Index 
Part 2
Subject: CODY: FROSH Part 1 -- Repost
From: mithryl@walrus.com (Mithryl)
Date: 1996/12/08
Message-Id: <58fd66$aco@alice.walrus.com>
Newsgroups: rec.arts.prose,alt.sex.stories
FROSH
By CODY ANN MICHAELS
c. All Rights Reserved
PART 1
MORAL CUSTODIANS
Chapter 1
Gem County
"I have surmised that Stanford [White]'s abdication of
responsibility was complete. As the moral custodian of his own life, he
simply wasn't present. Because of this, there is no story. Without
awareness, without at least an attempt to exercise choic e, there is no
drama. How can there be drama if no one is there?" -- Suzannah Lessard,
Stanford White's great granddaughter in The Architect of Desire, Dial
Press, 1996, reviewed NY Times, 10/28/96
"You won't believe this at first, but there is no Bill Clinton.
That is, he has no principles he will stand by if they lose him
popularity." -- Paul Greenberg, Little Rock journalist, in 1992, as
repeated by Nat Hentoff, Village Voice, 11/5/96.
*
Shit! In all the confusion the past several weeks, what with
getting married, winning the Nobel, and trying to get my book published on
the internet, I completely forgot to mention I was running for Congress.
Of course, I had to lie about my age, becau se no matter what it may seem,
most congressmen are not 14 years old. That's their minimum i.q.
Why I wanted to be in Congress is hard to say. For one thing, I
would be able to keep abreast of the issues; it would look good on my
resume, and I would have a secretary to type my term papers. Then there
is the 135 grand salary, which is almost as mu ch as I make putting out
for U.S. Congressmen. So why not, I reasoned, go where the money is? I
also get an expense account. And free postage.
I know a lot of people are going to think in view of some of the
things I wrote in my last book, that I sold out, but the truth is I ran as
a Republican. For one thing, my district, the 3rd, is almost wall to wall
with Republicans. Some of those people are still trying to keep us out of
World War 2, they're so right wing. I also thought the GOP was more
sociologically adapted to the elements of my life style: you know, things
like child brides, intra-family sexual arrangements, ritual mass murders,
sl avery, etc. But the other thing is, if you're a Republican, the
Christian Coalition will provide you with all sorts of backup just for
saying the most bizarre things about abortion. Those freaky people will
go door to door, hand out literature, and even lie down in the middle of
the road and be run over just to get you elected. And it's all free. You
don't even have to campaign yourself. I'd almost forgotten I was on the
ballot.
A couple of days after the election, I called my campaign manager
from the motel in Emmett, Idaho, where Kelly and I were spending our
honeymoon at a militia training camp, to see how I did. He said it had
been a landslide. "For who?" "You. You won!" "Wow. Now what do I do?"
He said the first thing was for me to put out a statement thanking
the electorate for supporting me, and praising my opponent for having run
an honorable campaign based on the issues. I asked who it was. The name
meant nothing. "He said you were a two dollar whore." "Oh, that guy?"
What a cheap schmuck he turned out. He deserved to lose. It's true what
they say about liberals. They will spend anyone's money but their own.
"What about Newt Gingrich?" My manager said Newt was on my side. "Oh
yeah. All that GOPAC money. I forgot. Wait til you see the neat utility
vehicle we bought with it."
I would also like have to actually go to Washington. "Uh, oh
yeah. Like when?"
Lenny said he thought I could put it off until after Christmas.
"By the way, not that it matters, but who won the election? I
mean, for president? Really? That's the guy who's on the posters down at
the firing range. The ones with the circles on them. Do I get a car?"
"No."
"How about secret service?"
"You only get that if you run for president."
"So I'll run."
"You can't. You're underage. You have to be 36."
"Jesus. Who made that rule? I'll be an old woman. My mother
still has three years." Not that she'd make a good president. My mother
is sort of like Arianna Huffington. I think they were clones together at
Vassar. Lenny said he couldn't help it. H e didn't make the laws. That
would now be my job.
"By the way, where exactly is the third district?"
When he told me, I nearly flipped. "Jesus, that's practically a
swamp. Couldn't you have got me something more upscale? Like South
Beach." Lenny said the Cubans owned that. Besides, there was a big army
base in my district. I ran on my military record.
"Yeah? You didn't tell them about Fort Bragg, did you?"
"We said you were a war hero."
Yeah. 20,000 infantrymen can't be wrong. Well, just so long as I
don't have to spend time there. You can fix up the photos with a
computer, right? The supermarket openings. The high school graduation.
The pie eating contests. Yuck! Like spare me the agony. The non-virtual
humiliation. They're lucky they will be able to worship me from afar.
Maybe, now that I think of it, I do belong with the Republicans.
Kelly and I are in Idaho because we wanted to spend our honeymoon
in a state that was totally moral. Did you know that Idaho has a law that
explicitly forbids sex between "unmarried people of the opposite sex"?
Which means Kelly and I would have been c ompletely legal here, even if we
hadn't gotten married. The law was passed in 1921, but nobody paid it
much attention until the local Prosecuting Attorney decided to use it to
arrest teenage mothers. You can see why people like Mark Fuerhrman... did
I spell that right?... would want to live here.
Besides outlawing "forn-if-cation," Idaho is also home to the
Phineas Priesthood, the Aryan Nations, and the Christian Identity Church,
not to forget Ruby Ridge. It seems a girl, who -- just to pick a name out
of the hat -- we will call Hester Prynne, w ent and got herself knocked
up. And the Gem County prosecutor being the kind of aspiring backwoods
politician who never misses a chance to get his name in the paper and make
a fool of himself and his hometown in the national media, had her
arrested. In fact, he nailed ten of the local hussies for the crime of
illicit motherhood, girls turned in to the authorities by "teachers,
family members or social workers." What a town.
"We have higher standards than some of your faster metropolitan
areas," the sheriff who served the warrants said over his belt buckle
(which naturally was shaped like a gun). So does Attica. No girls ever
dared to get pregnant when he was in school in the 1950s, he told
reporters. If he's a specimen of what was available, I can see why. I'd
rather do it with a goat.
One would have thought Nathaniel Hawthorne had handed down the
last word on small town, small minded petty government interference in
people's private lives, no, but The Scarlett Letter has apparently still
not made it it west of the Great Divide. The p .a. is naturally a white
male, 33 years old, who it is easy to imagine is getting vicarious revenge
on the girls who snubbed him when he was a pimply teenager by attacking
these girls now in his power.
Of course, he is only going after teenagers, even though the law
is supposed to apply to adults, too. Yet another reason why young people
don't vote, having experienced first hand what growing up in a "free"
society really means. He even gloated about it. "We limit the freedoms
of minors already." In Idaho, you can't buy cigarettes, or alcohol or get
married without your parents' consent. And you can't drive a car until
you're 14. What kind of law is that? Also, you can't drop out of school
until you're sixteen. So what if you high tail it across the border into
Oregon? How are they going to stop you? If I was pregnant (again) that's
what I'd do. Or head for the badlands of Montana. Of course, that might
result in a warrant for your arrest. I can see being stopped at a road
block fifteen years from now and the computer says I'm wanted in Idaho for
being a mother. But, it's not my problem. I have to get back to
Washington.
It's interesting to look at a map, and sort of free associate to
what you see there. It can tell you a lot. When I look at a map of
Idaho, for instance, what I think about are bird headed goddesses. These
are little figurines, most of them not much lo nger than seven inches,
that have been found all over Europe in caves and burial sites from
twenty-thousand years ago. The most famous is probably the Venus of
Willendorf from Austria, although she definitely has a head. But the
others have just sort of a point where the head has been pinched together
-- like Idaho. And they are all pregnant. In fact, that's the most
noticable thing about them. The bellies. They stick out a mile. It's
the exact same shape as Idaho's. This is because -- people thin k -- that
in primitive societies women were reverenced for having babies. They
weren't locked up. Or shamed. Or bussed into Boise for sex education
classes. It shows you how far we've come, doesn't it?
Kelly asked if I was going to do this all the way back across the
country. I said I couldn't help it. I just liked to read maps. She said
I was driving her nuts. Every state we went through, I would read the
map. Trying to figure out God's plan. Wh at it meant. Why were
different names placed next to one another or far apart? Once she grabbed
the Rand McNally out of my hands and threw it out the window. Looking
back, I saw the pages of America symbolically scattering on the interstate
which ran s traight to the horizon. Fortunately, at the next truck stop,
I got new maps.
Kelly left me and took off in the Bronco. I was a thousand miles
from home, and all I had was a map, and my lovely teenage body. We got
back to New York about the same time. "How was it?" she asked. I said I
had acquired a fresh perspective of the American experience.
I've decided, however, that I don't want this book to be about
politics. I think that sort of spoiled the last one. Because politics is
of the moment, and I want this volume to evoke truths that are timeless,
like the ones you might get from being on crack.
Besides, politics does not mean as much to Kelly as it does to me.
To her, it is filled with sham and deceit. Her cynicism is that of the
average teenager who has been harassed since birth, while at the same time
being forced to pay lip service to the idea that we live in a free
country. It's hopeless to try and reason with her.
In any case, I had to hurry and get dressed. I was to be a guest
of honor at a banquet that night at the Waldorf, where people were waiting
to get a glympse of the country's youngest freshman congressman. To be
honest, though, I had lied on that questi onnaire they make you fill out
before you can run for congress, that I was 34. I had also said I was a
man, because that was demographically more appealing to the constituency
in the district I was running from. And I had said I had once been a
quarterb ack for the Boston Celtics because congressmen who are ex-sports
jocks are usually very popular. Since I only weigh 118 pounds,
twenty-five of which is in my breasts, this was a bit of a stretch. I
wondered if anyone would notice. Anyway, I don't know why it's so
important to have been in sports, because invariably your opponent is
going to make a sour remark that you forgot to wear your helmet once too
often. Witness Jack Kemp. Dole used to say that about Kemp all the time,
which gives you some idea of what a whiz bang joke it is. I had also said
I was one of Newt Gingrich's half-sisters.
Kelly asked what about her? I said she would have to sub as my
wife. It was a small sacrifice. No one would know. Besides, it wasn't
like it was the first time she had ever worn a dress. She looked
stunning. With long diamond earrings and her long curl y red hair falling
around her bare shoulders. The hot pink dress was a little short for a
congressman's wife. And her cantaloupes were about to fall out of the
top. I wore a tuxedo with shiny black panties, black stockings and high
heels. But I put my hair back. I didn't want to start any rumors.
The press conference before the banquet went well. Reporters
wanted to know my agenda. I said that I was grateful that the issue of
welfare had finally been settled so skillfully by our party's leader, Bill
Clinton. However, the problem of poverty in America still remains, well,
a problem, because of the millions of snotty little kids who will now be
starving, probably in public as a cheap liberal tactic to embarass the
administration. The people of my district, my what do you call them,
constituents, were honest, caring people who worked hard for a living.
Why should their money go to pay for black kids' babies and drive by
shootings? Many owned their own homes, and some had vast cattle ranches
which they leased from the government at seventy to eighty percent below
what they would have paid for private grazing range.
This had given me an idea. If it works for cows, why not kids?
For this reason, the first bill I would introduce in Congress would be the
National Urban Youth Resettlement & Final Solution Act, under which little
black boys and girls would be taken out of the ghettos and turned over to
the ranchers of my district (and elsewhere, of course) so they could be
fattened on federal lands. The ranchers, of course, would receive a
subsidy for each child. The children would have fresh air and exercise.
Then, when they were ten, the normal life expectancy of a ghetto child,
they would be herded down to Laramie, put on trains, and railroaded to
Chicago, where they could be turned into all sorts of useful products,
such as Hamburg Helper and shoe polish.
"Everyone will benefit. The ranchers, who will be paid for piping
in water and keeping fences electrified; the kids -- children love the
great outdoors, althought surviving winter outside on the plains of Kansas
might be a problem for some. We'll have to see about shelters. Maybe we
can do a study. And their parents, whatever, people on welfare, they
would no longer have to worry about if their children are getting decent
daycare while the parents are sweeping streets and cleaning subway
bathrooms. I don't see how it can miss, especially now that our party
controls both houses of congress and the presidency. But, I have to
admit, while I was doing research, I discovered someone named Dean Swift
had proposed exactly the same thing two or three hundr ed years ago, only
in Ireland. I don't know how it worked out. I couldn't find any studies.
Even back then, there was probably some liberal bureaucrat putting
roadblocks in the way of progress and free enterprise."
One thing Kelly and I had in common with the militias is that we
felt there was just too much government. Always sticking its nose in your
affairs. Why did it have to? I was determined to stop it. However,
before I could get very far, I discovered I was pregnant.
Kelly wanted to know how that could happen. I knew she didn't
want to hear unproven theories about the egg and the sperm. She's totally
fundamentalist. Still believes devoutly in the stork. I said I thought
it had something to do with the time we wer e both raped in that biker bar
back in Gem County. You know, the place where it's illegal to get
pregnant with someone who's not your husband. So I had like committed a
felony.
I wondered how that might affect me. My career. I mean, like, as
a congressperson, would I be exempt from laws like that? Also, could they
reach me here? They could issue a warrant for my arrest. But if I never
went back there, what could they do? Wait until I ran for president and
then nail me?
And suppose I wouldn't or couldn't identify the father -- there
had been six of them. What then? The worst though was having to look at
Kelly and admit what a slut I was.
Kelly knew we were going to be raped when we stopped there. I
don't think she thought it would happen to her. But she was sure I was
going to get it dressed the way I was. I looked like a real cowgirl sex
pig. High heeled boots. Stirrups. Black sto ckings. A real short
leather skirt and a black vest. I also had my hands tied behind my back,
and a rope around my neck. I was either going to put out or hang.
Sheriff's deputies had picked us up at a roadblock outside of
town. And taken us to the bar. Kelly's six-guns had been taken away from
her, and she was pretty bloody from trying to defend me. Also, she had
been shot several times.
They smashed her against the bar, and kicked her in the stomach.
Then they started on me. Come here, sugar. You couldn't fuck with the
local girls, because that was against the law. But we was from out of
state. No one would notice.
Imported stock.
Pale dry vermouth.
I always wanted to pork a congresswoman.
Well, technically, I'm not yet.
I bet your one of those stinking liberals from back east. Who
always want the government to poke their nose in other people's business.
no. stinking rich bitch. He back handed me. Hard. We know what to do
with bitches like you. WHAM.
all screwed up inside.
Both of us tried to forget it. Put it out of our minds.
I realized that I could feel nothing. I was just blank. Empty.
With no feelings left. I couldn't even feel my sex. Everything was
just... neutral. Not dead. I knew I was alive. I didn't have any pain.
But I didn't feel bad either. It was as if I were luggage waiting to be
moved. A body waiting to be taken in the other room and fucked. Meat.
Until then, I was on my own. I just had to sit there and look pretty.
Not soil my dress. Or play with myself. Or show off my panties. It was
hard. I really wanted it. I was screaming inside. Fuck me. Fuck me.
Cody, Liz said, it won't work any more. Your fantasy life is
degenerating. Why did you quit? I don't know. Her voice echoed through
a tangle of curls as they beat her. I haven't answered you in a long
time. I've been busy.
I need help with this.
Rest, Cody. Rest.
I can't. It's an avalanche. I've got to get out.
Sorry, Cody, your book has run out. You're done for.
Wait a minute. I didn't ask for this.
You'll have to come up with something better, he said, and closed
the door. They don't sing Closing Time in the bars round here. They just
take another swig of piss 'n beer.
What are you in for?
Literacy.
*
Chapter 2
Of Record
"Tinkle, tinkle, little Starr,
How I wonder where you are."
*
"How do you know you are at the end of your book? Did you decide
from the start how long it would be? Did you pick a number of chapters?
Or do you just feel like it's time to close out this particular
compilation of symbols, thoughts, and vomit stain s?" -- Thurber
Dear T.,
I know that I am at the end of a book the same way I know that I
am at the end of my rope. The walls begin to close in and I can no longer
breathe. I have a desperate sense of sinking into further containment.
And a voice inside me cries out, "Enough, already! Get out." On top of
that the apartment looks like Hurricane Andrew slept here, the bathtub
ressembles a hog wallow, and usually I have two and sometimes three seats
on either side of me at the lunch counter. Somewhere in my files is the
name of an ancient tribe of oracles who were not permitted to wash their
feet. I apply the same principle to my excursions into deep space. I
have been wearing the same purple spandex dress and aqual panties since
August. Even Kelly was beginning to turn blue in my presence. The
problem, however, is not ending a book. It is surviving it. The day
after I finished "My Struggle: A Young Girl's Story", for instance, I
realized I no longer had an identity. I had ceased to exist. Or at
least, the vehicle by which I made known my existence, had vanished.
It is not that I can simply turn my stories, i.e. myself, on and
off like tap water. The novel, as I mentioned in the introduction to my
last book, is actually a device for "the exploration of self." In order
to begin anew, there must be at least an a greement of structure, a mold,
into which to pour the new vessel. There is also the matter of center. I
find that when I start to write a story, if it is true, the world begins
to curve around it. I don't have to do research. It just appears, I
believ e the word is synchronistically. This is good, because I will
almost stick pins in my eyes before I will actually look something up.
Even in the dictionary. It's my contention if the way I spell a word
doesn't correspond with Webster, that's because it s meaning has changed
since then. Words, you know, are not dumb animals. They aren't rocks.
They are living entities, constantly deriving their nourishment from the
collective unconscious. It's only neurotic obsessionals like the French
who get so exc ited about trying to keep them frozen in some kind of
mental limbo the way you might lace up a lovely graceful woman in a tight
corset and force her to submit.
It is for this reason I have no compunction against using as
sources of divination the two most dysfunctional sybils of our
civilization. I mean, of course, television and the New York Times.
You mentioned that I seemed to like the Times. Even the hurt in
my beloved husband's eyes when she learned that I had betrayed her with
another person or persons unknown, could not impugn my integrity more.
Personally, I believe that the only excuse th e Times to exist is that it
is far more funny than Punch ever was. As satire, it is the finest
available, which is to say the ugliest. Even Larry Flynt was not able to
rise to such greatness in his put down of Jerry Falwell as the Times
easily surpasses several times each morning.
The reason that I read it is, in the morning when I wake up, that
is, when I have my eyes open and am in a crouched position like that of a
person with three broken ribs hanging over the lunch counter across the
street, which in time is usually well afte r one o'clock, I like to have
something in front of my face that is totally meaningless. Something I
don't have to think about. Like a list of the most disgusting attrocities
that have occurred during the past 24 hours. Especially, if it is long,
gory, and seems to have been written by a Methodist minister without an
abdomen; a person who would never ever use a bad word, even from a
quotation to describe a situation where you know bad words were probably
being emitted as fast as dum dums from a Glock in the hands of a sex
crazed cop settling scores with his ex-wife.
My grandmother's paper, when I visit her in Florida, takes about
seven minutes to read, five if you skip the comics, and two if you don't
move your lips. Like all Florida papers, it's written -- I should say
extruded -- for those who's brains have been terminally poached in the
Florida sun. It doesn't last long enough to smoke a fucking joint, for
Christ's sake. The Times, on the other hand, is a luxurious quilt of
mendacity, strategic racism, and deceit that, depending on the state of
the planet, can take hours to get through, and thus avoid the pain of
anything remotely connected with thought or even physical awareness.
Besides, the idea that there are other sources of information based on
ignorance different from that which impels the Times and or ganized tv is,
I think, itself, fanciful.
Why I like to be told horror stories at 2 p.m. in the morning is
something I haven't quite figured out. I know it isn't good for me. I
mean, people are always telling you to avoid bad influences, negativity,
etc. So why do I do it? Am I primping myse lf for stomach cancer? It
occurred to me that maybe it's like those people in the south, that
church, where Newt's constituents handle serpents and drink strychnine.
The Bible says, they said, that if you are living a clean, virtuous life,
anyone, they will be able to handle serpents and they will not bite, and
drink poison and it will not harm you. But it didn't say anything about
reading the Times. Maybe that's asking too much of God. Like pushing the
envelope a little too far. I know I should sto p, but I can't. It's just
got ahold of me. And I can't stop myself. Because usually it's just
lying there on the counter when I come in in the morning. And I pick it
up and start to read, and Abdul brings me a hot cup of tea that I can hold
onto as if it were a liferope back to planet Earth.
I think there's something very sad -- and duplicious -- about a
newspaper, especially one that claims to be one "of record", writing
something that says that it was okay that this was a dull election as the
Times did Sunday. In the first place, this was n't a dull election. This
was a boycotted one. The real vote, as always, was not registered. The
vast majority voted against Clinton and the majority voted against Clinton
and Dole and Nader and Perot and all the rest of the liars and scum who
signifie d a "choice." The choice between brown shit and black shit is
still shit. No one with the slightest bit of self respect and an
intelligence level above, say, 65, would have gone near a polling place on
Tuesday. The N.Y. Times is whistling in the dark if it thinks this is
the end of the matter.
I'm also waiting, by the way, to see if and when Clinton gets
indicted for crimes not unlike those for which the late beloved Agnew went
down in flames, whether the Times will raise itself to the same level of
shrieking hysteria, demanding he quit, as it harrassed the pathetic
Packwood who's senior crimes against humanity seemed nothing more than
some clumsy groping in the cloakroom. It was the Times that rationalized
away Packwood's right to keep his personal journal unexamined by his
persecutors on th e grounds that he had referred to it while mounting a
defense which turned out to be as inept as his love making. I am dying
for the time a judge uses the same argument to throw a Times reporter into
jail for withholding his notes because he used them to write some story
having to do with a trial proceeding -- that is, if you can actually find
a New York Times reporter with that kind of moral integrity.
Another thing, if I was Hillary, I would watch my back now that
the election is over. It doesn't take a Ted Koczinski to figure out that
she is not an asset to the second Ricky Rae Rector memorial presidency.
In fact, Hillary falls decidedly in the deb it column, and her value would
be enhanced if she were upgraded to an icon rather than a living presence.
For one thing, there would be no need to pardon her. God, theoretically,
will have done that. We would also be spared endless hours of primetime t
abloid speculation on whether she would talk. And it would leave Bill
free, finally, to use the White House and Oval office for the purpose it
was best suited, a white trash bordello. Wall to wall special assistants.
Robin Byrd as Secretary of State. Wendy Whoppers wiggling where Reno
twitched. (Send this woman back to the swamp!) Clinton already has more
than a hundred murders notched on his guns, including the 86 who died in
the holocaust at Mount Carmel. One more is unlikely to matter. It would
n't take much. A parting of s.s. agents to accomodate some patriot from
the NRA or the Christian Coalition. A drive by shooting. Or a TWA
maintenance crew servicing Air Force One on her next good will trip, just
enough to get her out over the Atlantic rift.
The important thing to know about the Times, even while totally
unconscious, is how to read it. The editorials, of course, are worthless
mind garbage, and one should miss at all costs the frothings of the
demented Abe Rosenthal, who seems never to have recovered from being
defrocked as the paper's editor. The same warning applies to Safire,
although from time to time he comes up with something vaguely relevant.
It is not so much that Safire is wrong about Clinton, as he is exactly the
same.
Lewis and Rich are rarely able to transcend their pompous
infatuation with the heady knowledge that their mediocre writing is
actually appearing in the New York Times. Baker is tedious. About the
only thing that can be said in his defense is that he is not Art Buchwald.
Dowd does her best to live up to her name.
What I like to read are the fantasies of creationism that appear
each Tuesday under the heading of Science. This is where the paper rises
to its lunatic best as a purveyor of the occult. I wouldn't be surprised
if one day, I open the paper and read tha t we are not riding around on
the back of an enormously large turtle standing on top of an elephant
dressed in an orange tutu. But the stories I like best are those foraged
from the planet's Dogpatches. Little gems of aberration that indicate the
chaos that incessantly nibbles at the borders of human intelligence,
causing it to turn and devour itself like a flea ridden dog. For
instance, there was the story of the woman in Pennsylvania who was
convicted of helping a 13 year old girl get an abortion. O r the little
girl in Georgia who was busted for bringing a steak knife to school, she
said, to cut her chicken. That was the Borden girl's excuse, too. Not
this time, honey. By Dogpatch, however, I do not necessarily mean
backwaters of podunk like Gem County or Russell, Kansas. The behavior of
New York's mayor can be intensely enjoyable, at times, especially when it
involves genuflecting to the rich and powerful while at the same time
stepping on the faces of the weak and poverty stricken, which in Ne w York
City's case, means nine tenths of the population.
Another example, although of a slightly higher order, is one about
Vienna and it's attempts to honor the Holocaust. To be truthful, most
Holocaust stories bore me. But Vienna, where I have never been, is now
embroiled in controversy over a memorial to or about it -- it's hard to
say what the exact preposition should be.
It seems to be that some people thought there should be one, a
memorial, in case it might be forgotten. And with everything holocaustal,
no one had the courage to say no. Then there was the problem of what it
should look like. Considering what it was commemorating, it was decided
that it would be inappropriate for it to look, well, nice. The Holocaust
was not Miss America, you know. So what they came up with looks like one
of the comfort stations in Washington Square. A little square concrete
hut t hat just screams to have swastikas painted all over it. Then came
the question of location, i.e. where do we put it? I won't go into the
details, but you just know the response had to be, "Not in my
neighborhood!" Like who wants an ugly statue on their doorstep, no matter
what the symbolism? Especially considering the symbolism. Talk about
negativity.
In Austria, there is a law against not believing in the Holocaust.
Did you know that? This is the thing that interested me. Like it's one
thing to throw someone in jail for their beliefs, but arresting them for
what they don't believe, that's something else totally.
I could envision Joseph K. being taken away and told he had
committed a crime of not believing something, not necessarily the
Holocaust. Anything. Whatever. Perhaps like the unwed mothers of Gem
County and Emmett, Idaho, the authorities had been alerted to his state
of disbelief by "teachers, family members or social workers."
Then what?
What kind of trial would follow a charge of not believing?
Austria had once compelled William Tell to shoot an apple on his son's
head because had failed to salute somebody's hat. It had also once been
the only country in Europe to grant titles of nobi lity to Jews. Of
course, the Jews had been Rothchilds. But it was a start. I, personally,
do not believe in "the Holocaust". But before anyone goes ballistic, what
I actually know is that six million Jews, Polocks, homosexuals, gypsies
and various other people deemed illegitimate by a government as duly
constituted as the one in Idaho, died in Nazi death camps. The Holocaust,
on the other hand, is a label, a media gimmick devised to exploit those
murders for whatever reasons, political, financial, et c. But mostly to
sell books. The Holocaust did not exist before the 1970s.
The law in Austria that makes it a crime to not believe in the
holocaust preys on the same docility of the human spirit that led to the
holocaust in the first place. And also which permits the rounding up of
unwed mothers in Idaho. A pregnant 16-year-o ld girl is not in a position
to defend herself -- especially in a case which is being brought for the
sole purpose of shaming her in public -- no matter how unjust she may
believe the charge. After all, she has, so to speak, been caught with the
goods. Only one of the ten girls rounded up so far have opted for a
trial. It was before a judge, possibly since a jury of her piers would be
unlikely, jury duty being another adult entertainment disallowed to
children in Idaho.
I just know there is going to be some knee jerk who immediately
screams "trivialization"; like how awful to compare the fate of the Jews
to a bunch of sex-crazed harlots. The real trivialization of the
Holocaust, however, is to use the fate of the murde red to divert
attention from the holocaust that on goes at all levels right now under
our noses. For instance, the media all but ignored the fact that the FBI
attack on the religious community of Mount Carmel April 19, 1993, occurred
on the fiftieth anni versary of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising and the same
week Bill Clinton dedicated the Holocaust museum in D.C.
Commemorating the Holocaust is like remembering you had stomach
cancer by stabbing yourself in the belly.If I were an actual person who
died in the Nazis' concentration camps, would I want my death to be
commemorated by something that looks like an outho use? I don't think so.
And I wouldn't want to be remembered for puking out my guts in a
cremetorium either. That's like the poor bastard who's Times obit
headline said, "So & So, 82, Editor in Fake Hitler Diaries Scandal." 82
years, and that was his major claim to fame? Forget it.
But I am not comparing the Gem County strumpets to the Jews et.
al., Holocaust, etc. I am trying to figure out the mentality that created
the reasoning that governed both instances. In both, there was an
insidious understanding that laws and rules coul d be logically
manipulated to gain personal advantage at the expense of persons who were
weak or vulnerable. If Jews are people of the Book, Germans are people of
reason. The death camps were a reasonable outcome of a reasonable fuehrer
who happened to be quite mad. The same applies to Gem County. One can
only wonder at the state of Idaho in the early twenties that required the
passage of a law forbidding fornication forever, at least between men and
women. Besides homosexuals, it also seems to have left out pigs, goats
and sheep as possibilities for sexual enjoyment. Also, possibly the dead.
But in any case, until now, most authorities there seem to have had the
good sense not to enforce it. Gem County is the sole exception.
I forgot what I was talking about.
Oh yeah. Not believing. Of course, not believing is not the same
as being pregnant illegally, but being put on trial for it is just as
absurd. Kafka would have loved it.
Suppose it was a girl who did not believe she was pregnant. What
would they do to her? The being of non being. Were you the one who asked
me about Wittgenstein? Suppose it was a Jew who did not believe
someone... his girl friend... someone else was p regnant. And suppose the
Judge did not believe him. You can almost hear the bonfires being readied
in the town square. It is, of course, perfectly legal in Austria not to
believe in God. It is, after all, a civilized country. But the Holocaust
is a d ifferent story. To not believe in a Jewish folktale is a sin.
Which could cost you your life. Or maybe your soul. In Gem County, it is
the sin of life itself that is the crime. Of course, they don't burn
their women in the town square anymore, and I doubt if they even make them
wear a big red F. At least, not yet. But the archetype of the punishment
remains in place. Theoretically. Right or wrong, there is a stain. The
girl sinned in the eyes of her countymen. And to the extent that the
punishm ent is withheld, she remains in their power. The records may be
sealed, but they are not destroyed.
*
You probably wonder what all that's about, don't you? I think
it's what they call stating a theme. In this case, of being and non
being. Wittgenstein and Hester Prynne. Congress and power. Memory and
meaning. Staking a claim. Poker Flats. Ambrose ! What are you doing in
town?
The question betrayed concern. Seven against Tequilla. Robert Vaughn
played Maximus.
Hi.
They looked at each other.
Deadeye behind the mask
I'd recognize you anywhere.
But Holmes missed the postman.
Until the very end.
It was a sad case, but Holmes did not know the difference beween makeup
and real skin. He was completely befuddled.
You mean three people died before you figured it out?
Yes.
What did he mean it was a fake?
it meant nothing
The Mad Hatter appeared and took the bailiff.
he walked over and sat down by the door.
one of childhood's beloved tales. My mother was arrested for having me.
How do you tell that to your daughter?
All the time I was growing up, people were pointing at me.
I had to be someone. Special.
Like not me.
I had to believe in me. There wasn't room for anything else. I had to
constantly think me me me. I was all that counted. I completely forgot
about the Holocaust. But that didn't mean I didn't believe in it. I did.
It's just I no longer paid it lips ervice. Maybe that's why they put it
there. Outside. It's outside my window. The bunker. I called, but I
got a busy signal. Who do you think I should call and complain. I don't
want it there. It completely absorbs the light. They said they'd move
it. But it's still there. Like a big bug outside my window. It looks
like a, whatda ya call it, a box. It looks like a big shoe box. What the
hell do I want a shoo box outside my window for? What am I? Jewish?
It's not my fault about the... Let' s talk about something nice. I tell
you I just can't think with all the fa-cac-ta-ing noise outside. What are
they? Like it's Lenin's tomb or something. They're all lined up to go
in. I tell you it's not right. God, I hate it. What the fuck are the
Jews putting that thing out there for God's sake? This is a decent
neighborhood. Nobody fights. Take it some place else. Give it to the
Israel-lites. Make them look at it. You got a light? Yeah. I'm on the
second floor. Two flights. The ground floor don't count. I'm two
flights up, and it still bothers me. I wouldn't mind except for the
noise. The hum drives me crazy. Yeah. It buzzes. It's something they
got in there, I think. Nobody will come here with that thing out there.
It's like a fucking whatdaya callit. A nazi. Yeah. It's like a Nazi.
Staring in my window, telling me what I can do and not do. Yeah. She's a
darling. I love her. She's all mine. I don't care what they think. I'm
going to keep her. I know what it's about. They want to take her away.
Give her to someone else. I won't let them. I'll hide her if I have to.
I hate that thing. What is it? How the hell should I know? It's a big
block of concrete. With a door in it. On the other side, I guess. I can
o nly see one. They go in. But no one comes out. I'm not going near it.
They have to come out somewhere don't they? I mean, it's not like...
Oh, I don't know. They're flaky. It's some sort of religious
holiday. Personally, I think it sucks. I want to write on it. I want to
make doodles on the face of the holocaust. I want to write FUCK YOU BILL
CLINTON in the flames. But David says tha t would be a sin. You have to
love those who persecute you. Even if it means forgiving them while you
burn. It's a heavy discipline, I can tell you. The bunker is in the
center of the compound, and most of us are going to go in there when the
tanks at tack, and hope that we will somehow be saved. I don't have to
tell you, I'm scared. Davoid sayus evaerwaug thing wiatlagtaeorga hber
a;l;l right
but oi dpmn
t mpwl
lmp
lkknow
faith is a heavy burden
I don't want to die
I read a book once about
don't want to get into that.
doesn't matter.
You ever notice how a bunkeer and a tank look almost alike. Tjhat thing
out there looks just like a tank. All it needs is a gun barrel.
I can almost imagine it pointing at me.
Got to stop fantasizing. Think about something else. No use thinking
aout what's going to happen. God's will. That's what it was. They came
to Cordoba.
Everyone who's ever seen the Seven Samurai knows what happened.
It was a magnificent shootout. Kelly was holding a censored
What are you doing?
Zeroing in. Bansai, Kelly-san.
You need me. Remember that.
All his life he had been moving around. Not thinking too much about it.
Now he was here. So?
At night, they sat around the fire, commerades on the trail. I
love this kind of life. Tad said he did, too. It was a cold night. The
others each had their own story of how they had got here. Or what had
happened somewhere else. But I was here. I knew I had to be. Did you
ever think of that? It was just natural. It was better than sleeping
with the pigs. You don't see much of that in the movie. They were
herding a herd of pigs through the sagebrush. Trying to pick up some
money on the side. The shootout was just an incident on the way to
Durango. So they made a big deal out of it. So what? It just happened.
What can I say? Shit happens. Yul loved pigs. He could hardly tell the
difference between pigs and girls. Of course, most of hi s girls were
pigs. I don't know why he insisted on bringing them along. There's a guy
at my grandmother's condo who wants to make something like that. With all
the names of the people who had lived there engraved on the walls. My
grandmother thinks it 's nuts. What do people want to see that for? It's
bad enough having to look at them while they're still alive. I don't want
my name on a plaque, she says. My grandmother is like a total nihilist.
She doesn't believe in anything. In Austria, she wou ld be in chains. I
could just see the trial. God, would my grandmother have something to
tell a judge. It would be a real shootout.
I have to stop soon, because they'res going to be another mystery
in a few minutes, and I want to watch. I'll tell you about it later.
Love,
Cody
P.S. I don't want to be Evita anymore.
*
Chapter 3
Heresies
"The more I think of it, the more I deprecate the growing tendency
-- born of the very desperation of the writer -- to transfer directly and
bodily, without any intellectual transmutation, all the crude accidents of
his life as they encursively befall, into the subject matter of
literature. Before we are fairly launched, here we are being swamped by
the dire vulgarity of it." -- Henry James re: William Dean Howells,
quoted NY Times, 11/1/96.
I was now a freshman. Or woman. What that meant, my chief
legislative assistant explained, was I now got to do for free what I had
once done for four hundred dollars an hour.
"What do I get out of it?"
"You get a large staff of pimps and purveyors, an office in the
Longworth Building, and free franking. You also get to stand up in the
House of Representatives whenever you want and make an ass of yourself on
C-Span 2."
"In other words, I'm still a whore."
"You got it. Same job. Different brothel"
But before I could go to Washington, I had to go through the
transition. I had to meet with my fellow freshmen and with the senior
members of my party who had already been there. It wasn't going to be
easy. I knew a lot of these people from when I was twelve. They had been
like fathers to me. And uncles. And other assorted perverts. Now,
suddenly, I was their equal. It made me feel dirty.
My campaign adviser advised me to relax and take one day at a
time. He made congress sound like a 12 step program. Congress, he said,
was very much like A.A. You know, like God give me the strength to change
what I can and accept what I can't and the ability to know the difference?
Just looking at some of these guys, I knew there was not going to be a
whole lot of changing going on. Some of these guys couldn't change their
underwear without conducting a study. But my bitterness is getting ahead
of the story.
I am not writing this book as an excuse to grieve over a system
that shits on the poor while rewarding the rich. Or anything else like
that, for that matter. Liz wanted to know what I was doing. Like, what
did being in Congress mean to me? I said I didn't know. For one thing,
I wasn't there yet. I wouldn't be until after New Year. Before that,
everything would be just a young girl's fantasy. It was like being in
limbo.
*
When I started to write yesterday about Mount Carmel, I suddenly
experienced an overwhelming sensation; it was so strong it nearly pushed
me off the stool I was sitting on. It almost seemed to be pushing me out
of my body; I had to be firm and hold myse lf intact. It was like a
presence. I could almost imagine that there was someone -- I mean someone
else -- there.
It persisted through the evening, and by the time I went to bed, I
even had a name for it. Heather.
I am not going to pretend that I believe I was communicating with
the dead, with someone who's physical identity evaporated in the fire
storm at Mount Carmel. That would be too cheap for words. It would also
imply that there are other beings, perhaps m illions of them, on the other
side of consciousness waiting for an opportunity to dump their shit
through a chance encounter just such as this.
However, it did make me realize how, perhaps, that ugly little
comfort station they want to put in Judenplatz in Vienna is perhaps the
exactly appropriate symbol by which to evoke the Holocaust. Because there
is something almost just like it in my backy ard. It wasn't put there as
a Holocaust memorial, but it has exactly the same effect.
The paper said the Judenplatz is the site of a synagogue that was
burned down in 1413 with many of its members inside. And in getting ready
to place the Holocaust memorial there, archeologists had discovered the
foundations of the old synagogue. An arg ument then broke out over which
attrocity should take primacy, the synagogue then, or the Holocaust now.
Someone suggested why not let the original synagogue -- what was left of
it -- serve as a fitting reminder of the Holocaust, and others answered
that they didn't want the Holocaust being remembered by an insignificant
little pogrom that no one remembered. Besides, the object was not to
remind the Jews of the Holocaust, because the Jews hardly needed to have
their memories jogged, but to rub the noses of the non-Jews in it. So it
had to be the bunker.
It is really hard being a victim. Because there is always someone
who thinks he has suffered more, and wants to make you feel bad about it.
Like, if you did not feel bad the way I felt bad, you should feel really
bad now that you didn't. My friend who wrote the Czolgocz play is Polish,
and he has spent his life twisted up in a ball, trying to untangle who got
it worse in the neck during World War 2, the Polish Poles or the Polish
Jews.
If you notice anything, it will probably have occurred to you that
the great wars of the twentieth century were over before it reached the
halfway mark. Korea and Vietnam would have qualified as mopping up
operations next to Stalingrad or the trenchs of Verdun. And Persian Gulf
was George Bush's usurption of the U.S. military to protect George Jr.'s
oil wells in Bahrain. So that leaves only Grenada as anything remotely
comparable to Operation Overlord. But I won't get into that here. The
fact is, ho wever, that most of the major events in this century took
place before 1950: the depression, the New Deal, women's right to vote,
movies, the bomb, the airplane, the automobile, the Lindbergh baby. If
there is anything original to the second half, it wou ld have to be the
computer. And the Holocaust.
War on a grand scale ended before 1950. War as ongoing guilt was
only getting started. In fact, it wasn't until the early 70's that it
kicked into high gear. The comfort station that sits on the doorstep is
its embodiment. And it isn't just in the Ju denplatz. It's everywhere.
Like a dead thing. That will never go away. A kind of black hole that
absorbs life to feed its own dead existence. It isn't a monument. It's
more like a golem. You know, to make a golem, you write life on its
forehead. A nd to destroy it, you take away the first letter in Hebrew,
which leaves death. But the golem is not really alive or dead. It cannot
be dead, because it never had a life of its own, not even as a rock or
stone or a concept. And it can't be alive, eithe r, because it doesn't
have a soul. A rabbi made it to protect the Jews. But because it was
unclean, an attempt to imitate God, it could not be controled and became a
monster.
That's the Holocaust. It doesn't protect the Jews. It eats them
alive. It feeds on the sensibility of the Jews to honor the dead, but it
gives nothing back. It just takes and takes and takes. Like a black
hole. And in the end, you have people fight ing over who was the more
pathetic and disgusting victim. Naturally, the media loves it. You can
fill half of the six-thirty news with just cheap Holocaust victim stuff
alone.
The Holocaust will never be laid to rest until the Jews accept
that they are as responsible for it as non-Jews. I don't mean what
happened then. I mean what happens now. The Holocaust, in fact, is their
possession. But this will never happen because there is big money in
remembering the Holocaust. It's an oil well. A gusher.
This has been the half century of the Holocaust. The war ended
more than fifty years ago, and we are still going round and round in a
dance with Hitler. Hitler and Mickey Mouse are the icons of our age. You
can see them slow dancing on the veranda as the millenium approaches. The
millenium, by the way, was actually two years ago. If by millenium you
mean two thousand years since Jesus was born. If you mean since he was
six years old, then it's still four years away. And, of course, next to
the Jew ish or Chinese calendars, it's a joke. But why not? Any excuse
for a party. Anyway, most people can't get it through their heads that
the millenium isn't 2000, but 2001, so it's going to be another
bureaucratic fuckup anyway.
You know, you have got to really wonder about politicians who do
not even have the courage to tell people what time it is. This is just
one more example. The actual millenium does not begin until January 1,
2001. The year 2000 is the last year of the old millenium. But here in
New York, and I believe almost everywhere else, the millenial shift is
going to be celebrated New Years 2000. Hopeless.
You would think just once they'd try to get it right. I mean, how
many times does the first digit change on the calendar? The last year is
supposed to be the year of preparation. You get ready. And then you blow
it away. The rule is, the digits of t he first year have to add up to the
number of the millenium itself. So how much does 2000 add up to? And how
much does 2001 make? And which millenium is it? Right. See?
So I, personally, will introduce a bill making it illegal to
celebrate the millenium before January 1, 2001. Someone has to take a
stand. I am looking for bipartisan support on this. The courage to act.
Before it is too late.
There's another mystery tonight. The one last night was lame.
They told you who did it right away. The question is, would they catch
him? And, of course, they did. Since, if they hadn't, there would have
been no story. It was supposed to have been a true story. A guy kills
his entire family and then tries to make it look as if his sister did it
before committing suicide. Why anyone would have believed this schmuck
more than two seconds is beyond belief. And yet, supposedly, the chief
inspector c onducting the case seemed to have a fundamental belief that
everything the kid said was gospel. He treated everybody who tried to
change his mind like dirt, and eventually, ended up getting booted off the
case. Yaaaaay. Justice triumphs. End of program.
Tonight, by contrast, is more Poirot. Really! Why an actor as
good as David Suchet allows them to do this to him, I can't imagine.
Someone should take Poirot out in a bog and drown him. For good. Agatha
Christie never wrote a story in her life that would stand up under two
seconds of scrutiny, but they keep making more and more of these things.
Why? Is it just to antagonize people with the reruns? The only thing
worse than a good Poirot mystery is having to watch it twice. So why am I
going to w atch it? Because I have an addiction. I love English
mysteries. I don't know why. I never watch Masterpiece Theatre. It's
much too serious. But the mysteries always trap me. And this one tonight
is in two parts. Even worse. I'll have to wait til next week to find out
the explanation. And then it will turn out to be so far fetched as to be
completely unbelievable.
I'll have to be brutally honest. I was relieved when the guy who
played Sherlock Holmes as a flaming psychopath dropped dead. That was
another one I couldn't stand. It's not that I don't think that Holmes was
that way, but I had just about had it up t o here with his stupid
posturing and his attitude. I mean, how Watson could put up with him says
a lot about Watson. Well, he was his meal ticket. I suppose he had to.
But I would have dumped him long ago. And the same for Poirot. What a
faggot.
I guess they all were. Poirot. His boy friend. Holmes. They
must have known each other. Poirot was a war refugee who was resettled in
the countryside about the same time Holmes was keeping bees in Sussex. Or
was it Surrey? It doesn't matter. I do n't want to belabor the point.
Who cares about those old queens? The point is, England's a small place.
Everyone knows everybody. I could go on and on.
The mystery is why I care. What do I get out of it?
King Tut. That was another thing that happened between the wars.
The opening of Tut's tomb in the Valley of the Kings. Together with the
curse. Between the sinking of the German ships in Scapa Flow and the
first naval engagement of World War 2 in the same place. Odd, isn't it?
One might almost say the wars in the west ended and began at Scapa Flow.
The century was on a roll.
Today, we occupy its psychological ruins. What happened?
Clap if you think the federal government is doing a good job?
Louder.
Clap louder.
He thinks he's Napoleon.
Keep clapping
Make him real
Make him presidential.
Now.
Do it.
Turn it around.
He came out the hero in the end.
What's he doing here?
He won.
oh
Dole took us into the 21st century.
But he waited on the other side
for the awareness to sink in
o my god it's now
halleluyah. It finally happened.
We're saved.
Better believe it baby.
They slapped hands.
Then the tanks bklew them apart
Weren't saved at all.
God does not save little chickens from the headsman's ax
All God's chickens got to die.
There is no chicken hell.
Thank god for that.
But there is also no chicken heaven
ouch
Now get moving. We have to get to Durango before sunup.
The girls moved onward down the trail.
The chicken ranch was far behind them.
And now they were going to market.
They hung down and their heads bumped on the road.
Their long golden hair streamed in the sunlight as they rode along towards
the meat grinder.
Where are we going?
I don't recognize any of this.
Just be quiet. Now listen.
When we get there, I have a plan.
Yeah>?
We must accept our fate.
And place ourselves in god's hands.
What good will that do?
We will be saved?
From what?
From death.
oh.
It's alkl part of God's plan. The other girl wasn't so sure. She'd
rather be back at the chicken ranch. At least you got to eat there.
Most stories on alt.sex.stories are reduced to the level of
plumbing. The authors seem to be entranced with the discovery that men
and women have reciprocal tubing. Matters of death and rebirth do not
engage them. Pain is also generally avoided as a s ubject. A woman is
said to like having something hard and stiff shoved up her most delicate
passage, and a man is usually represented as getting enjoyment from doing
it. But how one will spend eternity is much more sexy. It's like
internal possession. I mean, like having someone inside of you who is
controlling everything you do. Like, who's not you. So everything you do
belongs to someone else. Do you know what I mean?
Sometimes it can be okay. But when you walk neck first into a
steel bar and get slammed dunked for something you didn't do, then it can
be depressing.
Like I don't need this.
I mean, why am I standing here in the House of Representatives in
my panties? I thought I got above this when I left the stage. Like I'm
not performing anymore. It's over. Take it off. Take it all off. Fuck
you.
I was a third district Congresswoman. 3. Why 3? What did it
mean? The Third Millenium had already begun in some militant sects. A
slight vibration shook the frame. It could get out of hand. Millenial
Separatists might cause problems. Holed up in the backwoods of Idaho.
Right at the top. Along the soft underbelly of Canada. Getting crowded
up there. Everybody wants to be at the top. The Church of Latter Day
Millenists was one of the most violent. They insisted time began at 7
o'clock Tuesday evening and that McDonald's was the Beast of the
Appocolypse. They also believed that it ended at six o'clock Tuesday
afternoon. Something in the book of Levi. I forget the verse. Something
about the days having something to do with loose ends. Anyw ay, they
formed an alliance with the Sect of Old Disbelievers, who hold that Jesus
was a hot water bottle and thus all dams are a symbol of God's will who
for some reason they call Hoover. Their chief holy place is the damn. It
is said that in the days of our Lord, Hoover's face will appear on the
damn and the waters will be released through his divine spicket. And
Hoover will come forth among the people. For this reason, they are
forbidden to bathe for it would be an affront to God's holy plan to bel
ieve that dirt is wrong. Dirt must be accumulated, and worn like an
amulet to confront the wicked in their sins. For that reason, wash cloths
are verboten. Use a toothbrush. Etc.
Other divisions were breaking out among the religious communities.
Holy wars were going to be fought over just when the millenium ended. Or
had already.
I stared with disbelieve at what I had written. Clearly the drugs
were affecting my mind. I asked the doctors why they had given them to
me. Liz said to just keep taking them. Soon the trial would start. All
I had to do was tell the truth.
Like, where had I gotten them?
I said from Kelly.
She had gotten them>?
Yes.
And gave them to you?
Yes.
Did you help her escape?
No.
Well, I had to lie. To protect my career. Besides, Kelly was no
longer an asset. Homosexual marriages were illegal. And she was married
to a woman. I had to distance myself from her.
Politics can be very demanding.
Sometimes you have to screw your friends. And those you love
most. It wasn't my fault she accepted illegal campaign money. How was I
supposed to know they were Mongolians? The last thing you need in public
office is a conscience.
My public affairs person put out a statement, that I had not known
Kelly was gay when I married her. Or that she used hard drugs. Cody. Or
any of the other things... Cody. that America despises. CODY!
Huh?
It's alright. I'm here.
Good old, Liz. She handed me the bottle. Take a deep breath. oh
god, I was back in the clearing.
out in East Hampton.
the community rejected her
you can still here here out in the woods
what?
here her
hereher
Cody was hereher
what do you want>?
I want to question you.
Go away.
Don't be like that.
Fuck you. Let me alone.
I only want to help yu.
you helped me just fine
what am I doing here in this lunatic asylum.
It's not an asylum. This is Congress.
You're as crazy as the rest of them.
I'm just trying to show you the ropes.
Get the fuck away from me.
If you think this place is gaga, you should see the Senate.
I don't think I was ever over there in the whole thirty years I served in
Congress
What's it like?
What?
The capital?
Don't you know?
uh sure
Then why are you asking?
I just wanted to get some feedback. What do you think?
I think this place needs a new paint job.
Jesus, how do you stand it? It's like a mauseleum.
It is a Mauseleum, Cody. That's why they call it that.
wHAT?
cONGRESS
IN sANSCRIT, CONRE MEANS A PLACE OF THE DEADS.
I didn't know.
Welcome to heaven,
If this is heaven, what's the other place like?
Don't ask. Some of our people have been over there, and it's total hell.
The whole country is falling apart. No one knows what to do. Only you
can save us, Bill. Bill. The holocaustal president. My God, you're
nuts. It's worse than Gig Young in Pe ckinpah's hands. What was Napoleon
Solo doing out here in the Sierra Madres? Hey, I see you on television.
Blam.
Be careful not to recognize her.
Don't let her on cpsan
sssspan.
Without Dole, the new Congress would be entirely different Nice to hear
from you, Bob. Give my best to Liddy. Whatch your back, Bob.
Especially around stairs.
Just a thought.
Don't think. Thinking is forboden around here. You've got to be kidding.
I'm not. What do you think of term limits? I'm for them. The shorter
the better. Be careful not to bump into it. What is it? Strom Thurmond.
They keep him in here. My god , the smell. He's really a lot oldere than
he looks. He looks like he's a hundred and forty. Oh, he's much older
than that. Vlad the Impaler is a teetertoddler compared to old Strom.
But what's he doing in my office? Safe keeping. They don't have e nough
storage over in the other place. You mean he's a hostage? Well, sort of.
If you think that's bizarre, he runs the committee in charge of our
national defense. The trouble is, he thinks General Lee is still chairman
of the Joint Chiefs. Just put him in the corner and forget him. Only
make sure to empty the pan under his chair at least once a day. You have
to make allowances. What kind of allowances? Like not asking questions
you little snip.
He slapped me around. Freshmen weren't supposed to ask questions.
Just respond. Yes sir. No sir. I do not understand sir. Something
else. I forget. They also make you shave your head.
No sweat. I had sort of a jolt the first time I saw myself totally naked.
I mean, I was totally beautiful. I looked like I had spent the war at
Belsen Belsen. I also had to wear a collar. A radio one. So they could
track my every movement. Other than that, I was free to come and go as I
wished. I just had to watch what I said. Otherwise, there was a device
in the collartgggggggggg
not supposed to tell that
now I got to go
urinate. Squat there in the hall. One of these days were're going to get
female plumbing but now we have to make allowances. The party demands it.
I always kneel this way when giving a press conference. It's to put me on
the same level as my constitutents. Yes. I am a survivor of the
holocaust of 96. Now, could we move on? I didn't mean to be scarred this
way. It was part of the sacrifice. My press agent will have a statement.
I am a pig. Yes. I am a pig. Yes sir. No sir. I do not understand sir.
Please kick me across the courtyard, sir. Make it really hurt. make it
hurt as bad as giving up Kelly. Make it hurt like my soul has been r
ipped out of my body. Yes. Do it. do it
That's it, Kelly. Inhale deeply. Make cody know you're thre.
thr Third letter of the Phoenician alphabet. One step removed from ur.
It signified the spirit of the intelligence animating the body at the
physical level.
As was natural, I did not think that I could handle my earthly
duties. I did not want to be a congresswoman. I hated the whole concept.
I wanted to be my own person in the halls of the congress. Which was
totally unsuitable. No one does that. You'l l see. You should have
listened. I knew all along you would be indicted. I told your father.
He wouldn't listen. Now we'll all be ruined. Mother. This is Strom
Thrumond. Say hello, Strom. He's from California. Did I get that right?
It doesn't m atter. This desk was Kennedy's. It was the one he was shot
at. The whole thing in Dallas was a fake. He had been dead for weeks.
This was just a polite way of getting him out of the White House without
making a fuss. They have him down the hall. T his was the office he had
used when he was a congressman. He keeps trying to get in here. I think
they have some of the original dirt of Massachusetts somewhere around
here. He's trying to get back to it. Bobby was a senator. He's not
here. Do you l ike this picture? It has the original bullet hole from
where it blew the back of his head off. No. That's not a Pollack. It's
him. This place reeks of historepie.It would be a sin to demolish it.
They're talking about it. Something about the plumbi ng. Personally, I
don't mind having to shit in the hall. Evere since Gingrick took away the
chamberpots it's been hell around here,. Something about ethics. I don't
know what it means. I just work here. I'm not going to be one of those
rubber stamp congresswomen who will say anything and then spread their
legs for something else. It's got to be a real issue. Something I can
sink my teeth into. They want me to do sentry duty in the House.
Something about not letting senators in. I'm supposed to stand at the
door and stop them. It's a real war. Half my clientele is over on the
other side. No, it's not heaven. It's where you go when die. I mean,
really die. Not like here. Some of these guys don't know they're dea\d
yet. Golems. One and al l. Here, let me adjust your foreheaed.
You'll wear it out doing that.
what
saving every ten seconds. You're not anal compulsive you know.
To tell you the truth, I know longer knew what I was. Kelly was
gone. So was adder. m All that I knew now was not to ask questions and
wear a beanie.
i didn't mind the bikini, but I hated the propeller. What is this, I
asked. Then I denied it. then I said I didn't know. Then I lied.
You're getting it. Now do it again. I never knew the training was worse
than the election. Most freshman don't ma ke it. But this class
succeeded brilliantly. They were now sophomores, and every freshman class
knows what that means. 6 a.m. golden showers. Wearing a necktie at all
times. And nothing else. Except a fireman's helmet. And goloshes. Red
rubber gol oshes with flat heels. And dark sunglasses with a big fake
nose and a bushy mustache. And the words pig whore sextoy written in
excrement across my breasts. I also had to wear a saddle. For it is
written sophomores were in the saddle and rode mankind. But the worst was
a red cape made out of polyurethne, for God's sakes. I totally liked died
hoping nomne of my seventh aveneue friends could see me now. They also
hooked a big yellow dildo to the chain between my legs. It just hung
there. Batting ag ainst my knees as I walked. The final ceremony is when
I have to crawl like this naked up the capitol steps on my knees with a
cross on the first day of Congress.
Is this the hundred and third or the 104th? It means a lot, you
know. One and three is four. But 1 and 4 is 5. Whaever that means. The
thirteenth congress was a four. But the 14th was a fifth. All fours and
fives congresses were the same. So we c an narrow the congresses to nine
and then take statistical sampling to find out where we stand. Are there
any other questions? I'm not going to get into specifics. We will be
conducting a study. I would say that would be one of our first orders of
bus iness. But don't quote me. Everytthing I say is totally off the
record. Thank you for coming. My mouth was raw by the time I got back to
my office. My mother was having her hair done. She gave me my pills. I
sat in the hallway until it was time to go.
*
Chapter 4
Dire Vulgarities & Other Goddamn Nonsense
"I wish to say that we all look forward with great pleasure to four
years of wonderful, inspiring speeches, full of wit, poetry, music, love
and affection, plus more goddamn nonsense." -- David Brinkley, ABC,
election night, after saying "Bill Clinton ... has not a creative bone in
his body. Therefore, he's a bore and will always be a bore." Good night,
Chet. Good night, David. Goodbye, America.
*
"If you don't exist outside your book, where were you - or where
weren't you - for the past two weeks? Yes, I know where you physically
were, but what were you, I suppose is the better question...
"I'm glad you don't want to be Evita any more, because actually I'd
gotten a bit tired of it myself... may I ask what changed your mind,
though? It just didn't seem to fit quite right." -- ex-Thurber
Dear P.
So many metaphysical questions. So little grass to smoke them.
And yet, I feel a need to answer them. Try to. As if...
My voices are silent. Technically, of course, I was in Georgia.
I have still not given a full accounting of that, the round of visits to
Kelly's various relations, the requirement to be endlessly feminine and
accomodating in a southern sort of way. A spirit of generousity from
which the mind averts shuddering.
But I think you mean something different, like what am I when I am
not writing. And the answer is, nothing. If I stand in front of a
mirror, I see a young woman with certain describable features: long red
curly hair, a pretty face, large green eyes and full wet lips; further
down, large breasts hanging on a bony chest, nice shoulders, a flat,
smooth belly, wide hips, long, somewhat skinny legs; a cunt basin filled
with thick red hair that is curled and tangled and rises in a dark plume
up my tummy all the way to the belly button, and even an inch or so
beyond. I think I have so much hair because of the hormones I take to
make my boobs bigger. Furthermore, I am wearing clothes: a pale green
spandex dress; it's fairly low cut. It has a short skirt. I have on
black stockings and high heeled pumps. I'm wearing a black choker. I
have long strands of faux diamond earrings that catch the light.
Bracelets. Gloves. A short red cape. Like I said, nothing.
I know people think I'm pretty. They tell me all the time. But
it's like they're talking about someone else. Someone who's not me. So
it's not like I'm vain when I say that I'm extraordinarily beautiful. If
I described Kelly and said she was, you wo uldn't think I was; so it's
sort of the same principle. I'm talking about some other girl. No.
That's not right. I'm talking about the way I am when I'm not talking or
writing about myself. When I am not writing, I almost don't exist.
There's just t his flesh thing that's practically brain dead. That people
fuck. They like to fuck. Like, I'm a sex toy. A blow up doll. With
real flesh and blood. But it's not me. I don't know who I am. But I'm
not Evita. The woman in the coffin. I saw a photo graph of her in her
coffin. 20 years after she died. She didn't look dead at all. She
looked old. But she was totally preserved. I heard people fucked her.
My voices are silent. I hear nothing tonight. I thought maybe
your letter would stimulate me. Get me going. But inside, I'm totally
empty. I figured out today why I read the Times in the morning. Because
it stops the dreams.
For awhile.
I'm dreaming all the time. Vast, long, complicated dreams that
leave me totally exhausted. I can dream a Dostoievski novel in one night.
In Russian. I wake up, and I think, my god, what happened to me? And
then I lay down and go back to sleep, and t here's more weird stuff, I
can't say what, which goes on until I wake up again.
Every night. But I can never remember it. I just have this sense
of having been somewhere. Maybe I still am. It's not like I'm trying to
remember. I'm not. Or that I don't want to. I don't care. The only
time it stops is when I read the paper. W hich may be why people read
papers. To stop the dreams. Get them back to Planet Earth. I have a lot
of school dreams. Being in schools. Not like P.S. 114. I mean real
schools. In the Andes. Or the Himalayas. Or Mexico. Where they teach
you somet hing. But I never remember when I wake up. No matter how hard
I try. Someone tells me something. Something really profound. Like,
real secret knowledge. But when I wake up, zero.
There must be some way to bring it back. Wouldn't you think? I
mean, this has been going on for years. You would think the masters would
have figured out by now that I'm a bimbo and stop telling me. But they
don't. They're very patient. They even d raw diagrams on blackboards,
and give me road maps. And other directions. But as soon as I open my
eyes, zip.
If the fate of the world depended on my being able to remember, it
would be over. On the other hand, maybe I do remember. Maybe it's all in
there somewhere, and I just don't know how to access it. I wonder how you
would do that.
On the other hand, suppose I did remember it?> What would I do
with it? You know, Hungry Charlies at four in the morning fucking a pole
isn't an entirely appropriate spot to reveal the secret of the universe.
Actually, that is what I'm revealing, only most of these guys don't call
it that. I don't care what they call it as long as they keep stuffing
twenty dollars bills up inside.
You do know what "can can" is sanskirt for don't you?
In fact, "can" is the root word of both that and Congress.
Oh, no non non non] I am not going to get political. I've had
enough of that. i going to stay far away from that. thank you. talking
bout dreams and schools. And secret knowledge. You know something? In
my dreams, I'm never fucked. I'm not even scummed. Nobody makes me take
my clothes off. Or degrades me. Or tries to make me feel cheap and
depraved. It's not like they don't notice I'm pretty. But that's not a
requirement. That's just ... it just is. It's like I know I am from the
inside out and there's no need to talk about it. Congress is just about
the furtherst thing from my dreams as I can imagine. It isn't even in
them.
That or the Times.
The Times is on the lunch counter when I come into the restaurant.
The New York Times. Stop and think about that for a moment. What it
says. It's almost a mantram. But what are the New York times? Or what
were they? Think about it a moment. The t imes in New York. We had. We
were very tired, we were very merry, we had rode back and forth all night
on the ferry. Compared to what this paper calls itself. And you ate a
pickle and I ate a pair, and when you turned around, I wasn't even there.
My dreaming eyes pick out words: welfare. Clinton. rent laws.
immigrant. legal. Lott. Bruno. They wind me up. Into a hyatal hernia.
They might as well be saying Vlad the Impaler is flying from house to
house, chewing on young girls' necks. Bela Lag ozi is loose in the Bronx.
The Black Plague is making a comeback. The dreams stop. Replaced by
fear. And anger. These fucking bastards are coming to get me. I hate
them. Leave me alone. I think of buying a gun when I'm in Florida at
Christmas and bringing it back to defend myself. At least I'll take some
of the bastards with me when they kick down the door. Who am I kidding?
I couldn't hurt a flea. I'm totally non-violent. I don't even know how
to defend myself. In a fight. Guys like to pun ch me out. Because they
like seeing me try to defend myself with my tits getting in the way. I
try to protect my tits and get hit in the belly. I move my hands down,
and someone slaps my face. I end up with a concussion, or a broken arm or
leg.
The Times takes me away from that. The same as tv. Tv also kills
the dream. Better than drugs. Better than poison. Stops it dead. If I
watch tv, I don't think about who I am either. Tv takes me out of myself.
Shows me other people. People like myself. All with problems. Some
overcoming great obstacles. Some doing marvelous things. Like Peter
Jennings. Or Charles Roamer. The hatchet men are like Virgil leading you
through the circles of the damned. Yea, though I walk through the Studio
of the Damned, I shall fear no ratings, for Neilsen is with me...
My voices are silent. Why>> Have I sinned so much> Am I so evil?
No. It did not seem right that I was Eva. The social justice
role didn't become me. The great books. The raising up the sick and
weak. Fuck the weak. That's the trouble with America. The poor and
downcast have been getting above themselves. The o nly reason we included
them in the New Deal was we needed their support. Now, we can jettison
them. In the end, everything is taken away. That's why we call it the
Appocalypse. The Appocalypse follows the Holocaust. So get ready to
Limbo.
It turned out to be the 105th congress, so it was a six. The last
six was the ninety sixth. And before that, the eighty-seventh. You
notice a nine divides them. All the way back to the sixth congress. In
1777. Equals 4. 1997 = 8.
666 equals 9.
Portents and cymbals of the coming attractions.
I suppose you know Chantal Chambers. I asked her to be in our
committee. I hope that's okay. I don't want to make waves. Soon it will
be just like home. After all, they don't call it the House for nothing.
But a house is not a home. We will be hol ding hearings. In Aberdeen.
Phillips. She'll be in charge of public relations. Just give it to
Aberdeen will you Philip and stop grousing. Can we get on with the
meeting. I think you all know why we're here. We're studying Aberdeen,
Aberdeen. You k
know what that is. Yes.
oh, really>? That's more than the rest of us.
Who does she know?
That's the important thing.
Not who's ripping what off. The matches. They always go for the matches.
And the napkin rings. They don't even look at the clothes. Philip, if we
could have your attention, we'll get on with the meeeting.
Me? Eating? I didn't know the rules. I'm sorry.
get m,e out of this contraption. Adder, shut up.
Aberdeen, Aberdeen. Prettiest slut you've ever seen.
You know you're a raving queen
when you look in the mirror and see Aberdeen.
Proving Grounds. Shut up, Nathaniel. Aberdeen. Aberdeen. Pretiest
master sergeant I ever seen
You don't know what proving is until you've been pistol whipped
in Aberdeen.
By a D.I. wanting to get in your pants.
mutants. They're on the base. Xavier figured this out.
Does anyone have x-factor four?
ninja turtles. ningatrurtles Ninga Hurdles. CXome in and take a bow.
like resturfull
Chjannel what do you suggest?
The Bagardi. Definitel.y
How big a staff am I supposed to have./ I've got fifty people signbed up
already. The only one I couldn't put on the payroll was my beloved Kelly.
A new veil had dropped between us. We were now divided by who could serve
and who couldn't. Kelly was on the outside looking in. Sorta like a
first lady. She couldn't get a job.
You know, we all got free laptops. Just for getting elected.
They were loaded with stuff. Maps of the hallways. The closest
restrooms. History of the Capitol. Names and addresses, games. You
could even order stuff from the company store. House of Rep. golf balls
cost $5.82, plus tax.
There was a game in here called Clockroom. You would get a message
to come to the Clockroom. And a map. At least the first three or four
times. But after that, you were expected to remember.
Other times there was just an address or room number.
Sometimes I took Kelly. Sometimes I went alone. I had special
constituents I was supposed to see. I don't want to talk about Congress.
My dreams, my dream places, where I was young and beautiful were taken
from me, and I tried to recover myself in ti
me to take it back.
snap
bap
Make this one good.
She knew how to vote.
You turn this handle.
NO NOT NOW
When you vote
never touch it unless you're going to vote.
You know what they say, if you pull a gun on someone, be ready to shoot
him.
Otherwise it could hurt like hell.
Adder?
Kelly.
no.
Cody
oh
you look like...
what?
he was going to say,
hjer
she touched him. He jumped. Nice seeing you again.
What did she mean again?
She's here.
She's right here in the capital.
My God, what if...
my wife finds out
I'm pregnant
famous chinese monkey story tell of great sage who got pregnant by
drinking waters from a lake through which they were passing. He lifted
his hand to his mouth and took a drop on his tongue. That was all that
was needed. She worshipped him. Very nice.
Lindt chocolate. The seed rushed into his gut and began to germinate.
Could that happen here? I forget the antidote. You mean? All 435 of
them. Not counting the women. The women are fine. Hi, Carol. Hi, Cody.
Nice meeting you. I always admire d your work. Thank you. I read your
novel. Oh? It was quite... novel. Fucked on the internet. What a jade.
Come see me soon. I will. Bye. She gave me her address. I looked at
it. 205. 7.
All famous numbers can be reduced to nine digits. Nine is all
yoiu need. Let Super Cock in, honey. Thanks., Hey., this is a nice
place. Don't tell anybody. I won't. I promise. A lot of girls made
promises they can't keep. Come in, Trent. It's n ice to meet you. I
don't think we've ever met, have we? A lot of guys would be intimidated
by someone like me. You just have to know how to talk to your
congressman. It's been a grueling defeat. Did it ever occur to you
exactly what split meant?
huh?
Two corridors meet in a splendid wood. What would you do? Try the tire
iron. Cody, let go. It's alright. The elections over. Do you have any
idea how that must feel? Talk about being untimely ripped from your
husgband's womb. Big with child. Preg nant with desire. An end to all
those Newt jokes. Forget it. Now you can say things like Richard
Gephardt. Tijuana Brass. Pick me up at eight, and don't be late, honey.
Men go to Washington to congress. Now they are congressing. It looks
like a go od year. I'm glad to see you again. Setting up a consulting
business. Oh, really? The losers always want to stick around. Give
advice. Sell it. Forget it. You're out of here. Warning: Don't hang
around inside the Beltway after dark if you don't b elong here. Because
we are Congress. Get it? Losers, go home. Forget it. No selling. No
peddling influence. It sounds cruel, but do you have any idea how many
old congressmen want to keep coming back and back like they're Dracula
with his teeth sunk in the neck of the body politic. Sucking. For all
he's worth. Count Dracula. They've got his coffin down in one of the
subbasements. He only comes out to vote. I suppose you think this is
going to be another one of those boring Dracula stories sli cing out the
dead meat like an gyro roast. Here, want a chunk of this one? Where they
come to bid., Cody was taken down into the vaults to meet him. Fresh
young blood. Can Kelly come too? No dear. Leave Kelly at home. This is
just you. And the old count. She teetered along in high stilletto heels
and a short platinum party dress. A vision of light and scintilation.
You should have seen what came back.
Cody?
I almost couldn't see her. Cody. Are you okay?
uyes
she was stark white. No light at all. Just dead white. With a little
bit of blood on her lips.
i i think i need a transfusion
we got her one.
the next night it was the same.
She used up D.C.'s entire stock of type bo
it's the commonest blood type, so thousands were dying for her her life
nicth wahr? Codycat?
uh yeah
they had to truck it in from Maryland and Virginia. Cody was a pipeline
to the pentagon. The whole country was going broke. Demon sized posters
appeared above her cunt in gleaming red letters. Abandon All Hope Ye who
enter McDonald's
i abase myself
i eat a quarterpounder raw
it was a new craze: Raw McDonald's
overnight,
the golden arches became biker bars across America
cook it and you're dead.
she took it in
and kept taking
and taking
and taking
and gave nothing back
now you pay, you little maggots. I will crush you with my Housemanship.
Now kneel. It will be like American Auschwitz. Complete with ferris
wheels and bulletcoaster rides. Rent control. Who needs it? Social
security? Let them puke in the street. Welfare. A thing of the past.
Out out damned entitlements. Medicare. Rip it away. Unplug it. Let it
die. I will take everything from you. We will whip you down to your very
souls. Because I have won. I have power. I will crush you. Just let m
e get my hands on that voting machine. Cody, you only touch it when
there's something to be voted upon. Otherwise, it's impotent. I don't
give a shit. I want to vote anyway. Stop twisting it. You'll break it,
you little fuck. They had to drag her s hrieking out of the chamber. And
the place wasn't even in session yet. Think what she'll be like in
January. It's time to tell Americans the truth. That they're a bunch of
weenies. You little schmuck's you'll vote for me and like it. I
confronted he r. What are you talking about? I'm taking everything.
Everything. It's mine. All of it. Just take everything. Who cares if
they starve?
Every new congressman feels like that. It's normal. But you
can't take everythihng at once. You have to go through channels. Decide
what to rip off first. It's like being in a big department store. You
can take anything you want, but you have to pa y. Yellowstone. How about
that? A damn and a couple of bimbos. Raise you a national park and a
strip mine across the Grand Coulee Dam. Oregon's below there. I offer two
spades and a deuce. In that case, we can use slave workers. Prisoners.
You've got to get the jargon down. We don't say slaves. We say
prisoners. Criminals. We can supply you with a bunch of harden criminals
to daycare the children. It was better than nothing. Four hospitals.
This was just cheap stuff. We were learning how t o bargain. We were new
at it. We expected to get ripped off. We could make allowances. She
could go down on the general while her friend takes out the Shiek. Nice
briefcase. We put in Rothenberg bank accounts. You do know about that,
don't you? Th ey were above the law. But how would I have access to it?
We'll work that out. It's money you think you have stored off someplace
where no one will notice it, but only you can get to. Like my inner
knowledge. I think I know I know something but I'm n ot sure how to get
it back. How's that? Come again. Like a machine gun. Being fucked by a
Rothenberg was a prime experience. Numero uno. But don't ever try to
collect. Just ride with it. It's a big account. But don't worry about
it. Just follow orders and everything will be alright. okay. Don't move
or say anything, but I killed her. I had to. She was driving me mad.
Now I am a dead man. I don't know why they haven't arrested me. I will
never see her again. They started the train. It we nt towards Lasces.
In the Pyranees. Nice pair of knees. Knocking. I'm so scared, I can't
think. So don't. Take it easy. It's right around here. Now get your
clothes off. Hurry up. Fucking whore. Move. The computers show all the
hot spots. Pla ces where you'd better not go alone. I looked like some
of the aides walking around here. Girls I had seen on television cspan
with their long red hair sitting behind senators and members of the House.
docile. waiting.
sometimes turning to each other.
looking
staring off into space
watching someone on the other side of the room
looking intelligent
flashing their underwear
turning to look the other way
standing up
walking across the room
to get something and bring it back
I was above them
I was a member
I could command my own coterie of exotic youngsters
my whip mistresses
they walked about the room in their panty underwear and corsets
this one's skinny minnie straight as a rail with tiny little tits
and an ugly face
she has a face like a dog's mouth
she's very popular
in hearings
where things can get boring
and even the naked witch of the west can look good to an old senator
w3hat a dog
feed this into the synthesizer and see what comes out
Cody on the brain
eventually someone will figure it out
Cody pours
She's a chunnel
running whores under the wall. Few realize there is no access route
through the one chamber which will lead to the other.
Nuklid's Law. All roads lead to the wall. None goes through it. At
least, I haven't found it yet. There's a legend that once the two
chambers were able to communicate. It worked like a heart. If everything
was hooked up right, everything would get t hrough. But now nothing does.
The wall runs right down the center of Washington. All the way to the
White House. If it wasn't for Clinton, nothing would get done. He' s got
the two sides talking to each other for the first time since the war
ended.
But this is not to besmirch the local government which is having a
cancer crisis. You have to slice off the dead meat and put it in the
gyros. And people eat it. And we are saved. I don't want to allarm you
but don't look now, the apocolypse is comin g. Some say it's arleady been
here, and this is it. They are the Evil Redeemers. Who curse our feeble
attempts to save anything in the wake of the holocaust. The after burn.
But others say the Divine Hoover is yet to come. And he will stand before
you with the loose goddess named Codysan. The being cometh. Hail onto
the Being. Who will crush the godspelll Codyin a veil of white.
what?
I'm telling you. don't wake up
I lost contact.
someone was coming to get me.
I'm choking
why don't you just kill me and get it over with
because I'm not through with you bitch
Cody was lying under the desk, looking up
fried pig
we didn't even kill it
look at it jump
native tradition
Save the sasquatchoall
up your Zambesi
laughter
play the tape
He said Saint Nicholas.
oh yeah
it wasn't the n-word.
it was nicolas.
ha ha
a speech impediment
yeah. Right.
fucking sick perverted nazi racist. I said Easter Bunny, you asshole.
A whole new set of swear words that had to be outlawed. Haunika. Fuck
you hymie. Fourth of July up your rectum. Bonzai. Your mother's potato
patch. Soon we discovered that every word and every combination oif words
wwas a sick perverted ethnic obsce nity, so all speech was outlawed.
Because all words were dirty. Silence reigned for half an hour. Then
they broke the seal. Holocaust? I'll show you fucking holocaust, you
little pigmies. Whoosh. Nuclear Fusion. It started in a lab in Maryland
and took the whole planet with it. You had to be totally plugged in to
appreciate it. I mean, like wow. It was a mainstream. Right on target.
A thousand babies were born. On the Super Bullet. Housing became a joke.
We were back to sod busting. None of these houses were aerodynamic. They
would have made 800 look like a Ferris Wheel. Well, actually, it was a
ferris wheel. I told him not to shoot that thing off in the plane. Wait
til you get to Paris. Excuse me. Who is communicating?> I think I have a
right to know. Since I'm doing the transmitting. No. The transmitter
must remain clean. Screw that. I want to know. It's a pandora's box.
Fuck you. Let me light one. The cleaner the transmitter, the better the
reception. So she had to be kept in the dark. Now go ahead.
Transmission was shut off. I am not a hallway for someone else's remarks.
Get out of my ears. Fuck you. If I want voices, I'll ask for voices.
Keep them out. Heather, get out of here. She was the little girl I was
talking to the other day. From Wyoming. That's where she was from. I
don't know how she got to Waco. She seems to have been one of David's
wives. I think she had a kid. A little girl. There's a film of David
with his children. Where he's playing w ith them. They can hear the
shrieking noise from outside in the background. The military music. They
raised the Grateful Dead to an obscenity. It was not the Avalon Ballroom.
The little engine that could. Wait a minute. What engine? What is the
Av alon Ballroom? Where is this freaky place?> A train with a balloon
tied to it is batting about the studio like it was aperson. The baloon is
like a big pink head. It's got helium in it and its docking at a derrick
with it's nose. And the little engin e that could is going around in
circles under it, and people are treating it very nice. Like excuse me.
Sorry. I'll get out of your way. Tic tock tic tock and the balloon
bounces along like it's got a life of it's own that its going to. And
then it e xplodes. The whole thing is like in flames and people are
screaming; no there isn't screeamiong at all it's so quiet exceept for the
beating at the walls like there's a thing out thwere and there's nothing
to cojforty me but hope oh god i can't stand it i'm soi afraid it's like a
thing possesseed i can't describe it I can't even remember it what she
told me i can't help it i'm crying what did she say? i love you i can't
help it i hurt i hu shit can't I have a life without ghosts? I didn't hear
anything it was a voice in my head buit it was nothing i'm not in tune
with the spirits jkust leave me alone my name is Cody Ann Michaels I am
not going mad that fucking comfort station would look pretty damned good
in a firestorme a last hold out before we went to the cremetorium get out
of my fucking head I hate you I ha love you shit shit GET THE FUCK OUT OF
MY HEAD
Get up. I'm not through with you yet. the girl had crawled under the desk
when we let her off the spit now she was looking up at us. you bastards
the girl was just a come on, wasn't she. a trap. Now we know what you can
do, we can use you. We know how. Who are you freaky guys? We are the
Lords of the Chamber. We catter to your needs. And we provide for your
services. Then the girl, Heather, wasn't a...
a FRIENDLY SPIRIT, don't pay any attention to her. Now come,
there is work to be dohe. Dohe? Don't ask questions. You'll find it a
useless burden. What you have not realized is that you are now
functioning on a higher plain. The torment was just an appetizer. A
little jolt of things to come. They laughed among themselves. The fact
is, you are now Heather. You are a six.
huh?
A six. Size six. All will be known. For instance, this is
Caveat. Hi. Glad to meet you. He's Munchkin's Mayor. Oh? Hi. Glad to
meet you. Curtsy. Yellow Brick Road. Star Gazer. Now you're getting
it. Hi. What a hunk. Of coiurse, he was onl y two feet high. The
Bridge and Tunnel Authority wanted to run a new Gibson under the
Wostertonic. Hanson screamed environmental abuse at her. Have you ever
thought of abusing your congresspisson? That's what therey're there for.
So the folks back ho me will have a walking punch toy to take their
jollies out on free. Congressional Abuse is not a crime. That's why you
need nuclear assistants. To satisfy the voters. They took her down into
the new tunnels. And plugged her in. Cody was crawling with congress.
It was a terminal disease.
Does she have type a or type b.
It starts as an intestinal virus and eats its way out into the
cloakroom. Will the member yield?
I am not Heather and I am not a six. Oh, why fight it? I'll be
whatever they want. As long as they don't make me be Reagan. I'm serial
braindead anyway. Everything's burnt out. God, they fucking took
everything. Why? For god's sake? Except Strom . They ev3en took his
pan. Molocks. They don't tell you. About the molocks. They live in the
basement of the Longworth. And venture out at night to steal things.
They think are of value. they take everything. They roam in bands. Not
just here. But everywhere. Over at Treasury. The war room. Even the
FBI is not immune from a visit of these furry creatures. Once they were
almost human, but they lost the election and now they have degenerated
over the centuries into vile simian representations
of mankind. Strom had peeed all over the floor. They even took his
toupee. Jesus is he ugly. The biggest stud in the capital. and we have
him right here. Come and get him, suckers.
I made a lot of money
they came in here on their hands and iknees begging
Jews and genitrals. the secretary of war
I am the keeper of the key.
God, almighty, what a hanger.
I managed to find a bucket to hang under the chair
and then I cleaned him up a bit
I got myself decked out in a french maid's outfit
and pranced around while they diddled the old guy
there's a lot to be said for starting a war.
Like any day now, south america is going to be a memory
Keep the wars above the belt
Why is that?
That we have never had a war with South America or Africa?
It's not feasible.
A real war has to matter.
So in other words, we get to kick the shit out of Germany again. Is there
any other way? No. The germans must be taught a lesson.
let's negotiate.
fuck neotiation. We are dealing with traiters.
send him back where he came from
return and serve
wham
immigration is a lost art.
you've got to know how to come into a country
just like you have to know how to fuck a beautiful woman
like a pig
nicht wahr, schatzi?
Of course, all that saber rattling was just a pose.
No other country in Europe was worth the trouble.
Only the Germans could put up a decent fight/
Those guys wore their women like uniforms.
Slice and dice
Kill a Ratzi, free a woman.
For a split second, you could have her or you could die.
the trick was knowing which to pick. Like that Indian. Back there on the
prairie
She glimmered there in the torch light,
flickering on the blade as it sliced her open
Or you could pause
and you would die
It was less than a nanosecond to take back your pride
and l;et yourself launch. This is the launch. Be careful. Stand back.
I'm only showing you. Before you vote you launch. I have never voted.
That is why I can tell you this. To be a vote virgin was a high order of
being. I can tell you. So listen to me. I'm not just channel surfing.
I am totally wired. I am oh shut up. I seemed to have gotten the
message. I was at the edge. The very edge of civilization. And I could
take a step or I could hold back. It was up to me. I waited. A wise dec
ision. Biut how did I know I had made a wise decision? Was it an inner
voice, or something I had made up? I waited. Maybe that wasn't so smart.
Now you're in trouble. Get moving.
All systems are go.
It's totally non virtual, you know?
uh, no.
As a freshman, you will be expected to channel at least two hours
a week. Work it out with the committee members. So your schedules don't
overlap. People, we're spread very thin here. Can I have your attention?
Now focus. I'm telling you how to tur n this handle to get a good flush.
As opposed to the chamber pots where you have to empty them yourself. Get
used to it. This is not a kindergarten. You have to learn how to handle
your shit. No one else is going to do it for you. Listen up, people.
This is non-virtual. Planet earth, calling Ninga Hurtles. We need the
Mexican demographics. Can we fit a nuclear test site in here behind the
bleachers? That part of Chicago is a black hole anyway. We have some
supernerds from backhome in the pantr y, Suzie. Could you see to them?
Pose. We'll change the faces in the computer. Dolecups, you know which
one is Cody? Show it to them. No way. He's out of here. It's only
until they sell the apartment. Do it as a favor. He needs the money.
Liddy cut him off. She has total power of attorney. Yes. I thought you
knew. That's why we ran him. As a front for her. You just missed it.
You should see what Hyper Reality is like. Come on,. I'll show you.
Take her up. Going up. This is the tokp of the capital rotunda, Cody.
Now pay attention. This is the only known route still open to the other
chamber. All else has been sealed off. Yes. It is a narrow beam, and it
is four hundred feet to the marble floor below. And you are wearing very
hi gh heeled pumps. And your hands are all you have for balance. And of
course, your adorable knockers. One on either side of the chasm. At the
midpoint, theere is a small platform from which you can look down. And a
narrow walkway around the partition dividing it. It is called the
purgatorio.
There, your wrists will be tied behind you, and you will be
permitted to go on alone. But your leash will have been taken off. Lose
one. Gain one. He handed her the knife. You decide.
Abpve tje plat\form is the rotunda itself. Only here can you
appreciate the celestial firmament above one. As well as the chasm that
yawns underneath. The platform is not stable. It is very delicate and
moves in the cross winds that the rotunda gener ates. There is a booming
in the ears. Like it's talking to you. I'm scared. These stairs lead to
the cupula. But we'll save that for another day.
She would have to come up here alone to climb the steps to the
high alter. We only went there on feast days. The blood would drip from
the ceiling and fall on the platform. Some of it found its way all the
way to the floor below. The congressmen met on the balcony around the
rotunda and sang praises as the virgin died. A few ventured out onto the
platform to drink the holy blood. Occasionally one fell. But not today.
This was just orientation. We went back down. I had seen enough.
Okay. If that's the only way back and forth, how the hell did
they get Strom here?
Strom goes back and forth all the time. Strom can toe dance
across the abyss. He can do it with his eyes closed and blind drunk. On
a pogo stick. Strom is a living master. He could even take you across on
his back. Work with him. See what happens.
You only know you're alive when you're up there on the high wire
doing a balancing act with the nation's budget; then it gets really sexy.
Like who does it and who doesn't. Strom uses the platform for an
outhouse. The people below drink his piss. He's a master. Listen to
him. In reality, there is no beam. Only the wire. 357.62 m. of ribbon
wire. Stretched r azor tight. Don Strom trickled into his pan. He was
sitting there with his hands on his knees, talking to me. I talked back
to him. I told him about Susan Smith. Then I realized I was Susan Smith.
He didn't seem to care. I began to think, why would anyone in their right
mind vote for this old r elic of another era. I began to look at him.
What was his existence telling us? About South Carolina? About the
universe? I didn't know anything about him except he was old and he peed
in a pan. And I couldn't get my mother away from him. Ma, I sai d, he's
five thousand yars old. What are we going to do with him? "Take him to
the movies. Let him see what the world has changed since he was born."
They went to see Braveheart. Now he insists we have to catch Scotland in
the arms race.
Index Part 2