Weekend LONG READ! Third & Final Part of Honest Adolph: Tyranny Hits America…?!

American Freedom

Have you checked out my books on Amazon Kindle yet? Well, there’s another one being released in a few days! As if the chapter by chapter novel serial of an America on the slide to tyranny wasn’t enough, I also provided you with two big reads: Volume 1 and Volume 2. But now… this is the big one! Devastating, harrowing, but also kind of beautiful… Or is it? Well, you be the judge! 😉
P.S. If there are minor errors or discrepancies in the online version, the ebook version must be considered the canonical, standard version (the latter is also subject to further updates over time if appropriate.

Chapter 1: See-Saw, Pan-On-The-Jaw

Another late evening.

Big Xian yawned and stretched his arms.

Good business.

All of a sudden, he jerked his head and frowned.

Surely not…

Rats?

Big Xian prided himself on the cleanliness of his restaurant.

He did not have a lot in the world, but he had his dignity.

‘Where are you,’ he tutted, wagging his winger in mock irritation.

A snicker.

!

‘That… was not a rat,’ Big Xian whispered.

‘Yeah, he’s there.’

Big Xian gasped.

Who could possibly have sneaked into his restaurant like this? At this time?

All of a sudden, he became conscious of how cold it was.

Perhaps he had forgotten to lock up.

No, he always locked up.

Big Xian warily lifted a pan in order to defend himself. He had a bad feeling about this.

He sincerely hoped he would not have to use it. Indeed, the last time this gentle giant had had to call pest control, he had not managed to get so much as a single hour’s sleep that night.

And yet, rationally, he knew that you simply cannot run a kitchen with all these worthless vermin swarming around.

The door to the kitchen rattled.

There was only this flimsy panel of wood between him and his unknown aggressors.

‘We… are closed… closed?’ Big Xian whispered, his very breath dying in his mouth.

The door was opened.

Big Xian breathed a sigh of relief. One young man in his early twenties, the other two in their mid to late teenage years stood before him. The elder of the three had a chunky, greasy, pimply face, and an ascetic-looking head that, while primarily shaven, had a curious little remnant of sparsely nondescript fluff at the back; almost invisible until you caught him from the right perspective. His defiant smirk was a little disconcerting. The two teenagers, a boy and a girl, looked dull and largely uninterested.

‘How’s the business, old man?’ the monkish smirker sneered.

‘P… pretty good,’ muttered Big Xian, somewhat ill at ease.

‘Yeah. Thought so.’ The young man burst out laughing. The two teenagers managed a tentative ‘Ha… Ha…’

‘I… I need to finish soon,’ Big Xian said, mopping with brow in anxiety.

‘Hm! Sounds like a plan,’ was the cold and menacing reply. Big Xian sensed something sarcastic, indeed bitterly, bitterly, ironic in the petty and mean-spirited answer.

Big Xian was not at all confident, by now, that he was not indeed in danger; after all! He reached for some dumplings. ‘Here, have these, they are a little stale…’

The girl laughed. The other teenager remained impassive.

‘Well, that depends,’ the elder lad spat. ‘Are they vegetarian?’

Big Xian’s hands trembled as he placed the (really rather fresh) dumplings down again on the table.

‘I am sorry. We are out of vegetable baozi. Everyone is buying them these days.’

A despicable laugh.

‘Ha! Ha!’ the ugly scalp bobbed back and forth. ‘Tell me, Charlie, do you know why we are here?’

Big Xian, speechless, steadied himself against the wall.

His tormentor strode up, to within breathing distance.

He put one hand on Big Xian’s trembling shoulder, using this for leverage; with the other hand, he gripped the bow at the back of Big Xian’s apron, whispering here:

‘What is your position on the Tibetan issue?’

Big Xian closed his eyes, by now fearing for his life. Although he was tall, he was fearful of the pot and pans, and the cruel, heartless knives that were all within easy reach of this wicked youth.

The lad drew back.

In stony silence, his scarlet eyes pierced Big Xian with the ruthless barbarity of an age-long salt-ocean; ‘lacking the least of measures, without the very merest of betidings,’ as Poet Wu used to chant around the campfire in the days of Big Xian’s youth.

All of a sudden the lad stamped his foot.

How Big Xian jumped!

The lad burst into laughter.

Big Xian could contain himself no longer.

‘Why don’t you just go!’ he sobbed, trembling from head to foot; by now so soaked in sweat, he might as well have just come to his Trotskyite enemies (did Big Xian have enemies?!) fresh from dunking himself in the Yellow River.

‘Uh-uh-uh. You tell him, little boy!’ the bully smirked.

And so he did! The younger lad recited the following spiel, as though by rote. To the more uncharitable New Yorkers, his Southern drawl had already seemed a little out of place to some. But if such people had heard the pompous, intellectual jargon and sentimental claptrap he was about to spew out, this would only have heightened the comical effect; however subjective and ‘unscientific’ such a sentimental impression might have been!

‘Whereas, the sovereign Tibetan Nation of the Land of Snows has this long been unjustly subject unto the tyranny of the reactionary Bukharinist Bourgeois-Roaders, Deviant Deformed Worker’s Bureaucrats and Revisionist Neoliberal Plunders and Looters;

‘Whereas, the inviolable sovereignty of one single, whole, integral, undivided Tibetan soil and shadow has been denied the children of the Snow Lion, and brutally withheld without the merest shadow of cause, nor slightest pretence of an excuse:

‘Whereas, the brutal secular Peking regime is the perpetrator of wilful Cultural Genocide, Crimes Against Humanity and indeed, has not stopped short even of perpetrating Crimes Against the Holy Dharma of the Blessed Boddhisattvas of the Shangri-La, the erstwhile and yet ever-blessed holy egalitarian Eden of Celestial Tibet…

‘It is incumbent upon the children of the Dharma and their holy comrades; we, the Tibetan Worker’s Liberation Party, holding up the sacred and all-highest spiritual truths of the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha, and rightly casting forth the blessed material consolation of Trotskyist Scientific Socialism and Marx-Engels-Trotsky-Mandelian-Zia-ist Holy Doctrine and Theoretical Praxis…

‘To avenge at all costs those who trample underfoot the holy seed of the Party of Buddha, and who demean and degrade and blaspheme against the scientific truths of Marx, Engels, Trotsky, Ernest Mandel, Zia-ul-Winterson-McMillan, Bennett H. Childers, Aum Tsukarida Nichiren Tomoko Hadarachi Omedeto Hadatakawariyama Yakitomo Omega-Ichi-Ban, Humphrey Hampton Hillard Bar-El Dharmaraja, and Hattie X Hoxha and all ye blessed, sacred infants of the promise…

‘And thence, insofar as it may be appropriate and scientifically expedient, to…’

Big Xian fell to his knees, holding his hands up, clasped tightly as though in prayerful  intercession.

‘I am not a political person,’ he wept. ‘I am not a political person, I know nothing about politics, all of this, it is so far away to me, I am not a political person, I am not a political person, I swear to you, my friends, I know nothing, I am not a political person…’

The chief bully burst out laughing again. His sneering guffaws dinned upon Big Xian’s ears like the repetitive heavy blows of an ill-wielded wok.

‘Do you see? Now, do you see? ‘It is so far away to me.’ The bourgeois intellectualism of the enemies of us loyal and patriotic workers of the Coming Cosmic Motherland knows no bounds!

‘But let me tell you something, you pitiful reactionary stooge: what is ‘‘far away’’ to you is not something intellectual. Your callous liberal idiocy sees the Tibetan people as a lifeless pawn to be used in your manoeuvres. Your undialectical bourgeois mediocrity and timidity says ‘A is A,’ a slave is a slave; but not also ‘A is B,’ a slave is other than a slave…

‘The guardians of the future global proletarian revolution!’

Big Xian gazed up, tears streaming down his face.

‘I do not know Tibetans. I do not know them. I am not a political person, I know nothing about politics, I am not, not, not, no, I am not a political person…’

The thug kicked big Xian in the jaw. Big Xian screamed, as much in terror as in pain.

At least as much.

‘Who is your brother!’ the lad triumphantly declared.

Big Xian was in too much pain to answer.

‘Spit in his eye,’ the young hooligan told his comrades.

The boy slowly bent down and spat in Big Xian’s left eye.

The girl stood over him, smirked, and spat in the other one.

The chief thug roared with a truly demonic laughter, even louder than before.

‘Your brother is married to a certain woman. And who is she?’

Big Xian inwardly intoned what little he could remember of the Chinese Jewish liturgy. For at long last, he knew for certain that this was, indeed, his final hour.

Up the pan went.

A hideous pause.

All of a sudden, the girl stretched forth her arm.

‘This… it’s getting out of hand,’ she warned her comrade.

‘It is… You scared?’ the cold response.

‘Look, quit messing about, you idiot!’ she shrieked. ‘You said we were only coming here to give the guy a hard time.’

Cain Ingershill, for this was the hooligan’s name, glared at her in fury.

‘Punch her,’ he instructed Little Jip.

Little Jip frowned.

‘Punch her, Jephtha,’ he said, in a warning tone.

Little Jip was not prepared to punch his own sister, even at Cain’s say so.

‘Do… you… understand the meaning… of obedience…’ he hissed.

Little Jip spat.

‘You ain’t my leader, Cain. Y’know, this is some fuckin’ reeeaaalll stupid shit, Cain. Ain’t nothin’ in our books say nothin’ about hittin’ yer own sister!’

Cain groaned and strode towards Lisa.

‘You in? Or you out?’

Lisa took a step back.

‘I’m out.’

Cain took two steps forward, almost within punching distance of Lisa.

‘Do you know, Lisa Gray,’ he panted, his knotty freckled fists all-a-quiver, ‘what the penalty is for splitters, in our party?’

Little Jip drawled indignantly: ‘Nah, nah, nah, now just you listen here Cain, my friend! We ain’t no goddamn splitters here, now, Comrade Cain! We just all think this is some damn stupid idea ah some kooky fucked-up bullshit you askin’ me to do! Hit my sister? Lisa Gray, see her, she’s family!’

Cain roared in fury. ‘You have no family! There is no family, and no nation, and no nothing, and the workers have no-one, not a single soul on earth, but the workers!’

The normally dull-as-a-didgeridoo Little Jip finally lost his temper, which was a rare enough occurrence; God knows! ‘Hey! Hey! That shit… that… that… well hey Cain! Hey, that shit ain’t true!’ Little Jip indignantly stammered.

‘True?!’ Cain Ingershill practically shrieked. ‘Who are you to say what is true or what isn’t? Truth is merely an instrument, our sovereign and unchallengeable means to the most highest and noble of ends; it is not an end in itself.’

‘Hey! Hey! Hey! What the fuck? This ain’t true!’ Little Jip persisted, indignantly stamping his feet. ‘It just ain’t true, Cain! Nah! Nah! Nah! This shit ain’t true, Comrade Cain! Truth is truth! I mean, I mean, I don’t even know nothin’, don’t even know nothin’ at all, about what, about all this here, all this here highfalutin’ bullshit Mr Ingershill is even talkin’ about!

‘But I’m callin’ bullshit! You are just sooooooo damn stupid, Cain Ingershill, that’s what you are! There ain’t nothin’ in the book about all this here goddarn sanctified crap about hittin’ your own sister! Nah, nah Cain, I ain’t standin’ for all this here, all y’all bullshit you and, you and your, these goddarn stupid comrades are talkin’ about here!’

Cain was unsure who to punch first, he was so furious with both twins. His flailing fists caught no-one, and he ended up falling to the ground and grazing his arm.

‘Ah! Shit!’ he screamed.

Big Xian, despite the pain in his jaw, instinctively reached for some kitchen towel to press against Cain’s bleeding arm. Having grabbed the paper, he suddenly paused and realised he didn’t know what to do with it.

What was the riskier option?

Do nothing, or try to appease Cain?

In the end, a certain fearful compassion, replete with tender trepidation (which Cain would no doubt have viewed with the most stomach-churning repugnance as ‘idle, rootless bourgeois sentimentality’); well, in the end, Big Xian handed the tissue over to Cain. Cain sat and sat.

Time passed.

Eventually, Cain staggered to his feet.

‘So, here’s the deal. You are either loyal to the Revolution. Or you suffer the inexorable and excruciatingly agonizing, predestined fate of all the splitters. The power of the dialectic is beyond all human intuition and knowledge. Human karma is not the actions of mere bourgeois human individuals, but it is of the mysterious and inscrutable emanations of the void.’

Cain sinisterly intoned the following words, as though falling into a trance, and as though intending to take half the suffering, bleeding, baleful-baling Kosmos down with him.

Grimly lullabying at first, the galesome spirits of demonic torment captured him, and every corner and inch of the room rattled with the clinking rattle of his martial prance.

Oh, oh, weaver’s shuttle

Steam arises, rises still

Oh, oh, mist of dawn,

Mist of dawn on freedom’s hill

Whence do you bring your joys?

When shall my suffering cease?

Oh, oh, spider’s web

Spider’s web, so MIIIGGGHHTY!

I! Spy! Upon the clouds

Mystic dragon WEEEEEEEPING

Oh! Daddy! Where my pouch!

Tearful kisses, pleading!

Hence! All my magic foes

Terror, artsome, FLEEEEETING

When can Mama make me whole?

Crimson river, CHEEEEEATSOME!

Oh, pleasant, river, run?

Gales and sky-blue eggshells!

Mak! Chaddi! Het-Dop-Dong!

Makes my belly tum-bum-bly!

Ach! Why I sing so long!

Milk-some measures PREEEEENING

Daddy make me mourn so long

Father, chop, HO!

Big Xian committed himself to his fate.

By now, even his inward prayer was silent.

Through blood-shut eyes, he dimly perceived the shadow sweeping above his head.

He barely felt the blow.

Chapter 2: Flowers in the Mirror

Saul Friedman exited the funeral hall, still holding his messy clump of flowers.

Big Xian’s sister-in-law warmly smiled through her tears.

‘Thank you for the flowers,’ she whispered.

Saul didn’t hear her.

He slouched towards the exit of the funeral hall.

Civil funerals were never quite his thing.

They always seemed to be missing something.

But then, the entire city was missing something now.

Or someone.

Never would Saul eat chicken balls or dim sum again!

He just didn’t have the heart.

Well, perhaps one day he would.

But he would never admit it to himself.

He was stubborn like that.

Or…

A little ‘rigorous,’ as he liked to call it.

‘These are lovely flowers,’ Genevieve repeated again.

Saul dully raised his head.

‘You brought these for our Xian, then?’

Saul grunted and almost imperceptibly lowered his chin.

And up again.

‘How nice,’ Genevieve said, her voice trembling.

‘And… how unusual.’

She reached out her hand.

Saul frowned, not quite understanding the gesture.

‘Well… I was only wondering if I may hold… but of course… if you’d rather…’

Saul blinked and slowly extended the bouquet.

‘Is there… is there perhaps any chance we may keep one? You’ve really been so very, very kind to big Xian. He always says he has so many good friends. And yet.. and yet… so few have turned up today. Well… well now! Perhaps it is the weather.’

Saul momentarily contemplated mentioning that this was actually an extraordinarily mild January, by all that he’d heard.

But he eventually decided that actually, this was just all these here neurotypical folks with these curious conventions of theirs. The code was not always so easy to crack, but long years of hard experience had given him some fairly decent competency in the curious symbolic to ‘n’ fro of all them ‘normal folks.’

So it seemed, then, that Genevieve, the wife of Big Xian’s brother Di (not to be confused with his other sister-in-law in China, the daughter of a prominent Party Figure in Qinghai province), was not really intending to make a casual observation about the weather at all.

Well, it was understandable that in this kind of situation, one might wish to speak a little thus… ‘indirectly.’ But what Saul could never in a million years comprehend, no, not in the least, was…

Why the ‘neuronormals’ just took it so damn far?

In a situation like this, yes let’s all use language and words to shield us from painful truths. But in politics? In geopolitics? In international relations? Who gave them the goddamn right to weasel around, like words didn’t matter, and the end somehow inevitably justified the means! These bitches! Ahhh, these frickin’ bitches!

He almost said it out loud.

‘Guess it ain’t much for an old friend,’ he murmured, almost inaudibly.

‘Oh. Oh no. On the contrary. Really, you have been so very, very thoughtful. So deeply considerate. I mean, really. Why, it’s not even the custom here. Now, I don’t know how you thought about it, but these little flowers; well, they really do mean a great deal to us.’

‘Good,’ Saul grunted, shifting uncomfortably in his shoes, and rather wishing he was somewhere else right now.

‘Care to have a little bit of this tea? For, you know, Big Xian was so… just so, so, very good for these beautiful teas, you know.’

‘No,’ Saul said, inadvertently snorting and spluttering like a Neanderthal.

A few steps later, it dawned on him that he had not responded quite correctly.

He half-turned on his heels, looked back, and tried to whisper:

‘No, thank you.’

But the words died on his breath.

Chapter 3: Scrapbooks and Shredded Hearts

Deborah Willow was now free from the strains and worries of her career as a rising star in the Democratic Party. She was also not badly off for money; not at all, thanks to her uncles in Iraq, who had been shrewd enough to not put all their eggs in one basket. ‘Big Solar’ had yet to reach the heights of ‘Big Oil,’ but it certainly was far from a senseless investment.
A book of poems.

Written by Adolph Adams.

Many years ago.

But Saul must have had something to do with it too.

He generally did!

Deborah ran her fingers softly over the immaculately illustrated indie volume.

‘Indie books for Indie Spirits,’ was what Adolph had suggested as the slogan for a new publishing project of his.

But Saul, as level-headed and prudent (in his way!) as he was irritable and highly-strung, had warned Adolph off of this risky venture.

And something of Adolph Adams, as he many years later recounted to Deborah Willow, had died, with the death of this little project.

***

The Jester’s Net I Gave Me

What if I told you ‘Brahman’ was not a mere ideal

A coercive superstitious worship of unity

As the absolute end-of-all?

What if I told you ‘Brahman’ was the encounter

Between the finite and the (in/)finite

Between the severed and the whole?

What if I told you ‘Brahman’ was where we meet

And not where we end?

What if I told you Brahman does not exist Outside of you

Nor within you?

What if I told you

Neither forgiveness Nor non-forgiveness

Are the end

But rather the boatframes

That carry you

To the shore of encounter?

What if I told you

You are neither a good person

Nor an evil person

But you are amid the endless play

Of both?

What if I told you

The play of Brahman

And the Quranic injunction

THE WORLD IS NOT FOR SPORT

Were precisely the same wisdom

And yet (im/precisely) different?

What if I told you

That Jesus was only THE SON OF GOD

Precisely because he was crucified

The one and only Father Sought eternally?

And what if I told you

The Son of God was the greatest ‘atheist’ Of all?

What if I told you God warned Moses

IF YOU EVER SEE ME ON THIS MOUNTAIN SLAY ME?

What if I told you

When Confucius begged assistance of Heaven

He was asking Heaven to help him help himself?

What if I told you To ‘comprehend’ is not make a

Bald Trite Factual arrow wound Murmuring

ALL WILL THUS BE WELL?

What if I told you

ALL WILL BE WELL AND ALL MANNER OF THINGS SHALL BE WELL

Was not at all

For the end of these times

But for the here-and-now?

What if I told you

The everlasting love you seek

Is neither inside yourself

Nor outside it

But in all those silent fleeting spaces

In between?

What if I told you

Everlasting does not mean all time

But merely neither of time

Nor not of time?

What if I told you

You are neither guilty or innocent

But that you are in them

But not of them?

What if I told you

Every day God crucifies himself for hurting you?

What if I told you

Everyday Allah lets the humblest of his servants stone him

And tender

Smiles through tears unwelcomed?

What if I told you

Every day Buddha weepingly confesses his guilt

To the demons in hell?

What if I told you Brahman does all these deeds

Not for his own sake

But for yours?

What if I told you

You cannot inflict on yourself

Any of these torments

But that you can nevertheless know

That not one smile you have gifted to another

Shall be ever taken from them?

What if I told you

When you senselessly crucified yourself

For your faults in love

There was a voice from your morning

Calling to you

NOT IN MY NAME?

What if I told you

The unity of Brahman is not a denial

Of alienation

Of despair

Of grief

Of remorse

Of sadness

Of sorrow

Of tragedy?

What if I told you

There is no Brahman inside

Nor outside

Of you

But that when you are ready

You will be taken

By the hand

And led at last

Where you always were afraid to go?

What if I told you

The place

Where there is no fear

And the place

Where fear lurks in the shadows

Are two names

For the self-same house of Being?

What if I told you

The lies you told yourself

Were truths

And that they were also falsehoods

But they could never

And will never be

THE TRUTH?

What if I told you

You were loved

And you were love

And this love will remain with you

To the end of your days

And no one will ever

Take it away from you

Nor from your love

And not even you

Have the power

To ever accomplish such a deprivation?

What if I told you

The love you have given

And the love you have been given

Will last longer

Than all the generations of this earth

Because the Book of Time

Never rubs out

What she has

First inscribed?

What if I told you The Poet of Memory

Never forgets

For even if His poems were to forget

He herself

Shall not ever

Let she himself

Forget

Because the Book of Time Never rubs out

What he has First inscribed?

What if I told you The Poetess of Memory

Never forgets

For even if Her poems were to forget

She herself

Shall not ever let herself forget?

***

The doorbell rings.

Can it really be Adolph Adams at last?

Willow falls into a dreamy muse.

And so the song continues.

***

What if I told you

This love was

Neither real nor unreal

Neither authentic nor inauthentic

Neither beginningless nor beginning

Neither endless nor ending

Neither poison nor cure

Neither life nor death

This nor that Here nor there

Speaking nor silence?

Brahman does not lie

Nor does Brahman tell the truth

But please do me the courtesy

To whisper unto another

Gently, gently

And loving close

Beyond all hope of love

O beloved one

What do you know?

Chapter 4: China Soars, While Freedom Roars
‘You know, Saul,’ Adolph remarked, ‘It really is such a pity we haven’t seen anything literary from you in a while.’

Saul frowned and said nothing. He was a hundred miles away.
The room was silent.
So deathly, deathly, silent.
‘Have you ever considered writing a little more?’
Saul grimaced, with an air of semi-indifference.
‘Hm?’ Adolph hummed, with his usual sobriety and plainness that was not, however, without a certain whiff of lyrical charm, in itself.
‘Nah,’ Saul grunted.
Adolph sighed.
‘So few words, Saul. So few words. Now, what a pity.’
Adolph reached for his half-empty glass.
‘Did you enjoy that? I brought it especially for you. Be careful about your bones, Saul. I was worried when you told me you hadn’t had milk for months. You know how it is with this condition of yours.’
Saul furrowed his brow. ‘I’ll be alright, Adolph. Sure yer have more important people to be worryin’ about.’
Adolph raised his eyebrows. ‘Saul, Saul, you silly old fool,’ Adolph tutted in a disappointment only half-contrived at best. ‘Why, I don’t have anyone in the whole wide world besides myself! Well, I have friends, and colleagues, and acquaintances. But…
‘Well, Saul old friend, don’t they call me the Electric Quaker? Sometimes I think the Electric Monk would be nearer the mark. Don’t you?’
Saul looked down, embarrassed to say any more.
‘Your shower is broken, Saul.’
Saul stirred in his seat; by now he was starting to get irritated by Adolph’s nagging.
‘I am sure you can afford a decent repairs person. I can look one up for you if you wish?’
All of a sudden Saul sprang out the chair and rammed his fist down on the coffee table.
The normally unflappable Adolph Adams jerked upwards in his seat, startled by Saul’s helpless fury.
‘Excuse me, Saul. It was not my intention to nag. But I worry about you. You are an old friend, after all! I just don’t know what to do. People are saying things.’
Somewhat mollified, Saul sat down again. He puffed and panted for a few seconds; a few tens of seconds, even.
Silence came once more.
Eventually Saul drily murmured (I had almost as well have said, ‘prophetically intoned,’) ‘the dogs may bark, and the hyenas well may bray! But still the caravan proceeds.’
Adolph smiled warmly. ‘Indeed. But a great deal depends not merely on where the caravan is headed, but in what state the caravan is headed. There is a great deal of pain and trouble and fretting in this present world, dearest Saul. Is there not?
‘And would you not prefer as sturdy and as rugged a caravan as ever you may cultivate and renovate, on this wondrously prophetic night journey of yours?’
Saul hung his head. A single, solitary tear rolled down his cheek.
‘Come now, Saul,’ Adolph gentled, in this very same customarily quaint, archaic, homely tone of the Electric Quaker. The Marchtide Vitality of George Fox was upon him, and a Woolman out of season was appointed to preach good news unto the poor in spirit.
Or so, at least, it was dreamed and mused upon, in many a broken, aching heart amid The Fullness.
Or Foolness?
Well, who shall be bold enough to declare the judgment betwixt the twain?
‘You once had binders full of stories,’ Adolph reminisced.
Saul looked up, his tearful eyes appearing on the verge of a transportation most wondrous, fearful and beyond the telling of any tongue but one.
‘Here is one of them,’ Adolph sweetly murmured, his own generous, plaintive, plain-besparking eyes glimmering with affection: the purest kind of homely, spiritual love two men could ever know.
It was not for nothing that Adolph had won the Cardinal Newman Undergraduate Prize for Spiritual Significant Poetry, in the days when he and Saul knew a love sweeter than the love of women, and more generous and self-sacrificial than the love of gods and angels.
Saul smiled warmly. This pure, emancipated spiritual affection, as free of all carnal temptation and entanglement as it was bright and radiant in its spiritual wealth and splendour, renewed and kindled in his precious eyes.
Adolph read, as he used to read to his precious Saul when they shared opposite beds in that dormitory of old.
His voice was warm, generous of spirit, and full of a radiant love and purity that was dimmer and cooler than the cascading of water, yet warmer and more brilliant than one thousand stars.


THE FLIGHT OF NEW CHINA: SPACESHIP PINGDENG

Rat-a-tat-tat.
Such a sound.
Drum, drum, drum, and “guan, guan, quoth the osprey!”
Reminiscent of the grand old China our ancestors once remembered; but even they were too old to live there.
Of course, in that old society, they were not equal.


There were boundaries.
There were the five and three.
Bonds of social belonging, bonds of responsibility. Or was it the other way around?
Five and three, five and three.
We no longer know how to count backwards…
Did we ever?
We must do.
Their boundary was society.
But it was also the planet Earth.


We dreamed that if only we could escape this barren planet after the May 5 incident, it would not be difficult to explore the boundless reaches of the Kosmos, as dreamed our most exalted visionary, Kang Youwei.
He spoke of a ‘Great Sameness,’ a ‘Grand Community of Perfect Equality.’
Some said it was at the cost of liberty.
But then again: the gloomy, unconstructively pessimistic novelist, Lao She, he wrote his idle dystopia ‘The City of Cats.’ By reducing our proud nation to squabbling felines, he denied that the outer reaches of the Universe were ours to explore.


So on the one hand, we, yes we, the New Chinese, have crossed every galaxy in search of a new age.
The old ways weren’t working any longer; neither our ways, nor those of our fellow-planeteers.
We sought wisdom within a narrow sphere; but this was no use for us.
The prison-cage of the feudal clan became the prison cage of the world.
We could not rest easy, we could not ever be satisfied.
Liberalism and Communism alike were of our world. We wanted a Greater Good even than these.


After May 5, the hacking of the Global Geo-Engineering complex left us no choice but to leave this planet, before our enemies finished us off.
But why speak more?
For is there not an old Occidental proverb (if my memory does not betray me), that ‘the man who roars in space shall never get a hearing?’
Or was it our Confucius?
It is also said that Confucius was of the bones of long-dead men.
Once upon a time, it was said that ‘China needs fewer -isms, and has need only of this: our practicality.’
There once was a time that ‘liberty’ was a word fresh and new.
But we are uprooted from that word by now.
And why? Because those who treasured liberty, among us and afar from us, traded freedom for a sturdy seat on Spaceship Earth.


We used to say that Liberty is a lifeboat; the only way to avoid capsizing it, is to steady your own ship.
This was our truth…
But it became our lie.
We never dreamed the May 5 incident would destroy all life on Earth.
Why were we the ones that were spared?
Now freedom, this treasure of the human race, is committed into our hands alone.

Would to Heaven we knew what to do with it!


Adolph laid down the book, and gazed lovingly upon Saul. Saul was now lying back in his armchair, softly whistling and occasionally grunting in the most peaceable contentment ever imaginable. The story had not been a long one, but Adolph’s legendary patience, and talent for adding curious and wondrous embellishment here and there without ever once losing the thread or plunging into a sentimental and pretentious bathos of dissipation…
Well, all this had resulted in a tale rather long in the telling, but not at all long in the listening. With the innocence of a child, Adolph pressed his brother’s hand gently. In any ‘civilized country,’ this would have been considered a sign of sexual deviance. The brief spring of gay emancipation had already been partially rolled back, so that if ‘sodomites’ were no longer as free as they had been some few decades ago, no more were they the figures of systematically vicious and abusive persecution and vitriol of earlier still. They were teetering on the abyss of utter destruction on one side, and a chastened renewal and fresh liberation on the other. For after all, ‘who by fire, who by water,’ was a common remark of Saul’s. And the experience of gay people was not, in the last instance, so very dissimilar from that of Jews in the America of the day.
And this, in turn, was the experience of America.
Turn forever, or burn forever, as the hellfire ‘Party of God’ and ‘Party of Allah’ alike were given to chant.
But if theocrats Christian and theocrats Islamist had the luxury of appealing to certainty, liberals like Adolph and libertarians like Saul had not.
Their road was a lonely one, and there were no promises, and no guarantees.
It was just as well then, given the circumstances, that Adolph Adams was actually impotent.
And Saul Friedman was entirely lacking in desires.
But freedom, at least, he did desire.
And was that not, after all, a great deal more than could be said for some?

Chapter 5: Sputs Under the Bed

Alaska was cold at this time of year.

But then again, when was it not?

Senator Bubble stood up, raised his finger in the ear, and immediately commenced to rant and rave.

“We are sick and tired,” he roared, “of weak enemies trying to act tough and push us around!”

Roarsome, rough approval.

Bubble picked up a delicate Russian doll (specially crafted to be as shattersome as possible for this highly memorable act of radical political performance theatre) and hurled it to the groud.

A pin’s drop or two of awestruck silence.

All of a sudden, a roar so deafening many a television viewer jumped for shock, to hear the myriad voices. Like a thousand-cattle slaughterhouse on a San Martín festival more fit for pigs than men, the shrieks and squeals and hideous, frightful bellows threatened to turn the universe.


Saul Friedman finally found the graveyard. This dyspraxia was a real frickin’ bummer! Now where in the fuck-damn shitty little…

Saul gaped in horror.

Big Xian’s grave had been desecrated! An ugly Dharmo-Nazi Swastika had been sprayed all over the tombstone. Some rotten Dim Sums had been mocking scattered around the grave, and various soiled and shredded pictures of Fun Manchu, Charlie Chan and Ho Chi Minh (did they not even have the decency to know the difference?!) had been stapled to a crude effigy of Saul’s intellectual namesake, a Milton without ‘a Paradise to be gained,’ but certainly not without ‘a hell to be shunned.’

Saul raised his eyes to the steaming heaven and roared.


Marcus Bubble’s aide tried once more in vain to get the Senator’s attention.

The raving demagogue didn’t even satisfy him with a glance in his direction.

We all hate all these pathetic losers and cowards who dishonour our nation! Nobody has any idea what these Russian morons are trying to achieve. But I tell you what! For what it’s worth, I am NOT gonna tolerate this, this utter crap any longer! They want their trade war? Mr Stoliniev wants his trade war? Ah, Mr Kirilliev? Whatever! You want your fuckin’ trade War, Kirri boy? Well, you’re gonna get your trade war! Be careful what you fuckin’ wish for, asshole!

Pause for effect.

One minute or so.

Does ‘em good!

Alright everybody! Gives us a Da Komrad, if you think we’re gonna put with this utter hateful, unpatriotic CRAP any longer? What’s that! Hey! I CAN’T HEAR YOU! Where are all the unpatriotic Russkiebots!

Oh, what’s that? Oh, be careful you don’t end up with some bad conseq… Oh well hey! That guy is getting beaten! C’mon, stop hitting him. He’s suffered enough. The CIA will find out later what he’s been doing.

Where are all my Da, Komrads? Hey hey hey! Naaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!

Alright! So where are all my ‘Bankrupt Moscows?’

Woo-hooooooooooooooo! That’s it, baby! Do this shit now!

I am GOING TO BANKRUPT Moscow, and aaalll the Russians are GONNA COME DOWN TO US ON BENDED KNEE…

And BEG FOR FORGIVENESS!

That’s right! BEG!

Should we let ‘em off?

Gales of horrible, hideous laughter.

“Let ‘em starve!” shrieks one.

Let ‘em starve! WOOOOOOOOO!

Let’s go with that one!

Can I make ‘em starve, people?

YES I CAN! YES I CAN! YES I CAN!

Are you gonna Bankrupt Moscow, Baby?

The only reply possible, really…?

“YES WE WILL! YES WE WILL! YES WE WILL!” the morons roared.

“You have beheld the melting of the snowflakes: this is the day our economy surges, and our Republic begins to roar! You can see that I am the one you are hoping for!”

The crowd shrieked like goblins.

“YES WE DO! YES WE DO! YES WE DO!” they dinned.

An ambitious young girl clutched her heart. She saw herself enthroned upon the White House, with the riches of the Holy House of Peron around her neck, and a shining crown of blood upon her golden hair. ‘The Mansion of the Common Good,’ she breathed. ‘The Spiritual Economy will be restored. Wisdom, Wisdom, Jnana, Gnosis. The Global Village is my Father, Our Common Humanity is my Mother. And when I return to my rightful abode, it shall be said that Justice will be the father of a daughter glorious. From Peking to Paris, the flight of Justice shall finally descend upon the beauty of my head. Beware ye then, of the wounds of the innocent!’

Bubble still had not even finished. But she was lost to the world.


Honest Adolph blinked. ‘Really, Deborah?’ he said. ‘The Chinese Communist Party have decided to embrace the Socialist Humanism Reconstruction Project? Well, at this rate, they will soon overtake us, as we really do seem to be on a little bit of a backward trend.’

Willow sighed.

‘How the mighty have fallen,’ she sighed.

‘Well… I trust at least we may be found worthy to cling on,’ he murmured.

Willow looked down and furrowed her brow.

They fell into silence.

‘I feel like I’m falling,’ she whispered in her heart, ‘and I don’t know how far I have to fall. Perhaps forever.’

Adolph’s mind was drawn to Saul.

Those precious moments sat around the campfire in Yunnan province, the land of eternal spring.

So long, Marianne.

Suzanne.

And of course, greatest and most grand and majestic, as gorgeous, gleaming, glorious as the ship Uncle Len brought before our eyes in the song itself:

Democracy.

That was the one song Saul had refused to sing.

Willow, half delirious with joy, had pressed Saul to her, and in unbelieving wonder, Adolph was fit to swear she was about to melt his heart once and for all.

After a brief pause, Saul had angrily (if almost wondrous tenderly, after a fashion) swiped her hand away.

She was there now.

Willow’s flushed cheeks faded.

She gawped open mouth at Saul, as he stood quivering, quivering, shaking, struggling to contain himself before the fire.

Adolph gently intoned, ‘Saul.’

Saul kicked over his Qingdao and ran into the night, too furious to speak.

Willow was inconsolable.

From that month onward and evermore, she never had a period again.


Bubble held up a giant ballot paper, which he doused with some curious-smelling liquid and set alight.

‘Throw the Czar down the well!’ he shouted, as the crowd collapsed in laughter.

In not-so-perfect union, Deadbeat Lynton and the Saville Twins struck up a rousing rendition of ‘This ballot papers sets bears on fire!’

The glimmer of the fire was mirrored in the eyes of little Deirdre.

One day, she swore, she would be the liberator of Our Common Humanity, and the final, fatal bane of those who so deeply callously, cruelly, indifferently, robbed the All of her rightful praise and property.

Chapter 6: Motherhood is Mighty

Final day in Alaska. Yesterday’s speech was a stormer. And now this one will be the BEST SPEECH EVER!

Bubble threw the mike to his personal assistant.

‘OK, so wadawesay, boy? What are we gonna do to Russia?’

The aide, overcome with shame for his hideous error, quaked and trembled, wishing the ground would swallow him up.

If looks could kill! Bubble stepped towards the aide, as though (however implausibly this might appear to any but the most narrowminded and bigoted of cynics) he were going to grab the lad by the throat and choke him to death).

‘I meant Ukraine, not Russia!’ the boy screamed in terror. ‘The briefing for tomorrow…’

Bubble momentarily paused in stupefaction. About to swing for the lad’s jaw, he suddenly noticed that everyone around him was laughing and cheering.

He raised his arm aloft, grimly smiling.

‘That’s what it’s all about!’ he roared, in an unprecedently hideous, perfidious exaltation.

‘ASSHOLES DEAL IN FACTS! BUBBLE DEALS THE TRUTH! LOSERS HAVE DISCUSSIONS! MARK TAKES BACK THE LOOT!’ the gibbering menageries of pestiferous imbeciles chanted, carried away in a truly demonic ecstacy of inauthentic rapture.

***

Little Deirdre pulled herself out of the frozen river and sobbed. Even drowning herself was of no use. Her limbs quivered, but even the unbearable Arctic chill could not bring her to her final end. 16 years of torment and misery. How many long, cold, cruel decades lay ahead of her?

The mocking words of Ruby Chandra De Montevideo echoed in her ears.

‘We have no use for the eagerness and idealism of youth. When your ideas have matured a little, and you are ready to deal in practical politics, by all means consider coming to us again. We admire your perfectly understandable fury of youth; let’s just be a little more smart and level-headed about it, and you never know! You might make a highly creditable public mayor at some point in the not-so-distant future.’

All of the sudden a dull, grey-suited figure stumbled out of the bushes.

Deirdre screamed, for she thought that it was Lynton Goering.

It was not.

It was Dickie Klindel, with a camera.

‘Why are you filming me?’ she quivered.

Dickie Klindel gaped at her, dull and lifeless as a frozen trout at the bottom of his horrid river.

But this was now a moment of decision.

He had to find a way to silence her.

He did not know that this fateful day was sowing the seeds of those future hideous, unbearable decades of terror, as the lily-white thunder-crest and sea-storm-motto of Neo-Social Democracy was one day to adorn the White House…

The Mansion of the Common Good.

From this moment on, Deirde was no longer Deirdre.

But what that really meant, there was only one soul on earth who could tell the tale.

***

And even she could not ever tell it.

Not once.

Not ever.

Chapter 7: Thicker than My Father’s Arms

Willow.

Willow-willow.

Oh hey Willow, Will-Willow

Ah me Daffy-Down-Dillies!

 

Where I am.

Where I am.

Sing, Temple Sing!

Trink, Gunther Trink!

 O, and I am not alone.

 

Rhiiiiiiiinegold, faaaaaalllll upooooooon the shore!

IIIIIIIII am youuuuuuuuuurs foreeeeeeevermore!

Froooooolic, freeeeeely in the mire, and never mind the meeeeeeeedia wire

That cheeeeeeeat the woooooooooorld of yooooooooour desire!

 

Friedman, Friedman, Wealth of the Wildly

Make of me Bridely

To the dwarf-like eniiiiiiiiiiiiiigma!

 

Ach! Fraulein be free,

Like char siu and tea,

Be another soft pearl buried,

Deep, deep down in the oooooooocean!

 

***

 

DURRRRRRRRRRRRM! DURM DURRRRRRRRRRRRM!

Make way for the crazy Tooooooooooooooot! DURM DURRRRRRRM

 

Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, Schwester Mona

I am dyyyyyyyyying, now drown me now….

 

Ooooooo Sauuuuuuuuuuuuuul, Love!

Ooooooo Frieeeeeeeedmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan! And so it paaaaaaaaaaases…….

 

Fried-man! Fried-man! Friiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeed…

Fried-man! Fried-man! Friieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed

 

O Saul, man!

O unshackled soul….

O my dooooooooownfallllllllllllllll

 

***

 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

 

Oh Willow, the trolls of cloud, they are uppling me back to shore!

Oh brother, brother, the sword, it shall yet be resheathed!

Upsingses! Uppspingers! Halt! Ach haltend Hagen!

Oh treacherous, oh treacherous!

The Ring! It is mine! O Empire of age-like beauty!

O queen-like Reich! Reich! Reich…

 

GET BACK OF THE RING! 

GET BACK! GET BACK!

GET BACK! GET BACK!

GET BACK! GET BACK!

GET BACK! GET BACK!

GET BACK! GET BACK!

GET BACK! GET BACK!

***

Adolph Adams awoke in a cold sweat.

He shook himself, tried to forget the dream.

The maidens tried to call him back.

But he was caught in some unpleasant phantasy.

Fair or foul, he must tarry until the break of day.

Chapter 8: Give me Liberty, or Give Me Slumber

Sally Thatcher sat thumbing through the book she had strangely chanced upon.

She had never darkened the door of a library in her life.

But something about the vaguely-intellectual old whiskey-guzzler had stuck inside her.

A book of quotes from Saul and other friends of his; an odd choice.

Not very marketable.

Sally wondered if she was the first person who had ever so much as given the book a second glance.

Sally slowly thumbed her way across the lines.

Her cautious Southern drawl painstakingly traced out the lineaments of Saul’s robust and ebullient meditations.

***

Those who fight for freedom on the outside while remaining slaves on the inside, are condemned to be slaves forever.

Little amuses the innocent, and even less the not-so-innocent.

My interests, not the national interest! My good, not the good of Humanity! And what you wish for yourself, you wish for others too!

People need to stop serving “Humanity” and start working to help individual human beings instead.

I would never sacrifice so much as a single armpit-hair for Humanity. But I would shed my blood 1000 times over for individual liberty.

I want doesn’t get. My rights doesn’t get. And my choice is certainly to no avail.

‘Choice’ is actually not a liberal notion at all. It is part of the postmodernist revaluation of all values. Individual liberty considers all stakeholders; choice erects one agent of liberty above all.

Individualism is not egotism. There is no greater egotist on the earth than the collectivist.

It is well said that the Devil’s greatest trick was convincing you he never existed. But his second best trick was telling you he was God Almighty himself. And if there is a third one, it is perhaps distracting you with such false ideals and high-minded principles, that you cannot devote a single second of earnestly dispassionate meditation to just how far you have fallen.

I want to see you and your fellow liberals talking less about tolerance, and more about liberty. Freedom cannot be tolerant of unfreedom!

Choice centers the individual making the decision, while decentring and de-emphasizing the objective value of the decision.

To all you humanitarian interventionist traitors I ask:
When I am standing for peace & non-violence & ahimsa…
What are you doing?!

Choosing between nationalism and globalism is like choosing between being drowned or strangled. You know you’re better than that…
And for my part, I know I’m better than that too.

***

Jim waddled over and tugged her sleeve.

She looked into his tear-strewn eyes.

This time there was no flippant smirk or caustic remark.

This time, Jim didn’t need to mention the horrible nightmare he’d just had.

Jim buried his head in Sally’s breast.

They sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

Just this once, it was together.

The shadows fell, regardless.

Chapter 9: As a Child, Thou Shalt Speak Wisdom unto the Mighty

he imam frowned as Jim gazed up at him innocently.

“We are busy now. We are praying.”

Jim stammered.

“Sir. Sir. Mr. Mr. Imam.”

The man’s face warmed a little, as he realized that gentle Jim meant no harm to them.

The climate for most religious minorities was a little too hot for comfort.

But the mosque gradually relaxed, as one. Only a couple of grimly frowning faces remained unconvinced.

“I had a dream.”

The imam stroked his beard gently.

“Dreams are very powerful things.”

Jim bowed his head. “I… I thought Mr. Mr. Feinstein. The dream.”

The imam sighed and gazed to the heavens.

“Perhaps this man you mention has gone to another place?”

“Dead. Dead.” Jim whimpered.

The imam gazed at Jim compassionately.

He reached into his pocket and took out a stone from Qarbala.

He loving placed it on Jim’s forehead. Jim stood silently; as he relaxed, the quivering stopped.

“This is a precious stone. From a holy land.”

Jim raised his hand, and pointed to the skies.

“Holy. Holy land. Like. Like. Skies. Like everywhere.”

The congregation were moved to tears.

***

Deborah sat and gazed at the curious photograph Saul had published with his poem. She placed her hand reverently on her breast, and tearfully interceded for this frail and fragile testament to the indomitability and eternal courage of the human spirit.

She solemnly, but tenderly, intoned the words.

***

The only true God is
The Lesser Good.
The only true God is
Whatever is not reducible
To these external
And to those heteronomous
Abstraction-mongerings

The nation
The race
The ethnicity
The culture
The planet
The species
The ecosphere
The universe

People are what count

If The Lesser Good
Means anything at all
It means precisely this.
‘The Divine’ is not found
Except in and with and among people
Which also means
Being amid one’s own self.
No God is more precious than the individual
No God is more precious than people
Not ‘The People’
Dare I state the blindingly obvious
But ‘people’
And I offer
Nothing in the service of The Greater Good
Nothing for the benefit of The Greater Good
But everything in the name of The Lesser Good
For no other name is given under heaven
Than the name of the individual
The name of the person
The holy fire of The Lesser Good
Let it burn me
And let me burn forever in the ecstasy of this whirling
My head is drunk
My soul intoxicated
My spirit reels with the giddy joy
Of an endless spiraling daybreak-wonder
I am the Lesser Good
I am the Lesser Good
Anyone is the Lesser Good
Anyone Good
Anyone is Good
We are Good
Good
Good

***

Otis Spengler waited until the last person had left the Church.

He could no longer stride, or swagger.

His old grace was gone.

The coughing racked his body.

Was it really AIDs then, by now?

Even it wasn’t, did he really have any time left anyway?

Otis staggered along the aisle, halting at almost every step.

The bastards wouldn’t get him this time.

On the threshold of the altar, he stumbled and fell.

He tried his best to kneel, his body racked with agony.

He moved his lips.

But the words wouldn’t come out.

And yet somehow, his prayer was heard.

One way or another.

***

If I were hanged on the highest hill

Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

I know whose love would follow me still

Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea

Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

I know whose tears would come down to me

Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul

I know whose prayers would make me whole,

Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

***

With the final words of Kipling’s poem, Otis breathed his final few agonizing, rackety breaths.

It was as though there was a morning.

Some were deep, far above.

Not above.

Not above, my love, oh not above

There ain’t no Heavenly City up above

Ain’t nothing round ’em stars, ain’t no angels up on Mars

Ain’t no Heaven but God’s people, and our love…

If there had been a single tear left to shed, he would have shed it.

After all these unbearable, agonizing eternities.

She still remembered him…

Chapter 10: Rivers and Temples

“A remote temple in the Pennsylvania mountains,” sighed Adolph.

“A somewhat unusual place to talk shop? At least, so I would have thought, if you would excuse my plainness of speech.”

For the first time in months Deborah Mona Willow’s voice ran out like a silver bell.

“Our friend is well heard!”

As they splashed around in the river, their dialogue ran playfully as the water; and almost half as coolly.

There was no Cassie-Jane Helman here; any more than there was an Otis Spengler.

The big bossman of the Bubble Body Count had done for Sandy and Jane; and in some more or less meaningful sense, the star-crossed lovers Otis and Cassi-Jane also. Let us hope they are all at peace now.

In any case, that is none of our business.

For does not any man know his own business best, rather than that of another?!

***

PLATO

If you look up quotations sites, you can commonly find the following words attributed to the late Charles Kennedy:

Three simple words — freedom, justice and honesty. These sum up what the Liberal Democrats stand for.

Ultimately, the Liberal Democrats need to be a disruptive radical force and a protest party; but I just don’t see that now.

DIOGENES

 … Go on!

PLATO

At the moment, UK liberalism is largely a disciplinary mechanism; it is orientated towards decency, respect, civility, conformity, and a mind-numbingly trite and worthy elite consensus.

DIOGENES

Oh, you poor thing! Don’t you realize there is nothing you can do? Just roll your tub, with me, and let the world burn. It’s the only thing for a man of noble soul!

PLATO

Well, as to that, I should be ashamed.

And yet.

And yet, and yet, and yet…

I don’t have the power to change this singlehandedly. I need people who will brave hellfire and brimstone, and be prepared to march all the way to the black gate of Mordor.

There needs to be a Freedom caucus in the Liberal Democrats; and radical individualists can’t stand alone. Because only an individualist truly knows the value of other people. If you think that’s contradictory, then you are also part of the problem.

DIOGENES

Oh, well, here it comes!

PLATO

No more wars.

No more anti-secularism.

No more sanctimonious cant.

Its time to quit ceding ground to the postmodernist revaluation of all values, should it take us our very last drop of blood and spirits to do so.

DIOGENES

All very fine and noble, young man! But aren’t you really running against the tide a little?

PLATO

Liberalism, properly understood, is about the value of the better argument; right now, however, the liberalism of today is fundamentally about coercion and violence.

The violence of language policing.

DIOGENES

Well, I daresay I can’t remember Voltaire or Stephane Charbonnier having a safe space; and I don’t think liberals in Iran or Myanmar have the luxury metropolitan luxury of sanctimoniously moralizing about microaggressions.

PLATO

The violence of the Anti-Islamophobia Industry and the religious double standard.

DIOGENES

Ever hear of a guy called Tim Farron?

PLATO

The violence of Humanitarian Genocide.

DIOGENES

Hear, hear! What is a ‘crime against Humanity,’ in comparison with a ‘crime for Humanity?’

PLATO

Now, the question is not, “what will happen if there is a fundamental change of direction?”

The question is more, “How much longer can the Liberal Democrats survive, if we don’t change completely?”

I give our party about 5 or 10 years to shift course, or else we perish to the uttermost; and rightly so, if we aren’t prepared to introduce fundamental reforms.

DIOGENES

Why bother. Come into this tub and roll along with me, young man; or I shall spank your arse, until you scream like a stuck pig!

PLATO

What are we lacking now, both in terms of a large percentage of our members, and our officially stated positions?

A serious and ruthlessly dispassionate weighing-up of the Dunblane Consensus (popular disarmament, a dogmatic resistance to defence equality in every respect).

A steadfast repudiation of all forms of Humanitarian Aggression, without exception; a ruthlessly principled, unqualified rejection of the hideous, Hollow Man’s monstrosity referred to at Nuremberg as the ‘Supreme Crime.’

An uncritical, unskeptical, evidence-free approach to the merits and demerits of global and continental institutions; such as the International Caucasian Court, NATO, and the European Court of Justice.

Pandering to regressive religious beliefs and practices; here, the problem is not only conservative Islam and political Islamism, but also reactionary and backward faith schools in a broad sense.

A weird and disconcerting mix of a flaccid and cowardly cultural relativism at home, and a highly belligerent cultural universalism abroad.

A highly cynical and brutally aggressive Realpolitik in international affairs, disingenuously masked by high-minded sub-Victorian humanitarian platitudes.

A reaction to pander to the commendably creative and imaginative ‘Reality Fan Fiction’ of the UK, US and global establishments.

DIOGENES

Ah, well, well, well. The Gods love a trier, as they say!

PLATO

Ultimately, there are many people in the Liberal Democrats who remember what liberalism is about.

However, there are far too many who are not Charlie, but who are perfectly happy to be friends or detached Olympian well-wishers of Salafism, Ultra-Haredism, or myriad Tibetan theocratic puff-peddlers like His Holy-Hollywoodness the Dalai Lama.

DIOGENES

Oh well fancy that! Too many elitist idiots. Well now, can you but imagine! Give my back a little rub now; now there’s a good chap!

PLATO

There are far too many among you who are devoted to the national interest, and not your interests.

There are far too many among us who serve the Good of Humanity, and not my good.

There are far too many who wax poetic and sentimental about inclusion and other politically correct shibboleths and nostrums, all the while jealously guarding the racial and class privileges of the Lib Dems as a party of self-serving, greedy old white guy warmongers.

There are far too many who have fully assimilated themselves into the Satanic death-cult of State-Worship, which is utterly inimical to the heretical and disruptive Promethean spirit of liberty.

There are far too many cultural sex tourists who voyeuristically ‘celebrate diversity,’ without having a care to which forms of differences are legitimate and acceptable for a sceptical, evidence-based liberal, rather than a straight white middle class metropolitan postmodernist intellectual.

DIOGENES

Hm.

Well, I daresay it’s not enough to say the status quo is intolerable, as a matter of judgement

It is actually utterly unsustainable, as a very real and inescapable matter of fact.

These are the days of Noah for Occidental liberalism…

And those who don’t labour on the ship of liberty are about to get carried away by the torrential deluge of popular rage and bitterness.

If you are bewildered by our low polling, then you are part of the problem.

There is no shortage of reasons why we have been getting such a shocking rate of attention.

To finish off, I will finally sum up, and give it to you clean and sweet:

Nobody wants to vote for a liberal party, in the UK of today.

Especially when nobody really knows what liberal politicians really stand for.

When we sold our souls for 30 pieces of silver, the Tories and the Red Top press have made an absolutely storming capital on our pitiful, mediocre investment.

This is a matter of existential urgency.

PLATO

Whose side are you on?

The Greater Good, or the Greatness of the Individual Good?

If it’s anything but the latter of these two irreconcilable paths that you have chosen to pursue, then prepare for the ultimate destruction and dissolution of our party in the next few months or years.

DIOGENES

I am writing these words at 09.56 am, 12 July 2017.

PLATO

Oh, you wag!

DIOGENES

No, I am writing them!

PLATO

I believe some of you will remember them in time to come.

DIOGENES

Wouldn’t bet on it, my lad!

PLATO

God grant it will be in the springtime of renewal, and not the bitterest, most everlasting winter of starvation and remorse

DIOGENES

Stuff and nonsense!

PLATO

I owe nothing to Humanity, and the national interest means absolutely nothing to me.

DIOGENES

I offer this freely and openheartedly to you all…

PLATO

In the Name of the Lesser Good.

***

And yet the darkness drew on…

And on, and on.

Adams and Willow left the water; Adams naked as his ancient namesake, and Willow as ruddy and gleaming as her ancient mother.

Adams gazed glumly upon the gloriously rich brownness of Willow’s ample curves. So much for white-passing! Willow’s broad, fertile hips shook as she cast off the sweet, sweet water of the holy pool.

Willow smirked coyly, as she noticed that Adams had not the slightest trace of lust in his eyes.

Closing her eyes, she imagined what it would be like for a much younger Adams to be thrusting greedily between the moistness of her thighs; she pictured her hymen finally breaking, and the torrential gusts of moisture and of warm, ecstatic stickiness flooding into her womb, and finally making her whole, and one…

Chapter 11: Is it Good for the Jews?

Saul Friedman sat and stared at the grave.

“Lucy, Lucy, Luce-Luce-Luce,” he snorted, as he burst into tears.

There was no frickin’ justice in this world; that’s one thing for sure, ah hah hah…

But these assholes! These frickin’ assholes!

“Fuck you!” Saul shrieked at the top of his voice, shaking his fist at the heavens.

In a flash, the entire neighborhood set to caterwauling and barking.

Almost lifeless with despair, Saul choked and spluttered his way to the entrance of the graveyard.

All of the sudden, he was halted by a figure; lurking in the shadows, behind the trees.

“Evenin’, Jew!” the little schmuck spat with triumph.

Saul’s fury turned to a cold, silent terror, as he gazed nervously up and down at the figure in front of him.

“I know there’s a lot of you fuckin’ Zios about,” the bastard sneered.

“I’ve been trying to think if there’s a solution to that.”

Saul’s nose twitched a little at the heartless joke.

“Twitch away, you filthy kike,” the bastard cackled.

Without the slightest warning, he threw a feeble punch at Saul.

It was enough to fell the frail old man, and send his glasses flying into the mud.

Within two minutes, Saul was trussed up to the point of being immovable.

Saul gazed dimly through tear-stained eyes at the bottle his tormentor was carrying.

With unbearably cruel exquisiteness of torture, a flood of oil that could have been thrown on in one second was destined to take several minutes.

Saul’s lip quivered as he tried to speak.

The murderer of Big Xian mocked every single stammer.

The work was done.

Saul knew what it was all about.

As the lad stood above him with the lighter, Saul managed to weakly groan:

“Can’t we…

“Can’t we… talk about… this?”

The demonic laughter, this time, was so shrill and Saul was set into an unrestrainable convulsion of horror. The ropes tore shreds out of his rugged skin as he screamed to be put of his misery; no longer able to contain himself.

At length, Saul quit screaming and crying and stared, exhausted, no fight left, at the cigarette lighter.

There was to be no mercy.

Saul closed his eyes as his tormentor knelt down, and gracefully, lovingly, swept the lighter down against his oil-stained beard.

All of a sudden, a hideous scream issued from the darkness.

Saul had no idea what the hell was going on.

The bastard was lying on the ground, lifeless, beside Saul’s neck. Bleeding from a hideous blow from a baseball bat.

“You are sooooooooo fuckin’ cruel,  Cain Ingershill, that’s what you are! Nah! Nah! Nah! Nah! Nah! Nah! Leave them damn poor lil Jew boys alone!” blubbered Little Jip, as he ran away, not yet realizing the full significance of what he had done.

Chapter 12: If You Love Me, Stay Woke

“No,” muttered Pastor Trilby. “Nothing else…. They searched the house so thoroughly.”

K’Simah frowned and took the letter.

“All those years; and all I get is this lousy piece of paper. Disgusting. Otis, you… you… you…”

Snatching the paper out of the pastor’s hands with disgust, he stormed off.

“Well hoo-hey chicken,” Marcus sleazed from the door of the Amber Hornet. “Another angry black guy, huh?!”

Pretending not to hear him, K’Simah tore the letter, only half-succeeding. It fluttered in the breeze, eventually flapping into the face of a started Saul Friedman.

***

Les pierres que je t’avais jetée,

Dans mon coeur sont méchants fixé.

Pas mal, ma chérie!

“The stones you threw at me, are evilly ge-fix-et in my heart!”

But what of the gender? One might suppose someone with such purity of artistic aspiration might be a little more attentive to the grammar. Fixé, fixée, a great deal hinges upon the subtle nuances; n’est-ce pas? Is it not so, ma belle Cassie?

Ma fenêtre dehors

Les fleurs gardait toujours ses tristes odeurs

“Outside my window, the flowers ever retain their mournful smell.”

Most evocative, dear girl.

Et pendant cent-mille mois entiéres,

Tous les mois, et douces et tant amères,

Excellent use of the double ‘and.’ Exquisite!

Et pendant cent-mille mois entiéres,

Tous les mois, et douces et tant amères,

“And for a thousand months, no less,

All the months, so sweet and yet so bitter.”

La passion m’énivrais

Tel joie si enfin je te revoyerais!

“With passion I was drunken

Such joy if I were yet to see you!”

It’s sly!

Mais finalement je prenais à te maudire,

Ce voyou detestable, il t’as dis:

“But at length I began to curse you

This violent thug, I said to you.”

Toxic femininity… A most bourgeois malady, madame!

Pourquoi je dois toujours salir

T’es pas content ici?

“Why must I ever back-and forth?”

But nay!

“Why must I ever go out

Are you not happy here?”

T’as pleuré, ah! Ce cru blasphème,

Et je n’ai pas reconnu quant même,

“You cried, ah! This most crass of blasphemies, and I did not know you, all the same.”

Again, the technicalities of language. Not quite up to par…

T’as connais l’angoisse de ta désir,

Enfin je t’ai lassé san espoir

“You have known the anguish of desire

In the end, I left you without hope”

Syntax and proper niceties aside, a deft parallelism, it shall be known to cover a multitude of sins! Or pêchés, if you will…

Pas de retour, ô Jonathan!

Helas! Pas de retour?

“No return, O Jonathan!

Alas! No return?”

L’audacieux est resolu disparaître?

Deux ans et moitie, tous ces mois

“The audacious one, he is resolved then, to disappear?

Two years and a half all these months…”

Ah, que c’est triste! But is it not sad then, after all!

J’ai t’emparer de toi tout ton être,

Ô belle madame!

“I have seized from you all your being…”

Why the infinitive form?

“O beautiful, O beautiful!”

Mais t’as donne un beau univers à moi,

À moi, quel infâme abîme!

“But you have given a beautiful universe to me,

To me… Notorious and brutish, the abyss!”

How very trite.

And yet, more or less charming.

After a fashion…

The grammar and spelling, and other such ‘technicalities’ of form, however, are utterly damnable!

***

Ruby Chandra de Montevideo turned and raised her glass to Senator Bubble.

“For the National Interest, and for Him alone,” she gasped, breathless with anticipation, and brimming over with whatever boundless tremors joy and blissfulness she was more or less capable of mustering.

“To the Unity of Our Common Humanity,” Bubble grunted, as his hand slithered ever further up her skirt.

Dickie Klindel gazed cold and dully at the unfolding tryst.

Not a single drop of sweat or semen disturbed the empty gloominess of his silence.

Ruby shrieked with ecstacy, as Bubble’s warm, chubby Tennessee trouble-truncheon exploded between Ruby’s pale white pay-me-back-pineapples.

Bubble withdrew, rampant streams of diarrhea leaking from his ass.

Ruby’s eyes glazed over in horror, and presently threw herself into compulsive vomiting. The two sexually diverse guardians of a purity unlimited and without stain eventually collapsed on the floor, practically comatose with the disgust and ennui of a pro-choice political class pushed to the very limits of depravity and morally bankrupt, irredeemably degenerate civilization depravity.

Still Dickie Klindel sat, motionless and gloomy.

Chapter 13: Big Trouble With Little Pimps

At 6 am, the cleaner finally came round. She gazed helplessly at Dickie. She knew who held all the power here.

“Why you didn’t tell me. You could have call me,” she wept. “Why you didn’t call? Why you didn’t? We have more people coming, and… and… and…”

There was not the slightest twitch from Dickie.

“If they… If they will be going to fire me…”

She burst into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing.

Worse was to come.

In came the second-rate former police chief (by the fairly low standards of the day), now a twenty-second rate ‘order monitor’ for the Amber Hornet Gentleman’s Club.

“The fuck goin’… goin’ on here? Tell me… oh for fucksakes, girl… The fuck did you let them… Didn’t I tell them they could call you if they… The fuck-fuck-fuckety-fuck was your phone, bitch? Ohhh, for Chrissakes, lady! You for fuckin’ real?!”

Su Chun’s lip quivered.

“Sir… sir… Last night, I am by my phone all night…”

The blow to her cheek barely hurt, so terrified and afraid was she by now.

“Bitch! Shut the fuck up! When the bossman is talkin’ to ya, ya wanna shut this fuckin’ noodletrap, a’right? The fuck good is it havin’ your phone next to you, when you’re not fuckin’ wakie-wakies? I swear, I swear, you fuckin’ Chinky bitches…’

Su Chun weakly grabbed his sleeve, weeping in terror.

“Xiao Zhou, he was crying all night, he… he is, he is ill, I need the money for… for, for, for the…”

The mediocre asshole screamed at the top of his voice. Palmer Miller wasn’t having it.

“Guess… how…. many zero fucks I give? … Fuckin’ zero!”

Could things get any worse?

Yes…

It was him.

With a face that just went paler than Dickie Klindel’s.

As you could tell from his face, as he strode over and grabbed Dickie by the lapels, slamming him up against the wall.

“You… you fuckin’ gook…”

Dickie hissed in displeasure.

“Shhhherpently shirrrr… Sheeeerpently shirrrr, but Dickie duzh believe it izh Kazzzzhak, not…”

The boss could not believe what he was saying.

“Kazakh? What the fuck is that? Is that a new way of saying Khazar? Cos I know what you folks…”

Ugly strode over, and tried to remedy the situation.

“Nah, boss, listen! That boy ain’t no Jew guy! Deffo one of us, boss! He does have a Kazakh grandfather, but past two gen…”

The boss threw him a warning glance.

“Dickie is mosssssshhht shorry, shirrrrrr,” Klindel peevishly spat, “But zhe bosh and hish friend were determined to do azzzzh zhey may. It izh not Dickiez fault. Do not, if you pleazhe, be so inconshiderate azh to… Well, Dickie izh doing the vezzhy, vezzhy besht he poshibly can!”

The boss strode over.

“Sho zhere!” Dickie spat out as one final petulant parting shot.

Nobody gave a fuck.

The bossman’s voice remained menacing, but he could still whoomph ‘er down to a slower simmer.

“How much does an apartment cost in Chinatown for a year?”

If it was possible for Su Chun’s heart to sink any further, then this was surely it.

Asshole got the hint and strode out, with Dickie slinking out behind him, having already fallen back into his customary reptilian state.

Su Chun trembled at the coldness of his gaze.

“OK. There is one way, and only one way alone, you can keep your apartment, and your job.”

Su Chun spread her hands, imploring him for mercy.

“I don’t do sentiment, bitch!” He hissed. “Now get down your fuckin’ Chiney ass and whistle me some Benny fuckin’ goodtimes!”

Su Chun took a step back.

“Your choice. We can always get Benny Pilder to make it just that, shall we say, a little xiao-xiaaaaaaaoooooooobit less satisfying for you. Hao ma, tongzhi?!” He roared, exploding in laughter at his not-so-witty joke.

Su Chun turned away. She took a step.

And another.

And another.

She could go no more.

Just then, a broad and tall figure emerged from the shadows; and leering, stalked towards her.

It wasn’t Benny Pilder.

She had no idea who this new tormentor was.

But perhaps if Marta had been here, she would have known well enough…

 

Chapter 14: Metaphysical Genocide

Honest Adolph finally set the phone down.

Troubled and tormented, The Electric Quaker gazed at his half-ironic John Woolman volume.

Such a pioneer!

***

“Ehhhhhh! And then, and then, the bitch, she twists on my like this, and hey, fugeddaboutit!”

Palmer Miller reeled and swayed in drunken ecstacy, as his gambling partners guffawed and eyed him cautiously.

Plying the idiot with drink seemed to be a good plan.

***

Deborah Mona Willow, half-dazed, stepped into the rain.

HIV-negative.

Yes.

Everything else?

Up to now, negative.

No prospect of any change.

Pregnancy?

Look at that egg count…

She was cursed, like Hannah.

***

Riddle sniggered gently as he read late antiquity’s ‘Sauline’ transcript to Ruby Chandra De Montevideo.

INCANTATION OF LIBERTY III

My entire life project can be summed up into noble and life-affirming

Death-negating breaths of life

Of glory,

And of everlasting and awesomely inexorable virtue:
METAPHYSICAL GENOCIDE.
Join with me!
Do not ever once dare to dream that you may stand aloof!
For there is no middle ground, and no third option.
Death to Humanity!
Death to Society!
Death to the National Interest!
And what you wish for every craven, sickly, be-trembling spook of hunger and of famine;
Decree for thine OWN self the opposite!
Be free!
Be free!

BEFRIEND YOUR EVIL.

Friday’s Ruby wiped away a single, solitary tear of laughter.

That was to be all.

***

“Yeah, he was taking down every word,” Saul muttered.

“So what’s it to you?”

Sally looked down and sighed.

Saul shuffled into the darkness.

Jim gazed at him sadly, wishing they could play ball just one more time, before midnight came.

Chapter 15: Townhall Empire?

Adolph Adams finally stood up.

His candidature was finally to begin, at this small ‘fringe’ event.

His bald head shimmered a little under the uneasy light.

Instead of shifting nervously on his feet like Deborah, or anxiously scratching his head like Saul, Adolph stood his ground; gazing compassionately on the crowd before him, who were all sheep without the merest hope of a shepherd.

The speech began.

<em>There was a time when many of us were to ask what was left of the left.</em>

<em>But then again…</em>

<em>Who now reads Cohen?</em>

<em>Or better still…</em>

<em>Who now reads Popper, or Berlin; greater by far? To say nothing of Constant, Mill, Jefferson?</em>

<em>It already appears a little anachronistic to ask.</em>

<em>Is the liberal left on its last legs? </em>

<em>Or is it merely out for the count?</em>

<em>Now, although it is easy to sneer at Stalinist or Maoist critiques of our ‘ideology,’ there is a very strong kernel of truth behind these condemnations, however mystified they may be.</em>

<em>Historically speaking, liberals have been unable to decide whether we are for Humanity or for People; for Humanitarianisn of for Humanism; for Collectivism or for Individualism.</em>

<em>Our inability to decide between two radically irreconcilable vision of human life and of human wellbeing is our responsibility, and our guilt.</em>

<em>It is all too easy to mock and sneer at those who are heavily critical of liberalism.</em>

<em>If liberals chose to consistently fall on the one side and not on the other, then there would be a great deal more to say for us, and for our philosophy, and our agendas.</em>

<em>But as things stand, Nietzscholiberalism is as far away as ever.</em>

Sadly, the fire alarm put paid to Adolph’s first attempts at a speech.

The disgruntled crowd milled out.

Although this was far from a stampede.

“We can work with these people,” Deborah pleaded, earnest-eyed; tugging Adolph’s sleeve, as he casually sauntered out.

Adolph smiled, faintly.

“They are the best in the world.”

Seamus Riddle glared resentfully, as he ‘casually walked past’ the town hall; the tightness of Deborah’s long, black dress and the ampleness of her bosom filled his loins with an unbearable torrent of rageful passion.

He imagined yoking her neck to a plow and ruthlessly doggying her in front of her screaming children and tearful parents (she didn’t have any, but what did that matter to the likes of him?)

He imagined many vile and evil things that it is not possible to mention here.

However, his imaginations were very different from those of Deborah and Adolph.

He suspected Adolph of ignoble intentions to the slimly curvaceous, brown-eyed beauty.

And like the proverbial frog at the bottom of a well, he could only imagine the hearts of others being similarly dark and benighted to his own.

Chapter 16: Mexican Roulette?

Palmer Miller leered at Jesse Chavez.

“Ya see this fuckin’ hand, Chico?” he smirked.

Jesse scowled and batted it away.

“You poor little gringo boys are all mouth and no cojones!” he spat.

“If the yogurt boys want to get it on, tell ‘em to pin their fuckin’ white boy jeans and come round to my casa! Entiendes?”

Three quarters of the table erupted in laughter.

“Yogurt boy? You out of your flamin’ mind, son?!” Palmer Miller groaned. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to draw on his opponent.

“Listen here, mi petit Cucaracha,” he began…

This time, it was the entire table that laughed. Even Mr Yogurt couldn’t help but mock Palmer’s pidgin Spanish; all five of ‘em were rolling about helpless.

“Eh! What’s so fuckin’ funny, boys? C’mon, give me some back up against…”

All of the sudden, the waitresses shrieked, as an empty bottle of Karadzov Bler cascaded into smithereens.

A stunned silence.

All of a sudden, Jesse got up and pointed to the wall.

“See this? This fuckin’ mess? You wanna start somethin’, bitch?” he hissed at the pudgy figure that was staggering towards him.

“Where is Palmer Miller!” the gunman roared, half-inarticulate from alcohol; but more than articulate enough to make his enemy crap his pants.

“Hey, hey, hey, white boy!” Jesse bellowed over, fixing his exultant eyes on Palmer. “Do you know where this Palmer Miller boy is?”

Palmer’s blood froze in his veins.

He gub-gub-gub-gubbed in terror, unable to keep his eyes off Gideon’s not-so-sawn-off shotgun.

“Yeah!” shouted Carlos Roca. “I think the hombres de vanilla here know who this guy is!”

“You fuckin’ callin’ us vanilla?! Who you fuckin’ callin’ vanilla, you frickin’ illegal assholes!” Palmer’s well-outnumbered comrades shrieked, drumming the tables and finally squaring up to Jesse, Carlos and the boys.

Gideon wildly waved the gun around; pointing it at this person and that one, and occasionally making to snipe at the dirty ceiling.

“Where is Palmer Miller!” he roared.

Jesse shouted over at Palmer again. “You seen Palmer Miller lately, son?”

Naively taking this as a well-intended diversion gesture, Palmer squeaked:

“Oh. Oh yeah, Jesse! He was at the, at the, at the, at the, at the Ace of Nines, Gudgeon street!”

Jesse roared with laughter.

“Sure he was!”

Palmer simpered, attempting to send a signal of mild gratitude to his old gambling foe.

Gideon’s beady eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“He’s not here?!”

Jesse said, “I don’t see anyone here with a Bitzi Butterfly tie-pin here, do you?”

Palmer laughed weakly.

His gambling friends, however, were laughing louder.

Palmer scowled at them.

“What’s so fuckin’…”

Then he glanced down.

His saucer eyes jerked back up to gaze at his betrayer in terror.

“It would be a pity now, wouldn’t it, if one of these social-climby vanilla folks tried playin’ the Big City interloper in our House of Fun now, wouldn’t it,” Jesse coughed, almost paralytic in his malevolent mirth.

Gideon reeled and staggered towards the gambling table.

“Woaahhh-ohhhhhh! Here comes the big one,” shouted Carlos.

Palmer Miller, too terrified to move, sat staring at the hulking body of Gideon Truman.

Despite being rather the worse for vodka (and not a few rather more exotic concoctions from the local underworld), Gideon managed to make it to the table, grab Palmer Miller by the lapels, and ask him:

“What kind of pin is that, boy! What kind of fuckin’ pin is that one, boy! What kind of pin!”

Jesse strode over to observe the fun from a more advantageous angle of laughter.

“Hm. I don’t know, Carlos. Carlos. Jaime. Fernando. David. What do you think?”

Gideon’s vile breath made Palmer nauseous.

“Is it a Bitzi Butterfly tie-pin?”

“N… n… no,” Palmer finally managed to squeak out.

Gideon paused, and then let go Palmer Miller.

He took a step back.

“No Bitzi Butterfly tie-pin?”

“Ah noooooooooo, brother!” Carlos laughed; as Jaime, Fernando and David clapped in a most ironic assent to this quite possibly sarcastic intervention.

Gideon’s brow furrowed up to the point where you would have half sworn his face was going to burst.

Pausing for thought, he took a step or two backwards, as best he could in his current state of severe intoxication.

Just as he was about to swing back through the doors, Jesse played wingman for one last fateful time.

“Of course not, brother Gideon!” was the hoarse and throaty death knell for his faithful gambling ‘friend.’ “Mr Palmer Miller will never be seen dead in a cheap and glitzy tie-pin like the Bitzi Bu…”

Incandescent with rage, Gideon threw his gun on the floor and threw himself on Palmer Miller. His new foe had no chance. His untoned but mercilessly meaty fists pounded so hard and fast, Palmer couldn’t even scream for mercy.

“She was our best girl!” Gideon roared. “Cassie-Jane Helman! Cassie-Jane Helman!”

Dios mío!” Carlos cried in exultation. “It is this Gideon Truman guy! From the Steel Diamond Media? Now is this the Cassie-Jane Helman that the Senator Bubble has raped the last year?”

Jesse made an obscene gesture to Carlos in reply.

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! My God!” Carlos cackled. “So the chief of police arrests our boys for a naughty ten kilo or two, but lets the rapists go free? Now I am not surprised this Mr Truman is so angry. What kind of priorities do these white boy cops have?”

Jesse high-fived Carlos. “They are not our priorities; that is for sure!”

A panicking waitress furtively dialled 911.

She need not have bothered.

After a minute or two, Gideon Truman was lying sprawled over the corpse of Palmer Miller.

Like Palmer, he too was dead.

Like Palmer Miller, he too had died as a shallow, opportunistic and hollow ‘man of the world.’

The two men lay furiously embracing each other in death, as in life.

They could not abide each other; but nor could they escape the stranglehold that had bound their final fatal destinies together.

Once upon a time, Palmer Miller had shown some pitiful, plaintive seed of virtue; in his disgusted rant to Benny Pilder about the culture of rape enablement heavily embedded in the justice system.

And once upon a time, Gideon Truman had shown what little honor and courage he had; in hunting down Palmer Miller, out of a thoroughly self-interested, yet not entirely discreditable desire to avenge his best journalist: Cassie-Jane Helman.

Was there, in the dark and hideously shadowy hearts of these two men, some single, slender skyhook that would one day redeem their souls from the hideous torments of a blazing inferno as well deserved as it was well furnished-for?

Well, that much is not given to us to know.

This much, at least, we can say for certain:

These two talented mediocrities left this world bereft of virtue, bereft of goodness, and bereft of hope.

Let us not be over-kind to their tormented shades, as they finally make up their loathsome bed in hell.

Chapter 17: No Safe Space for Saul

Saul was incandescent with fury.

“So. So. So! This is what you fuckers are tellin’ me…”

“Oh my God, duuuuuuude! Look at Righteous Abe losin’ his shit at the boss!” snickered Benny Turpin.

“Never mind Righteous Saul! Tell me why you are keeping this boy h…”

Marta Caponata put down her lipstick. With a deft flick of her jet-black locks, she raised a seductive eyebrow archly at Saul.

Immune to her charms (for now), Saul stubbornly clenched his fist and glared at the rather more elegant chief of police.

“Hate crime is a hate crime,” she smirked.

Saul glowered at her resentfully.

“I would be dead if it wasn’t for that poor kid,” he grunted.

Marta’s fluttered her stunningly precious Italian-American eyelashes and drily remarked, “Wow. I guess the preservation of a mere individual life matters more than the good of society? So we should let hate crimes go, just because a mere individual benefits from ’em? Stay woke, bro! You really don’t know how this stuff works, do you?!”

Saul nearly spat his teeth out in amazement.

“The… the fuck?!” he practically shrieked.

Marta coyly shook her bosom and remarked, “Guess you’re still using this privileged straight white guy libertarian logic.”

Saul blubbered for a moment, almost beside himself with anger and bewilderment.

“Hey, duuuuuuude!” Benny’s inane drawl rang out yet again. “Let me take you to him, the guy is pretty freakin’ cut up. Guilty conscience, huh?”

Marta stroked her pale white cheek, eyeing Benny with all the seductive glamor she could muster.

“He should be guilty. A hate crime is a hate crime. Cain Ingershill identifies as a living Tibetan lama. The law says we can’t discriminate against the Transracial community.”

Saul could barely believe what he was hearing.

He stood and puffed, and panted, and puffed again.

Eventually mastering himself, he managed to squeak out:

“The guy… is obviously white. He is not Tibetan. He’s just fuckin’ with ya, with all this here PC Transracial horseshit. I mean, fuck! Is that even a thing?”

Benny and Marta burst out laughing. They rocked and swayed, helpless in their metropolitan mirth.

“I don’t see what’s so frickin’ funny!” Saul roared, once again beside himself with fury.

“Listen… lis… lis… listen here, you privileged white guy,” Marta laughed. “You’re out of your dep… dep… dep-dep-dep-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaa! Get outa here!”

Saul lunched for the desk and grabbed Marta by the throat.

All of a sudden, he woke up with a start.

Gasping in horror, he fell all of a tremble. He cautiously inched his way towards the alarm clock.

3.01 am.

So… that was it.

Express execution.

From all he had heard, this was precisely the time little Jephtha was to swing.

Too exhausted to cry any longer, Saul hugged the pillow.

The eyes of his soul traveled to the cell.

He saw little Jip trembling with terror and remorse.

“Ohhhh, Aunt Mary!” Little Jip was shaking all over.

“That was such a daaaamn stupid thing to do. Your little Jip is so damn stupid, that’s what I am! I only meant… I only meant to stop the poor lil Jew boy from gettin’ killed!” Jephtha cried and cried and cried. The blubbering by now was so incoherent Saul begged some Higher Power to take him away, if such there was.

“I know you told me I should take care o’ Cain Ingershill cos he does crazy stuff,” wept little Jip. “I didn’t know he was gonna try and kill that poor lil Jew guy, I swear to God, Aunt Mary, or the poor Chinky guy who offered us the nice stuff. I felt real, real bad, Aunt Mary, I swear to God, I felt real real bad to be so damn nasty to that Chinese guy. He didn’t no nothing to us, I swear, I swear. I only thought Cain Ingershill was gonna do some real stupid shit and mess around and teach that guy some damn manners, but he lied to us, I mean, he lied, he lied, I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, I mean well not really, well just a little, oh but Aunt Mary, I’m so afraid to die, I am just so damn afraid to die you just have no goddarn idea,” little Jip wept.

Tears streaming from his face, Saul stretched out his hand. But his compassionate hand was like that of a ghost.

“Am I gonna go to Hell, Aunt Mary?” little Jip wailed. “I ain’t ready to go to Hell, Aunt Mary. I want to go to be with you and all the good folks. I never intended to end up in that place. Tell me I’m gonna be OK, oh Aunt Mary, please, please, please, please, tell me I’m gonna be all OK,” Jip cried again; this time, the ensuing torrents of sobs and shrieks was so heartrendingly horrific, Saul was utterly stupefied. He could no longer beg to be taken away from this awful sight.

The next morning, when he woke up, Saul was still crying.

He couldn’t bear to get up the rest of the day.

“You’re not going to Hell, son,” he prayed and prayed.

“Over my dead fuckin’ body are you goin’ to Hell, son.”

It felt fake.

But it wasn’t.

Saul’s fear seemed greater than his love.

Chapter 18: Totes Subversive

All Cabinet meetings are unpleasant; but every one is unpleasant in its own way.

“How right this is,” mused Morton Megaraparthenon, as he graciously strode into the chamber.

“Evening luvvies,” with all the faux-casuality he could muster. “Do all let’s sit down now. We’re all serious chaps, now aren’t we then, hm?”

Harriet Rojas glared at him.

“Chaps?!”

“Ah, yes,” Morton murmured dismissively. “Not another microaggression by any chance?”

Harriet placed her hands on her hips and pouted.

“Microaggressions may be ‘micro,’ by name, but they are always, always, always ‘macro’ by nature!” she shrieked.

Slyly pausing for effect, the Prime Patriarch raised his glass of water to his lips.

“Hm. Totes!”

Harriet’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.

The Trade Secretary guffawed, rocking backwards and forwards on his chair.

“Excuse me, Prime Minister,” Harriet practically screamed. “Are you going to permit this privileged old white man to laugh at me?”

Affecting a solemn gravitas of disapproval (this was always his favorite game! His past ‘Adult Cinema’ history had served him well), Morton spurted out a couple of volleys for a typical divide and rule gesture of domination.

“Calm down, luvvie. Pray don’t get your pretty little head all of a tizz,” he lovingly murmured.

Turning to face the Trade Secretary, he said, “Now, you miserable old bugger! Pray don’t lower the tone with this idle guffawing. Is this the Cabinet of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, or an Eton schoolyard brawl?”

The Trade Secretary spat on his handkerchief and let fall the filthy rag of his shame, and of his gobbings.

“Haven’t you got a bum or two to be filling up, instead of filling up our time with your toxic spewings and salty vitriol?”

The entire room exploded in laughter; with the exception of Harriet Rojas.

“Hm, I don’t know, darling!” laughed Morton, permitting himself a sarcastic chuckle or two. “Anyone in mind? Or dare I ask?”

This cabinet really was out of control. From day one, the relentless immaturity and insolence had been matched only by their shameless cupidity and greed; and of course, most of all, their self-seeking egotistical brutality.

It was impossible to govern such herd of blithering imbeciles, Morton thought. How can one govern a country when the dozen-plus most trusted people in the land are all morally bankrupt kiddy-fiddlers, fools, and frauds?

“With the greatest of respect, Prime Minister, that is most inappropriate!” Harriet thundered. “Have you any idea how much the LGBT community are suffering when you permit such things like this to be said in your presence?”

Morton furrowed his eyebrows.

“Oh well, dear me!” he sarcastically retorted. “We are precious now, aren’t we! Well, one could be forgiven for thinking you were the only person offended by such talk. Word to the wise, darling: the dogs may bark, but the caravan moves on!”

Harriet wagged her finger in fury.

“Was that by any chance an anthropocentric comment?!”

The whole room erupted into laughter once again.

“You trig, hun? Well, dear God!” Morton snarked, with a catty swish of his jacket. “Did you all transform into an idle, ungovernable mob of Gadarene swine when my back was turned?”

The Trade Secretary’s husky, superficially genial voice managed to splatter out:

“Well, well, well, Prime Minister, rather your back was turned than mine, eh? Har har har!”

By now, the laughter was deafening.

“Har! Har! Har! Har! Har!”

Harriet ran out of the room, cursing and swearing at the top of her voice.

The laughter continued.

Morton waited for it to abide.

It didn’t.

He eventually stood up.

No difference.

“That’s quite enough!” he barked.

The laughter stopped.

A most ungraceful and ungracious comment.

The Trade Secretary grunted.

An occasional cough was heard.

“Now, listen carefully. We all know why we’re here, don’t we?”

They all yawned.

Not one person showed the slightest sign of interest.

“You are all aware that the Cairo Sacred Testament Against All Ungodly Crimes Against Nature is being widely circulated. It is rumored that countries that do not sign the petition may face formal sanctions at governmental level, as well as informal sanction at non-state levels. Just to remind everyone, the wellbeing of our citizens, including but not limited to our LGBT citizens, is not to be sacrificed at the altar of political expediency. Not even for the sake of trade.”

The Trade Secretary laughed.

Morton shifted imperceptibly on his feet.

“Can’t say I find this matter particularly amusing.”

The Trade Secretary stood up, gestured wildly, and bawled

“Let them eat windmills!”

The entire room erupted into laughter.

Morton struggled to master himself.

“It’s not a laughing matter. Sit down, young man, and let’s hear the rest of… of… of…”

The Trade Secretary swaggered and bobbed, utterly overcome with mirth. “Forty years old, ‘e is, and this young urchin wants to tell me, to tell me, the Trade, the Trade, the Trade Secretary… Har, har, har, har, har, har…”

Morton tried one last time to reason with them.

“I am aware the oil-rich nations are getting too big for their boots. But we shall manage. Shan’t complain about our medium term prospects. No pain, no gain, eh? Now, it is well established that renewable energy represents a truly excellent…”

Several cabinet ministers stood up in rebellion.

Morton gasped in horror.

They were all against him.

Worse still, one last person reluctantly rose to his feet.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer, of all things!

Morton could not believe what he was seeing.

“They’re… They’re talking about recriminalizing…”

Morton’s voice dried up completely.

The Trade Minister picked up the remote.

All of a sudden, the projector screen burst into light.

“It is a most irregular matter,” the King droned, “To take up such a matter as the Cairo Sacred Testament Against All Ungodly Crimes Against Nature, without going through Parliament first. However, given the serious energy shortages in our country, and the myriad powerful and well-funded Zionist lobbies, restive Celtic provinces, and ruthless, anarchistic, unpatriotic trade union militants and parties of self-styled labour…”

Morton sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

He only caught occasional snatches of the Monarch’s words.

Unwise deviations of the previous century…

The base and rank ingratitude of the self-styled ‘homosexual community…’

Constitutional inability to requite the inestimable generosity and benevolence of our kingdom with due respect and gratitude…

As has been stated in the Testament, the law shall be carried out with ruthless impartiality. And there shall be no retroactive limitations whatsoever on the punishment of past abominable transgressions against nature and the divinely ordained sexual order…

The Archbishop of Canterbury agrees wholeheartedly (as befits his role) that we, as steadfast and faithful People of the Book, ought not to forbid that which is good, nor ought we ever once to permit such enormities as exude the rotten stench of an unmistakable and grievous evil…

Should someone be the very Prime Minister or King himself, he should not consider himself immune from accountability for his unspeakable transgressions and iniquities against Divine Justice…

Justice shall not be bought or sold. To none shall we deny Justice. And if Sodomy be a crime against Humanity, we know that these things are worthy of death, as also are those who approve of the same. And Humanity shall not be cruelly deprived of her Justice, nor shall Society be left oppressed and afflicted, a bereft and abandoned widow, with no-one to plead her cause against those who commit High Treason against the Greater Good, and against Him Alone.

Eventually, the broadcast ended. Morton raised his head.

There was only one person left.

The Trade Secretary.

“Did you enjoy that?”

Morton said nothing.

What could he possibly have said?

“We’re going to clean up this country,” the Trade Secretary whispered.

“And we’re going to start at the very top.”

Morton fell to his knees, imploring the heavens for mercy.

The Trade Secretary spat and sauntered out.

He idly gestured to the police who were just coming up.

The first execution of the Cairo Testament was to be a prime scalp.

Morton struggled to his feet, wide-eyed with terror.

His only thought was, “Thank God there is no-one I…”

All of a sudden, he shrieked, his face going so pale, the officers thought he was going to die there and then.

A little child stood in front of him.

Only seven years old

“Why are they doing this, Daddy?” she wept.

It was little Magdalene.

“Tell her,” the officer spat.

“Tell her, mate! Tell him you are a Sodomite, a pervert, a filthy gay-arse faggot, and you are going to be beheaded tomorrow.”

Magdalene’s red eyes brimmed over with tears once again.

“He’s not!” she wept. “He’s Daddy. He’s the best man in all the world!”

Morton covered his face with his hands, weeping in the most concentrated, pure and unadulterated despair imaginable.

“They don’t mean it Daddy, do they?” she cried, stretching out a loving hand.

Morton dropped his hands, horror-struck.

What could he possibly say to that?

“They aren’t really going to kill you, Daddy?” she wept, her lips quivering.

“You haven’t done anything. You’re the best Daddy in all the world!”

Morton tried to stand and fell flat on his back, quivering in agony.

“I will tell them,” cried Magdalene, tenderly caressing him. “I will tell them you are the best Daddy in all the world, and you haven’t done anything wrong. If only I can explain to them, they will understand.”

A ruthless blow from one of the officers felled Magdalene to the ground.

Shrieking with horror and remorse, Morton drew a knife.

His trembling fingers prepared to heartless-lovingly draw the blade across his daughter’s neck; even that was preferable to what was coming!

But over-eager to catch the most savory of scalps, one of the officers fired his modified tazer.

Both father and daughter were convulsed with several thousand volts of electricity.

Sadly, this was the best possible thing that could possibly have happened to either of them.

Although, little did the officers know that on account of the VIP pedophile rings and numerous factional struggles among the elites…

Several top metropolitan policemen were soon to hang as well.

Alongside the loathsome Trade Secretary, whose hypocritical connivings had seduced the weak and decadent Monarch of the land into signing the Cairo Testament.

***

Marcus Charleston Bubble was so amused and excited to hear it all from Benito Scarlett Muskogee (in the latter’s usual inimitable manner), he didn’t get a single moment of sleep that night.

Saul Friedman, on the other hand, practically drank himself to death.

And even Adolph Adams and Deborah Willow, for once, were barely any better.

Chapter 19: Bind up the Brokenhearted

The Imam gazed gently at tearful Jim.
“The true scandal (i.e. stumbling-block) is to see how many paths they are; in this context, to pick one and stick to it, would seem an arbitrary and ungrounded decision.
“But it is important to remember that there is no ‘view from nowhere,’ and no ‘path through nowhere.’
“If the idea of one path being more valid than the others is bewildering, how much more so is the view that one can somehow stand above all the Babel, indeed the Pandemonium, of competing, striving, contending voices?
“For this can never be.
“One must choose; even your Jean-Paul Sartre says the same.
“For even not to choose is still to make a choice.
“And didn’t the great German philosopher Hegel say that the only path to the Universal is through the Particular?
“Or what of the Chinese Sage, Laozi?
“One can only reach what cannot be spoken by what can. For this, surely, is the straight path, then. Is it not?”
Jim gazed up at the beautiful minarets.
The Imam gently squeezed his hand.
Sally offered an old, shrivelled note; the best, the only thing she had to give.
Or so, at least, it would have been.
“You have spent a great deal in the way of God,” the imam gently murmured, unprepared to accept the gracious gift.
“Peace be upon your house.”
Sally nodded, and lovingly, hand in hand with Jim, she moved towards the exit.
She inched towards the small church, dreading to see the fearful news.

Her worst fears were realized.
The place must have been derelict for many years already.
All of a sudden, Jim’s monotonous drawl raised up.
“Wherever you are, there also is the face of God.”
Sally gazed at her little brother in wonder.
“We’re on the way, Jimmy boy,” her husky voice intoned, as she gently stroked Jim’s flopping fringe.
“We’re goin’ somewhere good.”

Chapter 20: Set Me a Watchman, O Sons of Abraham

Saul gazed, enraptured, at the marvellous scene unfolding before his eyes.

Sally’s dim eyes sparkled with a light that had not been seen in years.

She could never have imagined such marvels were possible.

Jim, sleepy-eyed, snuggled against her breast.

Saul tried to memorize as much as he could of the astonishing script.

EZEKIEL:

But then, did anyone notice the expression in Cohen Cohen’s eyes which is often found in Jews? A kind of ‘sagely innocence,’ which is found almost independent of the virtue of a person. Even in the tail, one may discern the virtue of the head.

SPINOZA:

I don’t know if this is something which is purely subjective impression: it says ‘I know, I know. And yet…’

HUBAL:

Well, if all this is not purely my imagination, it probably stems from the ageless millennia of persecution and stubborn tenacity of the most enduring and courageous nations on earth. 

One has to be careful, of course, not to fall into philosemitism, which is sometimes a kind of ‘soft racism,’ insofar as it idealises; which is also a kind of hatred. Obviously, there are disloyal Jews too, like Lenin, who asked ‘Is it good for Humanity,’ rather than ‘Is it good for the Jews?’

But as a generalization, there is an inscrutable indefatigability, however difficult it may be to discern.

ST JOHN OF CAPPADOCIA:

This much, at least is clear:

The antisemite is the first and only Christ-killer.

The one who insults and torments the covenant people of God is guilty of an eternal Crime Against the Light. 

HUBAL:

Such people put the means of grace beyond their wretched carcasses forevermore.

It has often occurred to me that the day the last Jew is martyred, or driven weeping from the faithless claws of the Occident, the patience of History will finally have run out.

The Goyim have had too many chances to mend our ways.

The time will come when will we are judged for our uncharitable callousness; for our stiff necks, and for our hearts of stone.

EZEKIEL

Woe worth the day…

Set me then a watchman, and let him run to and fro in the shadow of righteousness….

For I cannot bear the setting of the sun.

***

At length, the curtain fell.

Saul snorted, twitched his eyebrows, and gestured to the door.

Sally paused, and gingerly placed her hand on the cheek of this strange, crazy old man with the heart of gold.

She kissed him on both cheeks; Alan, a couple of rows away, scowled and coughed aloud at this prissy, continental Euroweenie gesture.

Startled, Saul put his hand on his breast.

All of a sudden, he broke into his usual hearty grin, picked up his cane, and swung out; such a beautiful spring in his step, he had not felt or imagined for a long, long time.

Chapter 21: Dark Horse Democrat
The cold wind whistled down the street. A curious place to meet a stranger! The normally unflappable Adolph shivered a little; and the chill air was not, by any means, the only reason he was curiously set all-a-quiver, as he inched towards the decrepit tavern; a remnant of an Olde Worlde he was unwilling voyaging towards, with all his waxen-eared comrades.

He remembered an old vision of his; has it not been well said that old men shall have vision, and young men shall dream dreams?

***

Adolph and his friend Saul had spent long hours into the night discussing Adolph’s supposedly ‘idle and pretentious’ fancy.

To Adolph’s dismay, Saul had spent half the night guffawing and snorting at what Adolph had written in his ‘Athenian Journal.’

If only I could be tied to the mast forever more, like Ulysses.

The spray, the wind, the gushing sea.

I should then be carried away forever, and no man should disturb me.

The cruellest cut of all was when Saul spat out his cheapy, shoddy Jack Daniel’s all over Adolph’s nice new ‘Fidelio and Marzelline’ manuscript. ‘HORSESHIT!’ Saul cackled and choked, almost beside himself with mirth.

Seeing the gentle Adolph burst into tears, Saul began crying too, and almost strangled Adolph in a conciliatory bear-hug.

The next day, Saul went away for the holidays. After he came back, something seemed to have changed. Most of the time, Adolph met Saul with a weak smile; Saul lowered his head, grunted, and muttered something under his breath; nothing particularly hostile, by any means! So far as Adolph could tell.

One late evening, Adolph could have sworn he had heard his clumsy, clunky, lonely Jewish classmate staggering past in the distance, howling half-joyously, half-mournfully, the words of the Prophet Zechariah. “The House of my friends… The House of my Friends…” Adolph whispered; reverently and fearfully, the words stabbed him to the very marrow.

For several days, he could think of nothing but these words. Generally sceptical of religion, but utterly in love with the beauty and power of Bach’s St Matthew’s Passion, Handel’s Messiah, Haydn’s Creation, and Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis. Although, his favorite text of all was Charpentier’s Te Deum. He used to dance to it in the privacy of his room, for he was sure that nobody could see him.

***

Adolph moved into the dimly-lit tavern.

He said down.

Someone moved out of the shadows; a ‘strider’ of menace, in his thousand-league boots?

The words of the ancient, hopeful, helpless-aching rabble-rouser Joel stormed the corners of his mental tapestry like a silver hammer!

The sinister prophet of ‘American carnage’ squeezed down next to Adolph on the couch.

His fusty breath made Adolph mildly nauseous.

“We know what you did on that mountain, with that Arab. $10 000 dollars, or the MSM are hearing about it tomorrow. That’s the end. The Zioliberal establishment will win.”

“I never used that word, ‘Zioliberal,'” Adolph gently protested; not without a hint of urgency in his voice.

“No you didn’t… Honest Adolph,” the hooligan snarled. “Race-traitors gonna race-traitor, as you and your stupid coon-enablers are always saying. An Adolph who is a freakin’ anti-white Marxist!”

Beginning to lose his temper, Adolph got up and prepared to leave.

The stranger pulled him down.

“We must secure a future for all white children. That means no more niggers. No more coons. No more Jew comedians, like that filthy kike Ziotrash you’ve been bending over for. No more spick rapists and ragheads. So give me $10 000 to help us, and to finally keep our… network… afloat. Or else it’s all over. You are the only non-establishment boy out there from the two big treasonous, Ziotard cuck parties. So I’ve come to you. If you don’t help us, there is no future.”

Adolph jumped up, staring at the man in utter horror.

“Of course… If you’re still too damn proud… We have friends who can fix up your and your friends. Remember how that fuckin’ broke-ass cotton-choppin’ nigger, Food Stamp Bunty…”

“Ubuntu Grace,” Adolph corrected him, so furious at the truckload of unconscionable provocations he could barely breathe.

His hideous enemy continued:

“Remember what Food-Stamp Bunty said before she died? You won’t even get a chance to woke out that kinda ‘prophetic’ jive talk. Show us the fuckin’ money, Adi baby! Or it’s all over for you. And we have ways and means of breaking the establishment; ones that don’t involve talking to niggers, bribing Zioroaches, or dealing with faggots. Understand?”

Adolph paused for a moment, feeling utterly helpless.

“Kurgan coin? Safe, rare… more or less legal!” the hideous stranger cackled.

Adolph scowled. “Give me 24 hours to make a decision.”

The stranger snarlingly consented.

Adolph strode out of the tavern, sweating from every pore.

Chapter 22: Coloring in the Lines

Bubble and Adams both thought releasing their books at a joint book launch would be a good way to proceed further with their campaigns. But sad to say Bubble’s launch was an utter disaster; and equally sad to say, he appears to be a laughing stock for now.

Still, he started well; then again, the race is not to the swiftest!

Here’s the (not so?) moving anecdote he told.

Well, no; we will not make it so exact.

After, precision is the hobgoblin of small and bureaucratic minds; no narrow card-index pedant he!

Suffice to say:

  1. In his childhood, Marcus Charleston Bubble (later to be Senator, no doubt!) was saved from a burning house.
  2. This then reminds him, today, of his own book.

  3. Schoolboy error after schoolboy error; clumsy and wildly inaccurate handling of basic facts.

  4. He is reminded he is only here to read a little, because of limited time.

  5. He is dismissive and ploughs on.

  6. Then, the second page of his book, from a disreputable publisher, is missing five sentences. Bubble explodes in fury, blames others for getting the publisher wrong:

‘I thought it was White North Publishers, not White Nation publishers! It was not his fault the book had a lousy editor etc. etc. And I didn’t choose the graphics either; how is it my fault these idiots got this stuff mixed up.

You stupid, pathetic, incompetent excuse for an aide! You want to get a hug for that? Do you want me to give you a frickin’ hug, honeybuckles? You’re fired! I just don’t have time for this shit! And I tell you what, you can raise that stupid kid of yours without any maternity leave, cos you ain’t gonna be working for me any longer! I’m just about done with this crap!’

Almost everyone watching agreed that Adams had the better of the applause and cheers.

But we will hear no more of this for now!

Chapter 24: Rise Like Lions, Deborah Slumber!

Deborah thumbed through the old almanac of archived tweets. Her heart was troubled.

‘The Left’ is now (relatively speaking) dominated by people who are economically progressive, but not civil libertarian.
This is deeply disturbing to all those who care about our country.
The ‘Left’ I believe in is economically progressive and reformist.
But also secular, pro-speech, pro freedom, pro civil liberties, pro privacy, pro peace.
But we have lost a great deal.
Here in Europe and the West, certainly.
Not least in the land of Seneca Falls
And yet, many of these ideas are now deemed…
CONSERVATIVE (!)
Shouldn’t they be questions of basic decency, not of partisan left or right affiliation?
Maybe that is asking too much.
Maybe it is asking too much in ANY age.
But it’s as though one has to choose between the ‘Regressive Left’ vs a ‘Conservatism’ that has a very inhumane vision of economic policy.
This is a false choice, and false dilemma.

All of a sudden, her she jerked upwards with a start.

She could see a younger, sturdier, and if anything, even more fidgety and Saul Friedman laughing her to scorn.

In those days, Saul was more hale and hearty; although highly-strung and given to anxiety, as he was now, Saul’s eyes never used to have that haunted and desperate look. The very idea that Saul would ever remotely entertain a ‘Big Government Socialist’ like Adolph, and for a Presidential run, of all things… ?!

Impossible!

Simply impossible.

And yet, and yet…

What was that song again?

Out of the very corner of her mind’s eye, if not all with any clearer vision (or foresight?) like this, she seemed to remember the two old friend and rivals roaring in a drunken fervour of liberty’s rage and sorrow.

Rise, like lions after slumber

Freedom’s unvanquishable numbers!

Shake DC’s chains to earth like dew

For tyranny’s doze hath captured you:

For ye are many, they are few!

Yes, we are many, and they are few?

Deborah stirred slightly in her chair, trying to remember if this curious re-artificing of the immortal words of Shelley had indeed been thus sung and chanted; some night, some place.

She could not tell the difference.

Was it a real memory or a merely fraudulent delusion?

‘Either way, it is for us,’ she murmured, as she finally closed her eyes.

Chapter 24: The Pristine Jade Hall Palace of Eternal Slumber

The Halls of Mandos, then. So this is me. Let’s knock this on down, brother, for the health of the world.

Saul paced the long, marble corridors.

Was he waiting for someone?

Big Xian?

A Golden knight on a nearby pillar sprang into life.

Can good knights rust?

The enchanted canaries rattle in their pages?

Cages?

The wanderer wandered on.

It all just seemed so goddamn, frickin’ meaningless.

The plaintive howl of Big Xian breezed, e’en gusted on.

Saul heard him, but he didn’t hear him.

God’s will is Semitic.

The Mandate, the Degree of Heaven, is of the Sage of Ten Thousand Ages.

Saul, O forlorn beloved one, you dared to sift through customary normality and the more clay-like forms of self-interest.

You fermented, you distilled some kind of higher standpoint that is not reducible to ‘business-as-usual.’

And yet, you overthrew the grandiose ‘Adam of Clay,’ in favor of mere husky, dusky ‘spirit’ on his own.

True?

Factual?

Meaningful?

Many are the tangles, in the web of Indra!

And yet, in the night of hubris, all leaps are downhill-bound alike.

Forget me, brother, forget me not, what is that to me?

Righteousness is sufficient unto we.

‘Did he miss out the fuckin’ capital,’ Saul grunted?

His steps finally down-trod to one final, dizzied halt.

Saul bowed his head, but the eyes of his spirit were turned above.

He saw the two golden angels shimmering and glittering as gold.

Between them, menaced by the stork of Zechariah in the distance (who could say it wasn’t a hawk?) the carried between them a golden censer.

It was a censer, but it was more in the form of a weighing scale.

Between the two destinies of this device of marvellous Babylonian contrivance, a shining sword was perched.

Saul had seen it often in his dreams.

Bowing his head in fearful submission, the great, long, slender sword descended from the skies.

He felt it cleave his skull.

There was no pain; just a long, cool, slow, solid splitting of clinical precision.

On this side?

Exactly one half.

Not a single atom more or less.

On the other?

Not a single atom more or less.

He remembered that this was the same dream he had had after that terrible, glorious campfire night in Yunnan province.

“You’re talking in your sleep,” Saul whispered.

All of a certain he jerked up, wide eyed, staring up in horror.

There was nothing there!

The marbled ceiling, with all its beautiful frescoes, had opened up to an abyss; but they had lied to him! The abyss wasn’t down; it was up!

Saul let out a deafening roar, and the entire Jade Palace of the Sublime Judgment trembled, despite how it had seemed immovable and solid as the hills.

Chapter 26: Just-So Stories

Presidential nominations, generally speaking, go to those with the biggest mouth, and not the greatest intellect or grandest patriotism.

But how far this may be a universal principle is something which, perhaps, remains to be seen.

Either way, our friend Adolph has quite a formidable task here. Let us examine in more detail his two antagonists: Marcus Seamus Riddle and Benny Pilder.

Or as it is written, in the graduate thesis of Deborah herself…


Evolutionary scientists say that the human brain contains many marks of the muddy clay from which the human spirit first began to soar.

[COMMENT: THIS HAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY]

So, also in the womb, where are all ‘fearfully and wonderfully made,’ do we marvellously recapitulate our endless journey.

[WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? MORE CLARITY REQUIRED]

Every human individual however, no doubt, carries a different soul within him.

[PERHAPS YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE WRITING A THEOLOGY OR METAPHYSICS ESSAY. I REALLY EXPECT HIGHER STANDARDS OF OUR STUDENTS, AND THAT INCLUDES THE NON-SCHOLARSHIP ONES AS WELL]

If metempsychosis is deemed psychosis, and reincarnation a mere caste-chauvinist metaphysical delusion, and rebirth exceedingly bad taste (and karma!), this is not by any means to no purpose?

[THIS IS A COMPLETE WORD SALAD]

Some there are who have the reptile brain. Cool, calm, clinical precise, they understand very well the importance of analysis and discrimination…

[DISCRIMINATION? SERIOUSLY?!!!!!!!!!!]

But they remain woefully unable to penetrate to the essence of things.

[ESSENTIALISM?]

They discern well enough to be wary of indiscriminate inclusion and tolerance…

[THIS KIND OF BINARY LOGIC IS EXTRAORDINARILY PROBLEMATIC. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN EXCLUDED? HAS ANYONE EVER BEEN INTOLERATION TO YOU? JUST BECAUSE WE CAN’T TOLERATE EVERYONE, DO YOU HONESTLY THINK WE HAVE TO BE COMPLETE INTOLERANT AND EXCLUSIONARY INSTEAD? YOUR PRIVILEGE IS SHOWING]

But they are not capable of buttressing their arguments on strong foundations; all is surface, nothing is depth.

[MEANINGLESS NONSENSE]

They do not dare to create a true ‘totalising synthesis…’

[WHY YES… THERE IS A REASON FOR THAT!]

Because their metaphysical cowardice will not permit them to do so.

[POINTLESS AD HOMINEM THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE ARGUMENT]

On the other hand, there are those who fly with the birds of the air.

[… WHAT?!]

They soar and fall with the breeze; they dare Heaven’s wrath to pulling together what once was sundered.

[WHAT ON EARTH COULD THIS POSSIBLY MEAN?]

They create a Brave New World, but they always risk having no-one and nothing in it, like a certain ‘Città Ideale’ painting of a green Italian hill-tribe far away.

[????????]

I will not name the painter here…

[WHY NOT?]

But that, in itself, is not by any means without significance.

[I BEG TO DIFFER].

The endless Promethean, Faustian desire to plunge the depths of Heaven and soar to the heights of the inner world…

[DIDN’T YOU MEAN THE HEIGHTS OF HEAVEN AND THE DEPTHS OF THE INNER WORLD?]

Leaves them naked and alone, when the Day of Severance finally arrives.

[WERE YOU DRUNK WHEN YOU WROTE THIS?]

And then, of course, we have the Third Adam. The coming generation of liberty, who are by no means without a toehold in Jerusalem and a humble washbowl-censer in Athens…

[OH, STOP! STOP! THERE IS NO POINT READING ANY FURTHER. WE HAVE GIVEN YOU AMPLE CHANCES TO WRITE SOMETHING MORE CONSTRUCTIVE, AND EVERY SINGLE TIME, YOU STUBBORNLY PERSIST IN CHURNING OUT MEANINGLESS METAPHYSICAL BOILERPLATE. THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO CASE FOR EVEN PROVIDING A BOTTOM GRADE FOR THIS. YOU HAVE HAD MORE THAN ENOUGH CHANCES. COME TO MY OFFICE ASAP, BECAUSE BY THIS POINT, I CANNOT SEE ANY PROSPECT OF YOUR PASSING THIS DEGREE. IT IS A DAMNED SHAME, ALL THE SAME, DEBORAH. YOUR BEST WORK YOU DEEMED YOUR WORST, AND YOUR WORST WORK YOU HAVE OBSTINATELY DEEMED YOUR BEST. THIS IS A POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY CLASS, AND NOT A CLASS FOR PSYCHEDELIC POETRY. THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, (NOTE THE EMPHASIS!) ABSOLUTELY NOTHING IN THIS ESSAY THAT REMOTELY RESEMBLES SERIOUS PHILOSOPHY; POLITICAL OR OTHERWISE. IT IS A PITY, IN A WAY, BECAUSE WE DO INVEST A GREAT DEAL OF LOVE, OF TIME AND CARE AND MONEY AND OTHER SCARCE RESOURCES IN OUR STUDENTS; EVEN FOR THOSE WHO ARE PROBLEMATIC ALLIES, AND WHOSE COMMITMENT TO SOCIAL JUSTICE IS QUESTIONABLE AT BEST.

BUT TO BE FRANK, I FIND IT DIFFICULT TO SUMMON ANY COMPASSION FOR YOU, AS YOUR CONSTANT INTELLECTUALISM AND DETACHED ‘OBJECTIVITY,’ QUITE FRANKLY, HAS BEEN WEARING. WE DID WARN YOU AT THE START THAT YOU WERE NOT HERE TO ‘SEEK TRUTH AT THE END OF ENQUIRY,’ BUT RATHER TO ‘MAKE TRUTH BY WAY OF ENQUIRY.’ ULTIMATELY, THE PAST FEW YEARS HERE HAVE BEEN WASTED. LET ME BE CLEAR: WITHOUT PASSING THIS THESIS, YOU ARE UNABLE TO PASS YOUR DEGREE. THIS WAS ONLY TO BE EXPECTED, GIVEN PAST FORM; BUT THEN AGAIN, JUST AS EVERY DEATH IS A TRAGEDY (I AM QUITE SURE YOU REMEMBER THE MICRAOGGRESSIONS AGAINS THE MUSLIM BROTHERHOOD FROM LAST JANUARY), SO ALSO IS EVERY FAILURE A TRAGEDY.

DO SPEAK WITH ME SOON! BUT IN THE MEANTIME, I’M AFRAID THIS IS A NO FROM ME. NONETHELESS, THE PAST FEW YEARS MAY WELL END UP A LEARNING EXPERIENCE FOR YOU…]


The thesis, then was a monumental failure.

Some would say, of course, that Deborah was the same!

Others, however (and perhaps you, dear reader, are not entirely out of sympathy with this passionate and remarkable woman) are more charitable.

Charity, however, begins at home; and thus we will say no more, except to remark that as we return to the second cradle of liberty, we are not unmindful that a beast of Babylon may yet arise and spiritless, slump towards Bethlehem, so that predator and prey may be alike; even as their infernal father below is one…

And many.


Marcus Seamus Riddle, the establishment favourite, and by some distance the book maker’s favourite, gently primed his reptile brain. He had a little more life about him than Dickie Klindel; enough to make him a very favourable candidate for election, but not enough to make him anything like a danger to the establishment.

“Candidate Riddle: many have said you are the first candidate in many years who offers ‘a hope of change,’ as the Washington Post said. Would you like to elaborate a little on what change you want to bring to America?’

Riddle’s lips twitched imperceptibly. Then he began to speak. This voice was dull, lifeless and inanimate; but there was a certain rigour or severity in it that some more superficial and naïve souls, blinded by meaningless and futile political partisanship, might have taken for ‘seriousness.’ Indeed, the polling up to now suggested that this runaway leader might indeed have been taken for a true ‘moderate centrist,’ against the superficial and flippant counterfeit radicalism of Benny Pilder, and the quaintly archaic (some would say!) Rooseveltian nostalgia of Adolph Adams.

Riddle spoke these words:

“I don’t want to have a one-sided focus on change. Never mind hard change or soft change; what we all want and need is ‘smart change.’”

This was not half as intelligent or clever as Riddle seemed to think; for one thing, it was something that needed a little bit of elaboration. But such a cunning and shrewd soulless-soul as Marcus Seamus Riddle was rather too clever to permit anyone to pin him down on what his high-minded cleverness really meant.

In the past, a good journalist would have probed him a little. And more: they would have very much enjoyed roasting his plums under the blazing inferno of public scrutiny. But in a (not so) subtle gesture, the interviewer merely said:

‘Well, that’s an original take, for sure. Plenty of food for thought.’

If the late and (sad to say) not so much-lamented Otis Spengler had spoken such words, they would undoubtedly have had ironic undercurrents.

But by now, it seemed the last stragglers had gone.

Otis was buried in an unmarked grave, unmourned by K’Simah, and unmourned by Cassie; although the latter was merely ignorant of the death of the man she had secretly dreamed would one day become her husband, while the former was too embittered and resentful to so much as shovel a clod of earth or scatter a handful of dust and ashes, in memory of his little smart-arse, upstart little brother.

As for Cassie herself, she and Su Chun were currently being savagely prostituted out by pimps. And her body was already riddled, not so much by seven devils of disease, as seventy times seven. Some may be tempted here, to mourn for her as a pure virgin-whore, like the maiden of Crime and Punishment; but permit me to remind the reader, that Cassie would spit on your pity.

Whether that entirely absolves you or I of the ancient, moribund law of true and authentic compassion, may perhaps be debated.

But what is entirely uncontroversial is that Cassie would quite happily have broken your jaw or mine, should we ever have uttered a single heartbeat of prayer for her eternal felicity, or for her comfort in the present hard and bitter world.

And speaking of a lack of controversy: the interviewer added another softball question about something some worthless Canadian career politician had said, and Riddle gave a non-answer that every bit as evasive and mediocre as the one discussed above. We shall not insult the eyes and ears of our readers by quoting it verbatim.

Moving on, the first truly probing question was for Benny Pilder.

‘Candidate Pilder: The Baltimore Sentinel has recently posted a photo of you in a Star Wars Mock-Up, trying to save the world from what some people say is a mediocre establishment consensus. Do you have a comment on this picture? What is your message to those who may be a little unsure that a first Scientologist president is what America really needs right now?’

A previous Scientologist Democratic nomination candidate had already crashed and burned a few years ago, not least because his butthurt and over-sensitive temperament had led him to indulge himself in wildly intemperate screaming matches with others, when his nonsense ideology was ridiculed. Benny Pilder, of course, was too clever to let this happen. He had no real commitment to Scientology, and he had merely adopted the mantle of Scientology in order to gain a sympathy vote as an oppressed minority.

Well, not ‘merely.’

He actually enjoyed manipulating people, and this was a deeply ingrained personality trait from God only knows how long ago.

He now had the opportunity to subtly poke fun at his adopted ‘religion,’ while also benefiting from the counterfeit ‘subaltern’ or ‘minority’ status it gave him. The establishment candidate and bookmaker’s favourite, Marcus Seamus Riddle, had all things needful, including a corrupt Democratic National Convention that were rumoured to be planning to rig the vote…

Except for just one thing.

He didn’t have a ‘token minority’ schtick! This led some rather shrewder commentators to speculate that Pilder might well steal the nomination from Riddle. However, this was very far from being the received wisdom. The establishment media were currently focused on helping Riddle, with wall to wall favourable coverage. However, they were already fastening their beady eyes on Pilder and Adams, to see which one would require the most serious hatchet job.

Adams was still considered an old-fashioned liberal whose ideas and agendas had almost nothing in common with the rest of the party, apart from his love for unions, support for welfare and desire to reform the healthcare system. It was this, of course, that enabled the normally idealistic Saul Friedman (some would say rigid) to remain on good terms with Adams. Friedman occasionally baited Adams, saying ‘We are friends for Athens, but enemies for Wall Street!’

But even Adams was less explicitly hostile towards Wall Street than Pilder. Pilder had plenty of disrespectful rhetoric about greedy bankers and CEOs, but he did not have any constructive suggestions. Adams, by fairly obvious contrast, was more temperate, and was looking for some modest fixes that would help to square the circle of free markets and social welfare, without the cut-throat Darwinism of Friedman and the teenage radicalism of Pilder.

And yet, he also did not desire to take a purely tokenistic and hypocritical approach to economic reform, as Riddle did. He was interested in modest reforms, as well as a few grander ideas that were radical enough in their way, but that were also grounded, as Adams best knew how, in serious economics.

Despite Friedman’s serious misgivings about endorsing his friend, he knew the cause of liberty had no serious allies now at all, and he supported Adams more out of a desire for damage limitation, than for any other reason. The dispassionate old libertarian objectivist had no distorting sentimental bias in favour of Adams, and he most certainly had no love for the ‘socialism-lite’ du jour as he sneeringly called it.

However he did believe that, at least outside of the economic field, Adams was the only person with a remotely serious commitment to individual liberty. Friedman was terrified that his old friend’s NRA endorsement might be enough in itself to sink his entire campaign. He knew that the more Adam rose in the polls, the more vulnerable he would be to 24/7 scrutiny of his views on the Second Amendment; not to mention the very First one, and the Fourth as well.

Pilder had no such vulnerabilities; indeed, his religious minority status was now going to help him win! Or so, at least was his desire. Pilder humorously repeated the entire question from memory:

‘Candidate Pilder: The Baltimore Sentinel has recently posted a photo of you in a Star Wars Mock-Up, trying to save the world from what some people say is a mediocre establishment consensus. Do you have a comment on this picture? What is your message to those who may be a little unsure that a first Scientologist president is what America really needs right now.”

Pilder gobbled up the bait with evident glee.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I think Mr Riddle must be from another planet if he thinks the American people will stand for his mediocre, technocratic centrism!”

This was not a particularly clever joke; but it did raise a giggle or two in the audience.

Riddle frowned, as he realised that Pilder was indeed in deadly earnest about weaponising his own space-age ‘minority privilege’ against him.

“I don’t know if this guy is waiting to get beamed up and taken up to Planet Centrist; but in the meantime, you can all have a close encounter with radical social justice! I can’t promise you you’ll all be able to join the Mothership all at once; but what I can promise you is that I’m going to make America even more of a tolerant, diverse, inclusive society that it’s ever been! We’re going to have so much tolerance, you’ll just be sick of tolerance!’

At these meaningless buzzwords, some of the initially sceptical members of the audience began to whoop with joy.

‘American is not a tolerant country…’ he affirmed with a tactical pause.

Sighs of disappointment all round.

‘America is tolerance!

We are not just founded on diversity.

We are diversity!

We don’t merely tolerate diversity…

We celebrate it!

We don’t practice inclusion…

We are inclusion!

In fact, nobody in the world does tolerance, diversity and inclusion better than America!’

By now, the audience were practically screaming with joy.

‘Diversity isn’t just our strength. Or even our greatest strength! It is US, it is you, and me, and everyone else here! We celebrate all diversity! No exceptions! No excuses! Our diversity, our whole diversity, and nothing but diversity!’

The whoops became deafening.

‘We celebrate sexual diversity!’

(Deborah knew all about the joys of sexually diverse behaviour, as we have earlier disclosed).

‘We celebrate religious diversity!’

(The Amber Hornet bombing was left conveniently unmentioned).

‘We celebrate neurodiversity!’

(Presumably including narcissists, sociopaths and psychopaths; of whom there were more than a few in the Democrats and Republicans alike).

‘Without diversity, there is no hope of moving forward as a nation! Let’s not listen to Mr Adams here, when he spouts this meaningless, conservative crap about ‘traditional toleration.’ Toleration merely means putting up with people! Have you ever had anyone merely putting up with you?…’

Here, Pilder paused for effect.

The audience went absolutely insane, greedily gobbling up the bate as a starving, rabid hound might ruthlessly devour a pork chop.

‘Have any of you ever been excluded, my friends?’ although Pilder was clearly no friend, in any meaningful sense, of the audience.

‘And this Adams wants you to believe that anything less than absolute, unreserved celebration of diversity and a relentless, perpetual commitment to tolerance, inclusion and choice will ever satisfy the American people?’

The audience guffawed so loud, the interviewer had to call for order.

Once the laughter died down, Pilder paused and smirked, saying drily:

‘What on Earth was he thinking, not thinking about that?’

Adams blushed a little; from anger, as much as from embarrassment. He knew that Pilder was playing shallow word games. On a thousand and one occasions, he had stated soberly, dispassionately and objective, that one could never simply be for or against differences, absent of context.

He consistently refused to use inflammatory language too. Some years ago, Saul Friedman had said that subjectivism and moral relativism, whether it be tolerance, diversity, inclusion or choice, was the ‘mere opposite of Nazism and Islamic terrorism.’ Between myriad dishonest accusations of moral equivalence, inciting hatred against Muslims, breaching Godwin’s Law, peddling racism, showing himself up as a true white supremacist/Nazi/Zionazi/straight rich white guy/straight rich Jew guy/crypto-neocon (delete as appropriate), and the quite frankly bizarre assertion that anything that was the opposite of Nazism somehow just has to be a good thing, (by definition!), Saul was so distressed by the resounding furore that he went into hiding for a whole week.

This, of course, did not help his cause. And it was only the gentle coaxing of Deborah, and the promise of a slap-up meal at Big Xian’s and a whole bottle of luxury baijiu spirits, that could ever have led him to show his face in public again.

Adams remembered this incident with pain, and swore in his heart that no matter what the provocation, he would keep his cool, and not let his own feelings of hurt, betrayal and pain allow him to speak immoderately. His old Republican friend and sometime enemy had always been something of a loose cannon, and this had always cost him greatly. Adams was determined to light his candle from the furnace, while at the same time shielding it gently with this hand. He remembered the strength of Leonard Cohen, George Solti, Joan Baez, Herbert Klemperer, and other bygone minstrels who had shown the greatest of strength, with the greatest modesty, humility and reserve. From the outside, you would not know how much he was struggling; but he was determined to make this sacrifice, for the sake of the people and the values he loved so well.

Another sacrifice, of course, was listening to Pilder babbling on and on and on, with his meaningless word salad of imbecilic feelwords.

The interviewer, however, was keen to move on, as they had unintentionally assisted Pilder with their ambush. Instead of humiliating Pilder, and baiting him into anger, they had merely succeeded in granting him a small coup. Riddle managed to keep his cool, but he was deeply unhappy about how Pilder had managed to turn ridiculous assassination question into a huge victory. Pilder’s coup now meant Riddle himself had to work hard to recover lost ground. Perhaps, instead of fastening his wrinkled, grizzled jaws on the young, agile and athletic heels of Benny Pilder, he could gang up on Adolph Adams first, and then, when Riddle and Pilder had finally had seen off this ridiculous joke candidate, he could use whatever confidence boost he had gained from this, to turn his turrets on Pilder.

The interviewer hurled a second journalistic grenade; the first one had not succeeded in weakening Pilder. So, she hoped the second one would at least wipe out Adams entirely.

‘Candidate Adams. You are the only Democratic Party candidate to be endorsed by the controversial gun lobby, the National Rifle Association. You are also one of only two candidates from any party, to get a premium grade endorsement.’

Adams tutted inwardly, because he knew a ‘premium grade endorsement’ was a meaningless rhetorical conceit that many people in the media were using. Actually, the difference between the percentage rating he had been given, and those of his three nearest competitors, ranged between 1% and 13%. Still, he knew he had to keep his cool! ‘And so help me, Thomas Paine,’ he wryly prayed. He had no idea if Thomas Paine still existed in some heavenly sphere, but he hoped to draw some strength, nonetheless, from the radical writer of the Age of Reason.’

‘So, Candidate John Adams…’

The audience burst into laughter. Adams clenched his fist, because he knew full well this was a deliberate error, that was intended to make him seem quaint and old fashioned.

‘I beg your pardon! Adolph Adams…’

The interviewer sounded so twee and ridiculous, as she coyly drew his name out, long and lovingly, that Adams could barely contain himself. This, if anything, was an even worse insult than likening to the discredited perpetrator of the Alien and Sedition Acts.

‘Do you think it is appropriate that a Democratic candidate should be endorsed by the NRA?’

This is exactly what Adams had expected her to say; but his jaw still dropped open, although he quickly shut it, in order to avoid looking foolish. The very idea that this was considered anything like an appropriate question to ask him was utterly mindblowing.

And one last gratuitous sucker punch…

‘And do you also agree with Senator Marcus Charleston Bubble, who also gained a premium grade NRA endorsement, that those who advocate gun control are a ‘disorderly mob of street thugs, stupid kids, sexually frustrated undergraduates, Communists and Social Justice freaks?’

Adams was so distressed at the manifest bad faith of his interrogator that he could not even think clearly, in order to answer.

An occasional titter broke out.

Adams drew in a short, shallow breath and simply uttered one word.

‘No.’

He knew this was not a very satisfactory answer, but he did not feel it deserved anything more than that. Then again, beginning to panic, he wondered whether he had made a serious error, by placing his own pride above American values, and the future of his country. However, it was too late to add more detail, as he saw the smirking ‘interviewer’ was about to speak again.

‘So why are you here then?’ she laughed.

Adams felt like he had been punched with a brick.

‘Because I am not a Republican,’ he replied sullenly, completely wrongfooted by the question.

Of course, the interviewer knew damn well that Adams meant ‘No, I do not agree with Bubble,’ rather than, ‘No, it is not appropriate for me to be endorsed by the NRA.’ But she thought it would be funny to pretend to misunderstand him.

‘So… You don’t believe it is appropriate for a Democrat to be endorsed by the NRA,’ Pilder burst out, to inevitable peals of laughter.

Adams wished the ground could swallow him up.

‘On the other hand, and get this… The guy is not a Republican either! Well, that’s a start, I guess!’

Every single whoop of ridicule stoked a thousand flames of humiliation and self-abasement in Adams’ cheeks.

The interviewer should have intervened at this point; just for form’s sake, she opened her lips twice and pretended she was about to intervene, but that she was not able to do so, because of the hideous orgy of taunting and teasing.

‘Tell me, though, Honest Abe… Oh do excuse me, Honest Adolph! If you’re not a Republican, then why do you oppose common sense gun laws to protect our citizens.’

Adams just about managed to stammer out: ‘I… I don’t.

‘This man changes with the wind!’ Riddle sneered, grunting in displeasure as the interviewer waved her hand to silence him.

Pilder took the bait and said, ‘Well, indeed he does! So, he’s opposed to racism, but he also supports an isolationist foreign policy.

‘He’s opposed to war, but he supports hate speech on our campuses, which nowadays, we all understand to be merely a form of violence.

‘He opposes misogyny, but he also opposes identity politics.

‘He opposes religious hatred, but he insists on making racist and Islamophobic criticisms of the Islamic Republic, and warns us not to follow in ‘their’ footsteps, whoever ‘they’ is.

‘He says he wants better distribution of wealth, but he doesn’t accept affirmative action.

‘He opposes homophobia, but also says collective interests and group rights undermine individualism.

‘As though individualism, properly understood, were anything other than diversity by another name.

‘As though pedantic word games and semantics about ‘classical toleration’ vs ‘tolerance,’ or ‘traditional pluralism versus diversity,’ or ‘individual liberty versus choice,’ were anything other than a meaningless strategy to mask his self-evident Republican sympathies!

‘So….

‘Tell me, Mr Adams: do you have a single consistent and coherent thought at all?’

Adams was fit to weep at the self-evident bad faith of this critics. He wanted to go home and bury his head in his pillow.

But he knew he couldn’t turn back.

Not now.

Not now, while there was still hope.

Adams, don’t turn back!

‘Yeah, and do you think maybe you’re in the wrong party too?’ the deeply uncharismastic Riddle muttered.

He glowered in displeasure, as he realised that neither the audience nor the interviewer seemed to appreciate his clumsy interventions. Both he and Adams were extraordinarily upset by the clownish behaviour of the interviewer, who was soon to lose her job on some specious pretext. It seems that in this nomination debate, the hosting journalist had committed the cardinal error of prizing mere entertainment value over the good of the party.

Naively enough, she had merely identified Adams as an enemy of the party establishment; but she had failed to understand that for the time being, the smarter strategy would have been to weaken the second strongest candidate, Benny Pilder. The problem was not so much that she was biased, but that she was not biased in the right way. It would have been far more helpful to Ruby Chandra De Montevideo and the rest of the Democratic Party establishment, if the interviewer had tried to weaken Pilder, rather than hammering down on low-hanging fruit like Adams.

Of course, she did not yet realise her error.

‘The wrong party? Well, we can’t say that now, can we?’ she laughed.

It was an ambiguous laugh, that could just as much be read as a sycophantic gift to Pilder, as a rebuke of the insurgent fake populist.

‘I am not in the wrong party,’ Adams said.

Pilder could have said more, and a less skilled political tactician, no doubt, would have naively decided to stick the knife in. But a master manipulator and conniver like Pilder was well able to intuitively grasp the most miniscule strategic subtleties of the moment. Instead of doing the obvious thing, and buffeting Adams with a few more jokes and jibes, he merely paused theatrically and dropped his hands, like some kind of flamboyant clown from an opera buffa.

This ironically mournful silence, accompanied with its powerful gestures of despair and ridicule, was far more effective in inciting the audience to laughter than anything a less intelligent candidate could have said. By now, the roars of ridicule were so loud, that you could have been forgiven for thinking the riot police were just about to arrive at the scene of this hideous tabloid massacre.


Deborah ran into the street, tears streaming down her face like rain.

All of a sudden, she paused by the graveyard.

She saw two unmarked graves.

For some reasons, Otis Spengler’s notorious interview with Morton Megaraparthenon sprung to mind.

Her mind was then drawn to the terrible poverty in this society.

Why this should be, she had no idea.

She remembered the day Saul had come to her, in evident distress, saying that a bum had been found dead under the bridge. Saddened to hear this, she asked if they knew who he was. Saul, apparently deeply traumatised by finding the body, was incapable of saying anything more, other than babbling on and on about the purple heart medal he was clutching as he died.

Deborah wondered where Otis and the homeless guy were today.

This couldn’t just be the end, could it?

The sky above rattled and rumbled.

A thunderstorm was on the way.

Deborah plunged into the nearest building she could find.

Allan Thatcher was about to throw her out, and Sally knew it. Stealing the march on Allan, she anxiously gestured to a distant corner where Allan couldn’t see here; this should minimise the risk of trouble.

Deborah was grateful to have a roof over her head at last.

‘Sally! This is the bitch that used to hang around with that Jew comedian, Two Shekel Saul?’

Pushed to breaking point after yet another day of unrewarding work, Sally finally lost all patience with her brother’s hatred and bitterness.

‘Shut the fuck up, Allan!’ she screamed.

Allan was shocked. Bullying, as they say, is often a sign of weakness; and Allan was genuinely disturbed to see Sally screaming at the top of her voice.

‘Bitch… bitch!’ he finally managed to stammer out.

‘Allan!’ she screamed. ‘You have achieved nothing in your life. Don’t let me ever, ever, ever let me hear this utter, sanctified horseshit about how everything bad in your life is a conspiracy by other people. Saul Friedman was very good to our Jim…”

“Bitch! Shut the fuck up!”

“No, you shut the fuck up, Allan…”

“I told you not to let that filthy, disgusting, sub-human, shitty little Zioroach anywhere near our…”

Sally picked up a bottle and brandished it at Allan. She wasn’t going to hit him, of course; but she was utterly in despair not only about how her brother continued to spread his continual hatemongering and bigotry, but also at how he insisted in speaking in malicious and conspiratorial terms about the strange old man who had offered such comfort to her and Jim, in the midst of their grinding poverty, despair, and fears for the future.

Allan picked a kettle of boiling water and flung it over Sally. Deborah leapt up in terror as Sally howled in agony. Deborah ran over to help, but cringed in terror as Allan drew his gun.

‘Everything good I’ve earned has been stolen by the government!’ he roared.

Deborah cringed, cowering in utter terror. Her hands trembled, as Allan closed his eyes and cocked the trigger.

Just then, Benny Turpin staggered in the door, somewhat the worse for drink.

“Ha ha! Duuuuuuuuuuuude!” the pathetic idler shrieked with laughter.

“Look at this shit, huuuuuuuuuhhhhhhh? Shoot a Democrat for Jesus!”

Allan turned around and pointed the gun at Benny.

Benny began to cry.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, don’t shoot, dude! Pleeeeeeeeease, dude! Don’t shoot! It was a fuckin’ joke! Jesus Christ, dude…” he bawled, quivering like a wreck.

But it was too late to cry.

Allan pumped Benny full of lead.

Despite the plaintive wails of Deborah, and Sally’s desperate begging, Allan finally turned the gun on himself.

As if it was impossible for anything to get any worse, Jim ran downstairs.

He stared horror-struck. Sally managed to limp over to Jim and press him gently to her chest.

Unlike her elder brother Allan, Jim was still alive.

But the last words he ever spoke were:

‘But why… But why?’

Gentle Jim was so traumatised, he never spoke again.

Chapter 27: Snowflake Stormtroopers

Saul had not yet heard about the terrible events from last night. He was planning to pay a visit to the Thatchers later in the day; for now, he was commiserating with Adams about his poor showing the previous night.

‘Do you think it is possible, Saul?’ Adolph said.

Saul nodded gently.

‘Do you think it is possible to win, against such manifestly bad faith argumentation?’

Saul grunted.

‘It’s possible.’

Adolph sighed.

He switched the video on again.

‘See yer using a nice ethically sourced, socially just laptop again,’ Saul said, forcing something like a grin, however grim. ‘That from China? Or is it Myanmar this time? … Hm?’

Saul tailed off, embarrassingly, into silence; because it just didn’t seem to be the time for jokes right now.

He bit his lip like a true Stoic (or masochist?) as he watched the final words of Benny Pilder, who had held up surprisingly well against the tedious, manufactured establishment candidate.


“So… ‘humanitarian interventionism’ is fundamentally unjust, and serves the interests of arms lobbyists more than the people?”

“Ha! If this Honest Adolph is what passes for a man of charisma, well, you know we’ve got problems! I tell you one thing, Senator, if you ever become President, no-one, but no-one, will ever say President Adolph was some kind of, ya know, “a strong leader in a tight spot, who just did what he had to do!’

“Well, I guess not everybody in our party is the same, right? You’re anti-establishment? You’re nothing like it. You’re just a mediocre, opportunistic conformist who wants to keep brutal dictators in power! Well let me tell you something, sir. The international community will not bow to this… this ideological terrorism!”

And who is the international community?

“Well, it certainly isn’t you, that’s for sure.”

Yes. You’re right. It’s not me. We certainly agree.”

“Well, would you just listen to that! Talk about isolationism! Talk about cynical pacifism, and sheer naked, callous crypto-conservative brutality and propping up the status-quo! This guy has just pretty much admitted he doesn’t care just one little bit about the genocide being committed in the Caucasus!”

But that is not true.

“What about the fund, huh? What about the fund? Tell us, here are the people here. Tell us about the fund, Adams? What about the fund? The charity fund. How about it? A lot of politicians walked across the aisle, to contribute to the appeal fund. But one name was missing. Now I wonder who that might have been? And why?”

You… assume I didn’t contribute?

“Well, I don’t see your name on the list. I don’t suppose you’re one of those X number of mysterious ‘anonymous donors’ they mentioned, are you?”

If I were, I wouldn’t tell you.

“Oh, wouldn’t you? Well, sadly… something tells me that doesn’t quite ring true. Well, it just so appears that Mr Integrity here wants us to believe that he would contribute some kind of huge sum to the aid appeal for the Chechen genocide, and, get this, he’s just too good ol’ modest, plain-speaking lilywhite to tell us. Well, you really are something, aren’t you? We just aren’t worthy, are we?”

I try not to tell everyone everything I do…

“Oh, well. That sounds pretty secretive to me. Do you think we can trust someone like that to act transparently and accountably.”

That is for the American people to decide. I am here to earn their trust.

“Well, we’ll see how that one goes.”


Adams paused and switched it off.

“Hey… Hey hey hey, Adi boy!” Saul spluttered, laying down his pipe and begin to choke with long-deferred mirth.

“At least Golden Robot is out on his ass, huh? Heh heh heh!”

The ghost of a smile flickered around his lips.

“Quite a coup, yes. The centrist favourite, Marcus Seamus Riddle, appears to have been very much displeased by the unfavourable treatment he received. I must confess, I did not expect to be one of only two Democrats left in the running.”

Saul coughed, and coughed, and cough again.

“See… see this frickin’ Riddle asshole, Adoph. What a butthurt snowflake! Gets one little thing doesn’t go his way, and he goes back to his pathetic little ‘Riddle Crime Foundation.’”

Adams tutted, and not by any means insincerely. “We really don’t know for sure that it is a Crime Foundation.”

Saul burst into laughter, rocking up and down in his chair for sheer mirth. Adams was mildly annoyed by Saul’s apparently dismissive and flippant attitude; all the same, he knew that Saul’s peculiarities and quirks were fairly deeply rooted. And it would surely seem churlish to worry too much about this now.

“Adi, boy! Did you get dropped on the head?”

Adolph gently set his glass down and said:

“Now Saul, I know there is a lot of corruption in our profession. ‘The world’s oldest profession,’ as an old joke of yours runs; one we have enjoyed in the past, and shall no doubt have good occasion to amuse ourselves with again. And yet… And yet… this seven-letter word beginning with ‘P’ is not always quite as bad as it seems. After all, Saul; we are OK, aren’t we? We haven’t been selling out the country for the sake of filthy lucre, surely?”

He raised his eyebrow archly, because he knew Saul would find the joke amusing. Albeit, not because the joke was false, but because it was true. Saul and Adolph were both men of integrity; and it is not inconceivable, to those at least of a more conspiratorial mindset, that Adams and and Friedman had both been weighed down a little by their largely incorruptible character.

Saul cackled with glee. “You are just too fuckin’ funny, Adolph ‘Honest Adolph’ Adams,” using the sarcastic slur Pilder had used the night before. “These people are all balls deep in the pie. Why the hell would they set up the Riddle Fraud Foundation, unless he was trying to pay for play some rich cunts to give him a retirement he’ll never forget… Before he finally splits Hell wide open!”

Adolph raised his hands in dismay. “They are not ‘cunts,’ Saul. And wishing eternal damnation on anyone is a bit harsh, don’t you think?’”

“Thank God for Dead Communiiiiiiiiiiiists!” Saul began to sing.

Adolph’s face fell.

“Saul, dear friend, you really are rather harsh. This all does come across as a little cynical. Perhaps, for all you or I could possibly know, there is a better side to our good friend Mr Riddle, and he merely wishes to do some good in this world before…”

Saul had been laughing all the way through Adolph’s sarcastic thought experiment, until he finally realised, to his utmost horror, that Adolph was in deadly earnest.

“HOOOOOOOOOOORSE…. SHIT!” Saul roared, barely able to contain himself for rage. He couldn’t believe Adolph was willing to so much as remotely entertain the possibility that these appalling warmongers, sellouts and unpatriotic traitors had the slightest shred of good in them.

Saul knew there was absolutely no way he could let Adolph get away with this. Silently fuming, he tapped gently on his whiskey glass.

By now, Adolph knew well enough to let the storm pass.

Eventually, discerning the moment aright, he gently said:

“The one who has fallen short in one point of the law, as they say, is guilty of all.”

Saul spat in disgust.

“Christianity. Such a pile of crap. How do people even believe this shit.”

Adolph had long ago noticed that Saul was more or less respectful of religion, and even of Christianity, in his sober moments. But sometimes, when he was drunk, he used to rant and rave to a remarkable degree about what utter nonsense it all was. Adolph was always a little afraid that Saul’s unfiltered comments would reach the ears of the media. But Saul normally had enough self-control, such as it was, to rant in a more or less private context.

“Do they still want to kill us?”

Saul spat.

Out of context, this comment would seem odd to most people.

But Adolph knew by ‘us,’ Saul meant his people.

“No… Most of them don’t. Christianity has changed.”

Saul laughed a dark, hollow laugh.

“It had to change, huh? Mustn’t really be up to snuff then, hm? Why’d they need to change their stupid, pathetic Kool-Aid death cult, if it was OK to start with? Sounds like it must have been complete horseshit to begin with. I tell ya, Adi boy, the only stupider bullshit ideology on the face of the earth is socialism.”

Trying to amuse Saul and lift him out of his strop, Adolph said:

“Look on the bright side. At least we are not Benny Pilder, hm?”

Saul cackled with glee.

He then began a long ramble about some ridiculous L Ron Hubbard anecdotes. Adams did not interrupt him until he had finished.

Finally, he said:

“Folly is a funny thing, isn’t it? We all think it is everyone else who is foolish, don’t we?”

Saul lay back in his chair at last, and whispered, ‘Shades of Zhuangzi.’

Adolph didn’t know who or what Zhuangzi was, but for some inexplicable reason, his mind was drawn to dear Big Xian, who had suffered such a horrible fate, when all those wicked Trotskyite Tibetan nationalists had murdered him in cold blood. He never quite understood why occasionally, when mentioning this terrible tragedy, Saul tended to make curious and inscrutable comments like ‘He who makes one lose his life shall save another.’

He tried to dismiss it as the drunken ravings of a brilliant but troubled soul; but something in his heart, some deep, ineradicably stubborn and persistent mustard seed’s intuition, told him that there was a little more to that story than most people (including Saul’s bosom friend, Adolph Adams) would ever know.

Chapter 28: Everyone Has a Choice to Right

Deborah was disappointed to learn that the media were turning their turrets on Adolph. Now that their golden boy had left, they seemed to have little interest in ridiculing Benny Pilder; Honest Adolph, previously known only as a ‘fringe maverick,’ was now consistently demonised day in, day out.

The quality of the commentary never seemed to get any better; nor did it seem to deteriorate. For reasons Deborah could never quite discern, Adolph was hated even more than Benny Pilder. Deborah had already begun to entertain the possibility that all this wall-to-wall on message demonisation might actually boost Adolph, because reverse psychology is often a deeply disruptive force in nomination campaigns; not to mention the actual election itself! However, she was still unsure. ‘A nomination is not an election, and an election is not a nomination,’ she muttered to herself; over, and over, and over, and over, again.

One thing that was striking about the media coverage was its radical inconsistency.

On the one hand, Pilder had flippantly referred to Adams as a ‘strong leader in a tight spot.’ The media then mentioned that the debate had happened shortly after Holocaust Memorial Day, and that because Adams did not descend into campus ‘call out’ culture and note the tastelessly demeaning character of the slur, he had acted weakly, and that Adams’ discretion and civility were not really discretion and civility at all, but merely a tacit way of condoning or excusing Pilder’s crass and vulgar comment.

Curiously enough, the media did not idealise Pilder, as they had previously idealised Riddle. Riddle was gone, but there was no viable, pro-establishment candidate to replace him. This being so, directly boosting Pilder would undoubtedly have been bad taste; for no President at all, is undoubtedly a better prospect than a President who refuses to go along with the mediocre establishment consensus in all respects. Even so, they treated Pilder as a rich source of entertainment. Every last tweet, every last tasteless joke, every pathetic comment was mulled over in detail.
Interestingly enough, Pilder was actually an extraordinarily conventional and robotic candidate, whose ideological views were not as different from those of Riddle as he would have had us all believe. Pilder’s shallow economic populism, which was entirely lacking in the gravity and scientific seriousness his nomination rival tried to bring, was enough to make him look entertaining. Just as Marcus Charleston Bubble was given constant air-time, despite his complete lack of wisdom, foresight, intellectual seriousness or philosophical profundity, so also was Pilder wheeled out as an extravagant operatic trope, to counterpose his rival.

The media had absolutely no interest in giving Adams a fair shot at the nomination, Deborah ruefully concluded. She could hardly say she was surprised at this; but every now and then, her tender heart was still shocked, indeed wounded, by the brutal savagery of the corporate media, who consistently twisted and misrepresented everything Adams said, in order to make it look racist, misogynistic, or otherwise unacceptable. Saul had once confided in her that he often felt, by this point, at Adolph could walk the election, as long as he just shut his trap for the next few months, and didn’t say anything at all. Then nobody would be able to twist his words, and make him look bad.

Deborah said nothing, because she knew the poor, bitter old man was crying out for someone to help save the country, and somehow find a way to dig them out of this bottomless pit of continual warmongering, mass surveillance, intel subversion and police brutality. She knew she had no words of comfort to offer him.
Things continued to deteriorate. Adams had already remarked more than once that it was a real ‘damned if you, damned if you don’t’ situation.
If he kept silent, he was evasive or dishonest.

If he spoke, he was a fanatic.

If he occasionally got mildly irritated, he was clearly over-sensitive (although other politicians got away with truly belligerent and aggressive behaviour, while every miniscule slip of Adolph’s, without exception, was under the microscope for days or weeks). But if he was constantly civil, he was clearly insincere and sycophantic.

Finally: if he criticised the establishment and their false values, he was a dangerous ideologue.

But whenever he spoke less critically, he was an overly intellectual and detached egghead, who was pretty much incapable of empathy, and had no idea how tough life was for real Americans, who didn’t share his considerable economic, racial and gender privileges.
The double binds were brutal, but he was determined, nonetheless to see them through.

One particularly sad event was when the shameless media, as well as Benny Pilder, made shallow political capital about a spate of abortion clinic shootings. In the second debate, Adams missed a number of opportunities (some might say open goals) to politicise the shootings; i.e. to throw down the gauntlet to Benny Pilder, by showing that only he, Adolph Adams, was man enough to take on Republican populists like Bubble, who many Democrats blamed personally for creating the kind of environment where such shootings could actually take place.

Cunningly biding his time, the master tactician Benny Pilder saved his bravado chivalry until near the very end of the debate. Remarking on Adolph’s relatively brief and dispassionate comments on the abortion clinic shootings, Pilder questioned whether someone who could be that calm about abortion clinic shootings was really fit to be the President of the United States of America; particularly when the Republicans were threatening to put the final nail in the coffin of Roe Vs Wade, immediately after the coming election. Even prominent liberal newspapers were in full panic mode over the prospect of a post-abortion USA. For extra spice, Pilder maliciously misquoted some comments Adams had made in an academic journal several years ago, regarding the importance of dispassionate reason and objectivity in politics. Deliberately distorting what Adams wrote, Pilder snorted:

This man wants us all to be ‘dispassionate’ about these shootings. Do you feel dispassionate, ladies and gentlemen?

The audience erupted in fury.

I know I don’t feel remotely dispassionate. I’m mad as hell! And I don’t know how anyone in America, particularly a Democratic nomination candidate, should be sitting there on their ivory tower, right here and now, telling us we just shouldn’t care, we should just ignore it and forget about it… And we should just be dispassionate!

Saul’s sharp analytical mind, in a misguided attempt to help his friend, had sat up all night listing the fallacies in Pilder’s performance. He had found no fewer than fifteen fallacies and wilful misinterpretations of Pilder’s comments on dispassion. The entire list of deliberate lies ran well into the hundreds. He must have sat up parsing everything word by word, and then rewinding, and parsing again.

Adolph’s first thought when he saw the list was that it didn’t matter what he said; it wouldn’t make any difference. There was no way he could possible spare the time to rake over the lies the establishment had been spreading about this recent comments, recent silences, and earlier deeds and words. There was absolutely no time to waste with this nonsense. Somehow, he just had to press on, and get on with it.

However, seeing the impatient, barely legible scrawls of his dear old friend Saul Friedman (line upon line, page upon page upon page), as well as Saul’s mournful, baggy-eyed sorrow, he simply didn’t have the heart to say so. ‘Why, thank you kindly, sir. This will come in very helpful.’ Adams was not very well versed in the dark arts of little white lies, and he spent the next two or three nights rather ill at ease at having said whatever was expedient, rather than what the strict truth of the matter.

That much, at least, he and his beloved friend, still had in common.

Chapter 29: Things Not Yet Seen

Senator Bubble was succeeding very well at picking off his opponents one by one. Although he was not himself a very intelligent or articulate person, he was certainly smart enough to flatter and bribe his way to what by now seemed a certain victory.
The conservative media and much of the party machinery seemed to have realised that the only way to beat Benny Pilder would be to choose the most entertaining candidate. There was certainly a large field of candidates; but most of them were boring, plagued by scandals, or simply too ambitious.
Out of some two dozen or so candidates, all of the long shots had already fallen by the wayside. Most of the serial scandal candidates had finally been put out of their misery by the not so loving truth shots of the media. All Bubble had to do know was to hold his nerve against the few remaining candidates; or rather, refuse to hold his nerve. It had been a while since there had been anything like Bubble’s crass, boorish and insensitive ‘charisma’ in a candidature. Not since the days of President Donald Trump had there been such a thin-skinned, flamboyantly vulgar party nomination candidate.
And now Bubble was about to finally debate his opposite number. Although the media were already taking about the impending final Democratic nomination debate, Bubble and Adams had agreed to a debate at their alma mater: St Thomas Aquinas Theological College, Rhode Island.
Bubble grunted, gassed and burped before ascending finally beginning to speak.
“Hi everybody!” Bubble said. “I love America! And I love God Almighty, and as Jesus Christ himself said, we walk by faith alone! Sola fide! And we also believe that in American alone, we have our trust!”

***

Miles and miles away, Saul scribbled down the fallacies and errors he noted. ‘Sola Fide’ sounded strange in a Catholic College. A hint of idolatry too, and quite possibly a misattributed quote… Saul racked his brains to see if it was so, and turned to Deborah. “Fake news!” Deborah laughed. “No such quote!”
Saul knelt down and poised his pen again. “He who honours me, I shall honour,” he muttered.
Deborah laughed again. “Now that is a real quote.” Saul looked up, surprised at how perky Deborah seemed to be, given recent circumstances. “John’s Gospel?” he muttered tentatively. “1st or 2nd Samuel, I think,” Mona answered. Saul blushed. How is it possible Mona could have known this, and he didn’t? He remembered the time, at a university debate about the Israel/Palestine issue, Saul made a casual allusion to the book of Deuteronomy, and slightly misquoted the passage in question. Saul was utterly horrified that Adams corrected him. And not only because the quote was only intended as a throwaway allusion.
Later, he cornered Adolph and told him in no uncertain terms that this book belonged to him, and that given how ‘his people’ had looted and plundered what was most sacred to Saul’s own people for centuries, the very least Adolph could do for him was to not be a wise-ass about the books ‘he and his boys’ had stolen. Adolph was greatly distressed at this to see how he had hurt Saul, and pleaded with Saul to forgive his unwise intervention. But Saul remained intractable for a whole two or three days, until a bottle of whiskey broke down the proverbial middle wall of division betwixt the twain.
Setting the notepad aside, Saul shuffled into the kitchen. Deborah glanced sadly at Saul; he seemed to be in one of his funny moods.

***

Bubble’s speech was riddled with so much theological and historical ignorance, it was very difficult to tell where stupidity ended and deliberate manipulation and gaslighting actually began. Of course, this was exactly what the media wanted, so it probably didn’t do him any harm. After a largely insincere preliminary flaunting of his faith credentials, Bubble remarked:

I don’t know whether God thinks I am going to be the best President ever. I like to think he would. The Bible tells us that God rewards people who try their best to become successful and don’t take any crap from anybody. Christians have always believed that weak and pathetic losers are the enemies of God, and we have to make sure that no matter what happens, we try and do the right thing, and if haters don’t like it, then they can go to hell!
I can honestly tell you, I’ve never felt the need to apologise to God for anything I’ve done as a Republican, and as a human being; my apology is to not mess up in the first place! That’s real faith! When you quit being a pussy and bitching and whining about how bad you feel about messing up! Don’t mess up! Then you don’t have to worry about anything.
I don’t say I’ve never messed up in my life, but believe me, it doesn’t happen very often. You can imagine. Just imagine, ladies and gentlemen! Can you imagine me messing up? Doesn’t happen very often. You can count on that. You can count on that, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t mess up. Marcus Charleston Bubble don’t mess up. Neither did Jesus. Neither does Moses, or Josephus, or Jebediah, Hosiah, or Ezeebabbakook yada-yada-yada or all the other guys, who cares, you know who I mean! These boys, ain’t they just the best! Look at these boys, that’s… Jeremiah, isn’t it boys? … Matthew? Oh wow, he was a good one too. Matthew in the tiger’s den; I love those stories! I tell my kids all the time; they’re good kids too.
No, they’re the best, believe me. You can’t doubt it. My kids are the best, you can trust me on that one. But yeah, as I always like to say, I don’t try to pray too much, cos I kinda prefer to be a man of action. You know, I was saying the other day, in one of my speeches, that the reason I don’t pray much, is because…

This is only a small portion of what eventually turned out to be a 50 minutes stream of consciousness ramble, instead of a 5 minute introduction. Bubble was furious when, apparently thinking he was lesss than halfway through his intended rant, he tried to show slideshow of his visit to St Angelo d’Agostini leper hospital in the Philippines. At this point, the priests and scholars were utterly incandescent with rage at his disrespectful behaviour; but they finally begged him to cede the floor. Upon hearing this, Bubble began to rant and rave, saying that the ‘socialist media’ had clearly planted spies in the university. Although this was clearly a nonsensical accusation, Bubble had no intention of convincing anyone in the lecture hall of the truth of his silly conspiracy theory. For his speech was not at all for their ears.
In fact, should it not have been for the fact that Bubble had been offered wall to wall media coverage on the Anthony Bubble Premium Reportage Network and Josef Gueber Conservative Truth Channel, he wouldn’t have come at all. For reasons that are not entirely clear, the university had refused to allow mainstream media outlets to attend, saying they wished for a discreet and respectful discussion, rather than a media circus. Precisely why, then, they thought controversial indymedia outlets were appropriate invitees instead, remains a mystery we shall not pry too deeply into; for we dare not examine such things as are high for us and inscrutable, as the Psalmist says.
After Bubble, Adams spoke plainly of his agnostic views. Although many had advised him that this was political suicide for a nomination candidate, Adolph felt uncomfortable dissimulating. Even if he had wanted to hypocritically flaunt a piety he could not feel himself, he wouldn’t have known how. He did not judge those who did, but he did wonder how they managed it.
Then the debate finally began; with three conveniently loaded gotcha questions, from some carefully planted agents of the establishment.

Is the slogan ‘trading liberty for security’ just an excuse for cynical and opportunistic ‘liberty fundamentalists’ to seek personal advancement and enrichment?

Should former gay porn actor, convicted hate-crime perpetrator and UK Minister for Culture and the Arts Morton Megaraparthenon have apologised for saying that ‘Islamophobia, Scientologyphobia and Toryphobia are all victimless crimes?’

Is it wrong for us to just selfishly sit on our hands and look out for #1 when the international community has a sworn and sovereign duty and prerogative to act and to liberate and to practice compassionate cosmopolitanism and be a major player on the world stage, speaking up for those who can’t speak for themselves?

Adolph sighed, because he now realised he had been set up. Saul had been sceptical of the invitation, and had warned Adolph to be on his guard. And Deborah practically had to bow down on bended knee, to plead with Adolph not to go. Adolph, however, was worried about causing undue offence, and feared that it would be impolite to snub such a renowned institution; especially as it was his alma mater. Both his friends warned him that the university Saul and Adolph remembered was not the university of today.
Adolph was a little uneasy, but he told his friends that he had been personally approached by a young priest-professor, who was very nice to him, and told him that he was ‘a true shining light among all our past graduates.’ Adolph was largely immune to flattery; but he was not by any means immune to kindness, or at least perceived kindness. Upon hearing these (genuinely!) innocent and guileless words, Saul had sworn under his breath, and dropped the topic. Deborah, by contrast, sat down and cried. Adams tried to comfort her, but it was to no avail.
The debate started quite badly. Bubble began by saying that ‘trading liberty for security’ was a boring and stupid idea, and those who spoke like that were tedious irrelevancies. “Hopefully there is nobody too close to home who would be that damned stupid though, huh?” Adolph had seen a lot of disturbing behaviour from politicians in his time, but he was still unhappy with what Bubble said about him.
Although Benny Pilder had behaved in an extraordinarily abusive and heartless manner towards him in the previous nomination debates, his fellow Democrat did at least seem to have a degree of intelligence and subtlety. Pilder only rarely strayed into explicitly crass and abusive talk; possessing the mastery of a true pilot, Pilder always managed to drop a bomb or two, then deftly and imperceptibly steer back at least somewhat within the safe havens of bourgeois respectability and decency.
By fairly obvious contrast, Bubble was consistently moronic! To his surprise, it was even harder to debate Bubble that it was to debate Pilder. He had previously thought that because Pilder was so supple, athletic and dynamic, he must surely be a tougher sparring partner than Bubble. However, it was precisely Bubble’s absolutely uninihibited character that made it almost impossible to debate, as he saw.
For, manipulative and conniving as Pilder was, he at least understood the rules of debate; he was able to follow the laws before bending them, and turning them against his opponents. He was every different from Bubble, who seemed barely aware that a rulebook even existed; every kind of regulation and convention conceivable, written and unwritten, was torn up and shredded.
Bubble mocked Adams’ name, his diction, his personal appearance, his career pre-politics, his political highs and lows, his friends, his family, his colleagues; and, in one particularly heartbreaking jibe that reduced Adams to tears, Bubble made light of his late mother’s death, while being careful to use innuendo about plane crashes and other contextual factors that made it absolutely unmistakable what he meant, but still provided plausible deniability to the media.
A seasoned debate, albeit far from a seasoned polemicist, Adolph was extremely unhappy about the cruel and heartless way Bubble was treating him. In the end, Adolph was unable to remember any of the details of the debate, including the three bad faith questions they had tricked him into trying to answer. All he could remember afterwards was the constant, cruel stream of personal attacks, not so subtle innuendo, nonsensical distortions of his past writings, speeches and actions, and even the dizzying avalanche of outright lies Bubble told about him.
At times, Adams had to blink, to remind himself he wasn’t dreaming. Bubble was so utterly full of sublime, demonic nonsense, the very idea of truth or falsehood, right or wrong, correct or incorrect, seemed obscene. Bubble seemed to be entirely lacking in the customary hypocrisy and bad faith of top-ranking politicians. Dishonest and hypocrisy at least imply a minimal regard for truth; as only someone who believes in truth is actually capable of lying, to start with. Bubble seemed to live in a world where the question of lies and falsehood, essence and appearance, sanity and delusion didn’t even exist to begin with.
It was impossible for Bubble to lie, because he didn’t even seem to fulfil the basic preconditions of a good liar. It was almost as though Bubble’s consciousness had been seared by bad habits, and the thought of lying didn’t even occur to him. As though he was somehow suffering from dangerous delusions, and he didn’t so much depart from the truth, as lack the merest conception of ‘true’ and ‘false.’
Sarcasm aside, Adolph was indeed an honest man, and lies grieved him. But here, he seemed to be in trapped in a hideous Hell of Hells where even an honest lie would have comforted him more than anything. This thought itself, in turn, made him feel guilty, and he wondered if he was beginning to lose his integrity.
But this was not so. He was, although he would have been the last to tell you this himself, the victim of an extraordinary act of perpetual fraud; a ‘permanent sacrifice’ of the truth, an utter purgatory of delusion.

Chapter 30: Conspiracy Corners
The media tore into Adams after the debate. In fact, if anything, the sensationalist conservative media outlets went easier on him than the more established, mainstream outlets. For quite some time, the latter had been devoted largely to secondary journalism, i.e. relying parasitically on the hard work of the largely vanishing indymedia market. Over time, the smaller and more agile outlets had found themselves increasingly unable to compete, as the mainstream outlets looted as much of their work as they possibly could, while cynically dismissing the rest of their work as ‘conspiracy theories.’
Many of the ‘conspiracy theories,’ of course, were not conspiracy theories at all. For example, the view that Washington wanted to play divide and rule in various areas of the world was now dismissed as a conspiracy theory; but attributing such divide and rule tactics to rival powers was perfectly acceptable.
Similarly, the view that intelligence agencies had inappropriate links to prominent US corporations, including establishment media outlets, was a ‘conspiracy theory.’ Yet, it was not at all conspiratorial to denounce the Chinese Communist Party, the United Russia Party, and various other foreign establishments, for meddling in the media, and systematically and brutally undermining the free marketplace of ideas; just like ‘good countries did.’
Or again, it was a ‘conspiracy theory’ to claim tedious humanitarian boilerplate like ‘war crimes,’ ‘genocide,’ ‘crimes against humanity,’ ‘humanitarian crisis’ or ‘international community’ were fundamentally self-serving terms; but the same could not, of course, be said of the terms used by apologists for Communism, or for political Islam.
Perhaps it is fair to conclude by saying that everyone in the world has their ‘conspiracy theories.’ But a great deal depends on whose ox is getting gored.

Chapter 30: Neurodiversity is Mighty

Saul pored through his transcript of this debate. He clumsily dragged a purple, jagged line with his marker pen; an unusual choice for a task like this, but so be it. As he stood up and moved towards the restroom, Deborah subtly inched over to have a look.
She was quite shocked to read the transcript, and she wondered if Saul was quite well. She found it hard to believe that what she was reading was a true and authentic transcript of the recent debate.
MARCUS CHARLIE-ASS BUBBLE:
Ha! Are you here to save the little guy?
HONEST ADOLPH
No, I am not here to save the little guy. And there is no little guy. Each one of us, I say yes, every one of us, we are all mighty giants! But we are ever under the boots of cringing dwarves.
[ENSUING SOCIALIST UPROAR AT CHOICE OF WORDS]
I will call it as I see it. I believe in the individual, which as our friend Father Jeffries here on the podium with me will surely acknowledge, is the only name under Heaven by which man shall be saved.
[MORE MARXIST BITCHING AND WHINING AT CHOICE OF WORDS]
What? Is this how you respond to the name of the individual? Well, I do beg leave to apologise to my friends and, I trust, in many cases, my future comrades in arms. I meant no offence. There is no such thing as a disproportionate advocacy of individualism. Individualism is the only –ism which isn’t an –ism.
BELLA SNOWFLAKE BRAUN
You mean, ‘sorry if you were offended.’ You misogynistic swine! Just quit your semantics? How about your silence on that show the other night?
Yeah, you know, the other night? The night ten people were shot inside an abortion clinic? Why the hell didn’t you speak up then? Just goes to show, a leopard never changes his spots. You’re still that same naive, callow Austrian anarchist of way back then.
HONEST ADOLPH
I’ve already given my reasons. In my view, it wasn’t the time to discuss policies and legislation. It was a time of mourning.
BELLA SNOWFLAKE BRAUN
You have never mourned for a woman in your life; not once. Not even your own mother last week. You fucked-up, fucked-up, anti-choice piece of shit!
FATHER JIM JEFFRIES
Excuse me, may we moderate…
BELLA SNOWFLAKE BRAUN
I’m done! He obviously wants to have his say anyway. Have his say over my body and my choice. Fuck you, Adolph Adams… Fuck you!
HONEST ADOLPH
Neither life nor choice are pristine. Naomi Wolf once…
SNOWFLAKE BELLA
Who are you to talk about Naomi Wolf, you misogynistic hypocrite?!
HONEST ADOLPH
This is all getting rather personal.
LONGWINDED BELLA
What’s more personal than an abortion? You ever had one? No? Then shut the fuck up! I don’t care who endorses you; beneath the rhetoric, you’re just a Republican, an unrepentant Austrian oxygen thief who is making some kind of disingenuous pretence, that he’s already seen the error of his ways!
I’ve seen the way you sit on the fence. Saying all that crap about how ‘excessive’ abortion regulation (hah!) is ‘counterproductive to the aim intended, and may make the problem much worse for everyone than it might be under a more moderate system.’
Look, when you are sitting there intellectualising shit like that, people are literally dying because they can’t get access! What the hell have ‘means and ends’ got to do with it? My body is not for negotiation and intellectual speculation. Don’t you dare ever, ever, ever start discussing whether anti-choice laws are counterproductive. It doesn’t matter whether you say they are or they aren’t. Saying they are is just as bad as saying they aren’t. I am not having some privileged straight white guy with a fucking Jew nose and unacknowledged Zionist privilege, talking about whether such laws ‘don’t work.’
CONFUSED STONER BOY
Yeah, but are you surprised? This guy is probably owned by the Zio-Rothschild Venture Banking Fraternity; no wonder the controlled media love him!
MAGNANIMOUS BELLA
Oh, my, gosh! How DARE you say something so antisemitic?!
EVEN MORE CONFUSED STONER BOY
Huh? You just said precisely the same thing!
DRINKING GAME BELLA
Uh-uh! Bigot fail! I was talking about Zionism, not Jews!
STONER BOY ASSHOLE
Same frickin’ shit!
STRAWMAN BELLA
But anyway… I am not being talked down to by a pacifist isolationist!
FATHER JIM “ONCE IN A LIFETIME” JEFFRIES
Now, now…
BINARY LOGIC BELLA
Ohhh, would you just shut up!
But now. Now, now… now look, just you listen to me! At least the people who say they want to ban abortion completely are honest. ‘Abortion regulation is counterproductive?’ My ass! Next you’ll be saying rape laws are ‘counterproductive.’ It’s not about you and your dusty theoretical speculations, you filthy, shitty, male-chauvinist, misogynistic sack of crap! There is no middle ground on abortion. Don’t you dare EVER talk about ‘the right balance.’ There is no balance, and there are no compromises. You either want women to die, or you don’t! A dead woman is a dead woman, there’s literally no in-between! If you want to mess around and try and fence-sit the way you do, you’re ever bit as sexist as the Republicans. You are on the side of evil, pure evil! Every bit as much as they are!
FATHER JIM “ONE MORE TRY” JEFFRIES
Excuse me, but please may we…
NUCLEAR BELLA
Shut the fuck up, padre! Don’t you dare ever try and interrupt me. You’ve had it your own way a bit too long, alright?
[LOUD APPLAUSE AND JEERING FROM ALL THEM FRICKIN’ SJW SNOWFLAKE WANKERS]
BUBBLE BUTT MARKIE
Ha! Waterworks, eh? So it begins. What’re you crying about, Adams? Whew, this guy must have had some kind of, you know, failed nomination campaign or something. Still, don’t forget, this guy may well be an anarchist when it comes to male-dominated political life. But he’s also an authoritarian; in some contexts anyways, or I guess, in one way or another. Make of that what you will!
[LAUGHTER, APPLAUSE, JEERING]
HONEST ADOLPH
Am I an anarchist? How do you define anarchy? For, ‘I have sworn vengeance against…’
TEN-GALLON PIEHOLE BELLA
No, no, no! Senator Bubble knows Thomas Jefferson! But you, sir, are NO Thomas Jefferson!
HONEST ADOLPH
Well, I would like to think we are all Thomas Jefferson! No-one else can save you but yourself, but we can all stand together, no matter what befalls!
BOO HOO BELLA
That’s sheer libertarianism! Just like you were spouting 40 years ago, yeah? So much for your change of heart. What a pathetically suck-ass attempt to pretend to be progressive.
HONEST ADOLPH
It’s really not! You see what I am saying here? That’s what progressive constitutionalism is all about!
BELLA
You’re still no Thomas Jefferson!
HONEST ADOLPH
Well, it’s an old joke, and a good one! But now, I should say…
BELLA
Old joke? You mean like the charity advert? You’re making light of how Governor Bubble paid to his late father who reminded him of Thomas Jefferson?! He only died three days ago! Just show some frickin’…
HONEST ADOLPH
Oh, come on, now. You can’t surely think that?
BELLA
Defamer! Well-poisoner! Anti-choice Nazi! Respect my choice! Stop triggering us! You want to gas us all! You are funded by literal Nazis! They pay you in Bitcoin!
HONEST ADOLPH
Wh… Are you out of your mind?
BELLA
… I literally cannot believe you just said that!
IDIOT SCHMUCK #1
Oh, my, God! He did not go there!
IDIOT SCHMCUK #2
He’s LITERALLY talking about her autism!
HONEST ADOLPH
Hey, hey now, wait a minute…
BELLA
Wait a minute?! Check your privilege, you bigoted bastard! I’ve been self-diagnosed for over four months! I’m suffering, so, so much, when people like you try and silence us!
HONEST ADOLPH
Hey, hey now, can we all just…
BELLA
Don’t you ever dare infantilize me! I am neurodiversity! And you are not neurodiversity, you filthy, repugnant neurotypical bigot! I bet you’re a pro-cure privileged white guy who supports genocide of the autistic community!
IDIOT SCHMUCK #1
Yeah, don’t you dare infantilize her! Let her speak for herself, and let her have a voice, and stop censoring her, you authoritarian bigot!
BELLA
You talk to me like you’re scolding some, some kind of stupid…
HONEST ADOLPH
Look, nobody is stupid here.
JACOB
Well somebody sure is stupid! Get the fuck back to Kansas, you ignorant frickin’ hick!
HONEST ADOLPH
Oh well, heh heh… Mississippi, but close enough. Kansas is magic territory. I’m from the Blues country. ‘Pale pagan blues,’ by the Chip Johnny Hops. All that stuff.
BELLA
What the fuck did he just say? That is a hate crime!
HONEST ADOLPH
A what?
BELLA
He doesn’t even know, does he? How dare you talk to me that way? Don’t you know pagans are an oppressed minority? This campus should be a safe space! If it was up to me, our protest would have succeeded! I don’t feel safe.
[BELLA BURSTS INTO TEARS]
HONEST ADOLPH
This is… Now, this is America. Freedom of speech is what we are all…
BELLA
Don’t you dare use that racist ‘blues jive’ trope to a person of color! I’m transracial! Freedom of speech demands accountability!
HONEST ADOLPH
No, it doesn’t. It really doesn’t. You can trust me on that one.
BELLA
We can’t trust you on anything! Call yourself anti-establishment? You’re actually advocating, and yes you are actually perpetrating literal violence against every last innocent student on this campus!
HONEST ADOLPH
Violence? What violence? Well, I have a gun, sure. It’s in the Second Amendment, as we all know.
BELLA
Condescending asshole! C, c, c… condescending f-f-fucking asshole!
HONEST ADOLPH
Yes, I have a gun. But I haven’t brought it today. Because it is a right, not a duty. Now how about we talk about that one instead?
BELLA
WTF? A duty to kill us? What the literal fuck?! This guy is insane!
HONEST ADOLPH
And it just so happens, I believe the topic for I will be discussing in the last part of my closing speech is actually…
BELLA
Did you hear that?!
IDIOT SCHMUCK #1
don’t you fucking dare threaten us! Security!
HONEST ADOLPH
Hey, hey, now wait…
[MOB CHANTS: SECURITY! GET HIM OUT! GET HIM OUT! SECURITY! GET HIM OUT! SMOKE BOMBS BEGIN TO FLY, AND ANTIFA START BEATING PEOPLE AT RANDOM]
HONEST ADOLPH
Just one moment. Please, please just listen to me…
[MOB CHANTS: SAFE SPACE! SAFE SPACE! SAFE SPACE!]
HONEST ADOLPH
I’m all for safe spaces. But I’m not going to let this become a whole safe campus!
[MOB CHANTS: SAFE SPACE! SAFE SPACE! SAFE SPACE! GET HIM OUT!]
HONEST ADOLPH
Hey, this is sheer anarchy! ‘Get me out?’
[MOB CHANTS: Safe space! Safe space! Safe space!]
JACOB
What the fuck is wrong with anarchy anyways, you privileged asshole? Fricking jerk! Bring down the government! Bring down the shit-sucking, isolationist, pacifist, liberal bureaucrats! Liberals get the bullet too!
IDIOT SCHMUCK #2
Ohhh, I could strangle this bastard with my bare hands. Just let him bleed!
IDIOT SCHMUCK #3
You’re not the only one!
HONEST ADOLPH
Please let’s discuss this. I’m not going anyw… URGH!
[MASS LAUGHTER, JEERING, APPLAUSE]
IDIOT SCHMUCK #1
This is only the start…
BOUGHT & PAID 5-0 OXYGEN BANDIT
Come this way, sir! Resisting arrest is an offence in itself!
BELLA
Somebody bite your tongue, huh?
JACOB
Yeah, some liberal pacifist straight white guy bigot just bit his tongue!
BELLA
How about that suspended sentence, asshole?
JACOB
We are taking this campus back!
IDIOT SCHMUCK #1
The oppressors have lost!
JACOB
This cynical bastard. Three cheers for ‘Emperor’ fuckin’ Bubble! You call him the Emperor, huh? Well, rather him than you, right?!
[BUBBLE SMIRKS. MOB CONTINUES TO CHANT: SAFE SPACE! SAFE SPACE! SAFE SPACE!]

***

When Saul arrived back, he nodded grimly.
“It… didn’t happen quite like this?” she asked him.
Saul nodded his head.
There seemed to have a bit of artistic licence.
Later on, Deborah watched the debate from start to finish. One thing that stuck in Deborah’s mind was how during that debate, the media harshly accused him of being self-seeking; because he debated the Republican frontrunner when he hadn’t even won the Democratic nomination yet. He was accused of showing a false loyalty to his institution; i.e. it was alleged he had never paid a penny to support them his own alma mater. Of course, Bubble had never given a penny in a life to his old university, and he often used to speak of them disparagingly both in public, and in private. Adams, perhaps regrettably, was too scrupulous and over-nice to pick him up on the inconsistency between years of disparaging his alma mater and years of refusing to give them money, versus his current glowing praise and recent very large donation. The latter donation was given, in a very public and ostentatious manner, shortly after he began to run for the Republic nomination. Trying to outdo Pilder and Adams both in populist terms, Bubble insisted in providing a large sum of money to fund students living in poverty; particularly for military strategy, intelligence and ‘humanitarian liberation studies’ (which latter seems to have been curiously exempted from the customary Republican disdain for soft subjects).
In reality, Adams had accumulated quite a lot of wealth from his past career, and had been a frequent contributor to the university for many decades. But as with his other charitable deeds, he never permitted public disclosure of his contributions.
In a world where the mere hollow, superficial substance of virtue is everything, and true and authentic goodness means absolutely nothing, Adolph seems to have ended up with a serious competitive disadvantage.

Chapter 32: It Depends on What “Democracy” Is

Some months later, it was the eve of the election. Pilder had already won the Democratic nomination by default. Meanwhile, Bubble had easily demolished the few remaining stragglers, who simply couldn’t compete with his relentless barrage of cruelty, crassness and viciousness.The Presidential debates had turned out to be every bit as horrific (if horrifically entertaining also!) as expected.
And even the Machiavellian cunning of Pilder was at times lost for words; the Democratic candidate only had partial and half-hearted support from the party establishment, as he had never been supposed to win in the first place. Dark rumours persisted that the private view of the party hierarchy was that the Democrats would actually benefit if Pilder were to crash and burn; because it would kill off radical change in all forms, for a generation; if not ten, or twenty, or a hundred.
At the moment, it looked like Bubble was a shoe-in. This was not to say, of course, that support was universal. Some juvenile college students and professional grievance peddlers still doggedly clung to the corpse of Democratic progressivism; Bennie Pilder seemed to represent the dying scream, the final, desperate death throes of a doomed party. It was rumoured that the party might split completely if Pilder ended up suffering the commonly predicted electoral massacre. But nobody seriously thought that would make any difference, no matter what they said.
It was rumoured that the Bubble Body Count had misfired somewhat, insofar as Marcus’s mother had now joined his sister Sandy, and many other people who were alleged to have been destroyed by Bubble. Of course, Bubble was essentially untouchable. Thus, even though there were at least three cases were Bubble’s hands seemed to be all over the deaths, and many other at least half-plausible cases, none of the police were remotely interested in asking too many questions, or probing too deeply into something that was, as they had it, absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with them.
Still, it was Adams who was openly stigmatised and denounced as a murderer. Adams was left mute by the incident, and struggled to defend himself in court. However, the trial was rigged, and there was a surprising lack of drama. As high-profile murder trials go, it was surprisingly speedy. On the eve of execution, news filtered out, regarding some contentious comments, ranging from the ridiculous, to the rampantly egotistical, to the downright treasonous. These, of course, were deliberately distorted and misquoted, in order to make Adolph guilty by association with the likewise guiltless Saul and Deborah. Among these were:

  1. I do not advocate the national interest.
    I advocate the interests of American individuals.
  2. If we are going to save welfare, we are going to have to be clever about it. Let’s stop talking about the good of society, and let’s start talking about individuals, as we used to do. Otherwise, there is no hope.
  3. Serving Humanity, as such, is a mistaken venture. Individualism must be defended.
  4. If loyalty to Humanity is treason to the Individual, and if loyalty to the Individual is treason to Humanity, I have no other option, but to be disloyal to the ideals of many in the misguided political class of today.

Surprisingly enough, the dishonest fake news rumour mills made numerous false accusations of impropriety on Adams’ part, regarding leaked documents concerning surveillance and warmongering; being bribed and funded by white nationalists; and even being in the pocket of the NRA, which at this point in the history of America, was an almost indistinguishable accusation…
At least in certain circles.
All of this was highly gratifying to Senator Bubble, who was about to become the President of the Once-United States of America. One of the first things he did was to threaten Jordan and Lebanon with absolute destruction; two of the very few remaining countries untouched by the Centrist Empire’s endless campaign of humanitarian aggression.
Bubble grinned widely and hollowly, addressing the entire planet (or so he thought), revelling as the self-appointed leader of the self-styled Free World; greater, more patriotic, and freer than ever before.
On Election Day, he warned the people that he was for the Many, not the Few, and that all the enemies of America, both within and without, had better have a care for their necks! Speaking of hurting necks, he ostentatiously hugged a well-bribed rape victim; although some would say ‘well-threatened’ was nearer to the mark. This bone-cruncher hug, brutally imposed on one of the victims of the aforementioned abortion clinic shooting, might never have happened, had the constitutionally ignorant Bubble known she had been an HIV activist. The shrewd tactician and sexual terrorist Dickie Klindel knew well what to speak of, and what to bury beneath the shadows.
Of course, after some initial hesitation and grunting, he also made some inappropriate and flippant quips about the abortion clinic shooting; the media did lap it up, however, because Bubble said the jokes in such a way as to make Adams look bad. And if the media hated the Republicans, it hardly hated any less the man who had contributed towards slaying their baby, Marcus Seamus Riddle.
The future for America was now looking extraordinarily bleak; people could not have believed things could get any worse. But in certain key respects (Why ask? For time is fleeting, as every patriotic citizen knows!) the national crisis deepened ever darker, and more brutal.
Not least because the few remaining heroes and heroines in public life were finally fading into the shadows. And not Adams alone. For, the despicable race-hustler who blackmailed Adams also finally exposed Willow’s talk with Adams on the mountain-top, as well as her HIV-positive status (after the false negative that we saw some months back). This was bad enough; but the selective video footage of her naked swim with Adolph finally led the fragile Willow to a desperate suicide. The media tut-tutted on the fact that she was heavily pregnant when she murdered herself; although it was an open secret that the father was really Marcus Seamus Panthera Riddle (although he was normally discreet about his second middle name).
Saul, utterly disgusted at the news, staggered as best he could to what he hoped was the last surviving honest journalist in the USA. He wanted to tell the journalist about Riddle’s brutal violation of his beloved Deborah; but as he tapped his cane along the pavement in the utmost agony and torments of body and soul, his body ravaged by the early stages of Parkinson’s, Saul tutted and spat to himself, bitterly bemoaning his betrayal of Deborah in Yunnan; the innocent, gentle, tender warmth of the younger woman, and his hateful defensiveness towards the woman who could not but love and admire to the very depths of his being, even now.
Eventually Saul made it to the door of the person he was intending to meet.
The door swung open and, as though in a dream, Saul thought he had seen the curious tormented catty-boy again.
‘Quod scripsi, scripsi!’ screamed the ragged, running tormented letters of blood, on a squished-up cat face so lamentably yowly and tragicomic, Saul burst into hollow laughter.
Just then, the entire place went up in flames.
Sally’s grim, tear-stained eyes viewed the terror attack dispassionate, unemotionally, un-vindictively.
As Benito and Dickie suddenly pinned her from behind, muffled her trembling lips and pulled her underwear off, Sally went limp and numb. She felt nothing. It wasn’t like rape. It wasn’t violation. It wasn’t like anything.
When she finally came to, ten hours later, she was dimly aware that if she didn’t pick herself up and try and get home, she was sure to perish in the cold; especially given her recent inexplicable racking cough.
K’Simah saw her.
And he walked on by.
The priest who had so enraged Cassie some months ago saw her.
He walked on by.
The once-generous pastor who had given the Bible to Sally saw her.
He walked on by.
The once-kindly imam saw Cassie.
He walked on by.
Sally started to wonder if she was imagining things.
Was it really just a dream?
Or was the rest of it just a dream? Who can say…
She closed her eyes. She knew her death was near.
“Fare thee well, person of white extraction,” Otis sniffed. “Phat ass white girls always snuff it better!”
Gideon Truman snorted, his meaty bullneck snapping to attention as best it could, his bulbous, streaming eyes nearly popping out of his head.
“FAKE NEWS!” he roared, as Palmer Miller nonchalantly strode over and spat on her tits.
Bennie Pilder knelt down to suck ‘em (fuckin’ awwwwwwesome, duuuuuuuuude!), but Su Chun pushed him away. As she knelt down to finally lick her out, Sally felt her vagina moisten, freshen, self-invigorate, bristling with a boundless energy never seen before in her life. As Su Chun’s tongue made her body thrill with unimaginable pleasure, Sally opened her eyes and screamed, as she found Big Xian ruthlessly biting her cunt to shreds…
With the eyes of the ginger waster, and ten thousand comrade beady eyes in his hands.
Dizzy with fear and terror, Sally tried to tighten her vagina, in the hope the eyes would fade into oblivion.
She sensed the eyes were gone.
“Where are you, Sally?” plaintive Jim mourned.
Sally burst into tears, finally finding a burst of death-strength to embrace her brother.
All of a sudden, Allan screamed ‘Bitch! Shut the fuck up!” Sally screamed, as Allan roared maniacally, plunging his dick into her dried-up pussy, and sending endless streams of blood and pus upwards into her barren womb.
“Stop! I prayed for forgiveness!” she sobbed, despairing that now her soul was lost forever.
“Come to daddy!” her aborted infant roared, in the form of Marcus Bubble.
Ruby stood over Sally, gaily pissing in her hair.
“Well ah didn’t never seen no empty cunt ahhhhh didn’t like! Who said the President can’t inhale them thaengs! Nah listen here mah precious bawwwwwwwwwz!” Lynton Goering slobbered.
“Fuck that fuckin’ bitch in every goddamn hole!” Cassie laughed, ramming her twenty-foot dick into Sally’s mouth.
“Is there room enough for me?”
Sally, unable to speak, pleaded with them to forgive her.
“Forgive us for what? Forgiveness doesn’t mean shit?” they cruelly guffawed, as one.
“I don’t know… I don’t know… Anything… Anything… Anything…” she trembled.
“Bitch! Shut yer damn cunt!” Allan roared. “We told you, you had to become a real American before we could let you go!”
“But I am a real American!” Sally screamed.
“FAKE NEWS!” Gideon screamed.
“So why did you murder your offspring?” Cassie groaned.
“I prayed… I prayed that they… that they…”
“Bitch! Shut the fuck up!” Otis spat.
Last of all came Saul, bound and shackled, with a giant cunt just like this ‘un, in his salty forehead.
“What would you want to do with a pussy like this?” Bubble grunted.
“Not Saul… Not Saul…”
With mounting horror, Sally realised Saul was now a clockwork robot.
“We won’t turn him back on unless we do as we say!”
Lynton spat.
“And as you desire!” Ruby roared.
“What have you done… Saul, Saul, Saul, dear Saul… Put him back the way he was!”
Gideon Truman dealt Sally a crushing blow in the skull.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Cassie laughed. “This is the way he always was?!
“No! He wasn’t! You’re lying!” Sally screamed.
The naked body of Lucy appeared before her eyes, momentarily bursting into a pyrotechnic blast of fire, blood and stones.
The maggots fell upon Sally’s tormented, twisted, tortured body, and started furiously devouring her meagre flesh.
“In the Name of Our Common Humanity!” High Priestess Ruby struck up the satanic liturgy of her metropolitan jihad.
“In the Name of the National Interest!” Marcus Bubble solemnly intoned.
The whole place was ablaze with fire and ice.
“Hail, O Hail, Almighty Global Village!” the infernal choir dinned…
“And may the National Interest bring the Holocaust upon the enemies who hate our Freedom!”
Sally, hideously aquiver like a trembling mouse in the final torments of a savage feline, begged one last time for mercy:
“I don’t hate anyone. I’ve changed. Please, please, please, let me do some good in the world. I want to love everyone. I want to help everyone do some good.”
All of a sudden, the whole universe came crashing down with a hideous gong.



All was empty.
Sally’s bleeding, aching body wound its way beyond all hope of consolation.
Was there anything left, in all of time and of eternity, other than this?
She was condemned to drift like this; the one, the only, the sole existent conscious being left, the only one who was awake.
How could she bear to be left alone like this forever?
Sally’s lips trembled, and she piteously sobbed a little.
But she must spare her tears.
For Eternity was sure to disclose the rest.
Dimly, Sally saw a black hole before her.
‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here,’ the swirling sang.
‘Forgiven me, Levi,’ she whispered, as her infant gazed upon her, gently, from a cloud.
Beyond all hope, the infant’s chubby cheeks broke out into a smile, as he finally recognised his mother.
Sally closed her eyes, and she finally felt the baby’s gentle hands caress her.
“There is only you and me,” she whispered.
Finally, at last, they could fall, without ever dreaming of the rise.
“I’ve waited so long to find you,” she thought.
She knew that here, the forgiveness was absolute.
The love was unconditional.
For there was nothing left on earth for her now; least of all in America.
“I think I’m ready to come home now,” she murmured, and she felt the baby’s heart leap for joy, at one with hers.

Chapter 33: It Depends on What “Democracy” Is

Some months later, it was the eve of the election. Pilder had already won the Democratic nomination by default. Meanwhile, Bubble had easily demolished the few remaining stragglers, who simply couldn’t compete with his relentless barrage of cruelty, crassness and viciousness.The Presidential debates had turned out to be every bit as horrific (if horrifically entertaining also!) as expected.
And even the Machiavellian cunning of Pilder was at times lost for words; the Democratic candidate only had partial and half-hearted support from the party establishment, as he had never been supposed to win in the first place. Dark rumours persisted that the private view of the party hierarchy was that the Democrats would actually benefit if Pilder were to crash and burn; because it would kill off radical change in all forms, for a generation; if not ten, or twenty, or a hundred.
At the moment, it looked like Bubble was a shoe-in. This was not to say, of course, that support was universal. Some juvenile college students and professional grievance peddlers still doggedly clung to the corpse of Democratic progressivism; Bennie Pilder seemed to represent the dying scream, the final, desperate death throes of a doomed party. It was rumoured that the party might split completely if Pilder ended up suffering the commonly predicted electoral massacre. But nobody seriously thought that would make any difference, no matter what they said.
It was rumoured that the Bubble Body Count had misfired somewhat, insofar as Marcus’s mother had now joined his sister Sandy, and many other people who were alleged to have been destroyed by Bubble. Of course, Bubble was essentially untouchable. Thus, even though there were at least three cases were Bubble’s hands seemed to be all over the deaths, and many other at least half-plausible cases, none of the police were remotely interested in asking too many questions, or probing too deeply into something that was, as they had it, absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with them.
Still, it was Adams who was openly stigmatised and denounced as a murderer. Adams was left mute by the incident, and struggled to defend himself in court. However, the trial was rigged, and there was a surprising lack of drama. As high-profile murder trials go, it was surprisingly speedy. On the eve of execution, news filtered out, regarding some contentious comments, ranging from the ridiculous, to the rampantly egotistical, to the downright treasonous. These, of course, were deliberately distorted and misquoted, in order to make Adolph guilty by association with the likewise guiltless Saul and Deborah. Among these were:

  1. I do not advocate the national interest.
    I advocate the interests of American individuals.
  2. If we are going to save welfare, we are going to have to be clever about it. Let’s stop talking about the good of society, and let’s start talking about individuals, as we used to do. Otherwise, there is no hope.
  3. Serving Humanity, as such, is a mistaken venture. Individualism must be defended.
  4. If loyalty to Humanity is treason to the Individual, and if loyalty to the Individual is treason to Humanity, I have no other option, but to be disloyal to the ideals of many in the misguided political class of today.

Surprisingly enough, the dishonest fake news rumour mills made numerous false accusations of impropriety on Adams’ part, regarding leaked documents concerning surveillance and warmongering; being bribed and funded by white nationalists; and even being in the pocket of the NRA, which at this point in the history of America, was an almost indistinguishable accusation…
At least in certain circles.
All of this was highly gratifying to Senator Bubble, who was about to become the President of the Once-United States of America. One of the first things he did was to threaten Jordan and Lebanon with absolute destruction; two of the very few remaining countries untouched by the Centrist Empire’s endless campaign of humanitarian aggression.
Bubble grinned widely and hollowly, addressing the entire planet (or so he thought), revelling as the self-appointed leader of the self-styled Free World; greater, more patriotic, and freer than ever before.
On Election Day, he warned the people that he was for the Many, not the Few, and that all the enemies of America, both within and without, had better have a care for their necks! Speaking of hurting necks, he ostentatiously hugged a well-bribed rape victim; although some would say ‘well-threatened’ was nearer to the mark. This bone-cruncher hug, brutally imposed on one of the victims of the aforementioned abortion clinic shooting, might never have happened, had the constitutionally ignorant Bubble known she had been an HIV activist. The shrewd tactician and sexual terrorist Dickie Klindel knew well what to speak of, and what to bury beneath the shadows.
Of course, after some initial hesitation and grunting, he also made some inappropriate and flippant quips about the abortion clinic shooting; the media did lap it up, however, because Bubble said the jokes in such a way as to make Adams look bad. And if the media hated the Republicans, it hardly hated any less the man who had contributed towards slaying their baby, Marcus Seamus Riddle.
The future for America was now looking extraordinarily bleak; people could not have believed things could get any worse. But in certain key respects (Why ask? For time is fleeting, as every patriotic citizen knows!) the national crisis deepened ever darker, and more brutal.
Not least because the few remaining heroes and heroines in public life were finally fading into the shadows. And not Adams alone. For, the despicable race-hustler who blackmailed Adams also finally exposed Willow’s talk with Adams on the mountain-top, as well as her HIV-positive status (after the false negative that we saw some months back). This was bad enough; but the selective video footage of her naked swim with Adolph finally led the fragile Willow to a desperate suicide. The media tut-tutted on the fact that she was heavily pregnant when she murdered herself; although it was an open secret that the father was really Marcus Seamus Panthera Riddle (although he was normally discreet about his second middle name).
Saul, utterly disgusted at the news, staggered as best he could to what he hoped was the last surviving honest journalist in the USA. He wanted to tell the journalist about Riddle’s brutal violation of his beloved Deborah; but as he tapped his cane along the pavement in the utmost agony and torments of body and soul, his body ravaged by the early stages of Parkinson’s, Saul tutted and spat to himself, bitterly bemoaning his betrayal of Deborah in Yunnan; the innocent, gentle, tender warmth of the younger woman, and his hateful defensiveness towards the woman who could not but love and admire to the very depths of his being, even now.
Eventually Saul made it to the door of the person he was intending to meet.
The door swung open and, as though in a dream, Saul thought he had seen the curious tormented catty-boy again.
‘Quod scripsi, scripsi!’ screamed the ragged, running tormented letters of blood, on a squished-up cat face so lamentably yowly and tragicomic, Saul burst into hollow laughter.
Just then, the entire place went up in flames.
Sally’s grim, tear-stained eyes viewed the terror attack dispassionate, unemotionally, un-vindictively.
As Benito and Dickie suddenly pinned her from behind, muffled her trembling lips and pulled her underwear off, Sally went limp and numb. She felt nothing. It wasn’t like rape. It wasn’t violation. It wasn’t like anything.
When she finally came to, ten hours later, she was dimly aware that if she didn’t pick herself up and try and get home, she was sure to perish in the cold; especially given her recent inexplicable racking cough.
K’Simah saw her.
And he walked on by.
The priest who had so enraged Cassie some months ago saw her.
He walked on by.
The once-generous pastor who had given the Bible to Sally saw her.
He walked on by.
The once-kindly imam saw Cassie.
He walked on by.
Sally started to wonder if she was imagining things.
Was it really just a dream?
Or was the rest of it just a dream? Who can say…
She closed her eyes. She knew her death was near.
“Fare thee well, person of white extraction,” Otis sniffed. “Phat ass white girls always snuff it better!”
Gideon Truman snorted, his meaty bullneck snapping to attention as best it could, his bulbous, streaming eyes nearly popping out of his head.
“FAKE NEWS!” he roared, as Palmer Miller nonchalantly strode over and spat on her tits.
Bennie Pilder knelt down to suck ‘em (fuckin’ awwwwwwesome, duuuuuuuuude!), but Su Chun pushed him away. As she knelt down to finally lick her out, Sally felt her vagina moisten, freshen, self-invigorate, bristling with a boundless energy never seen before in her life. As Su Chun’s tongue made her body thrill with unimaginable pleasure, Sally opened her eyes and screamed, as she found Big Xian ruthlessly biting her cunt to shreds…
With the eyes of the ginger waster, and ten thousand comrade beady eyes in his hands.
Dizzy with fear and terror, Sally tried to tighten her vagina, in the hope the eyes would fade into oblivion.
She sensed the eyes were gone.
“Where are you, Sally?” plaintive Jim mourned.
Sally burst into tears, finally finding a burst of death-strength to embrace her brother.
All of a sudden, Allan screamed ‘Bitch! Shut the fuck up!” Sally screamed, as Allan roared maniacally, plunging his dick into her dried-up pussy, and sending endless streams of blood and pus upwards into her barren womb.
“Stop! I prayed for forgiveness!” she sobbed, despairing that now her soul was lost forever.
“Come to daddy!” her aborted infant roared, in the form of Marcus Bubble.
Ruby stood over Sally, gaily pissing in her hair.
“Well ah didn’t never seen no empty cunt ahhhhh didn’t like! Who said the President can’t inhale them thaengs! Nah listen here mah precious bawwwwwwwwwz!” Lynton Goering slobbered.
“Fuck that fuckin’ bitch in every goddamn hole!” Cassie laughed, ramming her twenty-foot dick into Sally’s mouth.
“Is there room enough for me?”
Sally, unable to speak, pleaded with them to forgive her.
“Forgive us for what? Forgiveness doesn’t mean shit?” they cruelly guffawed, as one.
“I don’t know… I don’t know… Anything… Anything… Anything…” she trembled.
“Bitch! Shut yer damn cunt!” Allan roared. “We told you, you had to become a real American before we could let you go!”
“But I am a real American!” Sally screamed.
“FAKE NEWS!” Gideon screamed.
“So why did you murder your offspring?” Cassie groaned.
“I prayed… I prayed that they… that they…”
“Bitch! Shut the fuck up!” Otis spat.
Last of all came Saul, bound and shackled, with a giant cunt just like this ‘un, in his salty forehead.
“What would you want to do with a pussy like this?” Bubble grunted.
“Not Saul… Not Saul…”
With mounting horror, Sally realised Saul was now a clockwork robot.
“We won’t turn him back on unless we do as we say!”
Lynton spat.
“And as you desire!” Ruby roared.
“What have you done… Saul, Saul, Saul, dear Saul… Put him back the way he was!”
Gideon Truman dealt Sally a crushing blow in the skull.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Cassie laughed. “This is the way he always was?!
“No! He wasn’t! You’re lying!” Sally screamed.
The naked body of Lucy appeared before her eyes, momentarily bursting into a pyrotechnic blast of fire, blood and stones.
The maggots fell upon Sally’s tormented, twisted, tortured body, and started furiously devouring her meagre flesh.
“In the Name of Our Common Humanity!” High Priestess Ruby struck up the satanic liturgy of her metropolitan jihad.
“In the Name of the National Interest!” Marcus Bubble solemnly intoned.
The whole place was ablaze with fire and ice.
“Hail, O Hail, Almighty Global Village!” the infernal choir dinned…
“And may the National Interest bring the Holocaust upon the enemies who hate our Freedom!”
Sally, hideously aquiver like a trembling mouse in the final torments of a savage feline, begged one last time for mercy:
“I don’t hate anyone. I’ve changed. Please, please, please, let me do some good in the world. I want to love everyone. I want to help everyone do some good.”
All of a sudden, the whole universe came crashing down with a hideous gong.



All was empty.
Sally’s bleeding, aching body wound its way beyond all hope of consolation.
Was there anything left, in all of time and of eternity, other than this?
She was condemned to drift like this; the one, the only, the sole existent conscious being left, the only one who was awake.
How could she bear to be left alone like this forever?
Sally’s lips trembled, and she piteously sobbed a little.
But she must spare her tears.
For Eternity was sure to disclose the rest.
Dimly, Sally saw a black hole before her.
‘Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here,’ the swirling sang.
‘Forgiven me, Levi,’ she whispered, as her infant gazed upon her, gently, from a cloud.
Beyond all hope, the infant’s chubby cheeks broke out into a smile, as he finally recognised his mother.
Sally closed her eyes, and she finally felt the baby’s gentle hands caress her.
“There is only you and me,” she whispered.
Finally, at last, they could fall, without ever dreaming of the rise.
“I’ve waited so long to find you,” she thought.
She knew that here, the forgiveness was absolute.
The love was unconditional.
For there was nothing left on earth for her now; least of all in America.
“I think I’m ready to come home now,” she murmured, and she felt the baby’s heart leap for joy, at one with hers.

Epilogue: In the Name of the Lesser Good

The air was cold and lonely.

Air alone.

Air, air, air, and nothing but this alone.

Air.


A great calm and peace feel upon Saul’s soul. His long struggle over, he was free to finally begin (or recommence) his wondrous, endless journey into the light.

Blinking back tears of beauty, Little Saul remembered the Reform Synagogue song of his childhood:

Further, further into the light;
O let my eyes be dim or bright;
But further, I pursue the light…
Neither day nor darkness shall blind my sight.
He heard the dimness and the hubbub of the world below. Neither dim nor dust could tarnish, burn him. He was ablaze with light, but with a calmness and a tranquillity infinitely of this world, and finitely of-above-it-all.
The eyes of his soul pierced the future.
‘Karl, Karl, Karl,’ he breathed in wonder.
It was as though the future times of trauma, times tragic, torn, and twisted, were all so inconsequential.
He saw the corpse of a freakish savant hanging from a tree.
He saw the head of virtue roll, as the blue-eyed goddess shrieked with joy.
Karl was alive.
Benjamin?
Alive also.
And what say we of Cristina?
All part of each other…
Part of each other from now until forever.
And yet eternally, eternally, separate, individual and free.
The song resounded, booming like thunder, yet sweet as the honeyed dew of the most beautiful nightingale in the world…


From the beginning of time to the end of eternity, every government has promised its citizens that it will take away their fear; that no matter what threats and perils they encounter in this life, there is a guiding hand behind them that will strike down all their enemies, and return to bless, and to comfort; to caress. No matter who is against us, the government will be for us; no matter who oppresses and tortures, the state will wipe away our tears; no matter how we are threatened, insulted, mocked, attacked and wantonly massacred, there is but one in Heaven, Earth or Hell in whom we may put our trust; be they Pharaoh or Solomon, Christ or the Devil, Aragorn or Lord Sauron, Czar or Worker’s Führer , there is always one, and only one, who will drive away our anxiety and terror, and make the deserts bloom.
This is the oldest story of our species, the most time-honored, ageless and venerable legend of our race; the most footworn and august lullaby of the ages.
And it is the first and only lie.
The King, the priest, the prophet does not exist only for your benefit, no matter what you are told. Not all governors, not all leaders are alike, it is true; but the first and last temptation of every leader is to seek their own benefit; the profit of one person alone (with or without rent-seeking panders and convenient collaborators) ever has, and ever will be, the standard and universal criterion of government. It is for this reason, that it is not the quality of the timber on which the stability of the temple of liberty depends. God forbid, or if it is more congenial, liberty forbid; for whether or not there is any God in this world, we know liberty; we have seen him, our hands have felt him, she has supped at our table, we have heard her voice. We may not all agree on whether there is a God, and if God is liberty; but of a certainty, this at least shall be said, and I proclaim, this day and evermore:
‘Liberty is the Divine, and all that falls short of liberty tends towards the demonic.’
It is true that there is no perfect liberty in this life; for aught that we know, there may be no perfect liberty anywhere in this cosmos. But if the table is half-empty, and the children moan, the elders grimace, and the parents hold their heads in despair; yet even then, for all that, we do not refuse to eat. It is better to die with a crumb of meagre liberty than to gorge on a fatted calf in an orgy of security.
Yet, while liberty is indeed ever frail and fleeting, security is no more so. The difference, perhaps, lies in the fact that the defenders of liberty as the bedrock of all prosperity and wellbeing have always been few, and the propagators of security at an any price have always been many. Throughout history, there have only ever been two: the Party of Liberty and the Party of Security.
And of these immortal and irreconcilable foes, one cannot simply choose one, and hope to have the other. One who desires Security above all things will lose everything else, and will not even have the elusive prize they grasp. The one infallible way of losing all hope of security, perhaps for ever, is to prize it above liberty, and above all the other things which make life good, and beautiful, and worthy. Whereas one who prizes liberty above all things will not be promised all things, as of right; but the door to pursuing whatever makes their lives happy, hopeful and prosperous will be left half ajar.
This may sound like a meagre hope to some, but it is the dream of the ages. Do not mock and cast aside lightly what countless thousands, millions and billions throughout history have prized above all things; through the hideous Gehenna of abject despair, and amid the first, faint, equivocal daysprings of dawn. What means so little to you has meant everything in the world to those who were not fortunate enough to see your days. What you mock and ridicule, if not in words, at least by your deeds; this is what countless multitudes of the maimed, the weak, the bleeding have desired above all things; they who had the dignity to count themselves better than their benevolent oppressors; for if they had nothing else, they had at least the dignity to dream.
The tears of millions swam and surged before his eyes.


I HAVE MORE TO WRITE TO YOU
BUT I CANNOT BEAR THESE THINGS NOW


Part of each other from now until forever.
And yet eternally, eternally, separate, individual and free?
Well, there was all eternity to figure that one out!
Saul’s spirit soared.
The mud and dross of myriad centuries of hate and hurt were sloughed up like rivers of boiling gold. His radiant blood pulsed and pounded, disseminating and purifying endless worlds of virtue, joy, and hope.
His journey was only just beginning.
But in a way, it was right-now-ever-starting.
In childlike wonder, Saul gazed down at the immeasurable leagues of glorious, radiant beauty stretching down before him.
He was as close to all of this as a heartbeat.
Saul closed his eyes in rapture.
His dying mother’s words returned to him again.
The shortest distance in the world is between two heartbeats.
Saul’s heart leapt with an endless-spiralling daybreak wonder.
With every quivering, tremoring atom of his being, he sang:
My interests.
Not the national interest.
My good.
Not the good of humanity.
In the Name of Lesser Good.
And all Creation resounded with the joy of an endless, immutable accord.
And not a single moment was denied to him.
There was no King upon the throne of Heaven.
But this was the Greatest of All Republics.
‘Thy Constitution now ever shall be love, and love alone,’ they told him.
Saul closed his eyes, and wept, and wept.
And every tear he cried was for the redemption of the world.
And not one fell unto the ground, without paying the most wondrous, beauteous ransom for his soul.
And every instant of this beautiful, infinite, unbounded, free Eternity told him:
YES. THESE ARE THE WOUNDS I WAS GIVEN IN THE HOUSE OF MY FRIENDS.
And this beautiful glorious promise, indeed, was sealed unto that last great, grand, final love’s redemption of the world.

Author: Wallace Runnymede

Wallace is the editor of Brian K. White's epic website, Glossy News! Email him with your content at wallacerunnymede#gmail.com (Should be @, not #!) Or if you'd like me to help you tease out some ideas that you can't quite put into concrete form, I'd love to have some dialogue with you! Catch me on Patreon too, or better still, help out our great writers on the official Glossy News Patreon (see the bottom of the homepage!) Don't forget to favourite Glossy News in your browser, and like us on Facebook too! And last but VERY MUCH not the least of all... Share, share, SHARE! Thanks so much for taking the time to check out our awesome site!