Agent Mueller’s last ride

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A Doom and Reprisal report from Ale 81 Inn Field Correspondent, Ford Wenty



 

The gavel bangs and the background chatter subsides. Ben Stein takes the dais and utters those iconic words: “Mueller?……..Mueller?”

Agent Mueller is home sick today. At least that’s the cover story. Agent Mueller’s day off. The befuddled man you see in the spotlight of these hearings is a chimera, a composite sock puppet with the ghost of J. Edgar reaching up it’s ass to pull the strings. The addition of the basement server defense lawyer at the 11th hour was just to provide additional cover, a helping hand should he trip over the official script. Whilst this charade proceeds the real Agent Mueller runs amok, somewhere in the Nevada desert.

The last confirmed sighting of the real Agent Mueller had him peddling psilocybin and CBD oils at Burning Man. He was in drag, a Hanoi Jane send up of sorts I am given to understand. There may be photos, but absent this I can assure that I have obtained this information from unimpeachable sources. A quarter century ago he may have stood out as an oddity, even at a freak show like Burning Man. In today’s America he blended right in with the rest of the crowd.

On 22 April 2018 I published my first report on Agent Mueller and his activities in this very journal, a piece entitled The Unvarnished Truth about the Mueller Investigation: Beware when Axolotls Frolic. At that time I shared this observation about Agent Mueller:

You know on paper when you look at Agent Mueller’s resume you might get the idea that you’re dealing with a boy scout. The kind of guy you’d want to think of as the straight arrow. Solid. But he’s a stellar example of that Annakin Skywalker to Darth Vader transformation that occurs in Washington DC. Like a black hole in space it is a death spiral, a crushing force de-atomizing even the most gargantuan blocks of matter that dare to fall within it’s orbit. It is a portal, a cosmic wormhole to an alternate reality of Orwellian proportions. All matter is transformed, reassembled into something that still resembles it’s former self, but is forever changed, corrupted. This is true for intentions as well. The best of intentions are lost within this maelstrom, replaced by a dogged determination to preserve the agency or bureau or whatever department of that alternate reality they have been absorbed into. The mission forgotten, it just becomes another job.

Today we can confidently say that these words apply not only to Agent Mueller and his protege, St. James the Pious, but to current FBI director Christopher Wray as well. It is an institutional rot; not a new phenomenon. And there is ample evidence that this has been the nature of the Bureau from it’s inception. At the conclusion of that piece I gave my assurance to our readers that I would remain on this story until it reached it’s sad and ugly end. We’re not quite all the way to the end yet, but I believe that it is time to render the final word on Agent Mueller.

I was at first incredulous at the intel which directed me back to the desert where our paths had last crossed. Once on the ground, following those threads to their end I knew when my quarry was near. I could smell the fear in the air, nearly palpable.  Mueller has taken flight in these wastes as Ahab upon the seas, not in pursuit; rather as the pursued. He is stalked by the ghost of the Great White Gangster. The specter of Whitey Bolger and darker spirits plague his every step. He could have escaped all of this, of course, but the Bureau needed that last hurrah to undo the damage committed by his successor. 

In Beware when Axolotls frolic I reported the abrupt and bloody end of St. James and it was indeed true. I have long known that the James Comey seen on book tours and on film, twitter or any other medium, is in fact a hulking Golem with James Comey skin stretched across it’s mocking imitation of life.  Whatever Mueller’s personal disappointment in his once star pupil, it was predetermined that Comey should be destined for Sainthood. Anything less would reflect ill upon that most sacred of institutions, the Bureau, and by extension all of it’s servants past, present and future. In some lab, buried deep within the rock of West Virginia, the U.S. government has gone all Frank Herbert with the remnants of the original. Like the legendary soldier, Duncan Idaho in faithful service of House Atreides, St. James the Pious has been genetically replicated in ghola form that he may too continue in faithful service of the house of Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity. Don’t be surprised if one of these abominations does not appear on CNN or MSNBC.

Months after the infamous hearings I finally caught up with Agent Mueller at a dusty diner on the outskirts of Tonopah, NV. At the southern edge of town on the Veteran’s Memorial Highway (US 95) he had taken a temporary refuge in one of the back booths of the diner. He was out of the drag get up now, though he still favored the look of the faded Army fatigue jacket. He seemed to be mumbling to himself and swatting at flies, which may have been real or imaginary. There were undoubtedly flies present in the establishment.

From a position at the register I could view the length of the diner. There appeared to be a lone grill cook in the pass through window and one disinterested waitress enjoying a cigarette. I stole a moment of eye contact with the waitress, a querying look to seek permission to seat myself. She set her cigarette aside and rasped out a “sit anywhere you like, sweetheart”, followed by “Coffee?” I told her sure, I’d take a cup. 

“Listen sweetheart,  if it’s okay by you I’ll just take that cup from ya right here. I’m gonna go back and visit Captain Flyswatter.” I wasn’t positive, but she seemed to suppress a bit of a chuckle. I seemed affirmed in this suspicion when she cast a sarcastic sneer in his direction.

“Izzat ‘is name? For real? He’s been coming in here like this, ever so many weeks for months now. You know him?”  She paused for a moment to steady a steaming cup of coffee squarely onto a saucer. She couldn’t hide the tremor as she extended it to me, recovering to steady it with her left hand. A subtle glance at the top of that hand revealed the discreet tracks embedded in the fleshy web between her fingers.

“We were casual acquaintances once. Some concerned associates asked me to check up on him.” I handed her three dollars as I took the saucer. Taking it she shrugged and returned to her cigarette. She had clearly reached her quota of fucks given for the day.

Agent Mueller showed no evident sign that he had even taken notice of my entry. He was engaged with an entirely different plane of existence. It was at this precise moment that I began to form a theory. Agent Mueller had, for lo these many months, been migrating between the signposts where his reality and our own still manage to intersect. An addendum to this theory also suggests that the number of these locations is rapidly dwindling. This would account for his frequency at this diner. Or, perhaps, he just really enjoyed the food and service the establishment has to offer. None of us may ever know for certain.

After moving the dozen or so steps required I slouched down, sideways into the booth behind him. “You’re a tough man to track down Agent Mueller.” It seemed as good an introduction as any. There was a lapse and then a sudden, single word in reply.

“Pilate.”

What I heard was the word “pilot”. Did he mean that was why he was hard to track down?

“You have a pilot or you are a pilot?”

“Pontius Pilate.”

This was from way out in left field. What did he mean?

“What about Pontius Pilate?”

“They used to call me Agent Mueller. I am Pontius Pilate now.”

Ooo-Kay! I knew this would get weird. I just didn’t know how weird, or how fast. He didn’t seem inclined to volunteer more and I wasn’t sure that I should yet pry too hard. I might learn more about this delusion if I simply played along.

“Well Pilate, have you eaten? I’ve got this coffee here and I was thinking about trying some corned beef hash. Care to join me?”

“Do I know you?”

“Of course! It’s Harris! From The Post, sir. Don’t you remember?”

“Harris, Harris……Oh, yes…of course! I remember now!”

“So, uh… how about that breakfast?”

“My hands are clean, Harris. You know that don’t you?”  For the first time he made eye contact. His eyes had a look somewhere between dread fear and a crazed fervor. He thrust his hands before my face, angrily. “Look at these hands, Harris! You see any blood on these hands?”

“Not a speck. Clean as a whistle.”

“God damn right they are. I’ll have dry toast and jelly.”

I returned to the counter where the waitress had been minutes before.  I should come up with a name for the girl, don’t you think? Referring to her as just “the waitress” is a bit dehumanizing. Maybe Julie the Junkie? Yeah, that’ll work. Or just Julie. Anyway, I placed the order with Julie and told her that I would dine at Captain Flyswatter’s booth, if she would be so kind as to deliver when ready. A surly grunt sufficed for a reply.

I rejoined Mueller/Pilate at his seat. “Pilate? Would you mind terribly if I were to join you here? The food should arrive soon.”

“Eh? Oh…Harris, it’s you. Yes, certainly. Sit down.”

Under the false appearance of representing the press one might ordinarily preface this sit down with the advisement of being strictly “off the record”. This was not necessary with Agent Mueller, for you see he is perfectly at ease in speaking with the press. I should qualify this by saying the “right” people in the press. Especially at the Post. And the Times, of course. Can’t forget that sinking ship. As long as her prow remains above the waterline everyone still salutes. I digress…

Mueller had been adamant that there was no blood on his hands. I’d had a short time to reflect on this and was able to draw the Pilate analogy clearly enough. This led to one other inevitable conclusion. If Mueller was Pilate then logically this would cast Trump as Christ? Now if I were really Harris from the Post, what would I say?

“Ahem. Uh…sir? Has anyone suggested to you that your mantle as Pilate perhaps implies that Trump is Christ? That’s a little off script, don’t you think?”

“Hah! How’s that, son? You think they’re still not going to crucify him?”

I played along, in character. “Well of course, yes. But how? You’ve washed your hands, now who carries out the sentence?”

“No longer my concern Harris.”

He was really adhering to character. Did he truly believe that he was Pontius Pilate? Perhaps he really did. Or perhaps it was just a manifestation of the true motivations of the man. It made positively zero difference whether the subject was Trump, Jesus of Nazareth or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. You could slap a fried bologna sandwich up on that cross and Agent Mueller would do his duty. And like Pontius Pilate it was simply an administrative function, fidelity to Rome and his patron, Caesar. With Bravery and Integrity sent swirling into the sewage line years before Agent Mueller has only Fidelity to cling to: Fidelity to the Bureau and it’s mission. Despite all of the good press and dedicated image building in film and television, the true mission of the FBI has always remained that of it’s longest reigning and renowned Director, Mr. Hoover. That is to be the American NKVD, a Soviet style political police with sweeping federal powers. Mueller wielded that club better than most of J. Edgar’s successors.

Every lie, every leak, every unscrupulous act is no accident and all with malice aforethought. Saint James learned everything he knew at the knee of Agent Mueller. He carried on in his footsteps capably until he made one fatal error. Jimmy let it become all about him. He forgot the cardinal rule: if you want the Bureau to look out for you, you have to look out for the Bureau. Mueller was right to shoot him in the head. Had I been in his shoes I’d have done the same. Agent Mueller needed to tie up loose ends. He needed Comey’s silence, but could not afford for him to disappear entirely. Fronting the report that bears his name was just a further gathering of loose ends. Andy and his crew did the best they could with what they had to work with and Mueller presided over it all as a desperate rearguard action for his beloved Bureau. He bought them time, but was it enough?

In the unlikely event that any indictments are handed down the ghola Comey will be paraded before the cameras and sacrificed on that great altar of convenience. And none will be the wiser. The Deep State is real, my friends. It’s not a swamp, rather it is a barren heath, overgrown with weeds. Like one giant thistle, many agencies comprise it’s parts, but the FBI is the taproot of it all. Even if none of these bad actors see a day in prison, the American people deserve to be told the truth. Prison is too good for these people. That would be the result of the legal process, which as we all know has fuck all to do with justice. Justice would entail these people meeting an end like Mussolini.

 

Ford Wenty report end

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All I wanted was a Pepsi!

Within the past week we posted a poem, Institutionalized. I’m going to do something here that I typically would not. The themes depicted in this site’s poetry are usually presented in an oblique fashion, especially in free verse. It is my belief that the power of this medium resides in two factors: brevity and flexibility of reader interpretation. I will in this instance offer the actual intent of the message as it resided in the author’s head at the time of composition.

The poem plays with the varied meanings of the word institution. There is, of course, the “institution” as celebrated in song by The Beatles ( Revolution: ” you tell me it’s the institution”). That is the institution as the amalgamation of our many “institutions” of education, media, church and state, etc. Then there is also the institution as in the sanitarium or mental hospital. This conjures the image of bars, barriers and yes, even cages. An individual may literally be placed (against their will) within one of these institutions for any number of reasons. This poem observes that our compulsory insertion into those broader institutions is likewise a form of detention, a means of protecting us from ourselves.

There may be those of a certain age in our audience who recognize this title as one being shared by a post-punk anthem performed by the band Suicidal Tendencies (viewed at this link https://youtu.be/aYItTxqTc38). Upon hearing this one is almost immediately struck by the timelessness of the message contained. It laments the eternal disconnect between teens and their parents, and by extension all of the varied adult institutions of which they may be members. Poor Mike. He hasn’t figured out all of the answers, he’s still working it out. Fortunately for him he hasn’t yet been fully indoctrinated. He still has an eye to see all of the hypocrisy that resides in those institutions. His only crime is that he has not accepted the institution, and thus does he face the prospect of being placed in an institution. All he really wanted was a Pepsi.

Well, you may be all grown up now, but have things actually changed? Don’t be too quick to answer that. In 2016 America decided all it wanted was a Pepsi, but the institution decided NO! That is not in your best interest! They banded together to tell us that “We” (meaning they) have decided to do what is in your best interest. To which I must echo young Michael’s query: “Wait! We decided? How can you decide what my best interest is?” We’ve followed all your rules, we’ve played along with all of your games and you can’t follow the rules yourself? (I went to your schools, your churches, your institutional learning centers, and I’m crazy?) The white coats are everywhere, waiting with their hypodermic needles to inoculate you from the truth: the USA has become one giant nuthouse.

You are grown up now, aren’t you? Here’s a little piece of advice for you. Abandon the institution. It’s a hollow shell. It’s like a tree that through some miracle still stands straight in the forest, but is hollowed from tip to trunk. There is no “there” there, as they say.  If you want that Pepsi? Go out and get it. No one is going to hand it to you. For those of you who may be generationally challenged I may also suggest this reboot of the classic song as performed by Ice-T’s Body Count: https://youtu.be/X9jXnZS3ouU

 

 

Gazette and Pencilneck give it another go. Or not…

It had been some time since she had seen him in person. She had, of course, maintained an interest in his activities. Though he had gone relatively quiet for a time, there remained an ample collection of press conference and hearing appearances from which to observe. In recent months these had increased markedly in volume, again piquing her interest in the man who had so eagerly indulged her penetration fantasies. He still looked mostly the same, though there was something different.  He still presented a comical stick figure profile with those buggy eyes and bad haircut, yet there seemed to be a new confidence in him. It was almost as if he had actually grown a spine.

Though he had still called upon her periodically, the intimacy they had once shared was absent. For a brief time she had actually considered that dear Pencilneck had grown a set and gone the way of MGTOW. “Nah! Too beta for that!”, she had checked herself.  Being the same self-centered bitch as ever she returned to form, assuring herself that the Pencilneck’s renewed frequency in the spotlight could only be a signal that he would soon return to grovel for her help. And it was indeed true; he clearly had waded out into waters well over his head. It was only a matter of time before he came crawling back. Like all the rest of her desperate suitors. They always did.

After viewing his pathetic performance on Sunday 13 October she found herself in a quandary. This latest intrigue he had launched largely on his own. He certainly had not consulted her expertise in these matters. The entire escapade was amateurish from it’s inception. Even the most absolutely moronic soul in DC could see this. If only he had asked for her help before, but now? She dreaded the call. Not because of what she knew she must say, rather because of her immensely conflicted feelings.

She was at once drawn to him and repulsed by him. Drawn to his vulnerability. Vulnerability has been Gazette’s lifeblood throughout her long and storied career. These are the souls she has preyed upon and made her own for an age. She runs the cool kids club. This vulnerability, however, was born of the man’s own arrogance and stupidity. It was a sign of weakness and he wore it well. He now reeked of desperation and failure, two qualities which Gazette had long striven to distance herself from. She found an uncommon need to chastise herself, contrary as it is to her vain nature.

Though the Pencilneck could mouth all the correct platitudes by rote, he really never belonged in their club. He wasn’t as smart, he wasn’t really good looking at all. Not even interesting looking (which usually will suffice for entry). And most of all…..well, no matter how much lipstick you put on the pig, he just isn’t cool enough to be in the club. Cool enough is that certain je ne sais quoi that only Gazette and those of her innermost circle may define. You know. The sort of things beyond mere plebeian comprehension. She could see where it might be said that she was to blame for this: it was her fault for introducing him into the cool kids club. From this he had formed the delusion that he was capable of pulling this off on his own. It was almost sweet in a way. It was like he was trying to show off for her. Oh, would that it should not turn so tragic!

The reality of it was that he was now toxic. He might remain a source for some juicy leaks, but that would have to stay behind the curtain. He would, at least for a time, remain a tool. Just as he had always been. He came at a time when she was at her low ebb, giving up that booty to manifest her rage at being rejected. Used him up like a tampon. 

Studying that video carefully Gazette noted one detail that allowed her a moment of relief for the poor sap. In addition to an apparent spinal implant it became evident that Pencilneck had undergone some work of a cosmetic nature. That previously missed, subtle change in his appearance was about his mouth. A lip job, one supposes to say. It seems he’s had them molded in a perpetually pursed shape and….if one looks very carefully it will be noted that the inside of the lips have been tattooed with the caption: Caution- large brown logs entering and exiting roadway at this point.  He may be nothing but a tool, but there is something to be said for him embracing it.

 

Ford Wenty report end 16 October 2019

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A fourth of July tale

this was originally published a year ago in a different forum. In a year’s time there is little changed and the tale is still quite fitting.

 

It had been a long time since I’d seen civilization. I’d long relished the long, hot and humid days of the Appalachian summer woodlands. I hadn’t spoken to another human being in? How many weeks had it been? That really didn’t matter. Only my dog, Matthau, knows the days for certain and he is resolutely mute.

 

On the third day of July, 2018 I ventured to make a foray into the nearest hamlet of any consequence, some miles distant from the redoubt. The eve of Independence Day, that most sacred of days for the true patriot, whatever their stripe. This particular jurisdiction is renowned for being “badge heavy”, a real law and order kind of place. For those of us of a certain age we will recall those salad days of our youth when Hazard County and Waylon Jennings graced our television screens. Yup. Just some good old boys. A little stump of a man with some hideous facial deformity and Sheriff Roscoe!

 

My business is my own and I entered with no intentions of lingering in the place. My only true purpose? To acquire a fresh case of Jamesons. Yes, a case. I told you I don’t get out much. That state liquor agent, curiously, is not open on national holidays. Who would’ve thunk it?It must need carry on in this fashion until I perfect my own version to something beyond lighter fluid. This was no complicated plan. I did not, as I have at times before, need to enter the town unobserved. It was a simple trip to the liquor agent and away home. I was eager to make my exit and enjoy the long return ride with the top down. I didn’t want to stick around for the festivities.

 

When the actual observed holiday, which is always THE 4th, falls in midweek as it did this year, the third of July is a curious purgatory. There are those who may have the whole week off, or back to work the following day. Or there are those who work a full day Monday and Tuesday and do not return for five days hence. All true productivity ceased somewhere around 5PM on the preceding Friday. They mill about in varying stages of employ or idleness, no one really certain which is which, but as evening falls excitement and anticipation builds for the next day and all the wonders of Americana it will hold.

 

Long suffering housewives with the progeny of their unions excitedly tailing underfoot wade elbows deep into the preparation of vats containing cole slaw, potato salad and other picnic concoctions. Except for those afflicted with Trump Derangement Syndrome, most households this year are happy, optimistic. For right or wrong this does seem to be the prevailing mood. Tomorrow their husbands will don Bermuda shorts and grill aprons, to the amusement of their neighbors. Budweiser and Miller beers, in all of their various manifestations, will flow freely from iced coolers. Young children and aged lovers dream starry eyed of the fireworks display and sense the memories of crackling sparks and smell of cordite heavy on the air. Yes it will be a grand time to be had for all, but these are not the only festivities for the long holiday period. There are others who eagerly anticipate an entirely different type of celebration.

 

All across the country state and local police jurisdictions salivate at the commencement of a prolonged Tea party. That’s T E A… targeted enforcement action. Fuck the Fourth Amendment! That was a mistake! Clearly they didn’t mean to put that in there! How in the hell are we supposed to protect and serve with that in our way? It’s what the people want, after all, isn’t it? They want to be policed. Anyone who wears the uniform and carries a badge is a hero. Don’t you listen to the news? Yes, starting Tuesday night and for the succeeding five days law enforcement will be out there! Busting all those drunk drivers, conducting random stops and waving their dicks to let everyone know who’s boss around this place!

 

Before I could make my exit I was trapped behind a large gravel truck. An unrepentant pothole jarred the bed of this rolling behemoth and loosed a sizable chunk of limestone upon my windshield. Thankfully the unwitting projectile did not break completely through the screen, though it did spider web the bejesus out of the glass. Damn! Across most of the nation one is within range of the instrument of the popular jingle “Safelite repair, Safelite replace!” As the gravel truck trundled away up the road I thought to myself “I have been annoyed by that syrupy treacle for the last fucking time! Let’s see how good they are here on the afternoon before a national holiday!”

 

The cell reception in this rocky terrain is often suspect at best, but mercifully I found myself within range of a solid tower and within minutes was in communication with a Safelite agent. “Yes, Mr. Wenty”, I was assured by the agent, “we can have a technician at your location in about 90 minutes.” Well! This might not be so horrible after all then! Allowing a little margin for ineptitude I calculated that I might safely resume my journey by 5:00 and be gone well before darkness. Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men!

 

It was closer to 7:00 before the job was completed and as I had traveled with Matthau riding shotgun I was forced to re-evaluate my exit plans. The caloric intake required to sustain the adult male boar hound is daunting. Despite their largely sedentary nature this breed rivals most horses in appetite. I guess with a stature of 32” at the shoulder and a solid 180 pounds they’re not actually that far off of the mark. After concluding our business with Safelite Auto Glass we followed our noses to a smoker erected in the square at the center of town. Two drum halves were working; one with hamburgers, the other with ribs. As a stranger in town one expects to pass through unnoticed. This is an impossibility on foot with a formidable looking Mastiff at your side. I decided the best thing for it was to grab a few orders and find a nearby picnic table to try and melt into the scenery.

 

We took two orders of ribs for twenty bucks, a fair bargain given the portions. Matthau made short work of his and then stuffed his bulk under the picnic table to gnaw contentedly on the bones. I sat with my pipe and engaged in some idle banter with Jeff the Grill Chef, occasionally fielding queries from passers by about the bear I had under the table. Time got away and the next thing I knew darkness was nigh upon us. There would be a nearly two hour ride ahead. No matter what, now, we would have to run the gauntlet. The only thing that could further mar the occasion would be Matthau’s inevitable requirement to evacuate his bowels. It is only after you have had the privilege to pick up after one of these big boys that you can appreciate why these beasts were first used for bear baiting. Nearly any creature traveling the wilds that should happen upon one of these colossal turds in their path will consider carefully whether or not they care discover where it came from. Greasy ribs and sugary BBQ promise a sizable and not necessarily cohesive deposit.

 

 

In the growing gloom of darkness trucks with scaffolding and lighting equipment rolled up on the square. An army of tattoos and black Harley Davidson tee shirts emerged from the shadows and began their preparations for the parade review stand that would host the town’s officials and first citizens tomorrow, at high noon. It was only a matter of time before some of those lights were fired up and this was concerning. Matthau, on the whole, is a fairly gentle soul. His biggest fault is not understanding that he is no longer a puppy. He doesn’t know his own strength. Well, there is one other thing I should mention. You know how a lot of dogs go ape shit when you turn on the vacuum cleaner? Well, Matthau is not fond of the vacuum cleaner, but usually contents himself to retreat with his tail between his legs while it is running. If you want to make Matthau go ape shit just shine a light in his eyes. Especially if it is a big, very bright light. He will warn you. Once. After that? Good luck.

 

With his belly full he was happy to saunter off, away to the opposite side of the square. While the clatter of the construction and the calls of workmen rang into the night behind us we wandered away into the side streets of the town, criss-crossing block after block and always mindful of an empty lot or weedy patch should the need arise. It was nearing 11:00 when finally he began to sniff and do the dance around a row of trash cans in an alley. Under the cover of darkness I let him finish his work and then we hastened on a course to steer around the square and back to the Jeep, hoping to avoid the bright lights.

 

Having lightened his load Matthau sensed that it was time to resume our ride and quickened his pace. We successfully navigated the correct course on the first attempt only to discover that the Jeep was hemmed in by one the trucks. I got the old boy up into his perch, into the back seat with his head and forepaws stretched over the center console and onto the reclined back of the front passenger seat. Other than curling up in the very rear there is no other way he fits. I cracked the windows down for him and then went over to the crew to see if I could get someone to move the truck. This took a bit of time, but I eventually located the fellow with the keys and got him to roll up far enough to finally back out and be on our way. The digital display on the dashboard read 11:50 PM.

 

The night was clear and oppressively still, each breath weighted with a tropic humidity. It would be a good ride to have the windows down. I followed the signs marking the twists and turns of the state route through the town to its eventual exit to open country and the interstate beyond. There was no one else on the road. No one, that is, but one of our heroes in blue.

 

Let me explain a little bit about Targeted Enforcement Actions and some of the tactics that are typically employed. First of all, target vehicles that are from out of town, or better, out of state. This presents an opportunity to collect a bond for any infraction and may further provide seizure of assets under the vague provisions of civil forfeiture laws.

 

Next, probable cause. Don’t worry about it. Invent one. Someone seems to pause just a bit too long at a stop sign, appearing confused about which way to go. There’s your probable cause. How long is too long to pause at a stop sign? Well officer, too long is whatever you think too long is. We’ll have your back, don’t worry. Just get out there and get us some scalps.

 

With the potential target identified and probable cause established call it in and start running the plates on the vehicle. It makes no difference that it may not be the vehicle owner driving, just assume that it is. That’s why we give you these tools to work with, officer. Keep the vehicle within view, with your lights off if at all possible. Roll up within striking distance then hit the brights and move up aggressively, get right on their ass. Don’t worry about safety, just try to force them to make some error. It helps bolster your probable cause argument.

 

Then and only then do you hit the cherries and command the traffic stop. Once the vehicle is halted keep your brights on and aim your spotlight at the sideview mirror. This is too further intimidate the driver, but if asked simply tell them that it is for your safety. Remind them that officers sometimes get shot, that’s always a good one. Once at the vehicle use your handheld flashlight to illuminate the inside and shine it into the drivers face as you demand license, registration and proof of insurance.

 

 

While the subject is preparing the required documents begin to pepper them with questions. Continue to ask questions without permitting the subject to finish answering. In trial situations this is known as badgering a witness, but for that brief time that we have you out there on the front lines officer, you are judge, jury and if need be executioner. If the subject in any way becomes disoriented during this process you are then empowered to demand a field sobriety test. Also be alert to any probable cause to search the vehicle. Not for evidence of any further crime! That has to withstand evidence and trial. Assets seized under civil forfeiture do not.

 

Finally, even if you only suspect that the subject is impaired tag them for it and bring them in. It’s incumbent on them to prove otherwise. There are cops and there are pigs. If you ask a cop whether or not these things are true they will, albeit at times begrudgingly, admit that they are. If you ask a pig they’ll deny it.

 

At 12:05 AM on the fourth of July officer Beetledick executed these tactics on me as I was exiting town. I know the fucking drill, I had all my “papers” ready before he even dragged his fat ass out of the cruiser. Then I had to scramble to get the choker around Matthau’s neck and draw in the sideview to kill the glaring reflection. Officer Beetledick did not like this one little bit, convinced that I was preparing a weapon. He got a little chub going in his pants when he realized that he had justification for this to be a weapon drawn stop.

 

I heard the door of the cruiser swing open violently and the piercing beam of the handheld was trained (with his already drawn sidearm, no doubt) at my driver window. “Place your hands where I can see them!” I obliged in the only manner I could under the circumstances, waving my free hand out of the window. If the motto is protect and serve one might take this as a signal of distress, but not so with officer Beetledick. He came closer, into my peripheral field. With all of that illumination it should have been pretty plain what was going on, but several million candlepower could not light the dim gray expanse between this guy’s ears.

 

“I said get those hands where I can see them!”

 

“Here is my one hand. I am holding back a rather large dog that is having a fit because of your bright lights!”

 

“Hey! You getting smart with me!”

 

“No, I am telling you this hound will not calm down until you douse the beacons!”

 

“Why are you raising your voice? You got some kinda problem?”

 

“I am raising my voice so you can hear over the dog! Could you please kill the lights!”

 

Now he was up at the driver door, still insisting on shining that god damned light into the car. “Those lights are for my protection! Police officers get shot in the line of duty sometimes you know.”

 

Yeah. They always like to put that one out there. I’m sitting there thinking “Yes, and its a wonder more of you don’t get capped”. I said nothing else, only held license, registration and proof of insurance out the window with my free hand. He snatched these away and finally switched off the flashlight, but Matthau was still upset. As a boar hound he has a nose for all things porcine and this tool was definitely a pig. He had that perpetually constipated look of the confused 11 year old boy trying to figure out if he has sprouted a pubic hair or gotten a hard on. In this instance I suspect there would be need of magnification to find either.

 

“Do you have any idea why I stopped you tonight?”

 

“I do not. Would you tell me?”

 

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

 

“Not a drop. Can you tell me why I’ve been stopped?”

 

“You got some place you need to be? You in a hurry?”

 

I know the game this guy was playing so I said nothing further. In these cases it is best to say nothing at all unless asked a direct, specific question because it doesn’t make one damned bit of difference what you say: it will be wrong. They’re looking for a fight. This awkward silence is precious when the officer realizes that he’s got nothing. Even though no one else is watching he still has to try to wave his dick around to save face.

 

“Why you giving me attitude, huh?”

 

“I’m just trying to keep my dog calm until we conclude our business here and drive home.” As I finished speaking those words headlights painted the underside of boughs hanging over the road just ahead. There was someone approaching from around a curve about five hundred feet away. Officer Beetledick’s eyes darted away at their approach. I knew at that moment it was over. The oncoming headlights broke hard around that little bend in the road and it was coming at some speed.

 

Officer Beetledick had already run my plates then requested that dispatch pull up an operators license for the same party. Plates current, no wants or warrants, no moving violations. All of the lights were functioning properly, all the windows secure, sufficient tread on all the tires, proof of insurance provided. I was not impaired, I had not been speeding, run any traffic signals, weaved, operated a cell phone. HE HAD JACK SHIT. He was fishing and he got caught at it. The driver of the approaching vehicle apparently had not expected to find a police cruiser and over reacted to correct their driving. As a consequence he/she lost control of the vehicle and rolled it across the road and smashed into a guardrail. He/she probably had been drinking.

 

 

Beetledick handed me my papers, but before he hastened to his cruiser he offered this sage advice (or was it a warning?), “You need to have some respect for the law, Mister”. Thanks officer Beetledick. I sure will, golly-gee, I will. Now go get ‘em, Tiger! I don’t know that the other driver was drunk. It could’ve been a heart attack or a seizure of some kind, for all I know. I didn’t stick around to find out. The only crime committed in that shithole of a burg was that some imbecile handed a badge, a loaded weapon(s) and a $40,000 police cruiser to that douchebag of an excuse for a human being, officer Beetledick, and then loosed the stooge upon an unsuspecting public.

 

The only thing worse than all the pigs in this country are those who adore them. The fawning, pathetic hero worship for anyone who can squeeze their ass into one of those uniforms has just gone too far by half. I’m sorry. I’m not an advocate for going around and killing cops and cast the same kind of venom upon those groups who do. You know who you are. Nonetheless, let’s be really honest about what has become of law enforcement in this country, by and large. It has grown into an entity unto itself. What officer Beetledick and others of his species want – no, not want. Demand – is not respect. They expect to be revered and feared. We are to kneel down and lick their boots on demand. That is what they mean by respect for the law.

 

Well I don’t respect the law, then, officer Beetledick, but we didn’t have the throw down you were looking for. You were trying to bait me because I’m sure that you could sense that I despise and loathe you and those of your ilk with every fiber of my being. You call yourselves officers of the law. Bull shit! You’re all nothing but hired thugs. If you didn’t do this for the state you’d do it for anyone else that would hire you. Most of you don’t have the brains to freelance. I didn’t fall in your trap because you’re not worth the hassle. I learned that lesson a long time ago about wrestling with pigs: always remember that win, lose or draw, the pig is enjoying it.

 

 

This has infected all of law enforcement. When Abe Lincoln was president they kept pigs on the White House lawn. Now all of the pigs are over at the FBI and, by extension, the office of special counsel Robert Mueller. What Mueller is doing is fishing and just like officer Beetledick HE’S GOT JACK SHIT. How many more times are we going to discover that they are just making it up as they go along? Rules? What rules? They just do what they fucking please and it goes on. It has to stop. It all has to stop. We have become a police state. This year I only had to get ten minutes in to Independence Day to discover what living in the land of the free is really all about.

 

A sojourn in the city

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A report from Ale81 Inn field correspondent Ford Wenty

 

A bizarre start to a Thursday evening. Chicago, southwest, undisclosed location. Cold as fuck. I sat in the back seat of some ubiquitous crossover of unknown manufacture, what passes for a sedan with four doors and a hatchback. I am there with a couple of local associates of a sometime associate of my own, Javier. We were suspended there in that ugliest grey, the urban ranges of frozen slush making furrows of every street and avenue. The vehicle sat idling, lights off , spewing the sweet monoxide fume and forming an ozone with the bitterly frigid air. We were in an alleyway, between garages and facing toward the backside of the homes lining the street before us. 

What the fuck am I doing here? Will I be asked to aid in the disposal of a corpse? Or worse? It had been three or four years since I had been to the city. Chicago, for all of it’s charm and character, is the sort of town I have chosen to avoid. If Chicago were a woman it would be Stockard Channing. You stare at her for a while, she bats her lashes or purses those pouty lips and you start to say to yourself ” hey, she’s kinda hot!” Then she turns her head and you see her from a different angle and…..ah, hell no! Surely some of you will understand this.

At an hour no later than 7:30 in the evening the wind chills were at a steady -25, with gusts occasionally whipping to a -40. Why at this hour, under these types of conditions? Surely I would be better off in my warm suite in Burr Ridge, with a bottle of Jamesons and several grams of fluffy bud. Alas, these are the sacrifices one makes for their art. 

Our wheel man was introduced and aside from a brief grunt uttered at that occasion let not another sound escape his lips for the duration of our travels. For this reason I had completely forgotten his name. The lead man was inside one of these houses on this block, a safe house. Benno Santomauro, a Brazilian by birth, had been Javier’s agent for the Chicago market for nigh on twenty years. Benno is fond of blades and has the scars to prove it. Not a man to be trifled with.

I was certain that I had already been seated in that alley for no less than 30 minutes. It briefly occurred to me that I should inquire of our driver how much longer, but given his demonstrative lack of or aversion to verbal skills these thoughts were quickly abandoned.  I really had no reason to be concerned.  My itinerary was such that I had some number of days to linger in the windy city before making the long trek back to the compound. My insertion into this situation was entirely coincidental: call it a classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

I had been enticed to this odd pilgrimage at the behest of an old colleague, someone with whom I had not worked in nearly twenty years and had not spoken to in nearly a decade. The gentleman is some years my senior and I was actually surprised to learn that he was still active in business. He is a living ghost from a past life when I walked and breathed among them: the screwheads who are convinced themselves and are eternally trying to convince others that they are in charge. They know the skinny and thus that is simply how things will be done. It is truly remarkable what one can learn about these people when left free to move in their midst. One need only carry the external trappings of their identity while remaining nondescript. It helps if you speak their language, of course. There is no need to be fluent, a conversational knowledge of banality will suffice for most situations. My old colleague is not one of them, though he has chosen to continue playing in their charade. Aside from his grating, northeastern accent he is almost a normal human being. 

Chuck’s forte over the years had been in the field of material handling. The MHI (Material Handling Institute), for some unfathomable reason, has for years set their annual Expo in February on an alternating schedule between the two known garden spots of McCormick Place in Chicago and Cobo Hall in Detroit. The odd numbered years take them to Chicago. As I have already detailed to some limited degree above, to know Chicago in February is to know winter for the bitch she really is. Nonetheless, after having gone through such a circuitous route to locate me, I was practically obliged to make the trek and attend once the invitation was offered. It was only by my mention of this trip in passing to Javier that I was further invited to attend this, some small part of his business concerns in the Chicagoland market. It had been made my understanding that once our business here was concluded I was to be entrusted with a package that I was to take to the compound. Javier’s instructions were, as ever, concise, clear and wanting for any extraneous details. We both like conducting business on a need to know basis: the only thing you need to know is whether the job is felonious, or only vaguely criminal in nature.

Another twenty minutes or so elapsed when Benno’s hulking parka could be seen leaning into the wind, determinedly progressing up the alley toward us. He closed the distance rather quickly from the moment I had first spotted him and I was briefly startled when he opened the door opposite of me and climbed into the back. The brief gust that entered in that instant was bone numbing. Benno whipped back the fur lined hood of his parka. “Jesus fucking christ it’s cold out there! Give us a cigarette, will ya Ford?”  I happily obliged with a Dunhill Blue – an extravagance I permit myself on the road – and joined him for a smoke. I gave Benno a few minutes to fully recover from the arctic before engaging any conversation.

“You, uh…get everything taken care of in there?”

Benno drew deeply on his cigarette and replied as exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “Yuh! It’s all good…” he paused, clearly meaning to continue as he fumbled to draw his zipper down, ” I got something for ya here Ford. Javi told ya you’d have a package to take back with ya, right?”

“Yeah, sure he did.”

From within that parka came a box, 12 x 20 and about 3″ deep, wrapped up in brown parcel paper. “Well here it is. I wouldn’t open it in public, if ya know what I mean.” He smiled as he dropped the box in my lap. “That’s 22 ounces, all vacuum sealed. That’s what took so long, sorry.”

It is a rare day indeed when fortune so smiles upon a body. Nearly a pound and a half of Presidential Cheese dropped in your lap.  Benno continued grinning, in the dim light from the dashboard eerily resembling Pacino’s Scarface.

“So ya wanna know what this is about?”

” Do I need to?”

” No, not really.”

“Good. Then no.”

“That’s good because I have no clue. I thought maybe you knew. My instructions were to pick up and prepare the package here and leave it with you.”

“Well now that I know what it is, friend, I know as much as you do.”

Javi knew me well enough to know that I would likely be able to put it all together. If and when he should decide that I needed to know more he would tell me. This visit was a favor, not a social call. Within this network it has been my experience that it is best not to grow too acquainted. The less you know the better.

The ride out to Burr Ridge from that alleyway was reasonably brief, my drop off and exit as unceremonious as our initial meeting. I was left the next couple of days in relative peace at my suite. An ample supply of whiskey and bud, the warm succor of the bar at a local tavern, The Wolf’s Head. The only thing missing from my old habit was the absence of The Dome Family Restaurant for my breakfast. I was to discover the sad news of the establishment’s closure and subsequent demolition of it’s iconic structure. Their potato pancakes were always exquisite. 

The Dome had been run for two generations by a Greek family. Great people. They actually lived down in the city, one of the sisters was a long time neighbor of former Chicago Mayor Dick Daley (that’s little Dick, of course, not the old man).  For as much as I would miss their food and their company, the end of The Dome was at once a bittersweet and familiar tale. They did not end for a want of business. There were ample numbers who frequented their tables daily. It ended simply because whatever monetary reward remained in it was no longer enough to compensate the ever waning desire to do it any more. Like my own one time career. I could have gone on, like my friend Chuck, and continued making more and more money. I had enough to do what I wanted to do. When you have enough to do what you want you no longer “have to”. Most of our lives are consumed with have to. My good friends at The Dome, like I, had decided to cash in their chips and leave the table. Our desires to play the game were fully sated.

On Sunday late morning I drove in to Midway to pick up Chuck from his arrival, in from Boston. The highway was both bare and barren, a frozen ribbon, salt glazed and indifferent. The mercury had climbed to near freezing and the low sun over Lake Michigan emitted a blinding glare. It was a bright morning, one for which you give thanks that you hadn’t drank tequila or vodka the night before. It was the kind of tantalizing winter sunlight that causes cravings for orange juice, with or without the liquor.

Chuck and I had coordinated pick ups like this numerous times over the years that we traveled within the same circles.  Our sense of timing had not dulled in the least after years of absence. Chuck was out there in clear view at the Northwest arrivals. Tan trench coat, Bear Bryant hat, hard shelled briefcase and one roll behind carry-on bag. Aside from a few more greys protruding from under the hat he looked pretty much the same. He still wore the uniform. I wheeled up right next and rolled down the passenger window.

“Hey mister! You know where a guy can go find a good time in this town?” He leaned down to look in the vehicle. He couldn’t hide the momentary shock on his face, but recovered quickly.

“Ford!? Christ it is you!” He opened the rear passenger door and dropped his bags in and resumed upon climbing into the front seat. ” I had such a time tracking you down I wasn’t sure you would show. Don’t you even carry a fuckin’ phone anymore?”

I do still carry a phone, but there are few who know this. My contact list totals six, and one of those is a veterinarian ER for my hound, Matthau. ” Nah, Chuck. Don’t have any use for that fuckin’ thing anymore. You all set there? I figure we roll out to the Wolf’s Head for lunch. It’s Sunday….prime rib on Sunday.”

“Well ya sold me, brother! That sounds great! So what the fuck ya been doin’, Ford?”

“Not much, really, Chuck. I dabble a little in pharmaceuticals and green technology. That’s about it.” There was some truth to be found in those words. It was not a total fabrication. Chuck was going to remain professional. He played the straight man.

” Huh. How’d ya get into that? Making any money at it?”

“Oh, I’m compensated. It’s not really about money any more.”

“Right! I gotcha! You’re one of those crypto-currency guys now, huh?”

” Yeah, I guess you could say that, Chuck. Honestly? I don’t get out much any more.”

“Yeah…well, ya look like you lost a shit ton of weight! You okay? I heard some rumors you were sick and then….”

” I was sick, Chuck. Very sick. But I’m okay now. I’ve found a solid therapy regimen. It keeps the nation safe for life, liberty and the pursuit of debauchery.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

I dug inside my coat and lifted the remains of a deck of Dunhill Blue. ” Ya still like the cancer sticks Chuck? I got some good ones…”

Chuck’s eyes lit up. ” Sure! I’ll take one of those!” He reached eagerly to catch one as I let it spill from the foil liner.

We both lit up and rode in silence for a few minutes of traffic congestion encountered while navigating back to 55 south. As we hit the southbound on ramp from Cicero I switched on the radio to ZZ Top’s Nationwide. In between puffs from his cigarette Chuck recited a litany of mutual colleagues and their current doings, or in some few instances, their passing. He would probably wait until over lunch to query further into my activities and whereabouts. Most of these people were of little or no interest to me during my career, when we were contemporaries. It made it so much easier to really not give a fuck about them now. Chuck, of course, was different. Deep down, at his core, Chuck is a sick fuck just like me.

Chuck had been a senior at Temple in ’76. He’d made the poor judgement of throwing in with a group of bikers in the distribution of “bootleg sopors”, the poor man’s alternative to the parent narcotic “disco biscuit”, or quallude. The last time he went to meet up with these guys he found all of them together – shot full of holes, all of the drugs and money gone. After that Chuck was scared straight. Mostly.

Through the course of the nineties Chuck and I had collaborated on a number of projects throughout the Great Lakes. Each of us were respected in our craft and each known to eschew socializing after hours. The fields in which we labored were, and to a large degree I suspect still are, male dominated. Thus, socializing among most of our peers was essentially the same as a frat party, but with better booze and more money.  For any who still feel any urge to explore this area I offer this bit of advice: every titty bar on the planet is the same. Save your money. Those girls will figure out something.

This reticence to belong to the club fell upon Chuck as a matter of age, I suspect. In my case it was a matter of having other business to tend to. Whatever our respective reasons, Chuck and I shared a number of quiet dinners together, trying to find anything other than business to talk about. We were each careful not to expose too much personal detail, yet over the course of several years we each had recounted a lively volume of the misadventures of our ill spent youths. He never presented with any and I never offered, but we each could reasonably claim our lifetime marijuana consumption to be measured in bales. There was also the matter of our mutual fondness for Jameson triple distilled Irish whiskey. Of all of my former colleagues Chuck is one of a very few whom I could also consider a friend. At the very worst it was at least safe to say that we are sympatico.

” I first took ill in 2010, Chuck. Kinda sick for about three months. Then really sick. For almost a year. I sold out my shares, formed another smaller company and went to just consulting, part time. Mostly from home.” 

The sign said the Tri-state was 6 miles to go. I decided to light another Dunhill, extended another to Chuck who declined. He had a mildly frightened expression. I noticed he really needed his eyebrows trimmed.

“Fucked around with that for about a year then I was recruited to a corporate job. Still kept the side business, saw the corporate gig go through three ownership changes in four years. After the last one I was done. Since then I have only been working at being off the map.”

“So you’re not in business?”

“Not in any traditional sense, Chuck.”

“Haw! What’s that supposed to mean?”

” I’ll tell ya more over lunch, huh?”

We arrived at the Wolf’s Head just before 1:00. The lot wasn’t too filled up yet and by this hour Tom, one of the owners, would be in. We’d be sure to get a good table. We were snow blinded in the lot so when entering it was like immersing one’s self in a cave. From the dim space beyond the original Navy Pier bench in their entryway I heard Tom call out in greeting. As our eyes adjusted I made introductions and we were escorted to a corner booth just steps away from the bar. Within moments two Jamesons, neat, arrived at our table. We weaved through some obligatory small talk: the winter, the NFL, the sales number to hit for Q1 2019. Nothing of any real consequence. When the prime rib arrived I ordered two more Jamesons.

“Chuck, you remember when you were having that headache with the vendor assigned for National Grid? Or what was it then…Niagara Mohawk, right?”

” Ah…yah! That was ages ago….”

“Right, right. I know that, just stick with me here. You had a situation where you had a premium product. You had your market, the user had already embraced the product. The problem was with the buyers. Somebody who didn’t know dick about the product made the decision to award the contract to their pet vendor and the user ended up getting some shit they didn’t ask for.”

“Yeah? That’s what happened alright. That shit happens all the time, Ford. You know that.”

“True. It does indeed.”

“Okay. So what’s your point?”

“I’m explaining what it is I do now, Chuck. In all those years on the road I cultivated many networks for many purposes. The last fifteen years I developed a network completely separate of work, something much more far reaching. I have tapped some people with truly extraordinary talents within their disciplines. It is not a company, more of an alliance I guess you would say, but we all share a common interest. We are able to provide both products and services that are premium. Now when you have a premium product there are two simple rules. One is you get your premium. If no one else is comparable your product commands it. Second is you don’t allow your product to be handled by douchebags who don’t know shit.”

” That’s intriguing, Ford. So what kind of products or services? Why so vague about….” the sudden dawning of realization crept upon him mid sentence. ” Green technology, right?”

“Precisely. I have an associate who is a botanist, one of the finest in his field, but he’s a renegade. He has difficulty obtaining legit work so he free lances. I helped him set up his infrastructure and from time to time I come in to assist in certain situations. I’ve set him up with other parties about the country who are “in country”, they handle the routine legwork. My trip here this week has a dual purpose, there has been a situation develop that requires my attention. This is the first time I’ve left the compound since October or November.”

“Really? So you’re really off the grid now, eh? So what kinda situation, if I can ask?”

“Well that’s the reason I brought up your problem with Mohawk. Very similar situation. We have a proprietary product which was rumored to have landed upon the shelves of certain state dispensaries. None of these are authorized distributors. We do not deal with any state entities. Our local people did some scouting, confirmed the rumor and discovered that there was also an imitation product being touted under the same name as our product. Not our name, mind you, but the one they decided to market it with. So we’ve done the prudent thing. Without identifying ourselves we have bought up all of the inventory they had.”

“I don’t get it, Ford. What does that accomplish?”

“We don’t deal with the state because we choose not to. We’ve already received our money for whatever they had. They got it from someone else who is trying to sell them on a knock off and undercutting our price. With those shelves emptied it will make it easier for me to do my job.”

“Which is?”

“I find out where these dispensaries got this product. Then I know who we’re dealing with and what action to recommend. That could be performed by me, or by others, depending on which skill sets are required. We have people with many and varied skill sets.”

“So you’re a dope dealer!?

“No, Chuck. I am a private contractor who sometimes works with a very talented artisan grower in tending the operational needs of a private and select network.”

“Hmm. Well that sounds good, but how ya s’pose that’s gonna hold up in court?”

“There’s not gonna be any court, Chuck.”

“You sound pretty confident. I don’t know Ford. Sounds to me like you’re skating some thin ice.”

I’d finished what I had to tell. I shrugged at his last remark. We live in different worlds now, Chuck and I. It was good to see him again, but I know it will be the last time. I’d considered maybe smoking him up with some of the Presidential Cheese out in my truck, but Chuck demonstrated that he is fully tamed. I’m done with those people. I’m off to where the wild things are. My apologies to Maurice Sendak.

 

The Real Crisis at our Border

InkedFord Wenty profile image_LI

A report from Ale 81 Inn field correspondent Ford Wenty

 

Greetings citizens and residents of ambiguous legal status. This report comes to you from roughly 50km inside the Mexican border. After being barraged with conflicting reports of events occurring at and en route to our border, this reporter decided to conduct an in person investigation to find out just what the fuck is really going on. It’s not a pretty picture, I can tell you. Water is scarce, and suspect. The Federales have become much more expensive to buy off than in the golden age of the eighties. There’s shitty dope and not enough of it. Were it not for rum and mescaline I don’t know how a man is expected to survive in this hellhole. Still, for gonzo journalism, I soldier on.

The situation here is actually not as complicated as we’ve all been led to believe. The key question to be answered, of course; is there a crisis at the border? Based on my observations here in the field I can state unequivocally that yes, there is indeed a crisis at the US-Mexico frontier. These people who have sacrificed everything: their past lives and homes, their dignity as they are forced to queue for rations, their very physical being with fever, aching backs, sore feet. They have endured thousands of miles of dust and sweat and television crews. And now, within reach of their ultimate goal their ambitions to be thwarted all but for the want of floral wire. That’s right America. It’s not a caravan. It’s a parade.

For miles into the Sonoran desert the trail is littered with foil scraps, empty glue containers and staple boxes, remnants of cardboard boxes and spent aerosol spray paint cans. They follow the tire tracks of many trucks. And the tracks of the trailers being towed behind. Trailers which themselves bear upon them a parade of floats. All stalled now because the need to repair the battered adornments of these vessels from the rigors of the long journey. A repair left hopelessly unfulfilled because no one thought to pack extra floral wire.

They are a woeful sight. There are those erstwhile gents over on the US Chamber of Commerce Float, they’re always a contender. And this year’s up and comers are the girls of the Hilton Hotels Float. Theirs is a nearly breathtaking display of a Latina maid smoothing out fresh hotel bedsheets. The gaping holes from where white peonies once made the downy sheets are haunting, like the eyes of a ghost. I would be remiss if I failed to mention the SEIU Float. Manned by a particularly rambunctious crew their float is always a crowd pleaser. Tyson and DelMonte both have impressive entries this year. The Planned Parenthood Float has wowed the field with a tastefully presented, full length vagina float, done primarily in a salmon strain of sunpatiens and blackwave petunias to simulate a landing strip of pubic hair. Sadly none of these poor souls may ever see the finish of this parade.

This is the second of a four year suspension of longtime parade member The Roman Catholic Church. This is a sanction from the parade organizers at the UN following yet another pedophile scandal. There was one new float in the field this year, an odd entry to be sure. Wojciehowicz and Estevez Accounting Services. They did not have an actual float, per se, though they made an entry that qualified. A Toyota pickup with their sign suspended over the tailgate and a small office desk squeezed into the bed of the truck with boxes of pens, refrigerator magnets and business cards. When queried Senor Estevez only shrugged and replied with this:

“Hey homes! Once they make all these fuckers legit man? Then they’re in for the whole shit, you know? I mean they don’t have enough poor dumb white trash to pay all those taxes! But these bros and hos? Shit man! They fuck like rabbits, know what I’m saying? Spanish speaking income tax services for how many million? We’re gonna be like Senor Block man!”

Who am I to disparage a man’s dream? He may be right. Only time will tell.

I would appeal to the better angels that dwell inside all of you. Gather your floral wire, get down to the UPS and let’s get those packages flying in here! Do not abandon these wretched souls in this, their hour of greatest need. If something isn’t done soon Sarah MacLachlan will be doing another damn voiceover. I can’t stand that shit!

Finally there is this. On the precipice of utter despair these artists are finding their hopes bouyed by the most vile of rumors. Somehow the seed has been planted that Nancy Pelosi herself will come to dispense communion wafers and sangria then lead them all to the finish. I can not find the heart to pour water on this. They have been reduced to this as their last hope and would I be more cruel to tell them the truth? I just don’t know….

Ford Wenty report 17 January 2019 end

420

 

Donny Can You Hear Me?

A benefit concert will be held in Leeds on 1 April 2019 for the victims of TDS and TARD.

A fiftieth anniversary commemorative of the rock opera Tommy,  in the form of an adaptation titled Donny Can You Hear Me?, will be performed by Ambivalent Gene and the Tepid Endorsements. An excerpt follows here…

 

Look in the Mirror

Verse 1, CNN Chorus –

He seems to be completely unrepentant

His words and actions make no sense at all

His flippant tweets are spared for no detractors

He seems to flip a coin for every call

 

Donny Chorus –

See me, hear me, love me, fear me

See me, hear me, love me, fear me

Verse 2, House Chorus –

There’s still hope, still untried legislation

Or other means that are well outside the law

And Agent Mueller’s open end investigation

any day could bring the goods to bust them all

 

Donny Chorus –

See me, hear me, love me, fear me

See me, hear me, love me, fear me

Verse 3, CNN Chorus –

His eyes don’t see

His ears don’t hear, yet he still speaks

In circles spinning, he can’t hold a single thought

Even networks tireless spread of misinformation

won’t undo the wicked evil that’s been wrought

 

Look in the Mirror, boy!

Look in the Mirror, boy!

 

Verse 4, Trump –

I often wonder what I was thinking

Don’t they know I simply do not care?

Look at me now, in the mirror preening

What is happening with this hair?

 

Bridge, CNN & House Chorus –

Listening to you we get emetic

Hating on you we will defeat

Taking down you we make our mission

We serve eviction of your seat

Right behind you we see the millions

of fools who bought your story

But they get no opinions

We’ll change the story

 

What is happening with that hair?

Ooo-ooo, I wish I knew

I wish I knew