockboy complained, “an’ two of them are with Gomez in Junior Applications, so who cares…”

Tenison lifted his index finger from the stockboy to the ceiling, where another of Sonnenschien’s closed-circuit cameras would be whirring away… howsoever silently.  Savoring the moment, marveling at the stupidity of youth, he deliberated a moment… expediency and a crazy urge to flaunt his authority by firing the kid on the spot briefly warring before, as usual, expediency won out.  The post-Christmas refund rush would begin on Thursday.   He brought the finger down, training it on Craig’s heart, like the red dot of a sniper’s riflescope. 

“Need I remind you naifs that every corner of this store is being watched, recorded, and,” the manager baited his trap, “when I send the tapes off to Waco, Sonny’s people scrutinize every move every pathetic little stockboy makes – customers or not.  If you appreciate your six-fifteen an hour independent contractor wage, you’ll find something to do even if there’s nothing worth the doing.  He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.  “And if you have any thoughts about not coming in tomorrow or on Wednesday, I have this many applications – plenty of people would do anything for that job you have…”

But the stockboy’s reaction was not one of shock and awe, in fact, there was a rather threatening undertone from the previous Presidential election as he shot back…

       “Yeah!  Mexicans!  They’ll all be on the Immigration buses back to Matamoros within a month!”

          Tenison almost lost it, then, waving his finger, side to side, like a metronome or the tail of a cat, perched atop one of those overstocked Viesa seven-fifty pixel forty-twos on sale at eighteen eighty-nine (but which Mark, given the untenanted condition of the floor, this afternoon, had advised his sales staff to move for as little as seventeen-fifty).  “Don’t fuck with me,” he warned, then presumed an air of superiority, a gambler’s cool.  “And, even if so, so what?  Giga-Plex is untouchable.  I could hire Osama fuckin’ Bin Laden and, well… don’t find out what I can do to you.  Big Sonny has Screaming Eagle security on his Rolodex… those guys kicked out of Baghdad that the fake news people claim to have shot down the Justices’ plane?  They can have you investigated…”

“Better investigate ways of getting more bodies into the store,” Vicki popped his attitude and her gum in one movement.  Flustered, the manager looked from the cashier to the cameras above, wondering what Waco would make of this…

“Sonny’s got that covered,” he opted for loyalty.  “Just you wait!  There’ll be so many cattle movin’ here with all the liberal snowflakes kicked off their jobs and the new Administration’s people moving in, that your fingers will fairly fall off for all of the sales ringing up.  There’s a plan afoot,” he winked.  “Not even all of the managers know it, just me and a few others… things are going to start hoppin’.  We’ll even start movin’ advance orders on those ninety-two inch, plasma Dominators from Romania on Thursday and, with those on my good side… who knows?”

“So does that mean we get raises?” persisted the annoying Synch.  “Maybe even to the legal minimum wage?  Overtime… at least for tomorrow and Weduesday?”

“In your dreams, fuckball.  All you turds are independent contractors, remember?  The law is gonna stay the law for four more years and you can do your jobs or quit.  In your fuckin’ dreams!  Now get hoppin’,” and Tenison decided to take out his frustration on his usual victims, the customers.  “Mark down those analogs some…” he pointed, “ten percent, say… and mark up the converters from one eighty-nine to one ninety-five…”

          “There used to be a government coupon contract out on them,” Craig reminded him.  “Is that legal?”

       “Big Sonny and Mark-down Mark say so.  Move!  Hop, hop, hop!”

          So Craig sidled off, affording Tenison an intimate moment with Vicki, who seemed as unimpressed with him as with the pimpleboat…

          “Mark-down Mark!   Big Sonny!  Jesus!”

“Best keep your head down when you say that… man wants to wear that tall hat and four inch lifts in his boots, hey, he’s a billionaire, or nearly so.  I’d lick those boots clean, if he told me.  Guys like him run the world, young lady, soon as you so recognize and co-operate life gets a whole lot easier.”

          “Figure he could afford at least another dollar ten an hour and get us off that damn independent contractor status.  Or a cash Christmas bonus last week, not another of those lame-o ten percent-off coupons…”

“That’s in addition to the employee discount,” Tenison calculated.  “That makes… uh… twenty percent!”

          With a pathetic smile and a half-assed moonwalk down the aisle of his mostly-empty store, Mark set off in search of whatever it was he was looking for.  Vicki lowered her head and muttered… then checked her nails, looked up at the bank of Augsberg-station sets…

“Loser can add!” she lip-synched.

“The cortege is holding, still,” Evan Augsberg declared, “with light rain falling on the Congressmen and Jamaican Prime Minister, the astronauts and a delegation of youngsters from the Precious Flower Home in Congressman Lauter’s home district… the NFL delegation, including players and coaches from the eight playoff-bound teams who will take the field next Saturday and Sunday and we are still awaiting the arrival of the soon-to-be former President… and the honor guard of former Presidents Clinton, Bush Junior, Obama, Trump Senior, Biden and the former and, if rumours of a Speakerhsip deal hold, next President… uh...”

“If you run and don’t win, run again and keep running until either you do win or something weird happens and you sneak back in through the back door!  Where are those Presidents?” Craig shook his head.

 

 

 

 

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    VISIT THESE OTHER GENERISIS SERIAL ABOMINATIONS…

 

 

THE GOLDEN DAWN               BLACK HELICOPTERS 

THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ