10/8/2004
Killings and Killings greet each other, yes.
K: Killings…K: Killings…
K: I’m glad we are debating with plenty of holds barred, you know, Killings…
K: Me too, Killings, me too…
K: The thing otherwise could turn nasty. Imagine, for a second, if you will, imagine… If I told you: Would you, Killings, would you… please… pull my finger…
K: That would be cheap, Killings! Farting in public, and in front of millions and billions…, that would give you such an endearing populist image, such an advantage with the sucking populace…
K: Yeah, but imagine that my finger really were cramped, that I wouldn’t fart at all; wouldn’t that then make me noble and senatorial, and all that serious crap I’m craving and longing to have thrust at me, instead of my monkeyish manners and no brains shoot-’em-all-dead-what-the-fuck-who-the-fucking-hell-cares-anyway, wouldn’t that be cheaper still!
K: Indeed it would, indeed it would, and I’m glad that you don’t ask me to pull your finger, indeed I do, Killings, indeed…
K: But anyway I do do ask you to pull it, for, you see, I’m trying to hold up this book, the piddling babble, you know, up to the public to quote something from it, and yet that lousy pinky’s gone asleep and it does do throw my grip off, indeed, so if you would, Killings, please…
K: Well, all right, Killings, but no tricks, ok, no tricks…
K: Farrrrrrrrt!
K: Oh, come on. You cheated here, Killings, and everybody’s seen it, the millions and billions of voters now know how much of a freak and of a freaking cheat you are, Killings, shame on you. Now you’ve done it, you really have…
K: Au contraire, Killings, ok? What they’ve seen is how little of a suspicious mind you’ve got, and that’s really the contrary of a plus, you can bet on it… A commander in chief, that’s someone who don’t believe his fucking brother-in-law, if you know what a mean, his fucking mother still less, of course; his back-stabbing brother, imagine, his bigoted horny wife, his pipsqueak traitorous father…
K: Ok, I get the picture. But say…
K: Much less an op-, an op-, an opponent, ha-ha.
K: Ok, ok, you got me there. But listen, Killings, what about that I hear that you’ve taught your parrot to stutter… It was the leading line (big page, big screen) in all our very fine media…
K: Finer than anywhere in the world…
K: Finer, finer… Only matters of great import. But what about their unanimous headline… Commander in Chief Killings Teaches His Parrot to Stutter… Is that an example for all the other parrots left behind?…
K: Well, it’s like that… My parrot’s religion, and mine, teaches us that god’s hearing is not as good as it used to, you know, Killings, all those metallic musics, all the negroid rap, all their shrilly nauseous background, so, the trick’s stuttering — your-your p-p-pra-prayer is re-re-repe-pe-peated ad infinitum more or less, and the old guy has time to grasp some of it, by dint of repe-petition, you see?
K: What is the voter’s religions tells him (or her!) that their gods’ sense of hearing has improved with time, since eternity and so on, and actually the fellah’s hearing even your freaking thoughts, and that nothing ag-ag-aggravates him (or her!) more than being knee-knee, I mean, nee-nee-needled incessantly and unnecessarily? What about it?
K: What? Are you really implying that there’s more than a god? A deaf one, a very hearingful other, one stone deaf, another a vi-violinist, or a di-di-diapason maker, or one deaf as a post, and another so-so…
K: So-so what…?
K: Just so-so. Neither hard of hearing nor sharp of ear, you know.
K: Nothing of the sort. I’m implying that the voter decides (and must decide!) that his (or her!) god hear differently than yours… The whom, by the way, shows symptoms of senility… Provided that he not be a freaking reaganite, ha-ha-ha. Anyway, everybody knows that: Thus your god thus yourself, for the god’s the mirror of the soul.
K: In the vein of the philosophers and theologicians, eh? Who said that? Karl Marx, or some other vitriolic grinch, I’d bet. My prophets don’t go for that kind of stuck-up doodoo, no sir. They…
K: Have they got a name? Plato? Aristotle? Nit-she?…
K: Gee-zus, of course.
K: Ok. And now for the quote…
K: Which quote?
K: The one you were aiming to make another killing with…
K: Eh… Let’s forget about it, shall we? Let’s talk economy, or the hour will be too heavy with the child of it’s over.
K: What. Killings, are you succumbing to poetry?
K: Not on your soul, Killings, Just the finest type of rhetoric. You wouldn’t know if it bit you.
K: Are you talking again about your parrot? I would know him (or her!) as soon as she talked, ha-ha-ha.
K: Very funny. We don’t know what it is, by the way. Parrots are the most exalted transvestites of the animal world…
K: So… You would burn all faggots, but we see that at least you are perfectly tolerant of the trans-dressers, hey?…
K: Don’t put wo-words on my mo-mouth, please. I’m plenty capable of doing this myself.
K: So that’s your plan for the economy: burning the faggots. It figures, considering the prize of the other fuels.
K: At least I don’t function at the behest of the queer elite. No, but I wanted to say to all the senior citizens, help is on the way.
K: Hey!
K: In the form of chip-chip-cheaper pills…
K: Laced with what?
K: What?
K: Laced with some sort of furtive foreign antipyretic?
K: Antipyretic? You mean, Canadian?
K: Now than we are on the subject, let’s talk about the firemen (and women!)…
K: Brave!
K: Brave!
K: Brave!
K: And what about the cops (and coppettes!)?
K: Brave!
K: Knave, I mean brave!
K: You’ve got it.
K: Well, to return to the economy… I solemnly propose to the American people…
K: Don’t!
K: What? Why?
K: We would all be so grateful to you that you wouldn’t mention it… Don’t do the promise! Please! When you say solemnly we all tremble…
K: But wait… Ah, you thought I was going… No, no danger of that…
K: Up till now nobody’s dared to mention it… Otherwise…
K: Oh, I understand. What a capital offense! And the first who brought it up… I solemnly propose…
K: Or promise…
K: Or promise… that, if elected…
K: Which you would be, by 100 points flat.
K: Which I would be, 99.999 per cent of the vote…
K: At the very least…
K: No fear, Killings; whom do you take me for? Wouldn’t dream to be such a weasel, such a UnAmerican Activist…
K: We were afraid you… Too sour a loser and so on… Promising immortality for everyone! At the expense of our… Of the whole machinery of…
K: State? The money-making concern? The profit-taking cabal?…
K: Just diverting the trillions and trillions employed for devising better and better, and yet better killing machines, better nucular bombs, you know, and instead, rather, I mean, and gearing it all instead to finding the keys to every disease — so that nobody need die!
K: Anathema!
K: The horror, ok?
K: Man, though… That sure would carry any election, here and in fucking Alaska — the geezers and the shitted, all the stinking middle class, the freaking security-addicted blobs voting for you en messy masse…
K: The…, the braves…, the braves are so fucking few, aren’t they? Less than 0,00001% or thereabouts, we’ve guessed at the…, eh, at the accounting office. Only a few crazy generals…
K: Yeah… Who’ll court death? Sweetest of brides?
K: Is that a line of poetry?
K: By that most accomplished of general poets. Brigadier Horace Quintain.
K: Indeed, indeed.
K: Brave!
K: Brave!
K: Brave!
K: Nobody dying, ha-ha. That would be a bummer, I mean for the economy and the firemen, and so on.
K: No, but let me promise my promise…
K : Propose your proposal?…
K: Exactly.
K: Solemnly?
K: If you don’t mind…
K: By the way, does he qualify as a hero, your poet brigadier? Is he not too old for the task?
K: The task of hero? Hum!
K: See here, heroes die soon, ok, take all those suckers, I mean soldiers over there where the fucking war’s going on, they are heroes, ok, the fine press say so…
K: The finer in the world.
K: Yes, ok, anyway, they die soon, they die young, they die often…
K: But, but… You are not implying, are you… That only the young can be heroes, that no old geezer, I mean, what about the seniors, aren’t they heroes?
K: Heroes!
K: Heroes!
K: Heroes!
K: And then… What about Julius Cesar?
K: What about Reagan? Senile during the whole of his presidency. Is that not heroism, heroicity, heroination?…
K: Of course, of course; let’s not offend the geezers; nobody but them votes, anyway. And anyhow, you can’t say you are not a hero because you are not yet dead. Or you can’t be a hero anymore because you are already too old. No, that’s against the grain… Is as if you are telling me: I want you dead, and then you’ll be a hero. I mean, otherwise that’s what it would mean to be a hero: to be out of the annoying way.
K: Actually, we are heroes. Pre-dead heroes, that’s all.
K: Yeah, yeah. And whoever says: You are no fucking hero, for one you are not dead, for another you are too old. I’ll tell him: Says who? So that’s what you want? Me dead, me out of your way?… But hey, for that you’ll have to come and kill me! Not so easy, I’ll tell you. Come on, come on, where are your guns. See mine?…
K: Your guns… Just piddling, paltry, pitiful hunting guns… Now, mine…
K: No, but wait. Nobody is more pro-guns than me…
K: Nobody? Try me!
K: Well, ok, whipping the same dead horse; let’s call it a draw. Guns, the economy, the state of the art of the public health… I think we’ve covered the whole hog in a single go…
K: Yes, sir, the to-total do-donkey from ears to tail.
K: Is that a cowboy saying?
K: You bet.
K: Cowboys, so endearing a part of the community…
K: Let’s talk about the war…
K: Better subject nowhere… Let’s…
K: What about the Swift boats… Were they as swift as that?
K: Oh, they were swift… But I see you really want to talk about yachts…
K: Well, is there a difference?
K: Hum… You have something there…
K: Were they, eh, well behaved?…
K: The goons?
K: The goons, the goonettes, the other crazy guys on the boats?…
K: The party, you are thinking, hey? The yachts, the parties… I get you, I get you.
K: Well, it was rumored that… The orgies…
K: Ha-ha, now you regret missing it… Too late!
K: I’ve heard of such thrilling adventures, the war-enhanced landscape, the souls full of pus, your two dead pals, Jove and Martin, eaten cannibal style…
K: No, but let’s say, eh… Take the prize nowadays of those objects — women (or men!) — in cursed peace time, very expensive items, almost can hardly afford one of them — got to be a millionaire — no problem here, but… Anyway, in war time, nothing cheaper, take ‘em by bunches, like red bleeding grapes…
K: When I was a mere youngster, in the sixties of last century, Vulvsylvannia University, it was, how to say it, theft purity, I would sneak by night into the girls’ toilets, hum, their sanitary pads… Blood, blood… I would sleep with bunches and bunches of them spread in lieu of pillows…
K: I see, you had to make do… While we, at the blessed jungles…
K: At the time I didn’t realize savages were such saps… Now I see it… So easy to slaughter! Too late to be a hero in the ground, though…
K: Hero of the oval office ain’t so bad, ha-ha-ha…
K: No, indeed; no, indeed… Well…
K: No, but let me finish…
K: About the swift and spiffy yachts up the river?…
K: Shortly afterwards, a stint at the hospital… A little bit shellshocked, you know…
K: Indeed, Killings, indeed. By the way, was your name before Kirrings? And your fondness for the goons, and the goons incapable of pronouncing but Killings?…
K: Nothing of the sort. My name is as noble as yours. The pilgrims, you know. Famine-addled bigots kicked out of their own country…
K: Sick bastards, yeah, I’ll buy that.
K: Not for sale, ha-ha. Well, but to the stint at the hospital… Don’t ever be timorous, that’s my advise. Or skittish, ladylike and so on. Cheap whorish, ok? On the contrary, I had to remain calm among the crazies, man, them in their shiny uniforms — and the crazier the guy the shinier and more elaborate his complicated get-up, and more full of oil-stains to boot, you bet.
K: Hell, or, hell, I mean limbo.
K: If hell’s fraught with the well-meaning, imagine limbo, fraught with…
K: Ooh-ooh… The eerie lights, the seraphim, and all those liveried negroes…
K: No, fraught with the mean meany meaningless, I meant… But at the crazies’ wards… The games there were heated indeed — over the plates stood, bathed in oil, the quarters and halves of baked potatoes and the fragments of boiled eggs… At the side, always the cruets…
K: The cruets, ooh…
K: The reward for losing was death, death by medalled officer’s saber, on the spot… Their frantic eyes told the story… The white-hot intensity… You had to rebaptize with generous wallops of oil every fragment of egg in play, and every bit of cooked soft crumbly cooked potato…
K: Damn, your sentimental yarn’s good, but wait for mine!
K: …I’m not done. The oily game… Indeed, plenty of oil before you could advance any piece a-jump atop your opponent’s greasy pieces, checkers-style, ok, checkers-style, that was the crazies’ game of life and death… Wait, and the queen was a bigger half potato, or a whole half boiled egg… And the mess increased as the game went on, while the spectators became feverish, the betting loud and loaded, and the frantic players played and their lives were on the plate, and the table trembled, and the plate was about to tumble and shatter, and the oil and the fragments of oiled food about to fly and sail everywhere and farther stain the shiny uniforms…
K: Boy, exciting!
K: What about yours? For termination’s sake.
K: You mean the story about the weighing of the balls?… There she was, the mother, shooting from the fence…
K: Her specialty culinary delicacies… Cooking quince and dandelion, excellent preserve…
K: No, but ordering the castration of the soldier had the right testicular-nucular weight… Ah, at the national guard preserve, the heavenly choir of singing eunuchs…
K: Don’t nobody thwart now my subtle enjoyment…
K: And cling!… The hour’s done, forsooth. Let’s vanish into the wings! The terror of our fucking wives is about to appear like magic…
K: The damn magic of the diabolical devil, indeed.
K: You said it, scamp who pew…
