March 11 2010
That rat I caught yesterday is the best meal I have had in days, possibly weeks. I rub my swollen stomach as I pick my teeth with the bones. It is a good belly. I like my belly. What a silly little belly. Hello Cramer's belly. I gurgle like a happy child and burp up dried blood.
I catch myself. I can't be seen patting my own tummy in the hallway. Not again. Dave Faber caught me two weeks ago and before I could stop him he had already told Maria Bartiromo. Sweet Maria - my dear darling Maria - what do you think of me now? You think I a child, a balding child of a man, when I burn with a man's love for you. Your dark eyes. The soft slope of your shoulders. The way your brown hair frames your face, perfectly accentuating the tribal tattoos you carved into your cheeks with slivers of bone and glass from the trading room floor. Maria, my love, my fixation, what am I to do to win your affection? What am I to do to hold you in my arms, to feel you warm against my skin, to caress the hollow where your left breast used to be before you cut it off so that you might better draw the bow you fashioned out of nylon stockings and Trish Regan's bones?
The flickering light wakes me from my reverie. Ratigan is failing again. I may have forgotten to feed him today.
As my eyes wander along the floor, I see a small book. It is Joe Kernan's notebook, hidden amongst the newsprint! Each page is marked with a different name--subjects???. He must have been gathering stories for a report before his grisly death. I sit back down and begin to read, alternating between the notebook entries and the newspaper as my attention deficit demands.
LADY LIBERTY LANDS; NO WORD FROM ORBITING ARCH
BISMARCK - The flaming wreckage of the Statue of Liberty finally landed here today, having been propelled into orbit via the force of House Republican harrumphing immediately following Barack Obama's inauguration last week. Although heavily corroded from reentry into the Earth's atmosphere, the iconic torch was still vaguely recognizable as it landed in a crowded shopping mall, killing dozens and maiming hundreds as the fiery wreckage tore through air and man alike. Massive, molten shards of metal where soon raining down upon the Midwest capitol, visiting death where none had walked before.
According to early press releases from the Obama administration, there will be little or no federal response, at least for now. First Lady Michelle Obama was quoted as stating that the situation is "not so funny now, is it, whitey?"
Although there has been some outcry from politicians on both sides of the aisle, most who knew North Dakota was a part of the United States agreed that it's the Dakotan's own fault for living above ground, an area notorious for its vulnerability to falling debris.
UPDATE: Landmark legislation was rushed through Congress today, absolving insurance companies or their responsibility to pay out for repairs or healthcare in the event said damages are caused by "terrifying star-metal".
Interview with Infrateal:
Not much time left now. I walked through the aisles in a daze. Chocolate cookies, chocolate ice cream, chips, whole sticks of salted butter. Comfort foods, rich foods, American foods. There'd be time enough for granola later, time enough for gruel, for tree bark and clay molded into the shape of chicken wings.
Took a wrong turn, ended up in produce. No sugarlipids here, only--
SALE - VIDALIA ONIONS
blasphemous roots piled high a precognition visualizing the perversion of our great cities-- the onions stacked in a filthy mound, seeming to pulse and mewl and pululate, verminous-- this is what every american city will look like. A rising stack of flattened domes, when every building is a mosque and we must pray to heathen polestars lest the Black One rip our fingers from our sockets and gnaw them like the forgotten memory of beef jerky, which will be banned. Only the minarets of the sale sign will pierce the mosque pile. Only
SALE - VIDALIA ONIONS
I passed out. When I awoke America was gone, my shopping cart pillaged of all its goodies, and solifugids chased millipedes through the sands of Produce. I stumbled through the blistering grit and found a tent pitched near Canned Soups, sheltering an emaciated man with a full beard. "They say this used to be an oasis." I could only nod. "They say there were walls made of food. Before..."
MOTHER EARTH TAKES STAND AGAINST OBAMA
PETOSKEY - Scientists now say that plants have stopped producing oxygen. "They are holding their breaths in anticipation." A note says, by a man whose lips who have turned blue. "We thought that people were buying guns and that was all." He gasps not for air but for oxygen. "Plants are afraid too." Guns and the wilting of once-green leaves are just a few of many challenges the President-elect will fact in the upcoming months. He is black and we do not know if he will turn blue when his lungs give up.
Interview with Infrateal:
Heather quaked in her Uggs. "He's spending HOW MUCH on a stimulus plan?!" All those billions, for what? The so-called middle class? No. Heather didn't ace her marketing seminar for nothing; she could see right through that slick packaging. She could see that the Middle Class was an incipient gestapo, a force of praetorians loyal not to America but to Obama and no one else. She could see them now, the thugs, with black sunglasses and black suits, rappelling from black helicopters, holding the lines in their strong black hands like the gnarled roots of strangler figs twined around strange ruins in darkest Africa, which America was becoming. Heather saw a leopard shatter the window of the Cold Stone Creamery with a mighty paw, an elephant stamping her Audi again and again, grinding its fine polished carapace into a tin smear, a python oozing up from the sewers to devour helpless white babies, and Heather screamed.
But the vanguard of fauna couldn't hear her. They listened only to the mesmeric music of the Middle Class, played on hideous huge boomboxes so unlike the little pink iPod Nano Heather sported on an armband. The geologic thud of titan tom-toms made Heather's guts itch, and the fusillade of raucous vocals, in some degenerate dialect or maybe not even American at all, made Heather clutch her purse even tighter than when the troop of lemurs had poured out of Urban Outfitters to leer and gibber and clutch.
The Middle Class and its bestial allies made their way through the shopping center, despoiling every luxury good, shitting in every smoothie, smearing filth over every surface. One of the Middle Class paused in front of a handsome white Lincoln Navigator and let down his fly, revealing a tremendous penis that pissed magenta and lime spray paint. He scrawled shocking profanities all over the pristine vehicle while hyenas licked up the backsplash, and when he was finished he laughed and his phallus grew even larger, and he began swinging it wildly, battering the poor SUV into a shapeless heap.
Throughout this ordeal Heather stood transfixed, immobile, only able to watch and scream as the horde overturned American civilization and pulled from the stinking earth beneath it the Law of the Jungle. But now she stumbled, her legs suddenly working, her screams suddenly audible, and every rampaging eye turned to pierce her. An ostrich smiled, revealing two perfect rows of platinum teeth.
"Heather? Hey girl, you there?"
Dylan's concerned face swum into view. The vision receded and Heather swallowed, feeling the pulse in her neck, faintly reminiscent of a pulsing beat playing while baboons shredded monogrammed towels in the Bed Bath & Beyond--no. Just your imagination. Heather emitted a wan smile.
"Ha, yeah Dylan. That Obama, he just scares me, you know?"
"Yeah, he's creepy. Did you hear who he appointed for the spy job? That Panetta guy?"
In Heather's subconscious, a lion roared.
OBAMA NAMES ASLAN TO HEAD HHS; TASH WILL BE SECDEF
WASHINGTON - We thought it might be nice if Obama would give us health care. Instead everything is possible all at once. Everything you want is simply imagined and becomes a part of this world. Asked for comment, a man turned into a bird and flew away.
The inauguration was disrupted by the clicks and chatters of a thousand vermin, who poured out of the sewer and are no longer responding to hoses. The president continues to speak and suggests a world without a terrorist threat, but the mice inch closer whenever he stops speaking. We are afraid he will run out of things to say.
Interview with Kumo:
Vic surveyed the horizon before he started to dig. Usually, two man teams went out into The Wastes, one to watch and one to dig; but their numbers were odd now, 17, since Greg and his men left for the North and Vic had drawn the short straw last night. Holding the broken SUV key in his fist, he'd cursed his luck, far from the campfire light of burning A.R.M.s and C.D.O.s.
It was three hours until high noon, more than enough time to break through the ceiling into the tomb below and return to camp before the sun set. He hefted the pickax and began work, slowly, methodically. His thoughts drifted to how it had come to this. How as a child, his mother had wept with joy when He was chosen and how that same woman had clutched him close and told him to watch out for his sister before they took her away. Animals. If only they had known.
There were signs of course, he could see that now. Warnings, gone unheeded. The Burning of Congress. The Civil Protection Squads. The Occupation of Wall Street. And finally, when they thought He could take no more from them, The Miscegenation. Vic shuddered despite the patina of sweat in the morning air, and scanned the horizon anxiously.
He feared them, and rightly so. Every sane man did. They were a people without shame, honor, or a concept of personal property. Savages. They worshiped their Black God and sang strange songs to him, Reguetón, they called it; his mind quivering at the word. If only, oh if only th-
And he broke through, the sand slipping into the gaping void below like so much tax dollars. Vic secured his footing, and clicked on a flashlight at his belt, casting it down into the crypt.
OBAMA COURTS RAGNAROK
STOCKHOLM- WHEN BARACK OBAMA WALKS ACROSS A STREET THE LIGHTS GO OUT. HIS PRESENCE IN CARS MAKES THEM STOP. THEIR AXLES BREAK. WE CANNOT FILM HIM ANYMORE, HE BLINDS AND DEAFENS ALL OF MAN'S CREATIONS. WE FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF DECAYING PLASTICS, WHICH SHOULD HAVE LASTED FOREVER. WE KNOW THERE IS GAS AND SHIT POURING UP FROM THE GROUND BUT WE WANT TO KNOW WHERE HE IS GOING. WE WONDER IF HE WILL BREAK US TOO, WE HAVE SEEN BODIES WHICH HAVE ROTTED LIKE FRUIT IN A HOT SUN. LIGHT IS COLLECTING ON THE GROUND, IT HAS FORGOTTEN WHAT DRIVES IT.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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