NASA Director Hud Narbo, rip-roaring pissed, yelling into his phone at General Bomb.
Narbo: He took my plane, my plane!
Bomb: Why was the Lear in Scranton?
Narbo: Wife is visiting her sister. "Honey, can I borrow the Lear?" Damn, I should've said no! Fly Coach, save some money for once, you spend too much!
Bomb: You're speaking to your wife now in an imaginary way?
Narbo: What's that, honey? Oh yes, I'll bring home the milk, and your Beads and Buttons magazine. Tonight I expect a well made meal and no whining. Running a space program is hard work!
Bomb: Have you been insane, and henpecked, for long?
Narbo: My plane, Bill. I love that plane. I became a member of the Mile High Club in that darling Lear 'o mine. That demented Moe sits his old dirty butt on the seats of my darling Lear.
Bomb: Do you want me to shoot down the Lear jet?
Narbo: Shoot down my darling Princess Di?
Bomb: It would end the Lieden campaign and possible Lieden resurgence. My computer nerd forecasters have determined his chances of becoming President again are at fifty-five percent, up from thirty-five a week ago. President Parris needs a boost. Give her a new manned, womaned, transed, whatever, space program. Send people to Saturn! Put the American banner on Titan! Do it!
Narbo: I think a trip to Titan might be in my future. The money coming in for such a project would help me finish the north wing of my wife's bedroom.
Bomb: Slush funds can be generated from the project, a trip to Titan will become weapons for the defense of Ukraine.
Narbo: Yellow and Blue, We Salute You.
Bomb: Yellow and Blue, We Salute You.
Narbo: Did you know that when you type in my name, the spell check suggests Narbo is Nairobi, carbo, or Garbo, as in the actress?
Bomb: That's fascinating. My name in Google yields pictures of bombs and bombs going off, including King Bomb, the Big H. That one must not go off, none of the big boy bombs going off on my watch, thank you. I had to depose President Lieden, not for his hair perversion, but because his talk was veering uncomfortably into World War Three territory, so I struck him to the same deck where Billy Boy Blade filthily ejaculated.
Narbo: Arbusto had the Blade carpet changed.
Bomb: Naturally. These sex creeps who run for high office. I don't understand it. (Shifts, looks at the floor, remembering moments from his dalliance with President Parris the previous day).
Sam Spade, dapper in a pinstripe suit with pink carnation in his lapel buttonhole; a way with women like something out of 1930, smooth talker, street smart, cynical, fucked his partner's wife then his partner got shot by an English revolver in the hand of a woman Spade fucked and sent to prison, no mercy for the one who slew his partner, Archer. Maybe a blurred code of conduct, what with his adultery with Mrs. Archer, but Samuel Spade of San Francisco is pure professional with a capital p.
Today, a Secret Service woman with long Titian hair escorts Spade into Lieden's armored study in the basement of his Wilmington home. Though separated from and still living with Moe, Dr. Lieden relaxes in her bedroom with a worn paperback of Jackie Collins's Rock Star, bought in Kingston with the first actual cash money she'd been permitted to handle in years.
Moe stands. He's wearing white boxer shorts with a repeated cherry pattern all round and a tan shirt and black tie. His pants are around his ankles.
Lieden: I was checking to see if it still works.
Spade says nothing, looks with his practiced detective's eye around the room, at the plants, the books, none of them on Alzheimer's. The Secret Service woman seemed nonplused by Mr. Lieden's appearance. Spade thinks. Curious.
Lieden: The second hand on my watch, it's been erratic. It's a Bulova, I stole it in 1967. Might have to get the second hand repaired. Some gunk in there maybe holding it up while the minute and hour hands work just fine. You see, I take my pulse through my thigh, I got a reliable vein there, that's why my pants are down, get your mind out of the gutter! Who are you?
Spade: The name is Spade, Sam Spade. You asked me here.
Lieden: Spade! That's right! The detective from Frisco! How are yuh? You want the most comfortable chair in the room? It's the one I'm sitting in, pal, the cushion hugging my buttocks inside my boxers, just delicious, I sit in this chair for hours at a time, you can't sit here, I sit here, is that clear, Spade?
Spade: Perfectly. Why do you want my services?
Lieden: I can't remember the initial reason I had one of my Scranton girls contact you. It wasn't because she wanted a date with you. Forget about that. Those girls work for me. I get access to their hair, I get to look at them while they work, closed circuit television, ever hear of it?
Spade: No.
Lieden: Have you ever wondered why Sherman Helmsley was the perfect George Jefferson?
Spade: The names are unfamiliar. Mind if I smoke?
Lieden: None of that devil weed in here!
Spade: I have ones I've rolled (takes out a silver cigarette case with embossed initials, SS, classy as fuck. Silver lighter with gold highlights gets the tobacco going). Cut to the quick, Mr. Lieden. What do you want of me?
Lieden: Investigate the President, get dirt on her. Start with her husband's business connections.
Spade: (taking out a small notebook and pencil stub). The husband's name is Gard, correct? The President's name is Parris, like the city but with an extra r?
Lieden: Say, you talk like you just arrived in the twenty-second century.
Spade: You mean the twenty-first.
Lieden: Twenty-first what?
Spade: Century.
Lieden: Uh-huh. Let's go over this. I've drawn what I want. You will do what's on the drawing. I'll pay you good, Randolph--
Spade: Spade, Sam Spade.
Lieden: Okay. Look at this drawing, Sam. See the eight tiny reindeer?
Spade: There are seven.
Lieden: Aw shucks, can I borrow your pencil? (Spade gives it to him, watches the former President of the United States draw with a two inch number two pencil a stick reindeer to make it eight). Picasso I ain't but I got the job done, the point across as you see. These reindeer represent the eighth of the month, that is to say, March 8th, 2024. I want to by then have command of the Democratic candidate field for President.
Spade: What can I possibly do to make that happen?
Lieden: You misunderstand. The reindeer do not have a stake in the activities of Mr. Randy Quaid.
Spade: Samuel Spade.
Lieden: Now take a good look at the middle of the picture, the black blot.
Spade: And?
Lieden: That's the mystery you need to solve to earn your fee.
Spade: You pay me a hundred dollars a day plus expenses, and a bonus of twenty-five hundred on top of my fee of 5,000 dollars if I deliver what you're paying for. Tell me something about this Gard fellow.
Lieden: A real loser, can't find his asshole with all ten of his fingers. Probably doesn't even know where his dick is, just thrusts himself against whatever woman comes along, real pervert, likes to sniff hair, too, so I've heard.
Spade: What about bicycle seats?
Lieden: What-un-the-who?
Spade: The perversion some men have of becoming sexually excited from sniffing women's bicycle seats.
Lieden: Say, that's a great idea! I'm gonna try that!
Spade: Sorry I mentioned it. But about Gard. What does he do when he's not performing his duties as this...(Spade consults his notebook)...First Gentleman, and I understand he was the Second Gentleman prior to this?
Lieden: That's right, when his wife was Vice President, the Big Number Two. Well, she took a dump on me all right. I'll get her back for that, and Bomb, especially that Bomb!
Spade: You want to bomb someone?
Lieden: Bill Bomb! Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff!
Spade: Joint Chiefs of Staff. What's that, and where are they located?
Lieden: Man, are you behind the times! Think of Bill Bomb as the chief military officer in America.
Spade: Okay.
Lieden: He's got five other honchos around him, they're the Joint Chiefs of their respective branches of the military, got it? They're located in the Pentagon.
Spade: Got it. You'll supply me with directions to this Pentagon?
Lieden: You bet. Now there's the Air Force, Army--
Spade: Huh.
Lieden: What's huh, sunshine?
Spade: There's the Army Air Force...
Lieden: That's old school. Get with the times, man! Marine Corps, you've heard of them, and the good old Navy, the Global Force for Good, oh, and the Coast Guard, the Navy's little brother, and let's not forget Space Force! (pumps his fist).
Spade: Space Force, huh? Planning on going to the Moon?
Lieden: We've been there, chum! We brought back regolith--(low voice) that's lunar soil--and studied it and by gum, plants can grow out of that shit.
Spade: Interesting. Tell me about Gard's wife.
Lieden: Dinah Parris is the first African-American woman President.
Spade: Unbelievable.
Lieden: 1930 was a great time, like 2022, Sam, but you gotta admit; 1930 had no political correctness or hashtag me too nonsense.
Spade: Hashtag me too nonsense? What is political correctness?
Lieden: You tabula rasa you. Cute. I'm not paying you to be ignorant. Spend a day studying up on this era--sure, I'll pay you the hundred for that study day, but I'm not buying any books for that study session, no sir. You go to the library, or research it on your phone.
Spade: By calling the library from my hotel room?
Lieden: Boy are you a stitch! Let me recover my breath, (not laughing) this laughter hurts my ribs! Okay, Sam, you're a duckling in a brand new world, that's fine. I'm not going to explain Smart Phones to you. You'll learn about them in your study period. Tell you what. I'll get you an iPhone, I'll even pay for it. I like you, Sam. You resemble Warren William, who played you in Satan Met a Lady.
Spade: Is that a picture?
Lieden: Oh, it's a Sam Spade drama! Did you ever think of selling your life experiences to Hollywood?
Spade: No.
Lieden: I have a producer friend in Century City, name of Slimeball Doogan.
Spade: Slimeball, huh?
Lieden: He was slimy when he came out of his mother. Slimeball assured me he'd put up no more than thirty-five million, as in dollars, to make a campaign film. I could call Slimeball, ask for the resources, the crew, the post-production folks and so on and so forth, and actually make a movie about you. I got a great idea for a Sam Spade private detective movie. There's this jewel-covered statuette of a bird of prey, see, an eagle. It was in the possession of the Knights of Sherman, passed through many hands common and royal, and then ended up on a ship to Frisco, as in San Francisco. Your partner gets shot to death by someone, that's a mystery right there. You get involved with a client, a hot number, oh yeah, quite so, a redhead, can you handle a little Mary Astor action, Sam?
Spade: Mary Astor, the actress?
Lieden: Right you are, man. So everybody wants the Eagle. It's coated in black wax or maybe it's a lacquer. I'd pick a lacquer if it were my choice. They scrape part of the black shit off and what do you know, it's a fake. The Sherman Eagle, what do you think? Shall I call Slimeball? Shall I? Shall I?
Spade: I'm not here to make a motion picture, Mr. Lieden. I'm here to find dirt on Douglas Gard and Dinah Parris. To benefit your political career, I take it?
Lieden: Never you mind why I want you to find the dirt! I'm an ambitious man, it's my choice to explain or not explain. I was campaigning after you were born. I never looked back. I never apologized, I never fessed up to all those claw hammer murders I did when I was full of spit and vinegar as a teen in Wilmington. He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. We'll always have Paris.
Spade: Right. Speaking of Parris, can you provide me with a name of someone who knows her well?
Lieden: Doug Gard.
Spade: Besides her husband.
Lieden: Me.
Spade: Besides you.
Lieden: You don't know her, so you're out of the realm of possibility.
Spade: Surely, you can think of a name.
Lieden: Shirley Brightbutton.
Spade: Who is she?
Lieden: President Parris's just recently resigned Chief of Staff. I have her number in my iPhone. You're gonna love having an iPhone. You like looking at women's private parts, Sam?
Spade: That question isn't something I'm going to answer.
Lieden: You like men, huh? Well, you can't have me. I'm about to be at an event with more beautiful hair than I've been around for a coon's age. You ever eat coon? Or do you prefer poon?
Spade: Raccoon? No. Elk, yes. I've eaten grubs in one particularly desperate situation.
Lieden: Tell me about it, but not now. I always want to hear a story about eating something disgusting. Was it disgusting?
Spade: The hunger was the worst part.
Lieden: Hunger. I've experienced it, but never for more than ten minutes. Those ten minutes are beastly, I can tell you.
Spade: I'll contact you after I research this period. I'll have some ideas. What's Shirley Brightbutton's phone number?
Lieden: She might like you, as in might want to sit on your mustache.
Spade: Her telephone number?
Shirley Brightbutton's Georgetown condo. At forty-one, Brightbutton, a Rhodes scholar, has already been Vice President Parris's Chief of Staff, briefly filling that role for President Parris, and the third White House Communications Director in the Bongo administration. Pundit, single, author of three books on political matters, she's half African-American on her mother's side and half Portuguese on her father's. Brightbutton was her ex-husband's name, Rex Brightbutton, champion weightlifter and cologne ad man.
Sam Spade sits in an orange armchair. An orange cat sits on the windowsill, tail flicking back and forth. Plants, green leaves, some of them big, drooping, looking as if they need watering. Shirley herself, a five foot two dynamo in bare feet, white shorts and green shirt tied above her belly button. Sam finds her a bit of a honey, wouldn't mind taking a chew. He drinks her bad coffee, smiles at her patter, smokes contemplatively, observes the Bloodhound looking at him from across the room.
Shirley: Of course my husband Rex--do you know Rex? Of course you do, everyone knows Rex, or at least has seen him on TV. He's a champion. His trophy from the Berlin stonelifting contest is taller than me.
Spade: I don't know Rex Brightbutton, I haven't heard of him, either.
Shirley: Do tell! Earlier I referenced Britney Spears and you didn't know who she is.
Spade: I don't watch movies or read entertainment periodicals.
Shirley: How novel. What do you do when you're not working?
Spade: I perfect my whistling ability.
Shirley: Musical whistling?
Spade: Applied some place where it feels good.
Shirley: Good heavens.
Spade: I'm an experienced gentleman with the ladies.
Shirley: Are you coming on to me?
Spade: Madame, no, of course not. What gave you that idea?
Shirley: You're a most peculiar man. I don't know if I want you here.
Spade: What does your heart tell you?
Shirley: What do you want to know about Dinah?
Spade: You're on a first name basis with her? The President of the United States?
Shirley: I've known her for a few years. She calls me Shirley.
Spade: May I call you Shirley?
Shirley: Mrs. Brightbutton will do.
Spade: Is President Parris concealing crimes she's committed?
Shirley: How would I know?
Spade: You're close to her work activities, or were. It's a pity you quit working there. Why did you quit?
Shirley: I couldn't stand working for that bitch anymore.
Spade: Catfight.
Shirley: Hardly. More like Dinah raging at people, whining about things not going her way, throwing pens and staplers and papers at people. She threw her phone at me when I told her there was absolutely no way we could get tickets to see what remains of Styx. Sold out, I mean sold out, sister. No forcing the issue. She had a fit! Tommy Shaw is her favorite singer and dreamy guitarist. She saw them when she was young.
Spade: Styx, like the river?
Shirley: Yes, same spelling.
Spade: This is a band?
Shirley: Yes, they're from Chicago I think.
Spade: They play swing music?
Shirley: No, rock.
Spade: Rock?
Shirley: Rock and roll.
Spade: What?
Shirley: Honey, what else haven't you heard about? Ever hear of Dr. Seuss?
Spade: No.
Shirley: The H Bomb?
Spade: No.
Shirley: Have you seen The Sound of Music?
Spade: No. It's a motion picture?
Shirley: Yes, you drip! Are you conning me? Have you heard of John Kennedy?
Spade: Some Irishman?
Shirley: Just the President of the United States once upon a time.
Spade: I would like to meet President Parris. I'll make it worth your while if you arrange that.
Shirley: How make it worth my while?
Spade: I'll whistle a tune for you. (Begins to whistle. In three minutes his head is between her thighs).
Artie Sneffen, his Foggy Bottom office. Outside, fog. Inside, a polite but tense discussion with Hector Farrbarrhuber.
Sneffen: You failed to carry out your assignment re Moe Lieden. I understand why. Lieden seduced you with future wealth and prosperity, a position in his administration, admit it.
Hector: You're sniffing happy gas.
Sneffen: On the other hand, it may be that the worst thing that could happen to the old bum would be for him to win the nomination and then lose to the Republican.
Hector: Who's that going to be?
Sneffen: Richman, probably.
Hector: He's a great man.
Sneffen: He stinks up the room of etiquette and good manners.
Hector: You don't like his manners?
Sneffen: They're atrocious.
Hector: Most people don't care about that shit. Maybe that's why Don Richman is popular?
Sneffen: Are you a Rich Man Man?
Hector: I never identified with that group, but I understand why Richman appealed to the populace. They were looking for someone not of Washington. Get the hint?
Sneffen: Outsider appeal. Yet, one knows nothing of the outsider in most cases.
Hector: Sneffen, you hooked yourself to the Parris star, are you regretful?
Sneffen: Hardly. I abandoned the Lieden ship, yet somehow it remains afloat, attempting to remain relevant.
Hector: Last time I saw Lieden he told me he tried to have an orgasm while he had to pee.
Sneffen: He lost his shit at least five years ago.
Hector: And no one told him it was time to quit. You all took advantage of him to crowd out the Progressive, Shronk Blanders.
Sneffen: Blanders' Socialist message is bad for America.
Hector: Bringing out the swear words now.
Sneffen: Damn Shronk Blanders and his grumpy granddad look! When it was looking like we wouldn't be able to crank up Moe Lieden enough to get him looking at least lifelike during his debate with Blanders, we were frantic. Shronk Blanders seizes the nomination? Goes on to beat Don Richman, handles him easily because of Richman's handling of Covid? Then we're stuck with Socialism? Health care for all? Less spending on war, more on domestic projects like infrastructure? Reel in the CIA, curtail the excesses of the FBI and police departments? It would've been more than terrible. Imagine John Kennedy surviving and not getting us into the Vietnam War? Does your skin crawl at the thought?
Hector: My brother died in Vietnam.
Sneffen: You're the wrong person to ask that question, then. About your failure. You could and really should return at least some of the money I gave you.
Hector: That's not going to happen.
Sneffen: I can sic State Department lawyers on your every money-related venture. They'll find something. They almost got Gary Condit.
Hector: You can do that, but it takes time. I can very quickly take out my thirty-eight and drill holes in your body, so do you wanna forget about taking money from me?
Sneffen: (giggles) That threat made me tingle!
Hector: I dug into your past, Mr. Sneffen.
Sneffen: Yes?
Hector: You dated women once upon a time, even married a broad in 1968. Tina Vicks, a B movie actress, starred in an episode of Hogan's Heroes, the one where Sergeant Schultz sells out the Third Reich for a sandwich.
Sneffen: Of course I remember Tina.
Hector: Divorced in 1969, you traveled to Laurel Canyon, participated in CIA experiments there, were seen on three occasions with a scruffy guy named "Charlie," a would-be cult leader. Two years later you were in Hanoi in disguise as a Vietnamese. You were keeping an eye on Jane Fonda, oh my Jane Fonda, I love Jane Fonda. Anyway, you looked enough like a Vietnamese that you got in to take a gander at the Hanoi Hilton's quote unquote guests. Your career seems to run between the CIA and the State Department, but also Defense, Defense Intelligence, and you have sway over Senate and Congressional committees. Tell me something.
Sneffen: I'm all ears.
Hector: Can Cassandra Blade win the nomination in 2024?
Sneffen: With manipulation, anything can be made to happen, you know that.
Hector: Imagine a Cassandra Blade presidency. What happens to you?
Sneffen: I become a paid commentator on a network opposed to Cassandra Blade and her policies. The problem is, though, I agree with most of her policies. Wrecking third world nations is our mutual hobby.
Hector: A third world nation's people could pool their money, each putting in the equivalent of a few pennies. This would amount to my salary, a considerable sum if it represents millions of donations from downtrodden people who want me to take revenge on the faraway imperialists who've destroyed their country.
Sneffen: You'd betray your country?
Hector: Hardly. Do you think Cassandra Blade or Dinah Parris give a shit about America? Do you give a shit about it, Mr. Sneffen?
Sneffen: I am a catalyst for the expansion of my country's influence. I care deeply about America, God's most perfect thought.
Hector: Whoah, pass the glue, you are trippin hard, I want some!
Sneffen: My shield, America, protects me from all jibes.
Hector: Does it boomerang like Captain America's shield?
Sneffen: No. In any case that was done as a visual effect in The Winter Soldier. That's the one Marvel Comics film I've seen. I have little time for entertainment periods.
Hector: Iron Man 3 is good. The thing is, you haven't dated a woman since you were twenty-eight, in 1973. No female partner known from then to now. Are you a homosexual?
Sneffen: I'm gay for America.
Hector: I'll take that for yes.
Moe Lieden's study in his Wilmington home. He sits in his easy chair, one with a motor that tips him forward to help him stand. He loves this chair. He calls it "my little helper."
He's on the phone with Amare Bongo, just back from a windsurfing laugh-at-the-shitty-condition-of-the-world fuck-off-a-thon with Richard Branson. Fox made a big deal out of long distance photos of the former President windsurfing, grinning after his country burned to the ground under the leadership of his former henchman, Moe Lieden.
Time to pretend, Moe thinks. I like Amare. He's swell. He didn't show me up at that function where I stared at the curtains, well they were nice curtains! Who has gold curtains beside Don Richman? We do, the White House do! I gotta get back into that place. That's where I belong. I'm gonna get that Bomb, too. Hoist him on his own petard. Give him a taste of my medicine. Medicine Moe. Heap big medicine man, me Moe, me club with hammer, make people go boom, smoke pipe with Cornpop, Cornpop a General now, good for him!
Bongo: Say something I want to hear right away and I won't hang up!
Lieden: Your hair looked nice at the function.
Bongo: Thanks, Moe. What can I do yuh for?
Lieden: I need money. I mean my campaign needs money. We're dry, Amare. Dry as bones. Bones lying out in the sun for decades, that dry. I could pawn my watch, my Bulova, but Amare, I've had this watch since sixty-seven!
Bongo: Is that the one you stole?
Lieden: I stole all my watches. I stole cars in the fifties and early sixties. Man, those were the days, vroom, you get into a car, electrically tickle the vehicle into purr mode, then you enjoy the feel of those contoured seats, and off you go, joy riding or driving it into the river, that was fun, but mainly I brought it to Cornpop's Chop Shop and Freshly Caught Shellfish Stand on Wintergreen and Clark. Have you ever eaten a freshly killed crab just hours away from walking sideways on the beach?
Bongo: I only eat veal, oranges, mangoes, cucumbers, Romaine, Ranch, and walnuts. I drink Old Fashioneds and tune in to basketball games more than Gaby would like.
Lieden: My Amanda, well, she's not my Amanda anymore, never wanted to watch MadTV with me. That Nicole Parker. I had a thing for her I can tell you.
Bongo: She has nice hair I take it?
Lieden: Nice hair, nice everything. Funny gal. Charming gal! Dynamic gal! Hey gal! You wanna join our gang and discuss the Kennedy-Nixon debate? Boy that Ike, what a speech! Military Industrial complex, what the H is that? Man, that Elvis is great in Love Me Tender. I wept, I admit it, boy that I am, I wept. I concealed my tears behind aggression, beating up my friends when we left the theater. One of em, Tracy Hunt--Tracy was a guy despite the name--had a lawyer dad and boy, my shit was up for examination. Luckily, a well-timed bribe to the judge got the case dismissed and I was able to go on with my mayhem.
Bongo: Have you traveled back in time in your mind?
Lieden: How did you, a Black man, go so far in life? Have you been water-cannoned?
Bongo: No I haven't, Moe. I've seen the films. Terrible stuff. Folks with water hoses for putting out fires aimin em at folks protestin about their due rights. It stirred my blood learning about it on television and in that one class in school. Those TV shows inspired me to overcame obstacles. I worked twice as hard as my White brethren. Then I stopped working sometime around the second week of November 2012.
Lieden: Black man, I hold out this White man's hand, asking for money for my presidential campaign, a new dawn awaits, Lieden Twenty-four, Repeat Performance Best Performance.
Bongo: You want me to give you money?
Lieden: I said that, yes.
Bongo: I gave you money to cover your son's medical expenses. A lot of money.
Lieden: I'll forever be grateful.
Bongo: Not just grateful, you're in my debt. I made you President, too.
Lieden: I seek to regain that office through contributions from such fine oligarchs as yourself. You are the Democratic Party.
Bongo: I hope not, it's in pisspoor condition. The mid-terms will be a blowout, probably. Here's what I'll do. I'll give you half a million dollars. That's it. Expect no more. There are others you can ask. Don't ask me again, do you understand?
Lieden: You're my President, always.
Bongo: When Cassie Blade asks me for a donation I'll give her one, just understand that.
Lieden: As long as it's not five-hundred-thousand or more.
Bongo: Hey, don't overstep! How much I give to campaigns is my business.
Lieden: You went to Harvard?
Bongo: Yes.
Lieden: I went to Harvard.
Bongo: No you didn't. You went to the University of Delaware, and Syracuse College of Law. You were in higher education conveniently when the draft was going on.
Lieden: Harvard, I loved Harvard. Good old Razorbacks! Or is it the Huffers?
Bongo: Harvard Crimson.
Lieden: Like blood, yeah, hey, King Crimson on the hi-fi! "The rusted chains of prison moons are shattered by the sun..." yeah, weird writing. During my psychedelic phase I drove around Syracuse in a Ford van looking for seekers after truth to hang out with, get stoned with, you know, do the Wild Thing with. We even drank beer sometimes. Hookers, we picked them up. We stole a motorboat, joy rode down to Trenton, abandoned the boat, used the money we found on the boat to go crazy in a weekend bash. Trenton, oh boy, smashing things in Trenton, 1970, King Crimson, grass, man, (low voice) the grass, plentiful and good-smelling, like chestnuts roasting on an open fire, (back to normal voice) Jack Frost melting and dying and losing his mind as you look at him perishing in the sun!
Bongo: Have you been taking your medication?
Lieden: Bitch, I'm gonna forget you asked me that! Did you know I was trapped inside a hologram?
Bongo: I saw a YouTube video last night that claims we all might be holographic projections deriving from the inner surface of the expanding universe. Sounds all right by me. I like the illusion I inhabit.
Lieden: Thirty-nine years ago, I did the math, I went after Social Security, proposing a fifty percent tax.
Bongo: Sounds rather steep.
Lieden: Of course it is. It's almost too much, but it leaves room for recipients of Social Security to wonder what might be coming.
Bongo: Keep those hoi polloi shivering in ignorance of what their masters may do.
Lieden: You got it, chum! Anyway, there I was, trapped inside a hologram, no joke! I was in Wilmington in 1959. I was Moe, but I was seventeen year old Morris Lieden.
Bongo: I was briefed on the experiment.
Lieden: By whom?
Bongo: By Bill Bomb.
Lieden: That collapsing off-ramp of destruction?
Bongo: He has his position.
Lieden: And I will have mine. Thank you, Mr. President, for the money. I'll make good use of it. I have a lad in mind to make the first campaign ad.
Bongo: I don't want to know more, Moe. I really don't care about anything except gratifying my own pursuits.
Lieden: May God water your brain with wisdom.
Bongo: You too, Moe.
To be continued...
Vic Neptune
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