415. Resistance

“Don’t make me have to come in there.”

Oh, no, as I walked in from doing some outdoor chores, I heard one of the most dreaded threats a Southern child can hear. I rushed in the living room to check on things. I heard C.W. before I saw him. He was what you might call, “wailing.”

“Oh, what will become of me, what can I do?”

A voice from the kitchen said, “Try setting yourself on fire.”

I had reached the living room by then and witnessed a sight I’ll never forget. There was the form of what appeared to be a genuine 1968 version of a Haight-Ashbury resident sitting cross-legged on the floor moaning and rocking to and fro with tears streaming down his face and onto a pale pink robe festooned with peace symbols.

“What the … ,?”

“Oh, Big Dope,” he managed between sobs. “Am I glad to see you. You must help me.”

I was feeling a bit weak so I sat. I said nothing.

“Tell me you’ll help me, man.”

“Help you how?”

“Keep them from drafting me.”

“Keep them from what?”

“Drafting me, man. I’m not cut out for the military, man, not even the navy. You know how I got seasick when you took me fishing that day. And the sight of human blood makes me nauseated.”

“Calm down,” I said. I looked at him with all the sternness I could muster. He sniffed once and looked at me. His mustache and beard were glistening from his tears, and his nose was running. He drew a breath and nodded.

 “Now what is this about a draft?”

He started to sound off again, but I wagged a finger at him and shook my head. “Speak.”

“I requested a transfer home,” he said. “They turned me down.”

“Who turned you down?”

“The Falloonian Elders. They quoted Section Eight of the Alien Service Agreement.”

“What’s that?”

“What I had to sign to be eligible to come live with you.”

“No, I meant what is Section Eight?”

“That’s the one where it says I have to participate on host-country life to the greatest degree possible.” With that, he broke down and wailed, “Now I’m going to get drafted.” His sounds filled the room.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” came from the kitchen.

“Calm down,” I said again. “There hasn’t been a draft in this country since the 1970s.”

“And look at how many years you’ve been at war since then,” he said. “Now this new one is bound to require that they start up the draft again.” Snot dripped from his nose. “What am I going to do?”

“C.W.,” I said, … ,”

When it comes to drafting me,
I find I must agree. - C.W.

“Tranquility’s Child,” he said between sniffs.

“Say what?”

“That’s me,” he said, “Tranquility’s Child.”

“Whatever,” I said, “but there is no new war, yet.”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The political party in power in your country just declared war.”

“Did what?”

“Declared war. What shall I do? I’m too young to die.” He stopped and thought, shaking his head. “I’m only half a century old in Earth years.” With this he wailed again, “Oh what am I to do?”

“I’ve heard nothing about a new war.”

“They call it a ‘trading war,” and that means trading bombs and bodies, my people tell me, body counts and all that. They say I’ll be a hero maybe.” He began to wail again. “Help me. Help me.” His voice rose. “Help me. Help me.”

I couldn’t help thinking of that old film, The Fly. I shook it off.

I said, “Do you mean ‘a trade war’ with other countries? That’s not a war of armies. That’s only about the buying and selling of products. It doesn’t lead to invasions and battles. It’s just about products, or a product.”

“A product that one country buys and one country sells?”

“Exactly. Buying and selling. No ‘bombs bursting in air,’ no troop ships, no napalm, no draft, no dead babies. Just everyday products for sale or trade.”

“Does that include rubber and oil?”

I felt as though someone had slapped me in the face with a wet towel. I stared at the floor for a moment.

“I’m too goddam old,” I said. “You’re on your own.”

He screamed, “Oh woe is me, woe is me.”

A voice from the other room screamed back, “I’m gonna make you think ‘woe is me’ if you make another sound.” 

See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

393. Policy

Slept in this morning and C.W. was already busy with my computer when I walked into the living room. I had my morning coffee and was scarcely awake. He had a shape I’d not seen before, sort of a cross between the actors Don Knotts and Jim Nabors. He was wearing farmer’s khakis and a John Deer baseball hat and was typing away.

Careful not to disturb him, I sat quietly and took a sip of coffee. After a moment, he quit typing, looked at me, and said, “Morning, Poo-poo Head.” Then he waited.

“What?”

“No,” he said, “Too sissy.” He ignored me and went back to his typing. I heard him muttering to himself, “Just like everything else, they think this is easy.” He typed for a few seconds and then looked at me again. “Morning, you stump-broke female of the species Bos taurus, family ‎Bovidae.”

As one might imagine, I sat in stunned silence. He punched a single key and said “Save.” He smiled and started to speak but stopped and began typing again. “Slant-eyed lawn jockey.” He waited for a reaction.

“Stop it,” I said. “Please tell me what you are doing.”

“Busy,” he said, “Got to finish this assignment by Monday at noon.” He started to type again, but stopped, and looked at me again. “Fart-sniffing wiener dog.” He gave a shrug that implied, “What do you think?”

“I’m giving you one last chance,” I said. “You know I have the ‘hot-line number’ to the Falloonian Elders.”

“Working,” he said. “I told you I had a job.”

“A job?”

“It’s not a job. It’s an adventure. You wouldn’t understand you sun-dried douche-bag.” He gave me that look again.

“Wait a minute. Wait just a minute. Who are you working for and what are you doing?”

“I’m working for myself, my own company.”

“And what company is that?”

“Taunts in Twitter Style,” he said. “Want to see some TITs?” he said, holding up a pile of papers. He shook them at me. “You short-stack pile of steaming … ,”

“Stop it,” I said. “Where did you get the idea for this company?”

“From a man named Vince,” he said, “you dried-up testicle bag.”

“I’m calling the Elders,” I said, if you do that one more time.”

“Go ahead, you sewage-sipping half-pint.”

I slumped in my seat. “This ‘Vince’ man, who is he?”

An entrepreneur,” he said, “I think he’s in the entertainment business. Something about the sport or activity of grappling with an opponent and trying to throw or hold them down on the ground, typically according to a code of rules.”

That stopped me. I just sat there shaking my head. Then, realization started coming toward me like a gray horse emerging from the fog. “Are you talking about Vince McMahon of World Wrestling Entertainment?”

“Who else, you dingleberry-nibbling midget?”

He's Number One, or
says he is, anyway. - C.W.

“He’s paying you to think up taunts?”

“He’s the go-between man, you crap-collecting moron.”

“I think I understand.”

“About time, you scab-scratching imbecile.”

“Vince McMahon is contracting with you to think up taunts for his professional wrestlers.”

This time, he looked at me with confusion.

I continued. “I don’t think,” I said, “that they would allow some of those on a family-oriented TV show, even a pro-wrestling show.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said, “you scum-sucking child of a hairless baboon.” He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “I’ll have no problem with any censors.” He laughed to himself and repeated, “Censors my ass, you knuverhataklu.”

“You what?”

“Never mind,” he said. “They don’t allow me to use Falloonian.”

“Even on pro-wrestling? They would probably come closer to understanding Falloonian than they would English.”

“Some of those fans are earth-born, I'll have you know. A few are, anyway. And why do you keep harping on pro-wrestling?” he said, “you piss-ant’s underbelly.”

“Aren’t you into serving the entertainment industry?”

“Heavens no,” he said, “you skunk-sodomizing simpleton.”

“If not for pro-wrestling, then who for?”

“If you must know,” he said, waving a hand at me, “I’m helping out with foreign policy, at the highest level.” He paused and raised one eyebrow. “And I do mean the highest level, Loser Man.”

             
See also:

Delta Dreaming

All Hat No Cattle

Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.