437 Service

C.W. has gone missing. I can’t find him anywhere. The last time I saw him, he had assumed the shape of a long-haul trucker with a MAGA hat. He was nervous and puffing on a big cigar.

He said he was “going to join the Space Force.”

“But,” I said before he broke in.

“No buts,” he said. “They’ll need experienced men and I’m their guy.”

“Uh,” I began.

“Listen,” he said. “They have no idea what they are getting into. They won’t know a Phistupunarsigan from a Beetanisilliagan. You can’t send brave men to fight Galactic invaders without experienced warriors, and three heads are better than one. He grinned and exhibited several missing teeth. “You’d better listen to me.”

“No. You listen to me.”

“Why?”

“I have something to tell you.”

“Better make it quick. I’ve already heard that some Hierdaruckians have landed and are assuming the disguise of a wedding party. Our forces need some guidance and they need it fast. I can provide them exact coordinates.”

“Shut up,” I offered.

“What?”

“Are you listening?”

“I always listen. That’s one of my strengths.”

Letting that pass, I snapped a finger in front of his face.” He looked, and I assumed his other two heads were listening as well.

“Repeat after me,” I said. I waited a couple of seconds until he focused. “There is no Space Force.”

“There is no … what the hell are ya’ll talking about?”

“There is no Space Force.”

“What?”

“There is no Space Force, nor will there be.”

“But the President said ….”

“The President tends to make things up. That’s one of his privileges, or at least one he has assumed.”

“Why would he?”

“It’s in his nature,” I said. “He uses prevarication like some people use a paint brush.”

“But why tell us a lie about a Space Force?”

“Distraction,” I said.

“Dis-what?”

“Don’t you remember how much you like to watch magicians do their tricks?”

“Well, yeah,”

“And remember my telling you how they work them?”

A light dawned. “They fool you with one hand while the other does the trick.”

“Precisely.”

“But why would the President want to distract us?”

“Are you serious?”

“Well, they are on his ass pretty bad.”

“Because?”

“Some folks say he has been a little careless in the way he acts.”

“A little careless?”

“Maybe more than a little.”

“So, you see the need for some harmless distraction.”

“Who would he think might believe him about a fake Space Force?”

“The same people who believe a strong man can slam a metal folding chair down on another man’s head, have the poor guy hauled away to the emergency room bleeding, and have him back entertaining them the very next night.”

“But the Vice-President is setting the Space Force up, and he’s a Reckinarellerain.”

The threat is real.The President
 says this is an actual photo. - C.W.

“The best and the brightest?”

He thought. “Not exactly. They are the ones who transpermiated mosquito DNA on your planet. Some jokester on Falloonia told them it was a species of orchid. He’s been banished to Alabama, the jokester has, and they sent the perpetrator to Washington.” The fog lifted a bit. “As a matter of fact, …”

“So you see the subterfuge?”

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “I’m going to Little Rock.”

“For what?”

“Those folks up there at the Capitol respect our President. If he says we need a Space Force, they’ll be the first ones to join, probably already have. Just wait, you’ll see. If they don’t, I’ll raise almighty hell about it.” 

With that, he took off. I haven’t seen him since.

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.

430. Retribution

C.W. had left a message: “Under the tree. Sad. Bring the good Scotch.”

I knew what to expect. Pensive moods fit only a few of his shapes, and this had been a rough week for him. I carried everything on a tray, the single-malt I had been saving, two glasses, and a bucket of ice, though I knew he preferred the things in his world be unadulterated.

The Galilean didn’t seem to hear me approach. He sat between a spreading oak and a stand of variegated bamboo. My late father-in-law planted the oak years ago, but he had never enjoyed its shade. Now, a lonely figure, his white robe spreading around him, watched a group of geese leading their young around the banks of the pond.

As I approached, he said without looking, “It’s peaceful here. Someone planned things well.”

“Thanks” I said.

I sat the tray on the table, uncorked the scotch and motioned toward the ice with a questioning look. He shook his head. “I like it just as it is,” he said. “We can change our lives, but not good scotch.”

After I poured a “finger” for each of us, we raised our glasses and touched them. “To the children,” he said.

I said, “To the children.”

The geese caught our attention. They were in a line with the adults fore and aft. The lead goose, a mother I supposed, would flap her wings. Immediately the young ones would mimic with their small, developing stubs.

“She’s teaching them to fly,” he said. “Isn’t it a marvelous planet we have here? So much potential. Could you imagine what would happen to those youngsters if the mother wasn’t there to teach them?” He drained his glass and thrust it toward me. I began to pour and he gave me “the look.” I added an additional finger. He smiled and sipped.

“There seems to be a vicious cult threatening this peaceful place,” he said. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

He did a perfect impression of Zorba the Greek. “Then what is the use of all your damned books?” He laughed and drank half the rest of his scotch. Playing Zorba is one of his favorite games when he chooses this shape.

He brushed his fingers through long greasy hair. “What the hell do they have against my children?” He was still watching the geese.

“No one seems to know,” I said.

“Wasn’t I pretty clear about that?” I said 'suffer not.' I don’t think I said a damned thing about making them suffer.” He tossed off the remainder of his drink and held his glass out toward me. I filled it nearly to the top.

He sighed. “When we dropped the sperm off on this barren rock of a planet, the one you call home, six billion years ago,” he said, “we chose the very best. Yours was to be a glorious experiment in excellence—in thought, expression, and behavior. What the hell happened?”

He sipped. “Might want to take it slow,” I said. “Don’t get yourself all worked up.”

“Oh,” he said, “you know very well that I’m programmed for forgiveness.” He sipped again. “But the Exalted Falloonian, head of this great experiment, isn’t so bound. He can get really pissed. Remember that home planet destruction scene from that Star Wars movie you took me to see?”

I shuddered. He took another long drink, settled back in his chair, and continued. “And what’s with this immigrant shit?”

“What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t anyone remember the scenario the Elders wrote for me and the family? How we were immigrants? If these sons of …” he stopped and took a long breath. Sipped, and calmed his voice. “If these people in charge now had been in charge back then, and had tried to do to my family what they are doing to families now, there would have been thunderbolts galore, you can bet your sweet ass on that.”

I moved the bottle from his sight. “Maybe its time I took you in for a rest,” I said.

He let out a breath. “I suppose so.” He drained his glass and looked at me like a child begging for a last cookie.

“One more.” I said. He held out his glass. I filled it. This time he finished it off in two large gulps. He leaned back. We sat in thought for several minutes.

Before too long, he broke the silence. “There is a day of reckoning coming,” he said.

I looked over at him.

The best of pals. - C.W.

“It may not be pretty,” he said. “Especially for the leaders of this dreadful cult. Maybe the followers too.”

I drew a deep breath.

“It’s been done before, you know. Not like they wrote it, but its been done. Wasn’t pretty at all. Not at all.”

“Let’s get you to bed,” I said.

“It won’t be pretty at all.” He held out his glass.

I shook my head. He rested the glass on the table. Then he dabbed at his eyes with a corner of his robe. He looked at me with deep black eyes. He said, his words becoming slightly blurred. "It’s not going to be pretty for those who harm my children and rebuke the aliens.”

The sound of a crop-dusting plane made the geese bark and rush to the safety of pond, the little ones flapping their wings to no effect.

Not pretty,” he said again. “There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth among the wicked.”

He started to rise, then slumped and looked at me. “I don’t really care. Do you?”

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.

425. House Guests

“C.W., get in here right now. “You,” I pointed to a group outside the door of our farmhouse, “stay right where you are.”

“Can’t come right now,” I heard a voice say. “I’m packing,”

“I’ll pack you for a one-way trip home if you don’t get in here.”

“May we come in now?” the apparent leader of the group said. He was a thin man with a ludicrous goatee and close-cropped hair. He wore patched jeans and a work-shirt opened in front. A large tattoo of an eagle filled his chest. He carried a suitcase in one hand and a large grocery bag folded at the top in the other. Behind him stood a slovenly woman with a face that might, at some point long ago, been attractive. Now, both her face and bosoms sagged, and a large expanse of belly hung over the tops of cut-off jeans. Two pale, emaciated men stood with her. Each had a grocery bag, similar to the leader’s, in each hand.

“No,” I said. “You may not come in. If fact, I would advise you very strongly to depart the premises before my wife gets back.”

“But we’re paid up,” the leader said.

“C.W.” I yelled over my shoulder, “I’m not telling you again.”

I heard a rustle behind me, and Reggie the Young Conservative walked into the room. “Oh hi,” he said to the group as he straightened the collar of his shirt. “I see you found the place.”

The leader looked at me with a nervous twitch, and said to C.W., “There seems to be a problem.”

“No problem,” C.W. said, “I’ll be finished packing in a moment and the place will be yours.”

“What the godalmighty hell is going on here?” I queried.

“Fundraising for the campaigns,” C.W. said. “You know we’re all going off for the long weekend.”

“So? I thought we weren't going to publicize that.”

“There’s this place on the net,” he said, "and they rent your house for you when you don’t need it.”

I turned to him. “So, you rented our house to these people?”

“No, the place on the net did. Isn’t that neat? The money will buy a lot of Nancy Pelosis.”

“A lot of what?”

“You know, campaign brochures with her picture on them. We can’t use the ‘jigaboo’s’ picture anymore, so our folks are running against the Evil Grandmother. You do know she has a secret chamber under a Methodist church near Golden Gate Park where they force young boys to have sex-change operations and then use them for sex slaves, don’t you? It’s been all over Fox News.”

I turned to the ones standing outside the door. “There has been a mistake,” I said. “This, this, …, this creature has no authority to rent our house.”

“The website said it was okay.”

 

I guess I was lucky after all. - C.W.

“And how did you find the website?”

“A guy in ‘county-lockup’ told us about it,” one of the young men said.

“Shut up,” the leader said, turning to the young man. I saw the woman punch him in the ribs at the same time.

“And what,” I said, “do you have in those grocery bags?”

There was an audible crunch as several hands tightened.

“Oh, just some, uh, uh, …,” he struggled. Thinking must have posed a degree of difficulty for him.

“Religious tracts,” the woman said. She brightened, “Yeah,” she said with more confidence, “we planned a weekend of religious study.” Her whole being seemed to glow with the joy of explaining. “We vote the same political party as,” she nodded toward C.W. and said, “Mr. Trunce here, that’s the religious party, so it seemed like a great match-up.”

“Religious tracts, eh.”

“Yes sir.”

“Tell you what I’m going to do,” I said. “I’ll leave you with, uh,” I looked at C.W. and then back at the group, “Mr. Trunce, and I’ll call a friend of mine with the Sheriff’s Department. He can come over, and when my wife gets back, the two of them can review your religious tracts. If they approve, our house is yours for the weekend.”

I would say their faces paled, but they were so pale already that any incremental change would go undetected. I turned to C.W. “Mr. Trunce,” I said, “may I have a word?”

I took him out of sight, motioned for him to lean an ear toward me, and said, so only he could hear, “You are in a world of shit if my wife catches one sight of them. Now you go and tell them.”

He nodded and walked back toward the front door. He had only taken a few steps before he turned and said, “No need. They’re gone.”

I heard a sound from outside and went to a window. Two unknown cars had pulled up in the driveway. From one, a long-haired man with no shirt on yelled, “Parteeee time.”

The group’s leader stopped him, and an animated conversation ensued. The group piled into a decrepit van and the entire caravan sped away slinging gravel everywhere. I turned to C.W. He said, “May I borrow your Bible? I’d like to be reading it when Mrs. Big Dope gets back.” 

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.

408: Gifts For Politicians

C.W. as what? You would never guess.

A clown. Yep. He waddled in wearing those big floppy shoes that clowns wear. He eased across the floor, feet flopping like a couple of beached groupers. Lip makeup covered half his face and orange hair sprouted in all directions from his face. His attire was equal to the task.

“What the …?”

“Greetings Earthling,” he said. “Did you hear the one about the preacher who got confused and told his youth congregation to go all the way for Je …”

“Wait. What’s going on here?”

“Then he called for the hymn, ‘Oh Why Not Tonight? to be followed by the first and last verses of ‘Almost Persuaded.’”

“Stop it,” I said, stifling a guffaw. “Can you tell me what’s up?”

“They say the congregation had nearly doubled within a year.”

“Will you stop? That’s not funny.” But I was laughing so he paid no mind. “What is going on?”

“I’m ready to make an ad for our new business.”

“What new business?”

“Gifts Reviving Ornery Politicians Everywhere.”

“Say what?”

“Our motto is ‘Don’t mope. Grope.’ Catchy huh?”

“You’re going to have to explain this to me.”

“It’s as simple teaching a dog to sing,” he said. “And you don’t need the whip and wienies.” He laughed. So did I.

“I’m confused.”

“Have you noticed,” he said, “how sour and heinous so many politicians are these days?”

“Well, …, come to think of it, yes.”

“What kind of laws do they make when they are ‘in the mood’ so to speak?”

“Not good ones.”

“What kind of things do they say when they aren’t happy?”

“Mean and spiteful?”

“So what’s the solution?”

“Beats me.”

“Ah,” he said. “It’s time for them to GROPE. Imagine you have a senator who wants to invade some country simply because it’s there and he’s a sourpuss.”

“I think we have one of those.”

“Bingo! So here we go. You just send off to our company and buy a gift for him, one complete with our logo and a note saying ‘Have a happy GROPE,’ and watch the change.”

“Our company?”

“We’ll get to that later. Now what gift to we send to said senator?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“A banjo, stupid. It’s a scientific fact that one cannot frown, think evil thoughts, and play the banjo at the same time.”

I nodded, and an image of John Agar and movie monsters came to mind. “It just might work.”

“For tough cases we’ll switch to accordions, Myron Floren-sized accordions.” I chuckled at the thought.

He continued. “Can you imagine Trey Gowdy wanting to persecute someone while he’s playing “Lady of Spain?”

I had to agree. “He wouldn’t even want to go after Hillary again.”

“Correctamundo. Now, imagine that we had a president who hated everyone who wasn’t related to him or had loaned him money.”

“That’s not hard to do.”

“Well, teaching him to GROPE is the answer, by jingo.”

“He might already know." I smiled, but C.W. didn't. "Anyway, go ahead. How so?”

“Ain’t you never heard of a ‘whoopee cushion’ dear boy?”

This one made me laugh just thinking about it. “That just might keep us from becoming a third-world country.”

“A what kind of country?”

“Never mind. You have my attention. Go on.”

“Suppose some dour evangelist, say the son of a famous preacher even, decides to become a spokesman for some political party and starts advocating divisiveness and hatred toward the other party.”

“That could happen for sure.”

 

Happy politicians make better laws. - C.W.

“How’s he going to look after he begins to GROPE?”

“How?”

“Can you imagine preaching hatred while you are tap dancing?”

“Oh stop it.” It took a moment to get the image out of my head, but I finally stopped laughing.

He took on a serious look, or at least as serious as could imagine in his current shape. “We’ll have some subsidiary products for victims of politicians as well.”

“How so?”

“Have you ever had to suffer Fox ‘news’ on the telly while you are in a waiting room and you can’t find the remote?”

“Oh yes. That’s why I carry ear plugs.”

“Some pals from Falloonia have developed something better for that—an app.”

“What does it do, change the channel?”

“Oh, better than that.”

“How?”

“It’s called a ‘Remotely Activated Fart Transmittal.’ Can you imagine RAFT’ing a vice-president while he’s in the middle of denouncing someone?”

This time I couldn’t stop. He kept on, but my cackling drowned him out and I couldn’t see him through my tears.

I gained a moment’s composure. “We’ll call it ‘Penceification’ and make a fortune.”

This cracked us both up.


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 makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.

403. Future

“Hey Big Dope.”

“Hello C.W.”

I assumed it was C.W. The shape was of the late Carl Sagan, but since he is dead, there’s no use pretending. I was in the shop working on a project when he wandered in. He didn’t say anything, just walked around and fiddled with different tools. This distracted me, so I told him to stop.

He held up a caliper and said, “Good tool. They once used something like it in science classes.”

“They don’t use them still?”

“Not since they don’t have science classes anymore.”

That got my attention. “They what?”

“Don’t you keep up with things?

“What does that have to do with science classes?”

“I can’t believe you just asked me that. You know as well as I that your species hasn’t taught science since the second year of Mike Pence’s presidency.”

I stopped what I was doing and turned off the machine. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Your ignorance. You might as well be asking if I’ve been committing CNAV.”

“C.W.,” I said, “you have me totally confused.”

“Don’t tell me that you don’t know what Church Non-Attendance Violation is.”

I didn’t respond.

“Have you been so busy out here that you’ve been guilty of C…,?”

I interrupted him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s okay. The penalty for the first offense is just a week in re-education camp. I can attest to that.” He paused for a few seconds. “Oh, and have you filed your Personal Unacceptable Behavior Enemies list? They are due by the end of the year.”

“Have you gone berserk?”

“Not at all. FBI Director Madoff has stiffened the penalties for noncompliance this year. He says fully developed and verifiable PUBES are critical to the moral welfare of the country. He just arrested three women and two men for shaving theirs, shaving names off their lists of known gays, that is.”

“Director Madoff?”

“Now don’t tell me you don’t know who Bernie Madoff is?”

“I thought I did. But …”

“I wouldn’t mess with him. He’s under a lot of pressure.”

“What?”

 

The future can be scary. - C.W.

“Emperor Trump, President Arpaio, and General Kushner have ordered him to help Secretary of Defense Moore join forces with the new Secretary of State, and begin cleaning up what used to be the Middle East. They say that the radioactivity has subsided enough. I think they intend to start on Texas after that.”

“New Secretary of State? What on earth are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me that you haven’t heard they appointed Franklin Graham to finish out Sarah Palin’s term after she became Secretary-General over at the UN.”

“I haven’t,” I said. “And did you say ‘General Kushner’ a minute ago?”

“I’m beginning to worry about you,” he said.

“The Kushner I know has no military experience. You must be making stuff up.”

He shook his head in disdain. “Look,” he said. “We have no military anymore, so what difference does it make who the head of it is? What is it with you about expertise? Treasury Secretary Osteen isn't even an economist.”

“C.W.,” I said, “we’re going to have to sit down and talk for a few minutes.”

“First sensible thing you’ve said all day.” A shudder went through his body. “Wait one.” He shuddered again. “I’m receiving a report. I think maybe it’s about what they plan to do with those teenage girls they caught reading novels.”

“Girls reading novels?”

“Yeah, can you imagine what kind of mess they would have if there were any boys still left around?” He shuddered again. And again. Then he said in a weak voice. “No. Are you telling me the truth? How embarrassing. How did it happen? I’m ready when you are.” He turned to me and said, “I’m going to be off-presence for a moment or two.”

“What’s the matter?”

“During this morning’s adjustment transmittal, they got my Constant Relative Adjustment Positioner out of sequence.”

“And?”

“My CRAP has been off by nearly seven Earth-years ever since.”

“C.W.,” I said, “Before you go, answer me this about the things you said. Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?”

“Oh,” he said. “That will be up to you.”

I've had no further intercourse with the form of C.W. Future, but I will try live upon the Total Resistance Principle, ever afterwards; and may it was always be said of me, that I knew how to keep my love for America and its people well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!

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 makes him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.