|
{red bel air} bryan tarpley High Chancellor Marduke bends over, his copious robes rustle. Shit spews as a fountain from his raw anus, pooling on the maroon carpet in front of his oak credenza. “This has got to stop.” The intercom chimes. “High Chancellor? Gary Roan from PETA here to see you.” “Oh Jesus. Send him away. I just shat myself.” Intercom static. “Sir, you’re on speakerphone.” A tardy gas bubble weasels out with a high pitch. A young male voice on the other end: “Mr. Marduke, if this is another ploy to avoid meeting I’ll have you know—” Marduke slams a fist onto the speaker. “Dog Fight Royale stays on prime time. This week we’re killing a poodle. Now get the fuck out of my building.” His stomach gurgles in protest. He groans and squats, his palms press into his quaking red face. Yesterday, High Chancellor Marduke slouched in a high backed leather booth in the VIP section of Marjorie’s. Gloria Kaiser sat across from him, sipping a Mimosa and nodding in smiling acquiescence. Their waiter had long bangs which hid his eyes. The hand that refilled Marduke’s water was bone white. “And for that reason, Gloria, I think our screen writers are entirely overpaid. I mean, people all around us have stories to tell. I bet even mister—” he reads the waiter’s nametag through round eyeglasses. “Kendall here could—” “Indeed I could, High Chancellor. In fact, my hobby is the telling of stories.” “Ha! Just as I said, Gloria. All around us.” “Would you like to hear one?” said Kendall. “I’m sorry?” “I call it ‘America’s Lover.’” “That sounds fascinating, Kenneth, but what I was telling Ms. Kaiser here is— ” Kendall clears his throat. “Lucy turns on the television and you can tell it’s turned on because it has an erection. Lucy rolls her eyes and tells the television that this isn’t funny. The television doesn’t listen but instead turns Lucy around and begins to fuck her. She half-heartedly protests but the television keeps thrusting back and forth.” Gloria lifts an index finger to her temple. Marduke watches in wide-eyed stupefaction. “Like a pump. It’s like a pump because with each thrust Lucy becomes larger, more sedentary. After awhile Lucy is twice her size and her eyes have a film over them. And she has stopped complaining. People stop by to see how things are going but they can hear the action and don’t wish to disturb. Pretty soon people stop coming altogether and it’s just Lucy and the TV. Forever copulating. Never reproducing.” Marduke blinked. “Very insightful of you, Kevin. Could you bring us our check?” “I can tell you didn’t like my story. It’s obvious you didn’t catch the symbolism.” “Oh, I caught the symbolism, buddy. That story symbolizes the fifty bucks a plate I just flushed down the crapper.” “Funny you should use that analogy.” “Come on, Gloria. Let’s take our business elsewhere.” “Goodbye Mr. Chancellor. Be sure to drink lots of liquids.” Marduke stopped. Turned around. “What did you just say to me?” “The water you drank was laced with a high-powered, time release laxative.” “Bullshit.” Marduke walked away, Gloria in tow. “He’s trying to make a scene.” “It happens in bursts!” Three months ago a triad of men gathered on the third of March in an abandoned water purification plant. One of them wore a trench coat and driving cap. “Gentlemen, just behind this wall there’s ten million gallons of toxic gunk that’s been trapped in the Brooklyn aquifer since the 1890’s. No one knew about this shit until 1950 when an underground explosion sent twenty-five manhole covers three stories into the air. That’s our job—to send a message to America about all the shit on TV.” The second man wore ripped jeans, tie-dyed shirt, and a camouflage beret. “No wonder Brooklyn smells like a hot turd. Who’s our target?” Trench coat shook a pack of cigarettes till one shimmied out. “This year the CEO of Viachannel fired half his veteran screenwriters and replaced them with marketing interns. They’ve got bum fights, dog fights, hell—even bums fighting dogs—all on prime time.” “CEO? Don’t you mean Lord Chancellor or whatever the fuck he calls himself? What’re we gonna do to him?” The third man raised his bone white hands and lowered the hood of his sweatshirt, revealing bleached hair, violet eyes, and pale skin. “That’s where I come in.” “Holy shit, man!” Tie-dyed took a step back. “An albino! Are you like a deadly assassin?” Bone-hands rolled his eyes. “I’m a waiter.” “But you know all that ninja shit, right?” “I have a creative writing degree from the University of Iowa. Stereotypes are bad for the soul.” Trench coat lit his cigarette, took a slow drag. “I’m gonna see to it we can video everything that happens in the High Chancellor’s office. You still in touch with that buddy of yours at the pharmacy?” “Yeah.” Tie-dyed scratched behind his head. “Why?” Fifty-two years ago Dean Marduke hopped onto the red leather bench seat of uncle Dave’s Bel Air. The engine started on the first try. Light rain began to fall. Uncle Dave turned the dial on the radio. All the news was about James Dean and how he died too young. “Didya know him uncle Dave?” “Sure did, kid. Met him on the set of a movie that ain’t even come out yet. It’s called Rebel Without a Cause.” Dean loved how his uncle said ‘ain’t’ even though mother said it was low class. He also loved how he drove fast, how he worked in Hollywood, and how he was about to buy Dean a pair of Chuck Taylors. “Red ones, right kid?” “Yep. Just like your car.” Coming around a curve, the car left the road without a sound, hit a tree. Dean was strapped in, but he saw uncle Dave’s body leave the seat and the steering wheel bend forward. He saw the steering column pierce his chest and his head smash through the windshield. He saw the blood. The blood that spattered the seat behind his back. The blood that followed the cracks of the windshield glass. The blood that left uncle Dave’s mouth and chest and ears. Dean watched this slowly and without blinking. He kept this to himself, the way the universe slowed time so he could see. It was later he knew it for a vision. It was later he understood that America was a quiet boy who liked to watch. That when it comes down to it, what keeps America there with his face lit blue before a flashing screen was blood. What makes his little heart beat is blood. Red blood. Like uncle Dave’s Bel Air. |
