Dangerous Fun In The House Of The Scorpion
Moderator: Alyrium Denryle
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Raoul Duke, Jr.
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Raoul Duke, Jr.
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Stormbringer
- King of Democracy
- Posts: 22678
- Joined: 2002-07-15 11:22pm
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Lagmonster
- Master Control Program
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- Joined: 2002-07-04 09:53am
- Location: Ottawa, Canada
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Raoul Duke, Jr.
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- Location: Suckling At The Teat Of Missmanners
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Raoul Duke, Jr.
- BANNED
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- Joined: 2002-09-25 06:59pm
- Location: Suckling At The Teat Of Missmanners
Tuesday Night, Mill Avenue... A Strange And Terrible Air Raid
Memories of Tuesday night are hazy... all I have to go on are a few flashes of clarity in a dark cloud of inebriation. I must have had a good time.
The evidence alone is puzzling. One box of Hostess "Old-Fashioned Glazed" Donettes, empty... one black jumpsuit bearing coffee stains... one Super-X slingshot, slightly encrusted with a sweet but otherwise unidentified substance... no, the evidence by itself is not enough from which to construct a clear and rational picture of the events of that terrifying night. And the other two matching sets of these items will never see the light of day. At least, I hope not...
"Are we ready?" I asked Scott as we sat in the back of the large gray van.
"Yeah." he nodded. "As soon as Billy gets here--" Just then, the passenger door sounded with a light double-knock. Scott climbed into the front seat, reached across and unlatched the passenger door for Billy. "We're go." Scott finished.
As we pulled out of the driveway of Billy's apartment complex, we checked our gear one last time. "Camcorder?" I asked.
"Check!" Billy barked, hefting the Sony. He was into this thing even more than Scott and I were. Weird. But that's why he was the cameraman. There was no room on the roof of Hooters for ya-hoos. This was a professional job, and it required a professional touch.
I checked our ammunition supply -- three boxes, Old-Fashioned Glaze. Scott and I harbored no illusions that we'd get off that much ammunition before being spotted... but we had no problem eating what we didn't fire off. The possibility that you may end up eating your own ammunition is always a grim rider in the back of your mind going into a dangerous assignment like this, but it's the risk you take when you put on this uniform, and we all accepted it.
Our quarry tonight was perhaps the most diabolical creature ever to walk the face of the Earth... these creatures have lured countless unsuspecting fools to financial, psychological and sexual deaths so grisly, so horrifying, that their predation habits simply could not be suffered to continue. For the good of humanity, the survival of the very species, someone had to stop them. Thank God we were available.
We pulled in to the rear parking lot of our quarry's very den: a fortified complex decorated in neon signs, loud, tribal "Club" music, and drinking establishment in three distinct varieties: The Owl's Nest, Hooters, and The Library. All similarly themed, these dens provided a warm bosom and kind succor to the creatures we hunted this night.
We gave Billy explicit instructions to wait until our black-clad asses disappeared over the lip of the roof before making his way to the corner opposite this vile and haunted place and training his electronic eye on the sidewalk below us. Scaling the piping and girderwork was frustrating but quickly and quietly achieved... after all, we are professionals.
The rooftop was damp, dark and quiet as we unslung our small tactical packs and removed our weapons and ammunition. Scott promptly ate one of the rounds.
"God dammit!" I swore under my breath. "The plan, man! The... oh, fuck it." I ate a round.
Scott peered through a pair of tiny Bushnell binoculars. "Okay," he whispered. "He's there... camera is... out -- and we have a green light, I repeat, a green light!"
With that, we each loaded a Donette into our slingshots, leaned over the lip of the roof, and ZAAAANNNGGG!!! a pair of Donettes flew, mine down the far-too-low-cut shirt of a blonde, who promptly screeched and flailed at nothing, Scott's hitting a kid dressed like a raver directly in the right ass-cheek, causing a similar panic. And then, BAM! before we'd been seen, we were back in the safety of the shadows.
"Hey!" somebody yelled. Oh, shit! adrenaline blasted through my veins like a 220 volt current. "Hey! You with the camera!" They'd spotted Billy.
"Shit!" Scott hissed. "Billy needs help!"
"Cover fire!" I muttered, and before I could rethink, I had loaded a round and fired it off at the first running figure I saw. Damn! Over his right shoulder and into a light-pole -- SPLAT! Fire Two! Ha! Got him! Right between the shoulder blades! The kid spun, totally confused. Oops! Scott's Donette caught him dead in the chest, turning into a gooey star pattern. Damn -- now he'd seen us... at least, sort of.
The mission was totally fucked now... I grabbed a handful of Donettes and let fly, not even bothering to load them into the Super-X. Scott and I were laughing like madmen, pelting donut holes down into the street. I could see now that Billy had made good his exeunt and was probably hauling ass for the van. Great minds think alike.
Fortunately, the rear of the building is a little difficult to access from the rear, at least to the uninitiated. We jumped from the pipework from halfway up, bypassing the chain-link fence it had taken us a minute each to scale on the way in. I landed hard, rolled out and came up in a half-run, half-stagger for the van's cargo door. Scott was right behind me. Billy, the god damn little genius, had actually been ready for us, and actually had the forethought not to gun the accelerator. We pulled out nice and smooth, and left Mill Avenue behind for the night, having made an impression that, fortunately, did not last long. But we'll treasure the memories -- and the video footage -- for years to come.
Memories of Tuesday night are hazy... all I have to go on are a few flashes of clarity in a dark cloud of inebriation. I must have had a good time.
The evidence alone is puzzling. One box of Hostess "Old-Fashioned Glazed" Donettes, empty... one black jumpsuit bearing coffee stains... one Super-X slingshot, slightly encrusted with a sweet but otherwise unidentified substance... no, the evidence by itself is not enough from which to construct a clear and rational picture of the events of that terrifying night. And the other two matching sets of these items will never see the light of day. At least, I hope not...
"Are we ready?" I asked Scott as we sat in the back of the large gray van.
"Yeah." he nodded. "As soon as Billy gets here--" Just then, the passenger door sounded with a light double-knock. Scott climbed into the front seat, reached across and unlatched the passenger door for Billy. "We're go." Scott finished.
As we pulled out of the driveway of Billy's apartment complex, we checked our gear one last time. "Camcorder?" I asked.
"Check!" Billy barked, hefting the Sony. He was into this thing even more than Scott and I were. Weird. But that's why he was the cameraman. There was no room on the roof of Hooters for ya-hoos. This was a professional job, and it required a professional touch.
I checked our ammunition supply -- three boxes, Old-Fashioned Glaze. Scott and I harbored no illusions that we'd get off that much ammunition before being spotted... but we had no problem eating what we didn't fire off. The possibility that you may end up eating your own ammunition is always a grim rider in the back of your mind going into a dangerous assignment like this, but it's the risk you take when you put on this uniform, and we all accepted it.
Our quarry tonight was perhaps the most diabolical creature ever to walk the face of the Earth... these creatures have lured countless unsuspecting fools to financial, psychological and sexual deaths so grisly, so horrifying, that their predation habits simply could not be suffered to continue. For the good of humanity, the survival of the very species, someone had to stop them. Thank God we were available.
We pulled in to the rear parking lot of our quarry's very den: a fortified complex decorated in neon signs, loud, tribal "Club" music, and drinking establishment in three distinct varieties: The Owl's Nest, Hooters, and The Library. All similarly themed, these dens provided a warm bosom and kind succor to the creatures we hunted this night.
We gave Billy explicit instructions to wait until our black-clad asses disappeared over the lip of the roof before making his way to the corner opposite this vile and haunted place and training his electronic eye on the sidewalk below us. Scaling the piping and girderwork was frustrating but quickly and quietly achieved... after all, we are professionals.
The rooftop was damp, dark and quiet as we unslung our small tactical packs and removed our weapons and ammunition. Scott promptly ate one of the rounds.
"God dammit!" I swore under my breath. "The plan, man! The... oh, fuck it." I ate a round.
Scott peered through a pair of tiny Bushnell binoculars. "Okay," he whispered. "He's there... camera is... out -- and we have a green light, I repeat, a green light!"
With that, we each loaded a Donette into our slingshots, leaned over the lip of the roof, and ZAAAANNNGGG!!! a pair of Donettes flew, mine down the far-too-low-cut shirt of a blonde, who promptly screeched and flailed at nothing, Scott's hitting a kid dressed like a raver directly in the right ass-cheek, causing a similar panic. And then, BAM! before we'd been seen, we were back in the safety of the shadows.
"Hey!" somebody yelled. Oh, shit! adrenaline blasted through my veins like a 220 volt current. "Hey! You with the camera!" They'd spotted Billy.
"Shit!" Scott hissed. "Billy needs help!"
"Cover fire!" I muttered, and before I could rethink, I had loaded a round and fired it off at the first running figure I saw. Damn! Over his right shoulder and into a light-pole -- SPLAT! Fire Two! Ha! Got him! Right between the shoulder blades! The kid spun, totally confused. Oops! Scott's Donette caught him dead in the chest, turning into a gooey star pattern. Damn -- now he'd seen us... at least, sort of.
The mission was totally fucked now... I grabbed a handful of Donettes and let fly, not even bothering to load them into the Super-X. Scott and I were laughing like madmen, pelting donut holes down into the street. I could see now that Billy had made good his exeunt and was probably hauling ass for the van. Great minds think alike.
Fortunately, the rear of the building is a little difficult to access from the rear, at least to the uninitiated. We jumped from the pipework from halfway up, bypassing the chain-link fence it had taken us a minute each to scale on the way in. I landed hard, rolled out and came up in a half-run, half-stagger for the van's cargo door. Scott was right behind me. Billy, the god damn little genius, had actually been ready for us, and actually had the forethought not to gun the accelerator. We pulled out nice and smooth, and left Mill Avenue behind for the night, having made an impression that, fortunately, did not last long. But we'll treasure the memories -- and the video footage -- for years to come.
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Raoul Duke, Jr.
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Cap'n Hector
- Padawan Learner
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- Joined: 2003-02-16 04:07am
- Location: Dark Side of the Sun
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I think it rocked. And I think I went there once when I lived in AZ. A narrow escape from a harrowing expierence...Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote:Hmm... maybe I shouldn't have chronicled that one. That was a bit of a Loki-esque episode, wasn't it?
Cap'n Hector
Q: How do you play religious roulette?
A: You stand around in a circle and blaspheme and see who gets struck by lightning first.
F u cn rd ths u cnt spl wrth a dm!
Support bacteria: The only culture some people have!
Gonna Be a Southern Baptist. Music to piss off the fundies.
Q: How do you play religious roulette?
A: You stand around in a circle and blaspheme and see who gets struck by lightning first.
F u cn rd ths u cnt spl wrth a dm!
Support bacteria: The only culture some people have!
Gonna Be a Southern Baptist. Music to piss off the fundies.
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Raoul Duke, Jr.
- BANNED
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- Joined: 2002-09-25 06:59pm
- Location: Suckling At The Teat Of Missmanners
CALL FOR ASSISTANCE -- ALL MEMBERS PLEASE REPLY
We're taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming, kids. The KNOT gig fell through -- no listeners, no interest. That's how it goes, I guess. I also briefly flirted with a local magazine, 944, who initially expressed interest and then cried off, saying the pieces weren't right for their publication. To be fair, I can see their point -- 944 is centered around the club scene, and these pieces aren't exactly the sort of thing a frat boy/serority girl would read and still feel good about their lifestyles. The language, too, is not precisely G-Rated -- or even PG-13.
Here's where you come in: I'm looking for someone to promote the hell out of these pieces to the right people, and/or set up online publication for them. I think they're damn good, if I do say so myself, and (writers are usually forbidden to confess this) I'd like to see them in publication (and get paid for them, in any amount) at some point.
Any assistance at all will be appreciated. Going the full monty will get you a place on the dedication page, and a lifetime of gratitude as well.
We're taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming, kids. The KNOT gig fell through -- no listeners, no interest. That's how it goes, I guess. I also briefly flirted with a local magazine, 944, who initially expressed interest and then cried off, saying the pieces weren't right for their publication. To be fair, I can see their point -- 944 is centered around the club scene, and these pieces aren't exactly the sort of thing a frat boy/serority girl would read and still feel good about their lifestyles. The language, too, is not precisely G-Rated -- or even PG-13.
Here's where you come in: I'm looking for someone to promote the hell out of these pieces to the right people, and/or set up online publication for them. I think they're damn good, if I do say so myself, and (writers are usually forbidden to confess this) I'd like to see them in publication (and get paid for them, in any amount) at some point.
Any assistance at all will be appreciated. Going the full monty will get you a place on the dedication page, and a lifetime of gratitude as well.
-
Raoul Duke, Jr.
- BANNED
- Posts: 3791
- Joined: 2002-09-25 06:59pm
- Location: Suckling At The Teat Of Missmanners
CALL FOR ASSISTANCE -- ALL MEMBERS PLEASE REPLY
We're taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming, kids. The KNOT gig fell through -- no listeners, no interest. That's how it goes, I guess. I also briefly flirted with a local magazine, 944, who initially expressed interest and then cried off, saying the pieces weren't right for their publication. To be fair, I can see their point -- 944 is centered around the club scene, and these pieces aren't exactly the sort of thing a frat boy/serority girl would read and still feel good about their lifestyles. The language, too, is not precisely G-Rated -- or even PG-13.
Here's where you come in: I'm looking for someone to promote the hell out of these pieces to the right people, and/or set up online publication for them. I think they're damn good, if I do say so myself, and (writers are usually forbidden to confess this) I'd like to see them in publication (and get paid for them, in any amount) at some point.
Any assistance at all will be appreciated. Going the full monty will get you a place on the dedication page, and a lifetime of gratitude as well.
We're taking a break from our regularly scheduled programming, kids. The KNOT gig fell through -- no listeners, no interest. That's how it goes, I guess. I also briefly flirted with a local magazine, 944, who initially expressed interest and then cried off, saying the pieces weren't right for their publication. To be fair, I can see their point -- 944 is centered around the club scene, and these pieces aren't exactly the sort of thing a frat boy/serority girl would read and still feel good about their lifestyles. The language, too, is not precisely G-Rated -- or even PG-13.
Here's where you come in: I'm looking for someone to promote the hell out of these pieces to the right people, and/or set up online publication for them. I think they're damn good, if I do say so myself, and (writers are usually forbidden to confess this) I'd like to see them in publication (and get paid for them, in any amount) at some point.
Any assistance at all will be appreciated. Going the full monty will get you a place on the dedication page, and a lifetime of gratitude as well.
-
Raoul Duke, Jr.
- BANNED
- Posts: 3791
- Joined: 2002-09-25 06:59pm
- Location: Suckling At The Teat Of Missmanners
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Cap'n Hector
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 221
- Joined: 2003-02-16 04:07am
- Location: Dark Side of the Sun
- Contact:
I'd be happy to host everything for you...I think I can do some promotional stuff also. Got a press release?Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote:This really is very important to me, guys and gals. If you've liked the stories so far, help me keep them coming.
If you need it, I can design a site for you, and I've got a friend who does excellent graphics if you need 'em.
Cap'n Hector
Q: How do you play religious roulette?
A: You stand around in a circle and blaspheme and see who gets struck by lightning first.
F u cn rd ths u cnt spl wrth a dm!
Support bacteria: The only culture some people have!
Gonna Be a Southern Baptist. Music to piss off the fundies.
Q: How do you play religious roulette?
A: You stand around in a circle and blaspheme and see who gets struck by lightning first.
F u cn rd ths u cnt spl wrth a dm!
Support bacteria: The only culture some people have!
Gonna Be a Southern Baptist. Music to piss off the fundies.
-
Cap'n Hector
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 221
- Joined: 2003-02-16 04:07am
- Location: Dark Side of the Sun
- Contact:
Oh, a better example of my design (but not writing ability) than my main home page, is at http://caphector.no-ip.info/design/
Cap'n Hector
Q: How do you play religious roulette?
A: You stand around in a circle and blaspheme and see who gets struck by lightning first.
F u cn rd ths u cnt spl wrth a dm!
Support bacteria: The only culture some people have!
Gonna Be a Southern Baptist. Music to piss off the fundies.
Q: How do you play religious roulette?
A: You stand around in a circle and blaspheme and see who gets struck by lightning first.
F u cn rd ths u cnt spl wrth a dm!
Support bacteria: The only culture some people have!
Gonna Be a Southern Baptist. Music to piss off the fundies.
-
Frank Hipper
- Overfiend of the Superego
- Posts: 12882
- Joined: 2002-10-17 08:48am
- Location: Hamilton, Ohio?
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Raoul Duke, Jr.
- BANNED
- Posts: 3791
- Joined: 2002-09-25 06:59pm
- Location: Suckling At The Teat Of Missmanners
That sounds good; let's work out some kind of subscription/donation type deal; I have a PayPal account. In exchange for hosting, you'll get a cut of whatever is pulled in.Cap'n Hector wrote:I'd be happy to host everything for you...I think I can do some promotional stuff also. Got a press release?Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote:This really is very important to me, guys and gals. If you've liked the stories so far, help me keep them coming.
If you need it, I can design a site for you, and I've got a friend who does excellent graphics if you need 'em.
Of course, as always, all of you here at SDN get it first, and free. (Besides, these are written primarily for you guys, anyway -- and I couldn't ask for a better test audience.
)-
Raoul Duke, Jr.
- BANNED
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- Joined: 2002-09-25 06:59pm
- Location: Suckling At The Teat Of Missmanners
For any of you who want to host on this basis, my PayPal account is:
evilhst@hotmail.com
Not sure how this thing is supposed to work; anyone have any pointers?
evilhst@hotmail.com
Not sure how this thing is supposed to work; anyone have any pointers?
Um... Link doesn't work...Cap'n Hector wrote:Oh, a better example of my design (but not writing ability) than my main home page, is at http://caphector.no-ip.info/design/
"preemptive killing of cops might not be such a bad idea from a personal saftey[sic] standpoint..." --Keevan Colton
"There's a word for bias you can't see: Yours." -- William Saletan
"There's a word for bias you can't see: Yours." -- William Saletan
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Cap'n Hector
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 221
- Joined: 2003-02-16 04:07am
- Location: Dark Side of the Sun
- Contact:
Fixed.Beowulf wrote:Um... Link doesn't work...
Cap'n Hector
Q: How do you play religious roulette?
A: You stand around in a circle and blaspheme and see who gets struck by lightning first.
F u cn rd ths u cnt spl wrth a dm!
Support bacteria: The only culture some people have!
Gonna Be a Southern Baptist. Music to piss off the fundies.
Q: How do you play religious roulette?
A: You stand around in a circle and blaspheme and see who gets struck by lightning first.
F u cn rd ths u cnt spl wrth a dm!
Support bacteria: The only culture some people have!
Gonna Be a Southern Baptist. Music to piss off the fundies.
-
Raoul Duke, Jr.
- BANNED
- Posts: 3791
- Joined: 2002-09-25 06:59pm
- Location: Suckling At The Teat Of Missmanners
Midnight In The Garden Of Loud And Stupid
Football games... New Year's Eve... Mardi Gras... Anti-War rallies. It warms my heart of stone to witness people of every social stratum coming together behind a cause, and what better cause to rally together for than the mass exhibition of human stupidity?
I approached the corner of Mill Avenue and University Drive, my picket in hand. The party was already in full swing; the ordinarily spacious corner packed with assorted yowlers...
"Drop Bush, not bombs! Drop Bush, not bombs!"
"USA! Go away! USA! Go away!" I knew I would be talking to these people soon enough.
"One! Two! Three! Four! We don't want your oil war! Five! Six! Seven! Eight -- " I couldn't make out the last part of these clowns' little jingle, but it sounded like -- "Let's go home and masturbate!"
It was comforting to see that both viewpoints were being represented; as I passed a small cluster of gothic-looking people -- who giggled nervously and thrust dollor bills at me as they read my sign -- I heard:
"Fuck Osama! Fuck Saddam! While you're at it, fuck your mom!" I couldn't help but find that one sort of catchy. It had good rhythm. I found myself snapping my fingers and humming along, while my picket bobbed along through the crowd like the fin of a great white shark. Indeed -- I was hunting Stupid, and these grounds were teeming with prey.
I made my way back toward the USA Go Away people, who were now howling:
"Class war! Class war! Class war! Class war!" Well, color me shocked. I approached one of them, a shaggy kid in a CPUSA t-shirt. "Hey!" I shouted over the din. "Hey!
He glared at me from behind a jungle of hair. "What?!"
"I'm a little confused here!" I shouted. "Are you against war or for it?"
He stared at me as if a penis were dangling from my forehead. "Ehhhh..." he pondered. "Ehhmmmm... we're against the US going to war... ehhhhmmm... but we're for a class war!" he turned to his cronies. "Right?!"
"Yeeaaahhh!" the asylum screeched, and carried on with their mantra.
"But wait a minute!" I roared in his ear. He flinched and glared balefully at me. "Let's say there is a class war! Let's say you even win! What happens if you don't like how things turn out?!"
He thrust out his lower lip in a patented Hollywood Starlet pout. "Well, we'll protes... uh... we'll..."
Just then, a bespectacled girl with what appeared to be a tea-cozy on her head yanked him away, screaming, [/i]"You wouldn't understand! You're a privileged white male!"[/i]
An evil grin lit my face, and I'm sure the shudder I saw pass through her as soon as she saw the look on my face had nothing to do with the brink wind... Yes, do have some rope, little girl. That's right, now up on the box with you...
I leaned toward her dangerously -- she and her shaggy friend cringed away as I inquired with a solicitous glint in my eye, "So tell me, dear child -- are you a racist, or are you a sexist? Or is it both?" Her face crumpled, her shoulders sagged, and she slunk off into the crowd with her disoriented, shaggy pet.
I turned, and saw that another young man in an Anarchist Party t-shirt was making his way through the crowd with three large pizzas. I always appreciate thoughtful people; I waded toward him through the crowd.
Pizza Boy nudged his way along, offering pizza to those he passed -- but as I got closer, I heard him asking each person he came to whether they were for or against the war. Those who were against were rewarded with their choice of pepperoni, cheese or Canadian Bacon. Those who were for were rewarded with a single-digit salute. Naughty, naughty.
I hoisted my sign, taking proffered $1's and $5's from cheering supporters as I went. I followed Pizza Boy at a safe distance, not wanting him to spot my sign and be alerted to my presence and motives too soon... and then Opportunity knocked.
He turned his ire on a young man in military fatigues -- and he was the sort, apparently, to engage in Dramatic Gesturing as a debate tactic. I shouldered my sign, and like lightning, I struck. Now it was time to play Marie Antoinette (although, to be honest, I really haven't the gams for it.) Let them eat Pizza!
So far I'd made $22.75, but finally a police officer in riot gear spotted my sign. He motioned at me, Get over here. Ah, well -- the fun couldn't last forever. I put my sign -- WHY LIE? I NEED A BEER!!! to half-mast and trudged over to him.
"Look officer,""[/b] I bellowed, "I guess it's not cool for me to fly this, so I'm real sorry and I'll get rid of it!"
"The HELL you will!" he roared back, laughing. "As far as I'm concerned, you're performing a valuable service here! I just wanted to see how much you've scalped off these morons!
It turned out that the police needn't have worn riot gear at all -- the closest thing to violence seen last night was a burst of flatulence that cleared the patio of P.F. Chang's, a nearby restaurant.
For my part, I successfully acquired $25, the phone numbers of two attractive young women and a crowd of people cheering:
"What do we want?!"
"BEER!!!"
"When do we want it?!"
"NOW!!!
Football games... New Year's Eve... Mardi Gras... Anti-War rallies. It warms my heart of stone to witness people of every social stratum coming together behind a cause, and what better cause to rally together for than the mass exhibition of human stupidity?
I approached the corner of Mill Avenue and University Drive, my picket in hand. The party was already in full swing; the ordinarily spacious corner packed with assorted yowlers...
"Drop Bush, not bombs! Drop Bush, not bombs!"
"USA! Go away! USA! Go away!" I knew I would be talking to these people soon enough.
"One! Two! Three! Four! We don't want your oil war! Five! Six! Seven! Eight -- " I couldn't make out the last part of these clowns' little jingle, but it sounded like -- "Let's go home and masturbate!"
It was comforting to see that both viewpoints were being represented; as I passed a small cluster of gothic-looking people -- who giggled nervously and thrust dollor bills at me as they read my sign -- I heard:
"Fuck Osama! Fuck Saddam! While you're at it, fuck your mom!" I couldn't help but find that one sort of catchy. It had good rhythm. I found myself snapping my fingers and humming along, while my picket bobbed along through the crowd like the fin of a great white shark. Indeed -- I was hunting Stupid, and these grounds were teeming with prey.
I made my way back toward the USA Go Away people, who were now howling:
"Class war! Class war! Class war! Class war!" Well, color me shocked. I approached one of them, a shaggy kid in a CPUSA t-shirt. "Hey!" I shouted over the din. "Hey!
He glared at me from behind a jungle of hair. "What?!"
"I'm a little confused here!" I shouted. "Are you against war or for it?"
He stared at me as if a penis were dangling from my forehead. "Ehhhh..." he pondered. "Ehhmmmm... we're against the US going to war... ehhhhmmm... but we're for a class war!" he turned to his cronies. "Right?!"
"Yeeaaahhh!" the asylum screeched, and carried on with their mantra.
"But wait a minute!" I roared in his ear. He flinched and glared balefully at me. "Let's say there is a class war! Let's say you even win! What happens if you don't like how things turn out?!"
He thrust out his lower lip in a patented Hollywood Starlet pout. "Well, we'll protes... uh... we'll..."
Just then, a bespectacled girl with what appeared to be a tea-cozy on her head yanked him away, screaming, [/i]"You wouldn't understand! You're a privileged white male!"[/i]
An evil grin lit my face, and I'm sure the shudder I saw pass through her as soon as she saw the look on my face had nothing to do with the brink wind... Yes, do have some rope, little girl. That's right, now up on the box with you...
I leaned toward her dangerously -- she and her shaggy friend cringed away as I inquired with a solicitous glint in my eye, "So tell me, dear child -- are you a racist, or are you a sexist? Or is it both?" Her face crumpled, her shoulders sagged, and she slunk off into the crowd with her disoriented, shaggy pet.
I turned, and saw that another young man in an Anarchist Party t-shirt was making his way through the crowd with three large pizzas. I always appreciate thoughtful people; I waded toward him through the crowd.
Pizza Boy nudged his way along, offering pizza to those he passed -- but as I got closer, I heard him asking each person he came to whether they were for or against the war. Those who were against were rewarded with their choice of pepperoni, cheese or Canadian Bacon. Those who were for were rewarded with a single-digit salute. Naughty, naughty.
I hoisted my sign, taking proffered $1's and $5's from cheering supporters as I went. I followed Pizza Boy at a safe distance, not wanting him to spot my sign and be alerted to my presence and motives too soon... and then Opportunity knocked.
He turned his ire on a young man in military fatigues -- and he was the sort, apparently, to engage in Dramatic Gesturing as a debate tactic. I shouldered my sign, and like lightning, I struck. Now it was time to play Marie Antoinette (although, to be honest, I really haven't the gams for it.) Let them eat Pizza!
So far I'd made $22.75, but finally a police officer in riot gear spotted my sign. He motioned at me, Get over here. Ah, well -- the fun couldn't last forever. I put my sign -- WHY LIE? I NEED A BEER!!! to half-mast and trudged over to him.
"Look officer,""[/b] I bellowed, "I guess it's not cool for me to fly this, so I'm real sorry and I'll get rid of it!"
"The HELL you will!" he roared back, laughing. "As far as I'm concerned, you're performing a valuable service here! I just wanted to see how much you've scalped off these morons!
It turned out that the police needn't have worn riot gear at all -- the closest thing to violence seen last night was a burst of flatulence that cleared the patio of P.F. Chang's, a nearby restaurant.
For my part, I successfully acquired $25, the phone numbers of two attractive young women and a crowd of people cheering:
"What do we want?!"
"BEER!!!"
"When do we want it?!"
"NOW!!!
