Insert Obvious _Lord_of_the_Rings_ Metaphor Here
strychnine
It had to happen. The week before I am to take leave of San Francisco and
depart for San Diego to cover the Republican National Convention,
something awful was required to arrive in the mail. No, not email-- that
would be too cheap for something this terrible and momentous.
When embarking on a task this size, it's always wise to be extra
perceptive in case of sign, omen or portent from the gods. You might trip
and fall. What I received in the mail was weird and baleful. A less
seasoned veteran might have called it all off, trashing it to hide in the
comfort and security of better things to do.
So there it was like a bloodstain in your carpet where you didn't remember
one. A letter. Addressed to me by name. Laserprinter hardcopy stuffed
into an envelope. Here it is verbatim:
July 25, 1996
Mr. James Woodyatt
Liberal Mouthpiece
Dear James,
It has come to my notice that you have become a disruptive
influence in the social fabric of your community. I advise you
to cease and desist such activity. Resistance is futile. We
will rape your environment and disenfranchise your citizens.
You will accept our hypocritical religious values and beliefs.
We will burn your Orbital CD's and replace them with Barry
Manilow and Kenny G. When we are done, we will escape in our
Space saucers and you can complain about the pain in your anus.
If you resist, you will be vaporized. Et in Arcadia Ego.
Sincerely,
[signature here]
Rush
It was postmarked 25 Jul 96 from Marina Del Rey, CA, which is near Los
Angeles. There are ten million degenerate subhuman wombats down there in
that wretched leper colony by the sea, any one of which is capable of
quirking like this, so I have no idea who could be responsible. I have
only one other clue-- the return address:
Committee for a James Woodyatt Free America
666 Pentacle Building
Abyss, Hell 66666
I can make some guesses as to the identity, but it makes no difference in
the end who did this. What really matters is the fucking synchronicity of
it all. For all I know it was yet another of those freaks and mutants
whom I used to count as friends finally stumbling into the brain-curdling
wonderment that comes from feeding the names of long lost acquaintances
into Alta Vista just to see what gets caught in the net.
As far as I'm concerned, I *know* where this heinous string of anonymous
bits originated: the Grand Old Party of Abraham Lincoln and Patrick
Buchanan. This is clearly the only rational interpretation of the bones.
This letter, this strange and beautiful artifact, must be destroyed. Its
quick annihilation by casting it into the fuming maw of the beast what
made it is an obvious imperative, and it has come to be in my possession
at this time because deep and mysterious forces beyond anyone's control
are moving my hand to its end.
Don't even begin to think about attempting to inject some kind of insanity
into the equation here. You, of course, must realize the heavy weight of
what I am about to undertake in the coming days... this is seriously
wicked daredevil shit. Do *not* try this yourself without safety
equipment. One simply does not lambada into the Republican National
Convention armed with a powerbook and a complete lack of objective
distance, present one's bonafides as a pinko-symp crank here to tell it
all with the truth and clarity of a bad tequila hangover, and expect to be
shown to the back rooms to splain to the Candidate some of the finer
points his rhetoric shows he was sleeping when the professor covered that
material in Rule of Law 101. One must prepare for weeks and months,
working in secret, greasing the palms of the sick, twisted and wrecked,
lying and dissembling at every turn just to have a chance at acquiring a
sacred and precious press gallery pass as it falls from the nicotine
stained fingers of dark congressmen from San Bernardino. This is a pass
so valuable that it entitles the bearer to a comfortable seat on a cement
floor in a bunker two miles away in a room full of bad-smelling reporters,
no phone and a flaky C-SPAN feed fixed on the podium. Ordinary people pay
thousands of dollars to back-alley hustlers who skulk at night in Tangiers
ghettos with poison tipped switchblades for passes like this.
This is all because the Repubs appear to be gearing up for a catastrophe
of biblical proportions in the coming days. And whether I achieve entry
or not, I will have a man on the inside. Mojo has a full-time
working-journalist's press pass. When I asked what price they extracted
from him for this amazing boon, he simply froze up like a junkie shot full
of black l-Dopa. An hour later, he came out of it muttering, "horrors,
unspeakable horrors..." They must have flensed him good.
Mojo will have general access inside and out even if I'm forced to tool
around looking for trouble in the streets. I can assure you that there
will be a story to tell. It will likely not be pretty, but if you wanted
pretty you'd be reading alt.cute-n-fuzzy.bunnies. So, with that, I leave
you now with the immortal words of Jack Burton, who said, "Sit tight.
Keep the home fires burning. And if we're not back by dawn... call the
President."
--
j h woodyatt <j...@wetware.com> | "No job too dirty for the
http://www.wetware.com/jhw | fucking scientists."
[sgi|mips|daver|indetech]!wetware!jhw | --william s burroughs