Subject:      CODY: OREGANO (new series)
From: (Mithryl)
Date:         1997/02/27
Message-Id:   <5f4s2u$>

                       THE STORIES OF OREGANO	 
February 26, 1997 
	Going through email.  Pretty thin.  Invitation from Paul at Mars
to torture my nipples and clit.  Sure.  Why not?  Poem from wp about O.J. 
O.J. didn't do it, guys.  I met a man at a party who knew a guy who knew
someone else who said someone had told him a person he knew saw the whole
thing.  It was the kid they were after.  Nicole came out when she heard
the noise in the courtyard and got zipped, too.  Stupid broad.  But the
white media needs a black whipping boy.  Actually, though, O.J. is lucky
the whit e jury nailed him, because now he has become a superhero.  Look
at Sam Sheppard.  It's taken the media forty years to admit it was wrong
about him.  Nice touch: They did it the same day the O.J. jury brought in
its verdict.  Like the passing of the torch.  Is God a humorist, or what? 
If they had got the Sheppard case right in the first place, no one would
ever have heard of the fugitive. 
	But so what?  I don't want to talk about O.J.  What do I want to
talk about?  I don't know.  I'm lost.  Nothing works lately.  Including
this grass I bought on the way home this evening.  What is this stuff? 
Oregano?  God, there is just no quality contr ol anywhere anymore.  What
do we have a police force for if you can't get decent dope? 
	So anyway, I'm back, and wondering what to do next.  Like I said
last night, one idea is to rewrite some of my old stories.  Tales from the
Crypt, so to speak.  Actually, I want to get out from underneath my
history.  Too much has happened.  I've been th rough too much.  I want
these stories to happen to someone else.  I want them to be stuff I
invented, not memories.  Here's another "interlude." 
                      BY CODY ANN MICHAELS 
                    (c.) All Rights Reserved. 
	My affair (can it even be called that?) with Donald was brief.  We
did not really have a chance to get to know each other or get started.  He
said he was a "dom" and wanted to help me.  So many do.  So few succeed. 
How, he asked, could it be done on the internet?  Of course, he wanted to
know more.  I wrote: 
"Dear Dom Don, 
	"Thank you for your note.  I don't really know how it can be done
on the internet, but it sort of helps to tell my fantasies. 
	"The fact is, ever since childhood, it seems I've had thoughts
about being captured and held helpless while a man or men do things to me. 
(Later, women.) At first, it was just fucking me or having to give them a
blowjob.  But later, when I found out I could get all the men I wanted, I
began to dream up really terrible stuff.  For instance, a guy takes me to
a bar in a rundown part of town and forces me to strip in front of all the
other customers.  I do it not so much because I'm afraid he will hurt me . 
I know he'll do that.  But because I deserve it.  At least that's what I
fantasize.  That I'm a really disgusting cheap slut underneath the pretty
college girl facade.  (I was in school at the time.)
	"I also like to imagine being slapped around and even beaten up
badly.  I like to watch wrestling and imagine I'm the one who's being
beaten up, only I'm myself, a woman, and the guy is literally wiping up
the floor with me.  I especially get off when a person has his face rubbed
along the rope, thinking how that must feel.  I've asked some of the guys
I go out with to do this, I mean pretend to, but none will.  They claim no
one would ever hurt someone like me." 
	I added the usual description of which, I am sure, everyone by now
is suitably bored, and signed it:  "Yours truly, Cody Mask"  (This was
also in the days before I used my real name.)
	Don's reply:  "I would like to hear more about your fantasies ...
How about if I humiliate you in public and private, by email and phone?  I
am very good at it, and it should help." 
	Well, I don't give out my phone number.  But by e-mail?  Fine.  I
wrote back, saying I would be on that evening.  He asked when was evening
(he was in California)?  I replied: 
Evening is when the deep purple falls 
and a girl walking down the street 
draws her short black trenchcoat 
around her, hoping people won't notice 
that underneath, all she has on 
is a garter belt and stockings 
because she was raped 
earlier that day 
in the back 
of a stretch limo 
by three guys from Atlanta 
who had taken her to lunch 
and then for a ride 
up the East Side highway 
and out to Queens 
where there was a warehouse... 
she doesn't want to remember 
after that. 
Try 9:30. 
	And that was it.  Whether it was something I said, or he just got
scared, I never heard from him again.  I could be mistaken.  There was so
much mail.  And I was in a rush to get on a plane and get to Florida
before my dad died.  What a mess that was, es pecially coming right at
Christmas.  Anyway, we were like ships that passed in the night.  Maybe
some other time...  In any case, I hope he is happy. 
	Oh yeah.  That day.  Those guys.  I forgot about them.  If they're
the ones I actually remember.  Actually, I thought it was somewhere out in
Jersey.  But that could have been another afternoon.  And they were from
Spokane.  Or Arkansas.  Or Washington.  Yeah.  I didn't report it,
because, well, look what happened to the other one.  Oh yeah, that reminds
	Today's paper.  Wasn't it delicious?  Men are so stupid.  "Ready
to start overnights right away.  Give me the top 10 list..."  Like it was
Motel 6.  Right there in his own handwriting on the front page.  I wonder
if they printed it in Florida.  I really wish I knew that.  Because one of
the things I hate about Florida is its mendacity.  When i was there, the
liberal white ass paper ran a column by Ellen Goodman -- I had to cut this
out it was such a fucking lie -- with the headline: "Damage Jones' reputa
tion before damaging the presidency."  And there he was, selling the White
House to a gang of rich tourists like it was Disneyworld.  Can you
imagine?  What an asshole.  The liberal media is such a fucking whore.  It
is a good reason why we will never hav e a revolution in this country,
because the liberals always sell out.  Like Paula Jones is not at all like
the hounds of hell who brought down Bob Packwood.  The woman who gifted us
with the eternal image of our stupid President standing there with his pa
nts down and that look on his face.  The same one they ran with Goodman's
column, in which it was argued in the most liberally erudite terms why
Clinton should not be required to face Paula Jones in a civil courtroom
because it would damage the dignity of the presidency.  I quote: "Yes,
pursue all 3 and promptly.  And get other names at 100,000 or more, 50,000
or more.  cc. H. Ickles, L. Panetta, B. Webster.  Ready to start over..."
etc.  I could really find it in my heart to believe that Clinton killed
	The man is such a liar! 
	And you white assholes keep going along, do to do to do to do I
saw it on television so it must be true do to do da da da.  Holy shit,
what a nation.  He signed a million babies into starvation.  Something is
happening here and you don't know what it is, do you Paula Jones? 
How'd I get on this? 
Who the fuck cares what Clinton does for his blowjobs?  That, for all I
know, come with the Lincoln Bedroom, too.  A night with Bill, Hillary and
Mr. Harry.  What I want to know is this?  If we, the taxpayers, are paying
for the towels and sheets at the W hite House, how come all those millions
they raised renting it out doesn't come back to the federal government? 
We paid for those mattresses in the hallway.  And up under the roof.  So
we should get the profits.  Oh, we could give the Democrats ten perce nt. 
As an agent.  That's good enough.  The Republicans have the congress
building.  They should give back too.  I had five guys sleeping in my
office when I was there.  And I was only a freshman.  You can imagine what
it was like over at Newties'.  I mea n, wall to wall.  And Congressmen
didn't get as much as Senators.  There was a scale.  And, of course,
Congress was nothing compared to the Pentagon.  All those old soldiers
sleeping with generals.  Camp Benning was popular, too.  And Aberdeen. 
Aberdeen was one of the prettiest sights you've ever seen when she
stripped on the proving grouunds at Aberdeen.  In front of ten thousand
soldiers.  You can't imagine the contribution we got from that one. 
	She made a lovely ambassador, coming back to the city after many
years, where she had spent her youth as a young countess.  She was his war
whore.  Later, they got together back in the states.  She got a hundred
million when he died.  She was down to her last nickel.  When that was
gone, she would be back on the street.  Not the same after so many years. 
And the war was over.  The armed servicemen came back to Paris, and it was
like before.  Hiya, Soldier, only they were both eighty.  Nothing could
stan d between them.  She met many men and impressed many people. 
Sandringham.  Montpelier.  Rubes.  She worked the rubes along the circus
way, men and boys, lonely and far away from home.  Hey, my wallet's
missing.  She was long gone with his papers.  They s old for sixty quid on
the underground.  The Germans thought that she was on their side.  Feeding
them secret information.  It was the London telephone book.  By the time
they decoded it, the war was over.  Even Hitler was fooled.  Ha ha.  Good
joke, Schat zi.  Shoot her.  The jeep spun out of control down the
mountainside as she thought of it.  They were going off the road.  No! 
	I don't want to remember this.  It didn't happen.  I'm not telling
you.  I...  School of the Americas.  You got a begger off the street,
someone who wouldn't be missed.  A prostitute.  And you use them to
demonstrate interrogation procedures and techniqu es.  And you hear what
comes out.  They will tell you the most interesting things you ever wanted
to hear, anything to make you stop.  One even recited the Lord's Prayer. 
This is interesting, because, for one thing, the girl doesn't know
anything and doe sn't know why she is being tortured.  And you know that
she knows nothing and are listening to what she says. 
	"How can the ordinary person, not just the Supreme Court, reconcile
the claims (claims, not needs) of a single woman with the needs of a
country?"  Quote from Ellen Goodman's column, 1/18/97, P.B.P. 
Parenthetical added. 
	I don't want to think about this.  It never happened.  Clinton did
not ask that woman for a blowjob.  All he wanted was a hundred thousand
dollars.  And then he'd go away and she could go back to bed.  Think about
it.  It was all a cover.  Can you imagin e what it must be like being
married to Hilary?  This was a way for them to have affairs and no one
would notice, because everyone would be trying to sleep.  There.  In the
White House.  The center of our nation's democracy.  Where our country's
needs are being met.  Nicht wahr?  They are there for us, aren't they? 
Looking out for us? 
	"What then of Paula Jones and her claims of (at least) lurid
behavior in a hotel room with then-Gov. Clinton?"  Ibid.  Come on?  Lurid? 
White Trash in the White House.  Come and go.  Fast or slow.  Mo and mo. 
The rich guys in Washington must get off wa tching Bill and Hill suck up
to them.  I thought I'd shit when I heard what he said about old Pamela
Harriman.  Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio, our nation turns its lonely
eyes to you.  What's that you say, Mrs. Harriman, Jolting Joe has struck
and gone away?  Hey Hey.  Hey! Whatever happened to Marilyn?  Winston
Churchill's mother was rowed up the lordly Hudson on a barge similar to
that of her illustrious ancestor.  Kate Hepburn played her in the movie. 
"Thank you for letting me out," she called to h im.  He warned her not to
have any illusions about going back.  With that, I can really connect. 
She's ninety.  This year.  The same year my grandmother is.  Only about a
month separate them.  But they are so different.  The Paula Jones before
the Suprem e "Court is not Bob Packwood case,"  Ibid.  oops.  Sorry.  Cut
that off.  "... when activists reluctantly but inevitably turned on an old
ally."  Now ibid.  Say wa?  Who writes this stuff?  This garbage.  "Nor is
it the Clarence Thomas hearing, when senat ors..."  give me a break "were
supposed to assess the character of the man headed for a lifetime post. 
For that matter..." 
	Wait til you hear this: "this is not the story of Michael Irvin
and his false accuser."  Whew, do you ever read the papers?  I mean really
read them.  What they are saying?  I don't mean just the words.  I mean,
what they are really saying?  "'big hair'"  Trailer trash.  Her profile
less than perfect.  I mean, meow.  I think she's cute.  And her belated
coming out party at a conseravative press conference, like that made it a
lie, yes?  The mixed reports from your family.  You should hear what mine
say a bout me.  If you want fair.  Just listen to some of the stuff my
brother says.  Her early attempt to trade silence for money.  Or my
sisters.  My sisters would stab me in the back in a minute.  And for what? 
A single incident that did not result in any t hreat to her job -- and
does not, get this, rise to the legal level of harrassment, like Bob
Packwood's clumsy fumbling I suppose did? 
	Poor Bob.  He was such a klutz.  He made you laugh when he pulled
your pants down.  And feel all good inside.  "In this case, the difficult
truth is that the proclaimed message of Ms. Jones' reputation doesn't
merit the sure damage to the presidency."  I bid.  Have I said enough
ibids?  "Yes.  Pursue all 3 and promptly.... Ready to start overnights
right away.  Give me the top 10..."  Op sid.  I can see how our nation's
innkeeper wouldn't have time to be in court, what with having to lay out
guest towels and put those little scented favors on people's pillows every
night.  Mrs. Helmsley should have tried that one. 
	Liberals are such whores.  They gave this asshole a fucking blow
job last summer.  And now we're here.  You sleep over there.  And you take
this bunk.  Stalag 17.  And you sleep up in the hay loft.  Are you sure
this is the White House?  Look, mister, I just work here.  Obey the rules
and you won't get hurt.  "Only the most gleeful tabloid owner could relish
the idea of Bill Clinton being asked about his private parts in sworn
testimony."  No.  No.  Me, too.  I would love to hear what Bill has to say
abo ut his nuts.  Come on, Baby, take them down.  Show us old Harry. 
Little bitty poon tang.  Okay.  You can pull them back up now, Mr.
President.  And I'm not alone.  There are a million of us out there.  All
clones.  All screaming to see Bill B.'s wiggle w addle.  Except Paula. 
She was fascinated, but she couldn't say she wanted to see it.  In fact,
she wished he'd put it away.  Or so she says.  "If Ms. Jones wants to
pursue the case, the $700,000, and the good name that she herself turned
into a household moniker, at least let her do so when he is no longer
president."  Oooooo, wow, I love to watch when women savage another.  They
are so cruel.  And mean.  And dirty. And low down.  Rip her belly open. 
Stupid cow.  You wouldn't want someone like that dama ging the presidency,
would you? 
	I forgot who I was talking about.  The phone rang, and it was my
brother.  Who thinks I'm a whore.  The town tramp.  And he has only good
things to say to me.  Like, shutup, cunt.  Take a power, cunt.  Shut your
mouth or I'll shut it for you.  And he hits me.  But not on the phone. 
Oh, hello, Alex.  He's two years younger than me and he treats me like
shit.  Like, come on.  What did I do?  And then he had me out by the pool. 
I was wearing a white bathing suit.  One piece.  Cut extra high on the
hips.  And just covering my nips.  I was gorgeous.  I didn't want to do
it.  He made me do it, deed he did Catht shse took a deep breath and held
it Now let go.  She did in the chest and felt wonderful she had been
holding it in for so long now get this, Cody is meaningful.  So is Ebonics
so don't tell my child what he should say, got that? 
She backed off. 
I'm sorry. 
he hit her 
the child went down 

she got some of her friends to dress him up like a girl.  Hey.  What is
thois?  She got in touch.  Now she was sending it out over the airways top
him where she topumbl;ed iont top the searaw
it's garbbled, fiugure it out 
we're going to get shot down in here 
Come on Winston, we've got to get into the Grange  
and bury her under the stones in the abbey.  Where she could eat the heart
out of the country.  They're vampires.  You know.  All down there under
the Abby.  The ones who are buried there.  The Undead ones.  Sylvia
figured it out.  It was one way to make Cody out of someone else.  How
about it, Alec? 

my little step brother stood there like a Freneach maid in a comode and
looked exactly like me.  I was going to enjoy this.  No, Cody.  Please. 
Right!!!!!  I looked down at her pretty face.  Now slut, I finally have

Alec winced. 
The big utters hung down beneath her, bouncing against her legs.  Now we
hook this wire to her tooth.  And this one goes in her crotch.  Now watch
what happens when I turn this.  Kelly, girl, you're really taking the hit. 
I like that.  All this time they had been working in tandem, herding the
young princess into her stall and closing the back gate.  Now let her rip. 
And she charged out of the box like a wild woman Kelly Alec Grable. 
The girl hung on the bar nursing her wet crotch and trying not to think
about it.  Someone grinched her.  She caught it.  I watched Cody's face
dissolving under my fist, and all I saw was Kelly.  They heard her all
over the compound.  Taking a hit.  Strun g her up.  This one.  Do it
again.  Blood splattered out of her crushed nose etched on my brain.  Like
acid.  What it was like.  Coming apart.  
slit slit. 
broken wrist 
stumbled once 
caught myself 
tripped again 
went down between two garbage cans.  Tearing my skirt 
she didn't know nothing 
that's what she told us 
but we made her sing anyway 
didn't we, Pedro? 
Sam.  Whatever. 
I decided to dress like Alex.  I cut my hair off, and wore sideburns 
and cute little swastika noserings  
and blow shit out of my ears.  I was totally spaced.  Alex, is that you
hanging over there?  Cutting up chicks.  Oooo, I was going to enjoy this. 
Want to see my switchblade?  The only thing that didn't match were my
boobs and my dick.  I was having an identity crisis.  Who was I?  Or am
I?  Or... I? 
I liked to get in knife fights.  Soon I had scars all over my body.  I
really got messed up.  But I was cool.  And I paid my dues.  So how about
cutting me in?  They took me to a place out in West Dade and cut me open. 
I was a mule.  They wanted the dope and wouldn't or couldn't wait for me
to shit it out.  So they did it the easy way.  Left me lying in a field. 
Staring up.  Sorry, Alex, I didn't mean to wreck it.  She wanted her own
one back.  What a bitch. 
	They didn't call her Soul Changer for nothing.  We're lost.  No. 
There's no going back.  Keep going.  You'll see.  They really do keep it
up here.  It was like a pajama party.  They searched the house.  Here's
one.  What shall we do with her.  I can do tricks.  Want to see me do
something, Pedro.  I know her.  She's the girl down at brewry.  We
followed her home.  Once inside, she was ours.  Or so it seemed.  I was
following a dream.  I was sad.  I was broken off.  I was dead.  Hey.  What
is this?  I'm rotting in hell.  Get me out.  I'll do anything.  Call me,
	Pillow talk in the Lincoln bedroom.  I'll do anything.  Fifty
thousand, what am I bid for Central America?  El Salvador.  Peru.  The
Japanese embassy.  What about those guys?  Are they still there?  I never
hear about them anymore.  Move over, will you.  Your knee's jabbing me in
the back.  Don't kick.  You're grabbing the covers.  My ass is freezing. 
What did you ever do for America?  I was a dollar a day man.  A dollar a
year.  I was a two dollar whore.  Kennedy did it better.  JR could really
put on a spread.  LBJ.  Welcome to the ranch, Mr. President.  The truth
is, he was already dead.  It was a robot.  It was timed to explode in the
Dealey Plaza which it did.  Then we took it away and put the body of the
real president in it's place.  Neat, huh?>

	They did it down at the ranch.  It was messier that way.  Oh yes,
she saw all of it.  She kept her mouth shut.  She was no fool.  Besides,
everyone was in on it, so not one noticed when it actually happened. 
Kneel down here, Jack.  And they chopped off his head.  The conspirators
were never caught.  We learned our lesson at Wolfschanze, mein Herr.  Ya,
wohl.  Yes sir.  No more ugly mopping up the floor with my hair like
before when they caught me as a spy in Berlin.  I spent the war in a
concentration c amp for ... officers.  Of the day.  Now rococco.  She fed
the intelligence into the machine for a final version.  It was printed
out.  Kalotically.  Thought I'd point that out.  And then she went on to
the next.  They sat up telling stories what it was like to sleep in the
White House under different presidents.  Carter had been the worst.  There
was more touchy feely then, so a night at the White House actually meant
something.  Not these stale rolls and bisquits .  Come on, liven it up
around here.  Now we party.  All these old whores come home for one last
night at the oasis.  It's not what you sell but how you do it.  Come on,
Willy, play it again.  They had to listen to him practice.  All night
long, the soulf ul saxophone wailed along the corridors and up the grand
staircase where widows had once walked to their doom.  But that's anothere
story. If only these walls could talk.  But that's the touble.  They never
shut up.  How can you get a good night's sleep w ith these babbling pillow
cases?  Everything had a story, and was bent on telling it.  It was worse
than the internet.  Here they were at the crossroads of history, and they
didn't know what to do. 
	I have a boy friend who says the future is Jupiter.  I don't quite
know what he means.  But, like, Jupiter is the future.  So you can see
what that feels like.  Can't you?  The big red spot.  Boring into your
brain.  Tunneling you out.  Carving you up, a nd you don't have any more
information to give them.  For god's sakes' let me alone.  I'm only a
little girl. 
	Take her out.  She knows too much.  I won't tell.  Honest, I
won't.  She's got to be muzzled.  They whipped her like a dog up and down
the hallways.  Gimme a break.  The presidental order was sealed.  Comrade
Cody became a target.  She was out on the roo ftops with her laptop, and
lazer sword.  And magic omulette.  And not having a clue what to do with
them.  Games cost a quarter.  They rented out games.  But you had to give
them back.  You couldn't like take them home, and like say, this is from
the White House.  That was a no no.  Instead, they gave you a plastic
asstrap with their pictures laminated in them.  And signed Bill and Hill,
and "Hurry Back" in a scroll over their heads. 
	She was a moving target.  Our orders were to kill.  No bananas. 
Just simple frills.  And they shot her.  She fell backwards into the grave
that they had made her dig.  She was freezing cold.  She tried to hold on
to her self.  It was being torn out of h er.  Oh yeah, we always kill a
virgin.  But you only get to go to that if you're in the club.  Some of us
have formed a club to support the president and the first lady in a style
to which they might not be accustomed.  Come on, little lady, sit up here. 
He called his dogs Bill and Hill.  And he called Hill a bitch.  Funny
thing is, he got them crossed.  Hill being... and you know.  What shall we
do with this?  Shoot her.  Cody goes down.  Cody goes up.  How many ways
can we blow Cody up?  Isn't that it?  What you want to do?  Take a poke at
me?  Go on.  Do it?  I dare you.  They always fight like that.  My god, he
could kill her.  Don't worry.  She's totally in charge.  Watch this.  Hill
was humping Bill.  All over the yard.  We laughed and laughed.  An d then
she said, you go on over and knock them apart.  Which is how the fight
started.  You think the Argentinian ambassador was bad, you should have
seen what she did to him.  And there were only four toilets.  And not
enough toilet paper.  I couldn't wa it to get out of there.  The
guerrillas wouldn't let us leave.  We were in their for three years. 
Right down to the election.  And then when Carter lost, they made him wait
until he was no longer president to get them back.  Will you pipe down and
let me sleep.  Check out time is eleven a.m.  Days washed into violins as
the trio hunkered down under the porch with the little girl.  Alex was on
top of her.  Alex, get off me.  She felt her underpants being pulled down. 
I couldn't help it.  No one believed me.  Not even Streisand.