Date: Thu, 13 Sep 2001 04:08:22 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Blissy's Song - 4

Blissy's Song -- 4
(Bisexual pedophilia and incest.  Rom.)
by
Feather Touch


Chapt. 4

       A paradox of Back Then -- one of several million -- had been along
the lines that the establishment had insisted on a long and tedious list of
credentials before anyone was permitted to publish or play any guiding role
in the nation's affairs, while people who were as ignorant as a flock of
Antarctic penguins had been allowed to vote by virtue of breathing.  The
resulting dichotomy had made the country lopsided, and was plainly on the
way to making it sink before TBPD.  Shouldn't it have been just the
opposite? many said now.  A stringent list of qualifications to vote, but
the media open to all who had the talent and message to play, regardless of
any orientation of the artist?

       By 2023 these were known as sigh arguments.  They seemed so witless
that all one could do was look back and sigh over the, just as thoughtful
people had looked back at the beginning of the century to the nineteen
hundreds and sighed over disaster after disaster foisted on the human race
by inferior minds and short-cut souls.  In short, the whole Back Then
experience had amounted, for all the high and mighty talk of liberty,
equality and yada, to a patchwork quilt of the rare and aggressive genius
offsetting the massive morons of the mob.  A perfect example was the
gigantic flapmouth leading up to the Civil War.  It amounted to absolutely
nothing because of Lamont Dupont hadn't wrested three million pounds of
saltpeter from under the noses of the English, the Union forces would have
had squat for gunpowder.  The example could be stretched to include Lamont
Dupont as a committed Rebel, getting the saltpeter for the South, with
Maine as a slave state as a possible outcome.  Correspondingly, if the
German's bomber man hadn't been killed early on, they would have been able
to pulverize the Russian tank factories and drive the Slavs deep into
Siberia.

       The patchwork quilt.  Defective genius.  Edison's fervent belief in
direct current.  Major advantages; much more power, far less danger.  Just
one tiny flaw.  Direct current can only be transmitted a few hundred feet,
while alternating current can be piped for thousands of miles.

       It was enough to keep the convention cowed.  Who so would be smart
must also be extra stupid, if it came to that.

       Their legacy was so cheesy, they had so little to work with.  This
was a muting force, and perhaps its very universal nature, which tended to
leave people huddled in confusion rather than obstreperous with victory and
success, was a blessing in a very backhanded and passive sense.  Because
it's weird, we better not do it on account of the law of unintended
consequences.  No wonder they got along so well together, being of a mind
that while not locked in conformity was nonetheless scared stiff of
anything new, not for how it was described, but because of how it might one
day be described.  In early 2020 the truth about vasectomies had come out.
Well intended as a passive means of family planning, over the long haul the
procedure gave rise to a host of groinal issues, none of them good.  And
the case was particularly germane to the convention because right up to
TBPD they'd been prescribed simply because the harm they'd done was so
massive no one could admit they existed by casting doubt on the procedure.
In a sense, being absolutely wrong depended on its very absoluteness to
maintain a façade and keep the lawyers at bay.  `Chutzpah' was a word
for this kind of thinking and attitude.

       Well, no Jews, no Chutzdiddle; that was a major blessing, but they'd
been under the indoctrination of a Jewish media for so long, who knew?
Maybe it was the only thing left.  Grab a doctrine, any doctrine, and sell
the warts off it.  But, in the final analysis, wouldn't it be better to
stay home and read a bad book?

       Gilbert H. Haffner, a sixty-four year old former rural banker had
emerged the convention's leader by dint of a thoughtful and retiring
nature.  George Washington had risen to prominence because his teeth hurt
so badly he rarely spoke.  It was Gil's suggestion that principal delegates
be chosen from a pool of candidates who had recently undergone extensive
oral surgery that had won him the day.  He was trying to be funny, and the
rank and file conventioneers had appreciated the effort and blessed him
with their nod.  It was said with an irony understood by all, that
Mr. Leader Haffner was a man of his word.  He also liked to party.

       Yes, the hotel was rocking.  It was a bit like showing a car peeling
out in a television ad.  Something that could happen, but was far removed
from the mainstream.  The place, rockin', had no more to do with the
day-to-day than a pair of long black streaks on the pavement had to do with
a trip to the vet.  On the other hand, it did remind the delegates what
urban life was like.  Several hundred people massed in connecting
ballrooms, music, entertainment, conversation and a whole list of
associated goodies that were a wedding cake of reminders of what was
possible if a portion of the population focused and contributed.  It was
hard to dance alone and precious little fun, to boot.

       In round numbers, out of three hundred million, one million, out of
the one million, five hundred.  The numbers boggled to the point it was
possible to get them wrong and for months everyone had assumed a
survivorship of ten million.  Approximately one person in thirty remaining
in good health.  Now it was known that the decimation itself had ended up
decimated.  One in three hundred walking around loose.  In a way this was a
parallel to the do at the hotel; as news of each survivor's ever growing
share of whatever was left.  Not exactly a false excitement while being
inherently false.  Non sustainable.  Temporary and ersatz.

       The vagaries of the party atmosphere led Wayne Hancock and others to
discussions on the possible use of drugs or partying on as an implement of
civic motivation, but their talks ran aground when it was pointed out that
the amount of time and effort required in putting on periodic extravaganzas
would amount to a significant additional burden, unto itself.  Hardly what
the exercise was all about.  As a group they'd been through the heady days
of effortless increases in personal wealth and now they were exposed to a
form of social wealth three years dormant.  As the band played "Memories
Are Made of This," many felt the future should be, too.

       The comedian was pretty good.  In point of fact, is was not overly
difficult to crack wise on winos comparing ports, mountain men aping
Yiddish gem merchants or good old boys motoring out of the holler in
done-to-death Porsches.  Jed Clampett meets Thurston Howell in the real
world.  Indeed, as things stood it would take a poor Jed indeed to have his
gloms on a mere million dollars.

       It was easy to get lost in the twirl of the spinning light ball and
the sparks it made fly around the room at what seemed like fifty miles an
hour.  Wayne's world, both frivolous and dizzying. and headed where and
with whom?  One did not have to eat and drink to be merry just from
thinking about the possibilities at hand.  Scotty had remained ardent
through his own extended climax scant hours before and had immediately
cooled off to his normal friendly-boy self.  They'd arrived at the suite
after two hours in the stairwell and found the lot of their partners
chirping happily away while they tried on costumes for the evening's
fandango, titled "Showbutt and opened with a lesser evil, "William Never
Tell."  All very witty, especially the William Tell sketch which wags must
needs refer to as his overhear.

       Scandalous?  That was getting interesting.  The demonic fireflies
herded by the mirror ball flicked over couples and groups mixing and
mingling as they may have done the day the first meaty carcass was dragged
into cave one.  It was only eight o'clock so the festivities hosted patrons
down to age six.  With a Riverboat theme, the little chicks were dressed as
dance hall girls, some so young they had to plant their little feet on
their partners' and hold on extra tight as did their squires.  The age of
innocence seemed to run from four to seven because the eight and nine year
old show girls were as raptly attached to their partners as the smallest
tyke in the ballroom.

       Hmm.

       Irregardless of the speed of the sparks circling the room, they
stayed at precise intervals, one from all the others.  Speed the ball up,
and that wouldn't change.  And there was a seven year old, leggy in pink;
speed her up, so to speak, and would she be any less attached to the
costumed stranger she had been obviously enjoying for the last quarter
hour.

       If all roads led to Rome, how close did one dare get?  What were the
tolls?  The alternate routes and escape routes?  What was the speed limit?
How far was it.

       Nothing like a good hedonistic ball to wonder if mares eat oats and
does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy, if a kid'll eat ivy, too.  More
sensible than his thoughts, the refrain from the mega hit of the 40s, yes,
more sensible.  Leaving?  What was going on as the "Showbutt" revue took
over from the dance band and launched into an opulent signature
showstopper, titled ,"Hey, Hey Jon Benet!"  Yes, the material was severely
dated, but cast and crew put a heap of amateur gusto into rendering the
Three Possibilities, plus one suggested by a member of the audience, so,
when all was said and done, the Back When provenance of the events
portrayed with M*A*S*H knock-off insouciance and irreverent perversity did
not detract in the least from what came through the proscenium as part
kiddie show and part parable.

       "Slut after Rain Dance" was coming up, and it would be followed by
"Three Basements with Daddy," rumored to be devilish in nature.  Yes,
Mr. Leader had sort of suggested this and hinted at that and in a matter of
months had mounted a little spectacular that wowed their tongues to their
knees, but only twice a week out of consideration for the tender age of
some of the younger cast members.  After all, a five year old singing a
duet with her strapping teen brother, titled, "On Big Chip's Lollipop," was
fine wine, not beer.  It wasn't "The Magic Flute," but it wasn't cog-wheel
stupid, either.  One ditty, titled, "Big Curtain, Little Curtain," was, to
all, about as charming as theater could get.  (Less is more, remember?)

       "The Ass Menagerie?"  Seemed a little crude, so Wayne dropped the
thought.  Tantalizing at the bleeding edge of discreet, that was more like
it.  Yes, one six-six Tarzan had his hand under the blouse of his little
Orphan Annie partner and Pipi Longstockings could definitely have been
longer while the skirt covering her long ten-year-old legs could not have
been shorter, but, other than that, activities and expression remained
within the bounds of moderate taste.

       How far could they go with their daring show?  An epistle to
dolly-girl beauty pageants seemed over the top by concept, and how much
good taste was evidenced by rehashing the last hour of a six year old?
Hell, if one wanted to get maudlin about it "Pray, Pray, Jon, Benet" could
be substituted on the title page.  "Psycho" meets "Silence of the Lambs."
Wayne's writer's nerves were galvanized like a miner's with a diamond.
Crowds were in fact stimulating, dropped a title as hot as a potato from
hell, then went on about gathering for the frivolities of the stage.

       Wayne was dressed as John Fremont.  Frontier buckskins offset with
modest silver trim.  Scotty was a drummer boy, apparently not long from the
field.  Cal and Brenda did Hansel and Grettle proud and bewitching little
Sarah, who'd joined her parents in the costume fitting room, had chosen to
turn herself out as an angel, heavy on the gossamer.  Seth and Rita
completed the ensemble as Highwayman and Lady.  Sarah giggled she wanted to
play Daughter of Captive Lady but was shushed with a reminder that wings
alone did not make an angel.  She cow-eyed her father, leaving him
wondering how his little girl had spent her day.  She was growing up so
fast and apparently thoroughly enjoying the experience.

       As the lighting changed over for the stage presentation, Hancock and
party came from the arms of their various partners and found a table about
fifty feet from the dinner theater stage.  The lights went through their
final changes and the curtain went up.

       It is a storybook setting and the clouds are tinged all around their
edges with pink.  Fairytale horses drop in from stage right and stage left.
The right horse is white, a Sugar Plum Fairy confection outlined in a pink
similar to the floating white clouds.
       The left horse is a black animal.  Brutish, puffing smoke, and
gender specific.

       The riders are the opposite of their mounts.  A lithe ten year old
blond rides the midnight black while a feral lesser version of Scotty as a
bedraggled drummer boy drapes himself nonchalantly sidesaddle on the
delicate white mare.

       Horses and riders come to rest, almost nose to nose, on the stage.
The riders speak in unison.

       				SHARPIE SHARP SHARP
       		They do this on purpose, change our horses.  Have you
figured that out yet?

       				WHITEY WHITE WHITE
       		We're here to teach the little ones.  It doesn't matter who
has whose horse.

       				SHARPIE
       		These kids are six.  We're going to teach them to bump and
grind, do hip thrusts, loll their heads until their tresses end up who
knows where, pout their lips and roll their eyes.  The least we could do is
tie some thread to tradition and have and ride the proper horses.

       				WHITEY
       		Shh.  Here they come.

       The tender hoard is indeed made up of little girls.  They prance
giggling in from stage right.  Sharpie and Whitey dismount.

       				OFFICIOUS SIX YEAR OLD, PATTY PERFECT
       		You're riding the wrong horses.  I'm going to tell.

       				SHARPIE
       		Pretty girls don't tell, you know.

       				PATTY
       		I'm not pretty.  That's for girls on the street.  I'm
beautiful and I'm
       		going to win.  But first I'm going to tell because you're
meant to
       		be teaching us about good and bad and right and wrong and
black
       		and white and if you ride the wrong horses, how's a girl to
know
       		what to think?

       				WHITEY
       		You come to a beauty pageant to think?

       				PATTY PERFECT
       		I come to beauty pageants so I will never have to think.

       				SHARPIE
       		Yes, it hurts girls to do that.  We've seen it before.

       				PATTY
       		Is this the seminar for advanced involvements, or have
       		I entered through the wrong door and found myself in
       		the day job lair of wanna-be comics?
       				WHITEY
       		We teach a lighter touch, sure.  Six year olds
       		are not likely to engage ongoing attention by
       		virtue of dinner time conversation, or pillow
       		talk.  A wry comment or two can save the
       		day.
       		.
       				PATTY
       		So, you're not jerks.

       From here, the show spread its wings with song and dance intermixed
with toothsome parables on right and wrong, truth and taboo, expedient and
permanent, tactical and strategic, and sundry variations on the theme of
good and evil.  Sharpie and Whitey herded Patty and the other stage girls
through successively suggestive body language as they, themselves, acted
out more mature interpretations of what all the fuss was about, especially
regarding the end game.  The tone of the performance was light, fresh and
bold providing a nice set of show-stoppers before the finale in which all
the little dancers, as well as their instructors and the horses were
costumed in neutral gray.  It wasn't exactly New York quality symbolism,
but everyone in The Big Burger was dead so it didn't matter.

       Wayne could not help going all analytical over the production.
Better stuff than most people have is rare, and, regrettably, required of
writers.  If they see a flock of newly shorn sheep filing across a
hillside, the writer will wonder if the sheep are shorn on both sides, and
then start climbing to find out.

       How far had the children gone?  Sharpie and it turned out to be his
sister, Whitey?  Wayne couldn't tell.  And behind the scrims, scenery and
props?  While most of the girls had been on stage most of the time only a
fool would swear all the girls had been on stage, all the time.  Nor had
the stage hands, dressed in their invisible black, seemed an entirely
trustworthy lot, leading up to sounds off which were difficult to
characterize as innocent.

       The audience had been highly attentive, engaged and responsive.
Each transition of a six year old girl from predatory glad-hander to
simpering ingénue was followed line by foolish line.  The descent of the
little victim to start the third act had riveted the last eye in the house
and Sharpie dominated the stage as he led his class of neophytes through a
likely outcome when the mind doesn't matter.  In fact, Wayne felt, the
audience was so involved it was hard to get a read off them.  A less
intense production, a more restive auditorium of spectators, and it would
have been easier to get a drift of what was being taken from the stage and
translated into a touch here and a lingering hug, there.  It was more than
climbing the hill to look at both sides, it was giving prostate exams, ewe
by ewe and ram by ram.

       Plus, why did he want to know?  Surely, with his friendly and spicy
group he wasn't interested in voyeurism or a fresh conquest.  He figured as
much.  But then what?  Something larger?  By dealing with smaller issues,
had "Hey, Hey, Jon, Benet" left his mind free to wander a wider avenue to a
new horizon?  Okay, okay, so there was a bigger issue involved.  But, for
whom?  Himself, as a writer or the convention and the million souls it
represented?

       A minor flash of brilliance went through the young librarian's mind:
"It's a good thing there is sex in the air, because it leaves one unfit for
any but uppermost thoughts."  Thoughts brought up brain and brain,
especially for an Agatha Christie fan, brought up gray.  Little girls
dancing in chiffon the color of a warship.  A certain neutral land.  And
there it was, as he had felt earlier in the day, right in front of him.
His problem as an artist, his country's problem threatening each hearth.

       With an almost audible whoosh Wayne deflated and returned his
wayward mind to his family, now nearly half a day in the making.  They were
first class in the cute department, all dolled up and now that they had
their masks off.  Attracted attention, partly as a result of the prequel
that had taken place in the pool, and partly because there seemed to be a
rightness and balance expressed as grace and charm that flooded the room
with its own special glow.  "Think of it," Wayne mused to himself, "I could
have presented the paper to end all papers and I wouldn't get half the
attention due a body for simply hanging with a groovy crowd."

       "A complaint is just a smile, run out of town.," Patty had pointed
out at one point in the play.  And certainly he shouldn't be complaining
about Brenda, Cal and the lot.  If they attracted attention to him, and
earned him a center front table, it wasn't their fault, but that
notwithstanding, it was no way to carry on in a political setting.  Rule
one was that emotion was out, for the duration, and sure, during the
musical, no emotion was attached to the prominent group, they may as well
have been on Mars.  But now the fat girl had sung, and, to be sure nothing
would be perceived by halves, the featured players were headed for their
table, Sharpie holding hands with Whitey and little Patty trailing along
looking so cute one wanted to squash her.  Interestingly, the little star
of the performance, the Hey, Hey girl herself sent only roses and a card,
which excused her and bid all a good evening.

       How improper is this going to get? the serious young man wondered.
On the other hand, Sharpie and Whitey coming to roost not six feet away did
allow journalistic opportunities vis a vee what had happened during their
climatic scene introducing the fallen star to a world of happy natural
camping?

       As he had at the pool at the very start of their relationship, he
felt tolerance and goodwill emanating from the surroundings.  The sighs
were natural.  Would have been his if he'd had the misfortune to occupy any
other table, yes, with some tears mixed in.  Not that Wayne felt like
laughing, more, he was just trying to maintain a semblance of balance in a
world of extremes from Calvinistic Victorianism to Polynesian playgrounds.
Mansions of misery to huts of happiness, that was the world of thousands of
years, all turned upside-down.  Now everyone had a mansion, and where was
the happiness in that?

       It was now nine o'clock of a long day and high time for a couple of
sleepyheads to start nodding and a ripple or two of yawns.  Sharpie turned
out to be thirteen, Whitey, ten, and little Patty was a month over her
seventh birthday and only actually six by poetic license.  "Who's in the
mood for a sleepover?" the youngest tribesman piped up.  All were ready for
a change of scenery.  As they left they circled various tables to get
parental permission for their newcomers and made a point to look up Chess
and thank him for an A-list effort, and, of course, young Scotty.

       There was a girl from `orado
       With a mom who had a great motto:
       Show it all while you're young,
       Make the men come unstrung;
       Use you body to win the grand lotto.

       Wayne sighed.  Naturally that had to be the doggerel that stuck in
their minds to be regurgitated in giggling fits as the kids led the parade
back to the suite.  Show tunes!

       Four newcomers.  Hmm.  Sarah, Sharpie, Whitey and Patty.  Twelve,
thirteen, ten and seven.

       "You know what's bad about mature males?" the coy little junior Miss
asked once the group, now eleven, had settled into the spacious living
room.  She didn't wait for a response before supplying her bright answer:
"They're too big for their britches.
       "Sharpie, remember that for the writers, okay?"
       "You got it, sis," the young thespian responded.

       So, another brother/sister couple.  Cal and Brenda, Sharpie and
Whitey.  Let's see, Seth and Rita, at least posing as husband and wife,
Sarah, who certainly looked like their bio daughter; Scotty, and himself.
All in their party costumes.  It was Patty, It had to be.  "Would this be a
good time to learn to play Spin the Bottle?" she asked, brightly.

       "There's a better game," Sharpie said, "'caus kissing isn't for
kids."
       "What game?" Patty asked, because, in truth, kissing like they did
on videos didn't look all that attractive.
       "Remember the one?" Sharpie asked his ten-year-old sister.  "You
told me about playing it with you counselor at day camp, then we played
it?"
       "Yeah," Whitey responded, "it's awesome, Patty.  But, you know, we
could still play spin the bottle, I mean it would be a shame to just throw
off our costumes after all the effort that went into making them.  It could
be like strip poker, and when one naked person spins the bottle and it
points to another naked person, then they get to play Froggy together if
they want to."

       "Why is it called Froggy?" Patty asked.
       "Because," Whitey explained, taking over for her big brother, "if
frogs didn't do certain things, the world would run out of frogs."
       "You mean, not win the lotto?" the little girl giggled.
       "Not even buy a ticket," Sarah said, happy to think of something to
contribute to the fast moving conversation.  The new twelve year old sought
out her parents eyes.  Seth picked up a new feral heat in his daughter,
sensed Rita also felt as well as saw it.  The couple nodded to their child,
and she smiled happily.

       Wayne broke in, as a writer, not wanting to, as a politician,
feeling he must.
       "We've got to break it down," he said.  "I mean define a group, and
stick to it, or, at the rate we seem to be growing we'll end up needing
commercial space, an eventuality which might trigger a more-is-less
paradigm resulting in a pound of frustration for an ounce of pleasure."

       Seth responded immediately and affirmatively.  "Do you have anything
in mind?" he asked.

       "How about this?" the young librarian responded.  "We, the twelve of
us plus perhaps another few special friends, establish a `Sexicell," or,
you could call it a "Lovicell."
       "No Froggicell?" Patty asked.  The other giggled and shushed her.
This was important.

       "A para-commitment," Wayne elaborated.  "An enthusiasm for and
dedication to a carnal group, not just two or three, but not every cutie
off the end of the diving board, either."

       "I know what we could call it," Sharpie said, having, at least in
his own mind, more than two cents to offer.
       "I thought it was a Sexicell or a Lovicell," his sister pointed out.
       "Well," the boy responded, "sure, if that's what everybody wants.
It's just that the Ku Klux Klan had great luck with memorable names, klaven
and cloogle and the like.  You know, for marketing."
       "People like frogs," Patty interjected, "that's good for the
market."
       "Market-ing," Whitey corrected, and they let it drop, returning
expectant looks in the direction of Master Sharpie.  The thirteen year old
seemed a trifle abashed at having his bluff called and being put on the
spot.  He wet his lips and cleared his throat twice.  "I thought, well, I
don't know, you know, just to be kind of honest, and like not all
secretive, we could call the group what it is, I mean not just what it is,
obviously, but mainly what it is and why it's a group in the first place."

       "When you get to Shall not consecrate, wake me up," Whitey
stage-whispered to her brother, nudging him gently from his address.

       "Yeah, okay," the boy responded.  Shit, it was one thing to zip
around on stage with a head full of dialogue and dozens of cue points.
Here, cold, it was different, and if the audience had not been particularly
gracious and accommodating, he might not have been able to go through with
it.

       "Well, the name I made up is a `Fuckum'.  It's a noun, sort of like
`atrium' or `aquarium.'"
       "If I vote for it, can we play Frogum?" Patty asked.
       "Do you spell it with one `k' or double `k'," Rita asked.  Her
question went unanswered and she didn't bother to repeat it.  Everyone's
attention was on Patty, frogs, costumes, bottles, and the curiosity of a
seven year old girl with big brown eyes topped by a perfectly trimmed page
boy in jet black.  The girl blushed at the sudden silence and focus.

       Whitey broke the standstill by pulling the girl so near her own age
to her.  The group, which had been milling for some few minutes now settled
to their knees in a large circle.  Wayne spent a minute improvising in the
suite's kitchen and joined with the bottle.

       "I got carried away," he said.  Instead of a wine bottle, he'd
retrieved a lazy Susan from the butler's pantry, weighted it with four ice
trays, and placed an ornate antique carving fork on top of the whole.  No
five second spins for this party.  They tested the device and found it
rotated on its ball bearings for a tension-stretching thirty seconds before
dealing its little dose of fate.  "Cool," everyone said.  Having their
attention, Wayne used the opportunity to ask if anyone wanted a waiver
against having to play the game with any other member present.  "Hell, no,"
Patty chirped, and the other youngsters eagerly nodded their heads in
agreement.

       Brenda whispered in Cal's ear, and he pinched her back nodding at
the group.

       "I think," the ten year old female said, "that when we take off a
piece of our costume, we should tell who the first person that took that
clothing off was, and when and where and stuff like that."  She bowed her
head, charmingly it seemed to Wayne, and blushed daintily.

       Scotty spoke up.  "We could act it out," he said.  "You know, you
spin the bottle, then to the victim, and the victim makes you do it the way
it happened the first time.  The stripee call the strippor by the name of
the first person that did it to him or her."

       Well, there'd been "The Big Sleep" and "The Big Chill," plus "The
Big Easy."  "The Big Spin?"  If Scotty's game plan were adopted, it would
be more like "Epic."  Tableau after tableau lasting `tll dawn.  If they
couldn't agree on any other name, `Heaven' might do.

       Whitey was more direct in her thoughts.  "What about Patty, how
could she play, the stuff we do on stage is just, you know, fake; she's
never, you know, let anyone take stuff off her."

       Again the youngest was center of attention.  "Whitey's right," she
said.  "Some of the girls my age know stuff, but not me.  It's something to
make boys like you, you know, dancing a certain way and showing, you know,
like your bare tummy.  But what happens when they like you, they didn't
teach us that because it's just for special people."
       "That's what Froggy is," Whitey reminded them.  "It teaches up to
the best part so little kids can understand it.  Kissing is for bigger
kids, and they don't have to understand it."

       Made sense.  Appealed, for once, to the politician in Wayne over the
artist.  Keep it simple, stupid.  It had to be voteable.  Referendums were
not of spider webs made.  Certainly not this one.  All heads nodded in
favor of exchanging kissing for the more elaborate rituals required for
Froggy, each harboring a secretive notion that if the more complex nature
of play delayed activities unreasonably, they might be resumed on the
morrow.  Assuming it was forbidden as a political topic, Wayne went
doom-and-gloom over the artistic ramifications.  Twelve of them, widely
spread in ages and backgrounds, mostly strangers, for an entire night.  He
hoped the water wouldn't slop out of the ice cube trays after the ice had
melted.  On second thought, by the time that process was complete, play
might have slowed of its own accord.  From a literary standpoint, it would
be a clever way to indicate the passage of time, if time could be goaded
into passing at all.

       Patty the Youngest was given first honors with the whirligig.  She
swung Wayne's contraption to the left and right a couple of times to test
its action, then released it in a healthy spin.  The smooth bearings hummed
and the elegant silver fork became a blur.  Law of averages said most if
not all of them were going to feel those tiny little hands pulling away
their garments, but it wouldn't be bad to be the first.  Everyone knew
that.

       Angel to angel.  Sarah.  Who knew who sighed and who gasped.  White
angel and gray angel.  Twelve and seven, Sarah, luxuriant and dreamy with
her flowing blond locks, oval face and big blue eyes; Patty, more the
pixie. Boyish and cute with piles of light brown curls and chiseled
features, one hide in a thousand, even by the standards of seven-year-old
skin.  That the child was covered in yards of white gossamer did nothing to
detract from her natural beauty, any more than the gray cloud of fabric
billowing from the older blond angel detracted from her winsome appeal.  It
was heaven, all right, and if it wasn't, it was still getting more heavenly
with every delicate step Sarah and Patty made to close the distance between
themselves.  They were both willowy girls, Sarah half a head taller than
her new young friend.  Patty, for all her stage bravado, felt a light chill
of self-consciousness at being boss of the older girl as well as sharing
the center of attention.  Sarah started off twice as scared as the last
distance was closed, then twice as scared again as she caught her father's
eye.

       Seth winked as his now oh so grown up doll.  He felt guilty about
wearing the elaborate costume of an English highwayman, especially as his
daughter was swathed in a single pull-over, wings included.  She was a game
kid though, little Sarah, and she grinned back at him, a bit nervously
perhaps, but certainly not looking as if she wished she were somewhere
else.  Game and smart.

       "You don't have to, it's just a game," Patty whispered as she
stopped inches from Sarah.  "I mean with you dad watching, you know, it's
meant to be nice, not weird."
       "It's okay," the older girl whispered in response.  "I've always
wanted to get him excited, at least since I was your age, and I don't mind
a little help."
       "Cool," Patty cooed.  "He's a gorgeous dad, you're lucky.  And your
mom's to die for."
       "Thanks," was all Sarah could think of to say to her little friend.

       Hell, everyone was saying `thanks.'  What else was there to feel,
think, say?  Southern India.  That was the place, right in the middle of
the country.  What a temple that was.  The greatest in the world and one of
the largest, but, well, ahem, not much of a hang-out for the puritanical.
Oh, at all.  No close-up when they did travelogues on that puppy.  Wayne
had never been there and wondered at the veracity of the place.  One of the
world's little mysteries like Atlantis and Troy; specifically, if the
Indians were having so much fun, if it was, indeed, as much fun as
advertised, when, oh, when, did they find time to build it?  That was for
the ages; here and now the situation was getting intensely realistic.
That's why everyone was saying, praying, if you will, thanks.

       Patty asked if Sarah was ready for her dad to see her.  The girl
nodded, her eyes riveted to her father's.  Thoreau said a good book excited
him so much he couldn't finish it, because he had to be off about what the
book suggested.  Patty's variations on Spin the Bottle excelled in a
similar manner.  Her game was so good, everyone was getting excited, not
before it was over, but before it had begun.  Make a movie good enough, and
the audience should pour out onto the streets, cheering and crying, shortly
after the curtain parted.  Adolph the Unlikable had done it every day of
the week.

       Anyway you cut it, the combination of the wonderful costumes and
Patty's diabolical manipulations of a simple kissing game was electrifying.
So much so, it really did bring up issues.  Wayne tried to dismiss them;
neither the time nor the place, but, what was to become of them?  A variant
of a Sixties adage, out of general use for decades, Keep on Truckin'.  Only
not the same spelling, quite.  Keep on fuckin'.  They were already a dozen.
Scotty's cousin, Chess, and his little friend Sammy would obviously be
welcomed by all.  Then what?  The reedy girls swaying together at the
center of their little circle were pleasing both aesthetically and
emotionally.  Statues infatuated with each other, one billowing white and
pixyish, her taller mate, flowing blond and blue eyed, looking down into
the eyes of the seven year old who was happy to stare back.

       As an artist, Wayne realized he'd reached his limit.  "Go here," he
mused, "and the church would end up being right."  To him, this meant yes,
carnality would rule, the bacchanal, the orgy, the charnel house of
thrusting lust and the shuddering touch of the gods, if you wanted to get
all Greco-Roman about it.  No, as an artist Wayne did not have the maturity
to deal with the problem.  As a politician, he had to solve it.  For here
it was, as it had been, all the livelong day, or anyway all the hundred
livelong days since Brenda and Cal had walked into the pool area.  At once
the only possible solution, and, by the grace of the absence of god, the
perfect solution.  Look how Patty swayed to the touch of a girl she'd known
hardly an hour.  And now rapt Rita's gaze sizzling between her long-legged
husband and her beautiful blond child.  And the couple was just
slow-dancing.  Wayne felt like DeSoto finding his fountain of youth was
housed at the center of a gold palace with diamond floors.

       Having solved all the world's problems, Wayne relaxed.  Scotty was
eyeing him with open heat and visions of what he'd done to the child in the
stairwell were so fiery they intruded even on the sight of Sarah and Patty
slowly settling to their knees.

       "We can play the game, tomorrow," Patty whispered so all could here.
It was the most boggling thought it the world.  Both reprieve and promise.
And how about that reprieve?  For no one was in the mood to go through a
long tease.  Rape was closer to being in the air, impossible as it would
have been under the circumstances.

       Patty parted Sarah's angel costume at the front and reached inside
to touch the girl.  "You can take it off, if you want," she said softly.
       "I want to take yours off," Sarah whispered back.  "Plus, touch
you."
       "Go ahead," the little girl said.

       Sarah reached inside Patty's costume, and walked the fingers of her
right hand over Patty's left flank.  Patty followed with a second creeping
hand and the girls came partially together in this manner.  "You're in
really good shape," the seven year old said to her older friend.

       "We skip rope every day," the older girl said.
       "Cool," Patty whispered.  Brow to chin, the girls lost themselves
for long moments in touching each other.  "She's wearing a bra," Patty
exclaimed, sharing the exciting news with her friends.  Then the kid added,
"and it's not exactly a trainer."
       "Family secret," Sarah explained, blushing.
       "You don't have to tell," Patty replied.  But what did she mean?
       "No," the girl whispered firmly, "I want to.  I have to keep it
secret at home, that's just how it is, but I can tell you guys.  I'm not
ten, I'm twelve.  Mom had me when she was ten, and while a twenty two year
old woman can get away with a ten year old daughter, well, a twelve year
old daughter, you know, it is kind of freaky; cool, way cool, but unusual."
       "Well," Patty whispered, "what I think it is is beautiful.  I want
to touch you before I show everybody, is that okay?"
       "Yes," the older girl whispered.
       "How do I get it loose?" Patty asked.

       Sarah whispered instructions, and while the girls were thus involve,
Wayne removed his spinning device from the circle.  One good turn, and
oblivion, although no one could doubt that the thought and craft that had
gone into the gizmo had paid off in spades.

       "I think I got it," Patty whispered.
       "It's kind of tight," Sarah, responded, "you have to pull together,
then let separate.
       "You're going to be like your mom," Patty whispered as the straps
parted.  "It was really stretching."
       "Touch me in front," came the response.

       Patty looked up into the pretty blue eyes and the gold framed face
now slack with intensity.  She stripped the straps from the shoulders of
her older friend, and with a moment or two of female jockeying, Sarah was
bare chested under her costume.  Patty moved in for the thrill, using just
her left hand.  As she found the bulb size mount of Sarah, she whispered to
the older girl.

       "Has your dad ever touched you here?" she asked, so just her friend
could hear.
       "No," the older girl answered.
       "Do you want him to?"  The question was half panted, fresh into
Sarah's ear.
       "Yes," the girl replied, her voice husky as rough bark.

       Patty stretched her free right hand into the ring, toward Seth.
Beckoned.  The thirty-year-old dentist looked at his young wife and kissed
her hotly as she pushed him toward the willowy blond swaying to the touch
of the pint-sized actress.

       Patty took his hand, gently leading him to the open front of his
angel.  "She's really well developed, I just wanted to warn you," the child
rasped as she guided the strong man hand the last inches to Sarah's swollen
left nipple.  As the child was touched she whispered to her little friend,
"Get my mom, too."

       "Can we do something, first/" Patty asked.
       "What," the girl responded, trying not to sound inpatient with her
fabulous little friend.
       "Well," Patty replied, "since it all started with Spin the Bottle, I
thought, you know, I don't like it on TV, but, you know, we could try
kissing."

       Sarah was so thrilled at being able to somehow reward her little
friend she could kiss her.  The little girl stretched, and big twelve year
old girl bent her neck, and the came together licking and nibbling.  Patty
removed her left hand so Seth could have free access to his female child,
and laced her arms around the blond's neck.  All three panted in silence as
wave after wave of lust crashed over them.  If it had been water, they
would have been crushed by the weight before they could drown.

       Wordlessly, Rita went to work on Seth's highwayman garb, her hands
working quickly to prepare her husband for her daughter.  Amply inspired,
other pairs followed de-suit, intermittently turning their eyes to the hot
couple in the middle of the carpet, and each other.  Sarah and Patty kissed
while everyone else stripped, and after some few minutes the angels were
the only ones dressed in anything but underwear.

       Scotty had paired with Wayne and Brenda with her brother.  Rita was
letting Patty touch her as the child kissed her daughter, and Seth worked
his way behind Sarah so he could get her from the back with both his hands.
Not only did he molest his own child, his hands roamed inside the costume
of the seven year old, and he had the little girl from her tender rump, up
along her slim, girlish flanks, to her slender shoulders.

       "We forgot part of the game," Patty whispered, and all could hear,
because everyone had hitched close together, Brenda in front of her
sixteen-year-old brother, Scotty in front of Wayne, and Rita hunched over
her big, powerful husband as she worked at getting him naked for Sarah.
       "What part?" Sarah asked.
       "You've got to tell us who the first one to take you shirt of was,"
the girl reminded them all.  "Before I can take your front part off so we
can all see you."
       "No one's done it yet," Sarah answered, "but I saw someone do it,
this morning, when I was out with Ellen and her dad.  Does that count?"

       Patty spoke for them all when she responded: "You bet!"

       Encouraged by the general ambience of enthusiasm, as well as Patty's
words, Sarah told the story of her morning as her dad kept gently feeling
her up and Patty joined in toying with her hot, swollen nipples.

       "I saw a man doing it to a boy," she began.  "While we were hiking.
I kind of felt Ellen wanted to be alone with her dad, so I took a different
path, and since the trail wound around the hill I knew it was impossible to
get lost, so I started to climb up through the trees.  Pines.  Needles.
Silent.  I went up a long ways, then sat down to rest.  Five minutes later,
just when I was going to push on to the top, I heard voices.  There was
something strange about them, so instead of yelling hello, I slipped inside
a tree and sat on an inner branch.

       "Then a man about dad's age came along, being led by a boy just
about Scotty's age.  He said it was far enough, but the man seemed nervous
and seemed to want to go further.  Then the boy went to the man and started
unbuttoning his shirt and they stopped talking about going anywhere else."

       Sarah was playing to an alert audience.  All present knew why they
weren't going anywhere else.  The opening of her story helped prepare them
for the shock that was to come, although they'd already taken considerable
precautions to inoculate themselves against anything untoward when it came
to listening to stories.

       "They were talking about Jim on the river.  You know?  The
Mississippi one?  On the raft?  They were playing the roles in a play, and
doing lines.  That's what I heard for just a minute, then, when they got a
hundred feet away, it changed, what they were saying to each other.  I
couldn't hear the words, but, like I said, when they got to the clearing
the boy said it was far enough, and when Jim, I'll call him that, thought
they should go farther up the hill, he started unbuttoning him.

       "Now I should describe the boy.  Scotty's age, with long bushy hair,
like Scotty's when he was in his drummer boy costume, but longer.  He was
really a kid, with a kid face, cute teeth that were a little too big, and
high cheekbones.  Jim was awesome.  Six-six, at least, with a swimmer's
build like one of those rap stars.  Seriously into hunk, but not bulgy.
Sleek, and, again, awesome.

       "So Huck got Jim's shirt opened, and together they got it all the
way off an threw it on the tree bough, almost blocking my view.  Then Jim
got behind Huck, and he started doing what dad's doing to me, only more on
his tummy than his chest.  That's probably because the one that was playing
Huck was a boy.

       "They talked about the play and Jim asked Huck if he was sure he
wanted to do stuff.  I guess they'd experimented a little in their dressing
rooms, because they were sort of, you know, finding out the first things
about each other.  Huck was dead sure, sure as pone don't slide, whatever
that means, I don't think he knew himself.  Then Huck asked Jim if he
thought Mark Twain's character's had ever done stuff together, and Jim said
that Horatio Alger did stuff with boys, so that it was likely anyone that
wrote about young boys had an interest.  Huck thought it was too bad there
were no suspicious scenes, and Jim said Twain didn't have the courage as a
writer to pull it off.  Huck thought maybe they could get ahold of the
script and add a scene.  Jim laughed and said he thought that was, quote,
the best motherfucking idea since kingdom come, unquote."

       Sarah blushed prettily.  She needn't have wasted the blood.  All
eyes were one here, all ears tuned in.

       "They went on about the play while Jim stood behind Huck and felt
him up.  Then Huck unbuttoned himself so Jim could get him all over.  The
boy whispered that he hoped the real Huck had let Jim do it to him, then,
he had his shirt off."

       "Like this?" Seth whispered, removing his daughter's angel costume
and by now crushed wings and pushing from the tight circle.
       "Yes, Daddy," the girl whispered as she knelt, arms hanging modestly
by her sides as she let everyone see her.

       Seth whispered to Rita, and she leaned back to where his costume was
piled outside the small circle, and retrieved his highwayman's knife.  With
one hand stiff fondling his daughter, he used the blade to slice the waist
band of Sarah's panties and when Patty hissed, Me, too, he used the blade,
again.  Wordlessly, the knife was passed to Wayne, who used it on Scotty,
while Scotty used it on him, and passed it to Cal, who quickly slit his
sister's panties.  Finally the knife went to Rita, who used it on Cal, then
to Patty, who used it on Rita, then returned it to her so she could put it
back in its place.

       "The men should make a parade," Patty exclaimed.  To make up for
breaking all the other rules.  Your dad, too, Sarah.  What do you think?"

       It sounded, as they say, like a plan.  Seth and Wayne ended up in
the center with Cal and Scotty on either side.  The girls remained
kneeling, and they faced off, file to file, column to column, rand to rank;
who knew?  It wasn't important.

       Penis one, was Wayne, but he had only half an inch on Seth, who
probably had the thickness of a garden hose in diameter on the more
youthful male.  Both males were jutting up seven inches and more, but,
biggest of all looking, was Cal, who was smaller than the adults everywhere
but there, where he was a near tie.  Scotty jutted up and hard and out
beautifully for a twelve year old, with, somehow, the slight wisp on his
lip and over his swollen cock making him the very eye of a sensual tornado
to young Patty who stared fixedly in contrast to the others who stared, but
spread their glances.  Once she'd spied on an older class of contest girls
who were practicing belly dancing.  Now all those sensuous lingering
rhythms made perfect sense and the seven year old stood, wearing only a
string of pearls, and imitated what she'd seen the big girls doing.

       Wayne glanced down at his young lover from the stairwell and saw
that a whole bunch of the kid's genes were stacked in just where they
should be.  Putting his right hand around the youngster's slim waist and
eased him toward the waiting vixen.  The one with the swollen nipples.  He
didn't have to encourage Seth, because he'd already started moving like a
Zombie to his naked little Sarah.  Rita's nipples sprouted even more than
her daughter's as the big, hard dad approached the pretty young blond.

       Suddenly she was on her feet.  "Where's the bathroom?" she asked
Wayne.  He nodded at the proper door, and the young mother was off across
the suite with a whispered Wait!.  She returned in a second, now walking
slowly.  All looked at her, so girlish she was almost boyish, except for
the aggressive tender sweetness of her breasts, big not quite to the point
of clumsy, and perfect past the point of beautiful.  Swollen.  Girl mother.
Child daughter.

       Rita knelt beside her daughter and interrupting Patty's latest kiss
for only a few seconds, placed a stack of bath towels under the athletic,
long legged blond, easing her wide with kisses over the soft young belly
and sleek inner thighs.  As Seth dropped to his knees and crawled forward
to take Sarah, Rita peeled Patty off the twelve year old, and lay the child
back for Scotty, nodding significantly at Wayne to take control of the boy
while she helped her husband.

       Moving her husband and daughter slightly to the right, so Patty
would have room on the spread towel, Rita guided the swollen male to his
young virgin.  Wayne helped Scotty in a similar manner and guided the
hunching boy against the wet seven year old, wildly spread beneath him with
one pretty leg linked with Sarah's.

       "Like you did with me," Rita whispered urgently to her powerful
husband, causing him to thrust slowly and fully into his girl.  Wayne
guided Scotty with his left arm around the boy's waist and his right hand
on his throbbing six inch penis.  With first real contact, Scotty grunted
from his frame, and Wayne freed him to do what Seth had just done.  Fully
home their young females both man and boy froze, side by side.  One false
move and it would be like so over.  What a true move would do did not bear
thinking about.

       Wayne flashed back to the excitement he'd felt molesting Scotty, how
the boy's stories of being with Carlos had added to the experience of
touching his skin and feeling the supple flow of muscles combined with
traces of leftover baby fat, warm and a thousand feet deep.  Even on top of
that, whispering had been exciting.  He could sense from his hand between
Scotty and Patty that the boy was on the razor edge of his climax, and Seth
simply had to be.  No man in earth could be inside that slender, blond
beauty, and move at all.  Maybe if Sarah continued her story it would act
like a tranquilizing dart and slow things down, or, more accurately, keep
things from speeding up.  He was about to encourage the girl when Rita
caught his eye.  Caught it, pulled it half way toward her, and let it snap
back in, to gain his attention.  She was displaying to him.  At the same
time, Brenda jockeyed her brother until he was at Patty's right side,
kneeling by the little girl's face.

       Rita came to rest facing her husband and prostrate daughter.
Wiggling her bubble butt soon had its effect, and Wayne was on top of her,
doing to her what Seth had been doing to little Sarah as he found her and
mounted her girlish body fully, sagging his head over her left shoulder and
grunting into her ear at the wrenching tightness and ethereal depth of her.
Nice move, Clyde, Wayne said to himself, for now he was frozen as
motionless as Seth and Scott, only able to groan softly and repeatedly into
the sweet ear at his lips.  Rita stared into the eyes of her husband and he
stared back.  Sensing they wanted to be closer Wayne moved his right arm
from Rita's breasts to her waist and, with almost no relative movement
between his body and Rita, moved the young wife to her panting husband.
They kissed fantastically, tenderly and intimately as well as wantonly and
passionately.  Sarah, for her part, removed her pretty young hands from her
dad's powerful back, and managed with some very cautious wriggling to the
them on the faces of her parents as they kissed above her.  Both nibbled
and licked their child's fingers as much as they did each others' lips.

       Brenda was masturbating Cal with long, purposeful strokes.  She
didn't understand why the males weren't ejaculating hard and fast into the
females.  When her brother was fully inside her they were never able to lie
still, or stand still as the case was from time to time, for more than half
a minute before she could feel his penis begin to pulse savagely inside
her, and move instantly and powerfully in response.  It was a good thing
she was just jerking him off, otherwise they'd be sure to spoil things.
She was doing it because instinct

       Sept. 11.  Readers who've read "Creative Camp" will know I'm seldom
reticent about jumping into my own story.  Call it a royal prerogative.

       Can we blame the navy for this one?  Yes.  The eight hundred billion
thrown off the end of the pier on Rickover's empire, spent with a bit of
Yankee smarts in the under-developed corners of the world, would have
negated many hatreds, probably enough to prevent what now appears to be a
problem.  Of course, to be fair, it wasn't the navy that sat on its thumbs
for almost an hour without scrambling a single jet to protect Washington.

       The failure of understanding at this point seems to be nearly one
hundred percent.  In no way is this an attack on America, it is an attack
on the Jew the best way they could get the Jew.  This is a tribe, for lack
of a prejudicial term which isn't hyperbolic, who inspires hatred to the
bone and forever.  Just that combination of sleazy insidious slippery
cleverness that leads so often to the loathing they not only adore with a
passion that sometimes seems almost genetic, but perpetrate by means of
grooming, dress, lensware, and any other way history has taught them is
entirely offensive to goyim.  An example is Kissinger's calculated use of
his voice and Greenspan's use of gigantic eyeglasses on a huge blank wall
of a face.  Larry King uses his braces, and Howard Cossell simply used his
entire presence.  Guess what?  Others detect this long list of loathsome
characteristics, as I do, and hate this curse to humanity, as I do.

       I think of an anthill.  I'm hardly an expert on the subject, but,
generally speaking, if you kick one and go back a day later you are likely
to find everything back to normal.  Drop a gram of Temic on the same hill,
and you can go back to find a perfect hill devoid of life.  In some way, at
some time, it is obvious to any serious historian that Jewry will amount to
our gram of Temic, one way or another.  Perhaps this is it, but, from my
viewpoint, I viewed the television ads for the New York mayor's race as
even more dangerous than wayward aircraft.  Every single ad was pure
socialism.  And dweebs?  You never saw the beat of them, guaranteed.  So we
can thank whatever group of anti-Semites for at least giving us a
Seven-Spielberg-Eat-Your-Heart-Out show.

       Should there be any degree of mass survival, it bodes well for me as
a writer.  Even the pathetic creeps that run Hollywood are smart enough to
know that all future efforts of Industrial Light and Magic and DreamWorks
are instant caca.  No more documentaries on those cute families that do
implosions, either.  And I thought it was going to be Bill and his Xbox,
though, in my heart, I never did see how we could make it to
October. Anyway, with all the sf-fantasy stuff rendered mute, along with
KTLA's implosion of the day, maybe a new literature in which people
actually love each other, however they might misbehave, will be of
interest.  Nifty to the rescue.

       At this point the specific reason given for the day's events is a
failure of the intelligence community because they were forbidden to engage
the services of spies and moles who may have been involved in human rights
violations, and were also prohibited from engaging in assassinations on
grounds that would make great sense to any member of the ACLU.

       As long as you are willing to pay for it, my subjects.  If you
support the detested Jew, you must be willing to do it with your lives.  It
is very likely, you already have, but if we pull through this, and are even
energized by it, something else will come along as long as this filth
remains in our blood.  This group, few of whom are human, literally,
invented god in their image and went totally insane.  They are every
pestilence of Pharaoh with a trail of gratuitous misery and suffering that
runs to the dawn of history.  They will kill you all, if they haven't
already.  I don't expect you to do anything about this, you have been
indoctrinated, I just wanted you to know that you are giving your life for
a Jew like The Fonz, you know, the blowhard who in real life was petrified
of his motorcycle.  For the Seinfeld's with their giant mouths.  It's okay
with me, I've had and done my share, but, should you object to dying for
the Hebrew you might consider getting rid of the Hebrew.  It has its own
misery patch, it should remove itself there, and stay there, hopefully, die
there without wasting precious time.  Us or them.  Remember Goliath.

       As I have said throughout my manuscripts, democracy can only exist
under opulent circumstances.  If I am wrong, i.e., still writing a month
from now, I'll shut up and stick to my stories and characters.  If I am
right, you need a king, like yesterday, but, of course, it will be too
late.

       A final note: it would not surprise me in the least if Israel was
behind the whole cock-up.  Get the dumb goyim to do the dirty work, after
all, we flushed a mighty load down the toilet at Belsen, Treblinka and
Auschwitz.

       Sept 12.  No need to stick on a year with a date like that, nor the
one above.

       A pyramid.  Two pyramids, one over the remains of each tower.  If
you don't think this is a good idea, I'd refer you to history and
descriptions of the stench and Gettysburg, which was about the same number
of (much smaller) bodies, spread over many acres and square miles, yet
which drove people almost insane.  The ruins should be filled with lime
slurry and topped with concrete, maybe one day faced with polished stone.
If you do not do this, the stench with southerly winds is going to reduce
the q quality of life on Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs to zero.
And for a long time.  It's mid September, the decomposition process will
start slowing any time now and thus last for months.  To be mucking about
in the detritus of thousands of smashed bodies is probably right out of the
area of feasibility.  No, lime slurry, followed by concrete, pump it full,
cap it off, and waste no treasure or time looking for evidence not matter
how the Jews howl.

       There is actually a way out of this mess.  Bring in alien workers in
a quasi military environment (single, barracks, mess halls, etc.) and pay
them two dollars an hour.  Chinese, Mexican, Indian and European would be
good choices.  Try and drive this into your thick, ridiculous skulls: the
sandhogs on Boston's Big Disaster are being paid at the rate of thirty
dollars an hour.  That is as good an example of absolute insanity as I've
ever known.

       It is my view on day two that the Muslims have done us a favor akin
to slitting the throat of an animal that's disabled and simply going to
starve and be eaten by ants.  Plus, they gave us your basic show of shows.

       I am depressed by the mediocrity of the people involved.  One
politician after another thanking one police chief after another.... for
what?  They often use the word `together,' when the only together they seem
to have in mind is getting together with as many camera crews per hour as
possible.  I look at it this way, I'm a lot smarter than they are, and I
can't do my best unless I concentrate, and I couldn't concentrate if I had
to answer stupid questions and jog around like a performer.

       The extreme of socialism has been a reliable feature of all
coverage.  "Evidentiary baseline."  This is important to somebody.  An
evidentiary baseline.  Sure sounds Jewish to these ears.

       Canceled an Arnold film, pulled the previews for "Spiderman."  Makes
me wrong.  I thought Bill was going to clean Hollywood's clock with the
Xbox, but he never had the chance.

       Of all the events of the past week, the most depressing was the
mayoral race in New York.  The socialism was absolute.  Free medicine for
the geezers, and something or the other for the kids.  As I just said, the
Arabs did us a favor.  I suggest we complete it by making an all-out thermo
nuclear attack on the Muslim world, and the Jewish world, then fire a
series of devices over our own cities, allowing the populace ample time to
gather at ground zero.

       I'll close this chapters by thanking the liberals.  Because of your
efforts I get to die the finest death imaginable, first, knowing I've seen
a thousand years of shenanigans, often of a Kennedy nature, in a little
over half a century, and, second, that you reduced the world until there is
nothing left to live for.  I don't think this was deliberate, just stupid.
Any knowledge of history beyond what should be taught in the fifth grade
tells on that consorting with Jewry always leads to disaster, and you
consorted.  So simple your epitaph, so grateful your king, because nothing
would be sadder than to die knowing there was much to live for.  To die at
the end of civilization, aye, that's the thing.  Had I time, I would thank
every Jew on the planet.

       Don't find myself particularly in the mood to revise this.  I lived
in Dubuque in 1993 and thought the giant flood would destabilize an economy
that was just firmly entering the Microsoft age.  Similarly, I thought the
UPS strike of 1999 might easily destabilize enough small but vital
enterprises to cause a general collapse.  Ditto, the crash of 1987, and,
for a few days there, Y2K.  Not only was I wrong in these cases, but I
predicted a total collapse in 1989 (this was in '84).  I still submit I
would have been right except for a mushroom of symbiosis cooked up by Bill
Gates and a few others.  Anyhow, take my ranting with a grain of salt.  You
have no choice in the matter, anyway.  Me?  I'll just be happy to have had
most of a year on Nifty and an opportunity to tell you so, as in `I told
you so.'  To remind you that you deserve it, and that democracy is flawed
to the bone; always has been, always will be.

       Where you need liveliness and purpose all you get is talk of
evidence and justice.  My first statement on hearing of the bombings would
have been to look into the camera and say, "If you live near Pittsburg,
roll up you sleeves, we're going to be needing some steel."  I wouldn't
care one tinkers dam who or why or this or that.  I would not have shut
down anything that didn't shut itself down for reason of direct threat to
safety.  I wouldn't spend five minutes worrying about miracle survivors.
They all die in the hospital after the agony of being hauled around like a
side of beef.

       I'll have to rely on David's patience, once again.  I usually close
my chapters with a scene worthy of Nifty, but I view you as having let
Jewry repeat itself, and, at least for the time being, and probably for all
time, by drinking this poison of god you have proven yourselves unworthy of
any effort in your behalf.  Your only silver lining is that I have numerous
blots in my Jean Dixon copy book, but even fools can't be wrong forever,
leaving you to read all my work and see if you find any fools but
yourselves.  Since I seem to be violating my wonderful Gran's rule of
prompt departure, "A sense of departure," I should keep adding useful
information.  This is a first draft.  Sorry.  Maybe one of these days,
ha-ha, I'll revise it and repost it.  That's up to you.  Kick out your Jews
and socialists, and, hey, we'll talk.

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx