Chapter 6: I Can See Your Gas-Chambers from My House! (Honest Adolph Volume 2)


‘No, no, no. It is already well understood that Willow resigned, for the greater good of our blessed party, of our glorious nation, and indeed, of this grand, great global village; and the everlasting supremacy and dominion of our common humanity.’

Cassie-Jane Helman exploded in laughter. Read more Chapter 6: I Can See Your Gas-Chambers from My House! (Honest Adolph Volume 2)

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Chapter 4: Ruby, Rue the Rubes! (Honest Adolph Volume 2)

Ruby Chandra de Montevideo rose to greet the trembling Senator Willow. She coldly extended a chubby but far from jolly hand to the latest in an admittedly very short line of faux-Democratic bêtes-noires.

‘Well, now if it isn’t Senator Deborah Mooonaaa Willow.’

Deborah’s trembling knees now had an uncomfortable squirm to accompany them.

This old practice of weaponizing names was not unknown to the American political scene.

But then, it was hardly unknown to her, either.

How many generations would it take for her to feel free to walk down the street and know…

You know, really really know, that her fears about being picked up suddenly in the night and taken to ‘Freedom’s Bay’ were groundless?

Sure, her father was an Iraqi interpreter.

So what?

Once an Ayyyraaab, always a fucking traitor.

And then that other guy.

Dickie Klindel.

Her heart leapt.

With terror, not love.

Dickie Klindel.

Arabs are not the enemy of our nation. Unpatriotic Arabs, on the other hand, cannot expect special privileges we do not accord to all the other parasites and vagabonds marauding around this… this…

What did he even say again?

***

‘Fuckin’ good shot, son!’ roared Saul Friedman.

Otis gracefully laid down his club.

‘Meaning precisely what?’

Saul stuttered, almost burping half a pint of finest Mama’s Special.

Otis wiped his brow with distaste.

‘Unless you have a birth certificate saying ‘Marcus Murdoch Spengler’ on it, it would be advisable for you to avoid making such comments in future.’

Saul Friedman blushed head to toe.

‘Yeah… y, yeah-yeah-yeah, sorry boy,’ he spluttered. ‘I, I-I-I meant, just a, a fuckin’ hot-damn good shot, is all, is all my, my-my-my-my-er, my good friend, son. Fuckin’ good shot, that’s for sure!’

Otis furrowed his brow, albeit somewhat less disdainfully than before.

‘Quite an eccentric fellow,’ he mused, almost Anglo-generous in his aristocratic bearing. ‘You have probably heard me and my people are good at golf. Am I so very wide of the mark, then, now?’

‘Oh, oh fuck yeah!’ Saul gushed, trying hard to remedy the situation and perhaps overcompensating just a smidgen, as Otis Spengler would no doubt have it.

Saul continued to run his mouth off, albeit in such a naively genial maner, that Otis practically had to staple his lungs to his ribs to avoid being incapacitated by the surges of hilarity he imagined surging through his rocking ribcage.

‘I mean, you guys, golf? No frickin’ shit, I mean, ohhh boy! I swear! You people are the fuckin’ best at that shit, no frickin’ shit! Ooo, can you people golf!’

Otis drily raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you by any chance acquainted with my elder brother, President Barack Obama?’

Saul paused a moment and frowned, suddenly lost in thought.

Relishing the moment, Otis paused; and with the delicate, pirouetting delicacy of a Venetian ballet donna di arte, enunciated:

‘Or as some would no doubt be inclined to inquire…’

Saul’s face fell like a stone.

Barack Hussein Obama?’

Saul’s face practically exploded with dire-apologetic energy.

‘Oh w-w-w-w-w-w-w-well hell no, no, n-n-n-n-w-w-w-well-well-well what I really meant, it’s like heh-heh-heh, er it’s like, ya see-see-see, well no, no-no-n-n, well it’s really more like this, heh heh…’

The master of intrigue had not lost his touch after all.

Now then.

Now, then, this was gratifying!

Hook, line, and sinker.

Another worthless and buffonishly unprincipled career politician, squirming at the end of the line.

About to empty the jaws of the awesome leviathanic media beast, to be munched, mangled, and spat out without mercy.

‘… I’m not like that,’ Saul finally pleaded weakly.

Another pause.

Ohhh, the artistry!

‘You are all the same to me,’ Otis haughtily declared, as he headed in the direction of the caddy-shack.

Saul hung his head in humiliation.

Dully, he twitched his neck, and then looked down again. He fiddled with the clinking coins in his pocket.

‘Just two cents left,’ he weakly murmured.

All of a sudden…

Oh, God!

‘All the same?!’ he roared, as he waved left fist in a frenzy of buried memories.

‘Now just you wait ‘til I frickin’, til I frickin’…’

Thud.

Fuck! What the hell was that?

Frickin’ post!

Urrrggghhhh! Fuck, fuck, fuck.

‘Hm. I see you’re having a rather athletic time of it. Shall I assist you a little?’

Saul grunted in agony.

‘You look after yerself, a’right?’

‘Hm. Are you quite sure… young man?’

Ohhh! The delight! To see another dodgy politico rolling around in the mud like a felled Goliath.

Or should that be…

Ungoliant?

‘Hm. Urrrgghh-fffrrrgghh-ur-ur-ur-ur-UUURRRGGGHHH! Just a frickin’ post. Fuck knows why they planted them there. Frickin’ jerks. Frickin’ urgh, urgh, uuurrrgghhh… OOOHHH SHIT!

‘As you wish,’ high-Darcied Otis.

And that was that!

A rustling in the bushes.

Captain Catty-Glance was on the march.

***

‘Senator Willow, I believe we are going round in circles. It does appear that for the past hour, you have done nothing but moralise and make abstract, idealistic appeals to highminded pacifist norms. That is, whenever you have not been conducting the usual self-serving, defensive apologetics for your utterly appalling speech, with its gushy unpatriotic sentimentality, its whimsical populist superficiality, and, dare I say it, its apparent failure to…

Well, shall I say, its…

Less than fully critical attitude towards a certain anarchistic overgrown vulgar-Zionist student activist by the name of Saul Terence Magilligan Friedman.

‘Do you what you want,’ murmured Willow; tense and wavering, at her end of her very last of wits.

‘Oh. You think you know where the wind is blowing, do you? What a great prophet you must be, indeed! Now, there’s a certain school of thought that says if a prophet could be stoned between the temple and the veil of mercy, it would be the greatest thing that ever happened to us! Because it would rally people around the throne of liberty, and our kingdom would advance and prosper for a thousand years. All hail, hallowed Prophetess Mona: priestly benedictions be upon thy head, and may the worthy nostrils of Cleopatra be enlarged for evermore!’

A dig at me?

Or at Saul?

Or both?

Oh, why should I even care any more!

‘You were such a clever woman. Why, I had such high hopes for you. You could have been the second woman president.

But you belong to the past.

The world is changing.

And we all needs must change with it.

For it is utterly intolerable that the greatest nation on earth, the beacon of this great grand and eternal liberty of ours and of all humanity, should dare to arrogantly vaunt itself against the tide of history.

Humanity is One.

Our World is One.

And if this so, then we must make sure this ‘One’ is truly unique, and not merely counterfeit and cowardly.’

My dreams will always be greater than your dreams.

‘Oh, will they now?’

Wait… did I just say that out loud?

‘Your dreams are certainly bigger. Too big to be accommodated by reality. This is politics, not poetry class. But if it were, I should still give you an F, for philosophical idiocy and dreamerymongering, even then.

‘Because you yourself, for you part, are rather more worried about these narrow principles and dogmatic moralisms of yours, than with the greatness and splendour of this coming world we are now creating, and is ever nigh; every footstep fulsome, as the age of glory descends upon our tabernacle with freedom in her wings.

‘Ah, entry by troops. Empty by troops, dear girl! The first blasts of the coming summer rain.’

Ruby’s gorgeous, scarlet tones purred and ululated, like Persian wine, the splendour; seas of wine and secret honey, upon yon peaching, fawn-like breasts of our holy virgin ruddy.

 

I rise on the storm

And I soar on the waves

Democracy’s banner

Dread crest of the braves

 

I need no high splendour

Or any defender

The good of Humanity

What else? … I remember

 

The incantation faded into silence.

The room was silent too; but the air brimmed and gestured with the utmost of malevolent intensities.

Ruby’s snow-white, stubby fingers poured a glass of water. The coolness of the ice, the bracing, healing stillness of the spring refreshment as it glugged and clinked, showering blessings, coy and ever-luresome.

Senator Willow finally raised her eyes.

‘I… do not… believe… in the greatness and the splendour of this world.’

Ruby feigned horror. It was only momentary. ‘Oh, well,’ she Nixoned out, with a substantial degree sub-Johnsonian nonchalance. ‘Everybody has their own way. Yours is out that door. What a tragedy that a person in whom I had first placed my hopes, the one person I believed in and trusted and had faith and confidence in more than anyone in all the world…

You… you damned LIAR! You trust no-one. Do you even trust yourself? God knows! Oh, God knows if anyone or anything in this world matters at all; only Ruby Chandra Montevideo, and her stupid, STUPID wars!

Should decide that the beauty and glory and richness of reality is too meagre, and she seeks some heavenly paradise of pacifistic idiocy, somewhere, well, somewhere up there, God knows where?

I have told you a thousand times I am not a ‘pacifist.’ I’ll be hanged by the goddamn neck before I let you get away with that one.

‘Well, I think you may leave. Take your dear old letter. Shred it, burn it, no-one cares what you do with it. Take your bridge, and bury it in the sea. Bury it in the forest. Bury it in the… in the sand. Yes, the sand. Now, I am quite sure, that that will really do us nicely.’

Ha! Do you think I don’t understand what you are saying?

‘Now, then… Ms Willow. Do you have anything else to say? Or dare I ask? There are quite a few hours to go before daybreak. Shall we stay up all night.’

‘I have but one thing to say,’ Senator Willow breathed, with an air of menace that even animated the normally cold-as-sea-washed-infants Ruby Chandra Montevideo; supreme leader of what was once the party of Bernie Sanders, Howard Dean and Teddy Roosevelt; and was now the loathsome, pestiferous, irredeemably humanitarian crime gang of LBJ, Barack Obama, the Clintons, and Brakeman Perrins, that horrific beast of Boston of most unhappy memory.

But especially LBJ!

He would have them beat-up dirty sheep-ass munchin’ up this fuckin’ spunked-up hogweed for a thousand years!

Senator Willow’s lungs were meagre in the eyes of many; but by God, did they pack a punch, when they were needed!

Senator Willow drew in her very last breath…

It seemed almost literally so…

‘Either kill me, or take me as I am! Because I’m damned if I’ll ever change!’

Ruby was caught on the hop. Who could have thought a feeble non-interventionist salad-muncher like Willow could have bellowed forth like this. Like some kind of blazing hawk in mid-arrow’s ignomious plunge!

‘Marquis de Sade? That’s where you get your ‘high truths’ from, then? Ha! Ha! Ha!’ cackled Ruby, rubbing her hands for a furious delight that, just for one fleetingly ecstatic moment of political orgasm, transported her far beyond the crabbid, narrow dome of her liberal-interventionist Golden Kosmos.

Ruby roared and roared. ‘I’ve heard it all now.’ She practically screamed. ‘Get out! Get out! Get out! You shan’t misspeak again!’

Willow stormed out of the room and headed for the door.

A certain lurking and lingering ‘leading light,’ such as he was, whistled to blazes; as though his future Democratic nomination campaign depended upon it, and upon nothing else whatsoever under the earth or under scarlet hellfire paradise itself.

‘Do that again and I swear I will break your neck!’ she whispered furiously.

‘Hey, baby! Well, some would say that’s actually kinda hot! I mean, there’s a certain school of thought; well, tell ya what, chicken! I would fuckin’ love you to break my fuckin’ long one? Huh? Huh? Huh-huh-huh?

‘Well, I guess you can just call me L B F! Little bitch fuckin’ Willow fun time frenzymications, all the way, baby!’

‘Just drop your stupid dick, just, all that stupid, stupid heap of waste-man-tissue of yours and let me the fuck outta here!’ warned Willow, waving her slender palm in warning.

‘Mmm-hmmm. Where’s that coy-dee-coy-ass little handy goin’?’ gushed her merciless tormentor, grasping them hugga-buggah twinsome-winniefuls vesselkins ah Democratic sacrament as firmly as ever any Grand High Priest of generations past could squeeze, could squidge.

The liturgy could never be complete, however, until he had stuck his warm, moist, reeking swinetongue down her enticingly disobedient throat; awaiting in establishment-choral piety the final benediction.

Any hole’s a goal!

‘It’s now or never, sweetheart,’ he grunted. ‘Something’s goin’ down, and it ain’t the number of Lebanese orphans, that’s for sure, my hot-damn cute-ass little honey-muffin! Let me just sample that fuckin’ Sweet-Ass Pacifist Kool-Aid o’ yours… oh Jesus H. Johnson baby, but do you just gush o’ somethin’ special! Wikileaks should be all over my girl like last month’s fuckin’ Poon-Tang-a-Boomie-Bang-a-Thailand-Surprise!

‘Woof woof! Girl gone full flamin’ honey-drippin’ Indo-China with man dem coquettish cocoa-mama shyness… Oh, by fuck if I could be inhalin’ that salty goodness right now!

‘Wahhh, now let me be just, be fuckin’ leavin’ like every last fuckin’ corner of that slender funsize ass-‘n’-bag-fuckin’-greatest-hits bonus o’ yours drippin’!

‘Ohhhh my gosh, does a good Democrat dick-waver liks that fuckin’ moooiiist ‘n’ sweeeeeeeet little pussy o’ his!

‘Urrrggghhh-hur! If you’re man dem girl gonna be my Eva freakin’ Brown to my vanilla white boy special, then let me be your Lyndon fuckin’ Goering, baby!

‘Oooooo! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shiiiiiit! Shit, I mean like fuck, ooo it’s like there’s a good little darlin’ babycakes… oooooo, fuck yeeeaaahhh! Here comes the Little Willow fuckin’ future-Presidentializing-Expressy baby….

‘Ohhh, fuuuccckkk!

Senator Willow screamed. But that hand had always been destined to be there.

To be there.

Just there.

In her…

In her own body.

And he alone.

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Chapter 3: Schleiss & Dice (Honest Adolph Volume 2)


Otis yawned and poured himself another Southern Comfort. This time, it was President Milton Clement Schleisser’s response to Senator Willow’s speech on the recent warmongering. Some media outlets had not paid sufficient attention to Willow’s gestures of affection towards the repudiated Senator Friedman. Was Willow’s reticence cowardice or courage?

It doesn’t matter.

My opinion doesn’t matter.

And…

‘And if mine don’t, yours sure as hell ain’t one frickin’ whit more consequential!’

Otis tried to summarise the speech, taking mental notes as went along.

Saul Friedman is an asshole.

Saul Friedman sucks.

Yada yada yada.

Dog-whistle politics.

Dual loyalty traitor.

Saul Friedman sucks at baseball.

Yada yada yada.

Saul Friedman sucks the bleeding dick offa Cassie-Jane Helman and those goddamn dirty Ayyyrabs!

I’m not lying to you, I’m just telling it to you how it is.

Believe me! Would Uncle Milton ever lie to his precious little girl?

Big Daddy Milty loves that little boy o’ his!

The Jews.

The Arabs.

The intellectuals.

Jewish Arab-sympathising dual-loyalty intellectuals.

Jewish Arab-sympathising fuckin’ dual-loyalty intellectuals just like Saul Freakin’ Fucktard.

Just like Saul Fucktard..

By the way, did you know this guy sucks at baseball?!

The fuck… you ever hear about this little short-arse autistic retard guy who sucks at baseball? Oh by the way, this guy is a fuckin’ retard.

Why does Senator Willow think he’s so good?

Because DEH-JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOZ!

You know what else the Jews are good at?

Sweet and sour pork at Christmas? You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?

Yeah so he raped a few kids, so what? Saul Friedman is a fuckin’ pacifist who hates our freedom!!!

No he really does hate it! Believe me, my friend. He really, really hates us!

Where does the money go? Huh? Huh? Where does the fuckin’ money go, bitches?!

Just come ‘n’ good ol’ Uncle Schleisser, what does good big ol’ Bogey-Abraham think about our glorious nation?

Nation? What’s it mean? Ah would ya just quit it, kid; you’ll understand soon enough.

He really does suck at baseball, I tell ya!

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

You ever hear of a Jew who eats pork at some shanty dive in Chinatown? Wait, let me tell another one!

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

Pacifists are destroying our country.

Not one in inch of victory against the enemy without…

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

Until we have paved a thousand leagues over the tattered manifestoes and broadened phylacteries of the enemy within.

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

Intellectual media.

Until then, just shut the fuck up!

Zionist media.

Shut the fuck up!

Jew media.

Shut the fuck up!

All about the jews.

Shut the fuck up!

***

‘Another one?’ asked Miranda.

‘I’m tell you when I’m ready,’ murmured Otis, as he picked up his hat and prepared to head for the door.

The waitress smirked and resumed polishing her glass.

Until then, shut the fuck up! Otis inwardly voiced, as he headed for the door.

***

The night was cool.

Still no sign of rain.

‘Listen, son. It’s… it’s been kinda hard. Hey… like hey, hey-hey-hey son, I mean would you, you h-hhappen to have…’

Otis turned on his heel.

‘What do you think?’

‘Just… just askin’. Please, please. Help a poor boy, it’s just, I mean, it’s just, it’s, it’s been…’

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Otis grunted, as he strode away in irritation. The bum inwardly wailed…

But the unspeakable pain and terror in his wrinkled face was horribly, deathly silent as the grave.

‘I’m… I’m a vet…’ the guy tried to mutter, his dull grey eyes brimming over with tears that were hardly once abundant, but never far at all from that last dread gladsome haven, from faucet’s end.

No words came out.

For what words ever could?

Otis strode away.

***

The old man’s shoulders heaved and shook, as he burst into uncontrollable sobbing. The pitiful moaning and plainting of this once rugged and mighty man o’ war quivered and trembled in the frosty air. The man’s palms trembled, trembled, bony, long clawed fingers buffeted on the merciless gusts of ages. The plaintive weeping was soft and dreamy as a forgotten morning’s frost. Like a stranded kitten crying out in misery for her mama, this six foot gentle giant rocked and swayed with a sight that could have moved the most stubborn, obdurately callous, heart of stone…

If so be that there were windows in heaven.

But there are those who say there aren’t.

And who are you or I to disagree?

***

Otis walked and walked.

He heard a child crying in the distance.

‘He’ll be back soon, I promise. Daddy soon,’ soothed the mother from some place out there, God knows where.

As far as the bank.

His legs buckled.

Otis trembled, struggling to master himself.

At last, he let out a deafening roar.

He awaited the slamming of doors, the yowling of cats, the barking of hounds, even the odd ‘Shut the fuck up, ya rowdy nigger!’

Hm.

Can’t even feel surprised at that.

Like they were all dead inside…

***

Otis, boy, now are you going to tell Pastor Duffy you aren’t going to come to seminary?

Better you did it in person.

I’m decided.

Otis, Otis, I can’t say anything more. You have broken my heart. But this last thing I say to you, and it’s probably the last thing I will say to you before I die:

What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the world, but lose his own soul?

It was no use.

He couldn’t forbear any longer.

He sobbed and sobbed.

How many minutes?

Hours?

Days?

Weeks, even?

6 days a week we will perform our labours. But the seventh day shall we anoint unto the Lord our God, to keep it holy.

***

At last, the faint stirring of a breeze. Otis resumed his step. Finally, he reached his apartment block. As he reached for his key, he saw the wretched man to whom he had so callously closed his heart sprawled out on the pavement.

It was a long way from the top of that bridge.

But his fall, no doubt, had been short and merciful.

‘P… please son, just can you, can you just help a poor boy out, just a little cent or two,’ the crumpled ghostly frost-heap of a man implored him still, his plaintive moans of junk still echoing in his ears.

This time, Otis didn’t cry.

‘Congratulations!’ he smirked, as the door swung open in a rusty greeting.

Now you’re just like them!’

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Chapter 2: Bitches ‘n’ Black Boys (Honest Adolph, Volume 2)


Otis Spengler leafed through the Brooklyn Galaxy one last time. He had to quit doing this. Three editions already without him in it.

Wasn’t it time to make a proper break?

‘I’m not pro-war, I’m anti-terrorism; no exceptions! Take it or leave it!’ panted the greasy, shimmering shade of Marcus Charleston Bubble; in the interview that ought to have destroyed Bubble’s career rather than making it. Some things Otis would never understand.

Then again, he wasn’t the only person who ‘didn’t understand’ things.

But what was not understanding, and what was merely not, in the memorable phrase of Morton Megaraparthenon, ‘giving a rat’s arse?’

(Now he was free, Otis Spengler could finally put the record straight about how the somewhat more-than-memorable hook-in line ‘former gay porn erotic radical political performance theatriste, convicted hate-criminal and crypto-secular UK Minister for Culture and the Arts Morton Megaraparthenon’ was not actually his line.

Now, much as he admired the intricate and cunning weaseliness of the words, these were not his words, but those of Gideon Truman. He still remembered, to this very day and hour, how Gideon spat out his cigar in amazement when Otis raised the topic of the rather sinister addition to his perfectly sober and ethically serious article.

Now, for someone supposedly short on time, it really did seem that Gideon could just spend hours and hours in a good debate. Nothing disciplinary, if you will, ever came of their arguments; indeed, somewhere deep down, Otis sensed that Gideon Truman actually enjoyed and admired their little tug-‘o’-wars.

I mean, it was for all the world as though Truman, unable to enjoy the joys of a (somewhat) clean conscience and the philosophical consolations of a substantial catalogue of ethically reflexive and, at times, even genuinely subversive articles… Well, it was as though Truman, although no more willing to enjoy such wholesome pleasures as he was able to pursue them, nevertheless revelled in these pleasures.

He was living a great life of superlative journalism; but vicariously. Vicariously. Vicariously, my dear boy!

Always vicariously.

Forever.

Yet even so, there was indeed, once upon a time, an occasion such that upon generously uttering-out his usual Schadenspiel about all this poor little black boy big daddy Truman, heartie-breakie bear-huggie ole Giddy Truman had, y’know, just gone and pretty much hot-damn scooped the fuck up outa all these here loathsome ghetto business and put the boy on his feet, the right way up…

Well yes, it really was pretty hard to deny, judging from the rare hint of genuine tragedy that flashed across Truman’s forehead (his cold, fishy eyes rarely showed his hand), well yes, it was damned hard for Otis to purge his mind of the harrowing feeling that Truman genuinely admired him. And more…

Envied him.

And not even in an entirely malicious way.

Otis was the young, fresh, creative spirit the mediocre Gideon Truman had never had the ghost of a chance of being.

‘You know what?’ Truman used to spit. ‘You’re the brains, and I’m the fuckin’ wallet, baby!’

At times, Otis would almost have preferred to be the wallet; for then he could be stowed out of sight, away from the insincerely gratified, faux-congratulatory eyes of the cannibal on his back.

… Sindbad the Sailor?

Oh, God! Those allegations of the ‘Arabian Whites’ party in the Amber Hornet! Otis wasn’t sure why Truman forbade him, not so very far from literally-at-the-point-of-a-gun, to elaborate on precisely what was alleged to have been going on the night the club was bombed.

And when Senator Marcus Charleston Bubble victoriously greased and waddled out of the wreckage.

He had one or two leads.

But only in his head.

Better to keep them there.

Contrarian and rejectionist as he was, Otis was not such a fool as to think that even here, the land of the free, the nation of the American Constitution and the First Amendment, he could ever get away with just writing whatever the hell he wanted.

After all, when people did

Well, things just tended to…

Happen.

‘Make of that what you will,’ Otis muttered to himself.

His stock barbs already seemed threadworn and hilariously, pathetically irrelevant.

What kind of use were his sneaky innuendo and snarks, when the problem wasn’t actually that people didn’t know what was going on?

Because they knew.

Everyone knew.

What, you think our people are stupid?

Otis inwardly groaned.

‘There is not one government, not one government in the history of the entire world, that has ever told the whole truth about their foreign policy, unless it was at the point of a bayonet… if that,’ Ubuntu Grace had hinted, shortly before her mysterious assassination.

Curiously enough, Dickie Klindel and Eva Vernon Letterman took good care to ominously repeat these words two days afterwards; albeit lacking entirely the note of anger and bitterness that was in the voice of the prominent black civil rights activist (‘Food Stamp Bunty,’ Senator Bubble called her).

The fact that they were being interviewed only an hour or so before the time the coroners were to declare Ubuntu Grace dead of just short of 4 whole dozen dum dum gunshot wounds, was of course not well remarked upon, amid the media. The fact that Letterman had said ‘Look Cassie, I really wish we could talk for another hour. I mean, I’d sure rather be here with you than facing that ugly crowd in Minneapolis, like Umbongo Grace is doing. But she’s a big girl, God knows! I guess she can take care of herself!’

The compliment, of course, was very far from sincere. But to say that a notable liberal interventionist intellectual like Eva Vernon Letterman was being sincere was pretty much the most obscene thing you could possibly say.

Not so much because it was insulting to her, or to her filthy comrades-in-arms like Dickie Klindel; but because such a comment would be an unbearable insult to the intelligence of anyone who heard such an infuriatingly tautological proposition.

And had not Dickie Klindel not taken the stage with Lynton Goering at the previous Florida Caucus, endorsing his comrade’s Presidential run, saying…?

‘We shall never promise we shall tell ‘the truth’ to the unworthy. There are different kinds of truth. There are the truths of patriots, and the truths of those who are… hating our nation. Who can gather figs from thistles? Or who can chant high praises to the High Jehovah, Lord of Seas and Storm, in the darkest temple of Mount Babylon?’

This burst of pretentious radical humanitarian interventionist performance theater did not seem to faze the audience; indeed, not even the self-evidently (so thought Otis), but yes, the self-evidently fallacious reference to the non-existent Mount Babylon; not one of these things seemed to make the slightest difference to the unspeakably ruthless, wolfish-baying mob 0f barbaric humanitarian genocide apologists.

So, it was no wonder that Lucy Brendan was driven to commit suicide. The idea that this naïve 13 year old had somehow ‘seduced’ and ‘manipulated’ Lynton Goering, forcing him against his will to make the proverbial ‘honest mistakes’ that so many humanitarian interventionist intellectuals and politicians make day and daily, was palpably absurd. But Lynton Goering couldn’t possibly be a… a sex offender?

Well, not a real one, anyway.

There must be some mistake

Men get drunk.

Men make mistakes.

I mean…

I mean, oh for God’s sake, he’s a man! You can’t question his judgment on foreign policy purely because…

Oh, would you just get a frickin’ grip, man!

And not one single person at the Brooklyn Galaxy had ever but once dared to concoct the correct unpostmodernly-correct variety of sensationalist headline for this heinous deed.

Clearly, Otis had never forgiven himself.

Nor could he ever.

No, no, no…

Come hell or high water, he would have done what he could to have avenged the soul of that terrified young girl.

But he couldn’t.

He was in a cell.

Honest ‘mix-up.’

Another honest mistake.

‘Whew! Shit, boy. Hoo-wee!’ breathed the boss. ‘I never woulda thought it was actually you. You know what, you are actually, the real, honest-to-God Otis fuckin’ Spengler. You know what, it’s been a pleasure, sir! I mean, the poor asshole who treated you bad and falsely accused you; I mean he’s pretty new, and he says all you folks look kinda similar to you, so you…’

Otis’ face had hardened, to the point where the bulging bullfrog eyes of his tormentor-in-chief had almost popped out of his skull.

‘Shit!’ Charlie breathed. ‘Well, like, shit! Hoo, boy! I mean, not like you… you know what I mean, that you actually do look kinda all the same. But, but… some of our boys, I mean you kinda look that well to them, that’s all I’m sayin’. But I mean, like, yeah boy… been a pleasure.’

‘Has it?’ murmured Otis, with all the devices of his age-long artifice of coolness; staring the chief blue-ass flea in the face, who immediately began to puff and pant, desperately trying to retain his composure.

Otis staggered out of the cell, almost dead with hunger. He almost swore he heard his torturer snort the usual.

‘Ungrateful nigger, got no sense of goddamn gratitude. No different, no different, no different. No different from them all, the bastards… Dammit!’

Maybe his ears were just ringing from hunger?

God knows.

This was a very unpleasant memory. But what hurt more, is that he hadn’t managed to stab Gideon Truman in the back, and find some way of getting a headline and byline that could express the ugly truth as least imperfectly as mere words could do:

GOP Paedophile Lynton Goering: ‘Raping in the Name Of!’’

Alleged sex offender and proven humanitarian interventionist unifies theory and praxis: Former Campus Radical Carries on a Grand Old Trotskyite tradition.

And those delicious first two lines:

A humanitarian interventionist is a Trotskyite who has been mugged by the prospect of a huge state stipend.

But there aren’t enough icepicks in the whole of Mexico to impose a fitting punishment on the filthy, subhuman R2P child-rapist Lynton Goering, whose dashing ‘humanitarian intervention’ on Lucy Alice Brendan is just the kind of ‘legitimate rape’ the subhumanly-beastly ‘Party of Humanity’ really didn’t want to be casting forth too loudly.

Yes, he would have made sure he had stabbed Gideon Truman in the back with that headline.

Truman wouldn’t have minded, if Goering had merely been a rapper or a union thug or ‘some ole lowfalutin’ shit like that,’ his usual dismissive throwaway for people he held in too much contempt to genuinely abhor.

Indeed, no! The only ‘virtue’ Truman had (and some would no doubt consider themselves worthy to affirm that this did indeed place him one very slight notch above Senator Marcus Charleston Bubble), was that he was no more capable of bearing a long-term grudge, than he was capable of loving or admiring someone with any real sincerity.

He was just uninterested in people; except insofar as they were useful to him.

Or in a word: lucrative.

But who cares?

That was a long time ago.

Maybe Gideon Truman and his Big Daddy Ford were right after all.

History is bunk.

***

There is a lot of talk today about how history will judge us if we sit on our hands. And I tell you now: as a mother, as a daughter, and as an American who loves this nation: almost all of our troubles come not from sitting on our hands, but from trying to achieve the impossible.

Beware of those who promise to bring freedom at the point of a bayonet.

Such freedom, I tell you truly…

It is ever dearly bought.

And it is surely, I implore in truth, it is those who pass through the valley of bayonets, who will never be able to fully enjoy the fruits of their pilgrimage.

Beware you now, of all these mighty ones who are ready to bang the drum for war all morning long, but who are unwilling to smoke the pipes of peace when twilight falls.

Our enemies wish to take away our freedom, this is true.

And surely this is surely not within their power.

But this I make bold to declare to you today:

They cannot take our liberty from us.

But they can certainly incite us to heedlessly cast it away, through our own folly, heedlessness and hubris.

And that, in the end, amounts precisely to the same thing.

The final and everlasting extinction of the light of Thomas Jefferson, of Johnny Appleseed, of William Penn; of good Tom Paine, of honest old Booker T. Washington, of the passionate Doctor Martin Luther King Jr. of most distressing memory;, of Frank Chin, of Azar Nafisi, and no less than the very greatest of these, of my own dear blessed sisters of Seneca Falls of most humble and exalted memory…

Ye who here, this very night are gazing on and mourning the dire and dreary state of self-disgrace and depravity into which we are yet falling, falling, falling.

Ever, ever deeper.

Friends, fellow-citizens and fellow-dreamers of America, do not take upon yourself the yoke of the darkness, because you chafe under the heavy burden of the light. For if it is hard to rejoice the heart of the King in Jerusalem, how much more so in darkest Babylon?

I am an American.

And I weep for our city of peace.

God help me, here I stand. I can do none otherwise.

Good night, my children of the light and candle-bearers of imperilled hope.

And I say not, this one night of passion, God Bless America!, but:

God shield our precious candle.

From the raging winds of this despair and grief.

***

Senator Deborah Willow artlessly turned and faced the sky.

The rains of blessing would not come.

A camera glimpsed the shadow of a tear.

But, aye! 

A camera’s not the equal of a tender heart. 

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Chapter 1: Let Freedom Blaze! (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume 2)

Senator Willow twitched nervously as she faced the camera.

‘Where is Otis?’ she wondered. ‘Thank God that tricksy guy isn’t here tonight.’

Thunder flickered in the distance. The storm was over. Read more Chapter 1: Let Freedom Blaze! (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume 2)

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Chapter 9: Occident’s Downfall, Spengler’s Uprising (Honest Adolph, Volume I)


‘No, no, no, no, I’m not having it!’ spat Truman.

‘You are absolutely cuckoo-fuck now, you understand? You get this head of yours sorted out, or you are not going to be working for my news channel!

‘I mean, what the hell actually possessed you? Read more Chapter 9: Occident’s Downfall, Spengler’s Uprising (Honest Adolph, Volume I)

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Boosting Your Satire Book Sales Rank Without Cheating

The best way to boost your sales rank is to sell books!
There are other ways too. Some involve cheating though, and this is likely to cost you in the long run.
However, there are other ways of potentially boosting your sales rank without BAD-about-it.
Read on, if you want to get a quick Espresso boost for your very best creations! Read more Boosting Your Satire Book Sales Rank Without Cheating

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Chapter 8: If That is Your Humanity, I Want No Part In Humanity (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume I)


Marcus Bubble finally had his opportunity to publicly denounce Friedman.

And by hellfire, would he make the most of it!

Affecting a professorial dignity and gravitas, Bubble stood one-legged, shifting from side to side and fiddling with his bulging pockets. Read more Chapter 8: If That is Your Humanity, I Want No Part In Humanity (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume I)

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Chapter 6: Waiting for Adolph (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume 1)

Lucy tried one more time to persuade Saul to go home.

‘Ain’t got a home. Just a nice apartment, a nice this and that, but there ain’t frickin’ nothing like home there. Just sick o’ this shit!’

Lucy gazed with her customary refined gaze of compassion mingled with anxiety.

‘What shit do you mean, Saul?’ Read more Chapter 6: Waiting for Adolph (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume 1)

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Chapter 5: Dirty Videos (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume I)


This is the transcript Senator Bubble made.

It is the first video he watched after Sandy had just spoken with him for the very last time in her life.

OTIS SPENGLER [PEDANTIC JERK!]

An incredible update on the explosion in Georgia earlier today. Read more Chapter 5: Dirty Videos (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume I)

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Chapter 4: Sisterhood is Treason (Honest Adolph Serial, Volume I)


Senator Bubble snorted as he flicked through the news channels.

‘Oh for the love of God, would you quit chewing that gum like a fuckin’ imbecile, Sandy?’ he roared.

Sandy spat out her gum.

Bubble grunted in disgust.

‘Not on the… Read more Chapter 4: Sisterhood is Treason (Honest Adolph Serial, Volume I)

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Chapter 3: Waiting for the Messiah (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume l)


The raincoat dripped. His forehead dripped. Every last atom of body and soul; soaked to the marrow.

‘Hey! Where’s my fare, you English cheapskaaaaate!’ roared a voice in the distance.

A car door slammed, and a cascade of horns descended upon the City of Unbearable Frickin’ Insomnia, as Saul Friedman never tired of calling it.

But this man was no Saul Friedman.

For, rather than muttering and fidgeting his way through the town, bumping markets stalls, deadening his elbow on irrationally planted lampposts, and coming within an inch of colliding a child or ten into an unanticipated hospital vacation, the man who was coming to visit Saul Friedman inched with cat-like tread throughout the city.

No matter what obstacles present themselves to his cautious eyes, this most feline of urban dwellers evaded them all.

Nothing could thwart him.

From speeding street-cars, to vindictive cops who had nothing better to do than enforce the purely arbitrary and pettifogging ‘don’t walk’ regulations, there was nothing that would encumber the sumptuous arrow-flight of this gorgeous man.

The office at last.

The gloves slipped off.

Long, slender pianist’s fingers pirouetted towards the sparkling intercom buttons.

The task was done.

A buzz, a click. Into the elevator.

Through the corridor.

To the door.
Knock-knock-knock.

Three taps precisely.

Clean, clinical, cleanly-clink-precise!

And a nervous guffaw greets our brave young Darcy.

‘Ha, Adi, fuckin’ Adi, yer grand old foot-dragging bastard, ya! Comin’ right atcha, son!’ Saul Friedman threw open the door, threw a fist-bump which was, sad to say (or not?) was very nearly a left hook.

The stranger deftly stepped back.

‘Who…

‘Well, who in the hell even is this guy?’ muttered Saul, twitching his eyebrows in disgust at the rather uncongenially clean and slick figure standing before him.

‘Good evening, Senator Friedman,’ purred the visitor.

‘Hm. Yeah!…

‘Same.’

Lucy cast Saul a gentle but firm glance of warning, as Saul’s rather peculiar behaviour towards Captain Catty-Glance was hardly without precedent in recent times.

‘Good evening yerself,’ muttered Saul.

‘Indeed it is, indeed it is,’ was the reply.

‘May I ask the reason…’ whispered Lucy, disconcerted at the sleek and glossy appearance of the peculiar clean-shaven, bare-pated, softly spoken Englishman before her.

A spiffing flick of the those long, curly locks of his.

‘A gentleman never bestows a reason upon an idle questioner.’

The stranger’s voice dripped with a whiff of exquisite cinnamon and honey that was really quite overpowering to the uncultivated ear.

‘Yer gonna tell us yer business or what?’ murmured Saul.

‘Hmgh! I got someone else coming in a short while. So this shit o’ yers better be good, a’right?’

The curious gentleman beamed with such a gleaming façade of generosity of spirit that one might almost be forgiven for crediting him with the utmost sincerity and gentleness.

Saul frowned.

‘Yer not one of them goddamn media assholes again, are yer?’ Saul spat.

‘Just frickin’ sick o’ this crap. I told yer all, I am not runnin’ fer office. There are better people than me fer that one.’

And oh, those broad white teeth!

‘Ah, dear me! Well, wouldn’t you care to reconsider? For, as inadequately acquainted as I may justly consider myself thus far to be, considering the current political establishment in our gracious sister nation, I would humbly beg leave to submit that even if (let me concede but this!) if there do indeed be some who are more qualified than you, these “some” may nonetheless at least (if I may dare presume to take this liberty!) be very far from “many.”

‘Ah, now is that by any chance a hypothesis worth entertaining? Or am I perchance genuinely, genuinely wide of the mark?’

‘Well, yer the expert. Seems pretty clear yer’ve already made up yer mind,’ grunted Saul, slamming the door in disgust. Saul sat down in silence at his desk.

‘He won’t come, y’know,’ he murmured.

Lucy gazed with compassion upon her hero; a compassion not entirely untinged with admiration for the sheer skill and mastery this grumpy, rather Oedipal old fusspot had shown in expelling that poor little Grub boy, the disingenously sinister shade that just some few minutes before had haunted the already rather desolate office.

‘He’ll come, for sure,’ in a voice so low and gentle, it was almost a whisper.

‘He’ll come.’

Saul sighed.

‘Let me let you in on a little secret, Luce. The wait for the Messiah is the Messiah himself. He’s always coming, he’s always at the door, but we’re all too frickin’ taken up with our own petty concerns. Yeah, and y’know, we’ll never see him, just never see him for who he truly is.’

Lucy smiled. ‘Well, for sure! But I guess that’s the burden of being God, right?’

Saul grunted irascibly, but not without a hint of amusement and tender affection for the rather green and sheltered intern who stood before him.

‘Ah, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Luce, this girl just got it all ass-backwards, aintcha!

‘Ah, dear God!

‘Oh, you got the fuckin’ powercut to yer head!

‘Huh? You outa yer freakin’ mind, Luce?

‘The Messiah ain’t a God. I mean, let’s be honest. He’s not even anyone special.

‘Not one bit special, this guy. Not one bit frickin’ special at all, Lucy!’

Lucy frowned, not sure whether to take this as a sign of the apparently serious deterioriation in Saul’s mental health; or just as one of his quirks, or something.

But was there a difference, really? How could she be expected to know?

The man she loved seemed to be ebbing away, bit by bit, like a strong fortress of sand that was gradually crumbling into a dull, blank, empty space on a deserted shoreline, where the last feeble heartbeat of the human race, one day, would finally cease to halt.

But oh, those quirks!

‘My autistic genius,’ she used to call him in her dreams.

But Asperger’s Syndrome was probably a pretty minor concern, in the grand scheme of things.

Or was it even a concern at all?

Or was it a strength?

Or both?

Or neither?

But then again, after all…

Why even bother?

As a young semi-pious Catholic woman from rural Georgia who had somehow manged to get lucky here with her first ‘serious’ job, Lucy often felt awash in the big city.

There were so many things she didn’t understand.

But then again, in his own curious way, the same was true of Saul.

And if such was true of Saul, how much more so Lucy herself?

All of a sudden a thought struck Lucy with extraordinary vividness. She was so consumed with exciting and trepidation, she almost jumped a foot in the air.

‘So…

‘So, the Messiah isn’t God, or a god, or anyone or anything like that. And he isn’t even anyone special…

‘But who, then? Who is he, really? Or…

‘Or she?’

(Lucy’s Catholic conscience smote her breast with an unbearable fury as soon as she uttered the latter two scandalously daring words of that sentence).

Saul sat up, polished his glasses with his ragged sleeve, and looked Lucy straight in the eye. This was almost unheard of; but when Saul fixed his eyes on you, and wouldn’t let go for all the world, you knew he was in deadly earnest.

‘The Messiah, Lucy…’ he hoarsely whispered.

Lucy’s eyes fell in shame, although deep down, she knew she had nothing to be ashamed about.

Saul’s eyes gleamed with a radiance almost devilishly dizzying in its furious intensity: but Saul himself, it seemed, was a devil of light, and nothing other.

‘The Messiah, Lucy…

‘He’s one of us.

‘He’s not any of those guys…

‘Them guys, way up there. Nope.

‘No, Lucy, now listen you here, Lucy!

The Messiah

‘He’s in every one of us.

‘He’s not any one man or woman or person, taken on their own. And more…

‘He is every one of us.

‘Yes, Lucy, the Messiah is one of us. He’s the supreme individual.

‘And he is good to us, and he is generous.

‘He only asks us one thing to us, and he only asks one of us.

‘Lucy, the Messiah…’

Saul’s voice was tightened and shrunk to an almost unbearable gravity of gruffness.

‘The Messiah has only one message for us.

‘What sayest thou, my friend, my enemy, and all my greatly beloved and bewitch-eeeeeed ones…

‘To the individual?’

Lucy turned away from Saul.

She put her hands to her eyes and shivered uncontrollably.

She cried, and cried, and cried. The tears did not stop.

The tears did not stop.

How could they?

How could they?

Not now.

Not after all this.

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Chapter 2: Two Spoons An’ Yer Quarter-Half (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume I)


Saul Friedman paced anxiously around his office.

The rather peculiar guest he was anticipating was not exactly renowned for his timeliness. Read more Chapter 2: Two Spoons An’ Yer Quarter-Half (Honest Adolph Novel Serial, Volume I)

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