The screenplay is complete and I am in the process of turning it into a novel.
Some FBI schmuck was staring at an NSA babe and thinking of a sexually deviant congressman he’d arrested six years earlier. The NSA babe was talking to another FBI schmuck, who was probably thinking of sexual deviance that had nothing to do with a congressman. “So, why did the Muslim terrorists burn 350 lawyers to death,” the girl asked the other FBI schmuck.
The congressman was yet another one of those upstanding middle class Americans who campaigned, vociferously and perpetually, for ‘family values’ – whatever the fuck that means these days – while secretly pondering how much elasticity there was in the Ten Commandments and all those Sunday morning sermons he’d managed to sit through since his childhood.
The FBI schmuck hadn’t been tipped off to the congressman’s perversions. The congressman was not under investigation when he got caught, literally, with his pants down at a high school football game. The congressman had simply lost his mind for a moment. He wasn’t even drunk. And he’d probably have gone on to a long career in politics, if not for the fact that the FBI schmuck saw him, out of the corner of his eye, as he was pulling his pud while staring out onto the field from a dark corner of the stadium on a Friday night.
The FBI schmuck didn’t even know the congressman was a congressman when he snuck up behind him and slapped the cuffs on him. The congressman had been pulling it hard for a couple minutes. He’d rounded third and was heading home when the FBI schmuck had grabbed him by the back of the neck (no, I am not guilty of mixing my metaphors because the football story is a true story and the baseball analogy is a metaphor, dumbass).
The congressman spilled his seed the second the FBI schmuck collared him. He was tugging with his right hand and splooged on his left hand. The FBI schmuck was unaware that the congressman’s left hand was covered in a prodigious amount of man chowder until their left hands made contact, as the cop reached around to pull the pervert’s hand behind his back. Once the cuffs were locked, the FBI schmuck examined his hand and HOLY FUCK was hedisgusted. So disgusted that he kicked the cuffed congressman to the ground and started laying the boots to the pervert.
When the congressman pitifully cried out, “Stop! I am a United States congressman,” the cop was stunned. The copper ceased the assault and laughed. Then he found the pervert’s wallet. He pulled out the driver’s license and called his station. Sure as hell, the creep was a congressman.
When the congressman went to trial, he swore up and down on a stack of bibles that he was staring at the cheerleaders, a single specific cheerleader, in fact, not the football players, when he was, for a horrible moment, “caught in a trap laid by Satan himself.”
It was, in the judge’s mind, vitally important that he be absolutely sure on this point. For, if the congressman was, in fact, fantasizing about having his way with one of the football players, he was going to do some serious time.
If, on the other hand, he had been bewitched by one of the ‘rah rah sis boom bah, I know you wanna fuck me, oolala!’ teasing, tarty teens, he would cut the poor fool some slack. ‘I’ll give him a couple years,’ thought the judge, staring at the congressman’s buxom cougar of a wife and thinking impure thoughts. ‘Perhaps wifey over there will show some gratitude.’
In order to believe the congressman’s charges of witchery, the judge ordered the girl in question to make an appearance in court. The girl, all of fifteen, could have been traumatized by the attention, but she was not that kind of girl. She lived for the attention and she got more than any other girl in town, by a country mile. The second the FBI schmuck saw the girl in court he felt bad for the congressman. She was a dead-on strumpet. None of that girl next door bullshit. The fucking harlot showed up wearing a Hello Kitty tube top, a micro mini and a pair of thigh-high fuck-me-hard fuck-me-now boots. In court! The fuckin’ whore!
The congressman got two years, less a day, the judge got the congressman’s wife, the tart got the front page of the paper three days in a row, and the FBI schmuck got on with his life.
And now, six years later, here was that bewitching babe, all grown up and standing ten feet in front of him, sipping a coffee and shooting the shit with some other FBI schmuck. He was pretty sure it was her. It had to be her.
“So, why did the Muslim terrorists burn 350 lawyers to death,” the girl asked the other FBI schmuck. The other FBI schmuck smiled and shrugged.
“Because Allah fucking Akbar, baby!” roared the girl. The two of them exploded in laughter and high fived.
Just then, Phil Head walked into the room. Head looked at the clock. Seven a.m. on the dot. Right on time. “Okay, everyone, shut the fuck up.” Everyone shut the fuck up. “The Mayor brings greetings from the President.” Mayor Jose Cuervo walked into the room, five feet behind Head.
The Mayor was a big, fat Mexican. Shut up. Don’t tell me I can’t say he was a big, fat Mexican, because he was a big, fat Mexican. A big, fat, jolly Mexican. Cuervo was a funny guy. Funny as in hahaha funny. He excelled at taking the piss out of himself (in case you don’t know, that’s how a Brit would say he had a habit of engaging in self-deprecating humour and was very good at it – if you don’t know what that means, Google it).
Cuervo weighed 270 pounds when he first became Mayor of New York City, two years earlier. Trailing his main opponent by as much as 27 points with a month left in the campaign, Cuervo gambled his whole political career on a joke. He convinced his friend, the head of the Bronx Zoo, to let him shoot a faux candid video with the elephants.
It was claimed that the video was shot by a pair of tourists from Japan. The couple just happened to stumble across Cuervo at the elephant enclosure, where, get this, the elephants were throwing peanuts to the fat Mexican. Cuervo was catching, shelling and eating the peanuts. And laughing! Jose Cuervo, a big, fat Mexican was laughing like a gas-huffing hippopotamus. It was a deep, booming, baritone, infectious laugh. His laughter set the Japs (oh, fuck you, I can so say Japs) giggling in a high pitch. Combined, the trio’s laughter proved to be more infectious than SARS
The female of Nipponese oriental persuasion (there, you happy?) asked Cuervo, “What you do?”
To which Cuervo replied, “What it look I do? I eating peanuts.” The Japs (yeah, yeah, fuck you, go back to reading Mother Jones, ‘cause you ain’t gonna dig the rest of this yearn) giggled and giggled. Cuervo snorted laughter and said, “I’m so fat that when I go to the zoo, the elephants feed me peanuts.”
The video went viral over night. Cuervo claimed that he had been so distraught about his political plight that he went to see, “the only fuckers in New York that are fatter than me,” to ask their advice. And when he started asking questions, the elephants felt his sadness and decided to cheer him up by feeding him their peanuts. It was, he said, a transcendental experience.
Even the New York Times, the New York fuckin; Times, my friends – a paper so stiff that it had never even printed the word fun in its august pages in its entire history – was so thoroughly charmed that it loosened up and dubbed him Elephant Man. The Post trumped that by declaring him Mayor Elephant Man.
Cuervo rode earthquakes of laughter and waves of awwww! all the way to the Mayor’s office.
Saying that it was important for him to be seen in the city’s eateries, Cuervo had put on another 50 pounds by the time he waddled into the room. He was a dead ringer for Ralph Steadman’s drawings of Hunter S Thompson’s 300 pound Samoan lawyer in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Yeah, the big, fat Mexican looked like a Samoan cartoon. Don’t all big, fat Mexicans look the same as big, fat Samoans? Well, they do to me.
The Mayor understood the gravity of the situation – more than 350 lawyers had been incinerated when some kind of evil genius arsonist had torched the New York State Bar Association Annual General Meeting the day before. This was supposed to be a dour, dead serious briefing. Gathered before him were the best available agents of the FBI, CIA, NSA, and NYPD.
Cuervo started well, “I’ve just returned from meeting the President at the Whitehouse. She has asked me to head up this joint task force.”
That meeting had not gone well. Although he had backed her bid for the Presidency, Cuervo did not like the Nation’s first female President. She was, to put it mildly, a humourless cunt. Cuervo once quipped, in an off-the-record drinking session with a couple journalists, that she was so wound up that she could crack walnuts with her sphincter.
The President had summoned the Mayor to the Whitehouse the minute she heard about the inferno. A lawyer herself, she wanted to ride the point on this one. The Mayor wanted to wear the white hat. He knew that some of her good friends had been roasted, and that made her the wrong person to round up a posse and start hunting. “Dirty Harry with tits,’ he thought to himself when he saw her.
In the end, Mayor Cuervo convinced the President to let him run this circus.
But no matter how he tried, the Mayor just couldn’t feel the pain. Like most everyone else, Cuervo hated lawyers. He even hated his mother, a lawyer, and you know how Mexicans are about their mothers… or, is that Italians. Well, you know, Italians, Mexicans, Samoans, what’s the difference?
So, as he stood before his task force, he couldn’t resist the temptation to crack wise.
“She’s asked me to congratulate those of you who lost your lawyers in the liar’s pyre, yesterday, and say better luck next time to those of you who did not.”
The room exploded with laughter. Cuervo knew how to play a room, although he need not have been The Amazing Kreskin to figure out that his audience didn’t have much liking for lawyers, either.
“Okay,” said Cuervo, “that’s the last dead lawyer joke I want to hear,” but, again, he couldn’t resist, “… unless you’ve got a really good one.”
The NSA babe didn’t hesitate for a second, “Why did the Muslim terrorists burn 350 lawyers to death?’ Cuervo knew he was gonna love the punchline. He already wished it were his joke. He smiled, shrugged and waited.
The FBI schmuck, who had busted the pervy congressman, had always been a shameless suck-up to authority figures. He saw an opportunity to curry favour with the Mayor and pounced before the NSA babe could spit out the punchline, “Because Allah fucking Akbar, baby!”
It worked. The Mayor howled with laughter, a s did the rest of the room. Only the NSA babe remained silent. She was pissed. The FBI schmuck instantly understood that he was not going to get so much as a whiff of the babe’s fuck-me-hard fuck-me-now boots. But he didn’t care because the Mayor, Mayor Jose Cuervo, had laughed at his joke.
“Okay, everyone settle down,” said the Mayor. “Seriously. That’s it for the dead lawyer jokes. The official death toll now stands at 358. Going up in flames is a horrible way to die… even for lawyers.
“It falls to you to find out who is responsible and to bring them to justice.
“Phil Head, here, will be overseeing the investigation and reporting directly to myself and the President.
“I’ll leave you all to get better acquainted and get to work.”
And that’s the last you’ll see of the FBI schmucks and the NSA babe. They are so unimportant to this story that they didn’t even get names. The vast majority of this chapter was a pointless exercise in page filling. The “because Allah fucking Akbar, baby,” joke came to me and I had to create something to put it in.
- I need to establish the farcical side of this story right from the start because, if some nut case actually goes out and starts killing lawyers, after reading this, or watching the movie, I’m not gonna do time for it.
- Back in 94, in Vancouver, I wrote a piece in Terminal City titled Booze Up and Riot. In the piece I encouraged readers to booze up and riot on the night the Canucks should have won the Stanley Cup. The Canucks lost, but the riot erupted anyway.
- The cops investigated me and the mag and contemplated laying charges against myself and the editor. Eventually, the cops decided not to attempt a prosecution against us. The police report stated:
“SALMI is known to the author as a person with extreme views, a high intellect but a non-violent and a bark worse than his bite… Very few intelligent readers take SALMI seriously. However, he writes with great conviction and in the language of the street to the extent that persons of street-level intellect might take him seriously.”
The report continues, “SALMI wrote this article with a tongue-in-cheek attitude perhaps with no intent to actually incite the riot. He may not have realized what the consequences of his actions might have been.”
Most importantly, it concludes, “given the ridiculous nature of the entire article,” it would be next to impossible to take it seriously enough to recommend charges be brought.
- In the screenplay version of this story, I immediately establish the all-important “ridiculous nature” of the entire work in the first scene, when Shakespeare comes out and shoots the lawyer
- That scene doesn’t work in a book, so I need to open with something that immediately establishes the all-important “ridiculous nature” of it all, and that’s why I’m leading with the “Allah Fucking Akbar, baby!” joke and a big, fat Mexican mayor of NYC, named Jose Cuervo, cracking wise after a terrorist attack
- No matter how serious this story gets, and all good socio-political satire must have a serious side to it, this is a joke, so fuck off if you think you’re going to make any criminal charges stick against me
- Most books are full of filler. I generally disdain filler but I’m playing around with the concept, hoping that I can at least make my filler somewhat entertaining, unlike the miles of meandering, meaningless mumbo-jumbo that many meandering, meaningless writers spew forth.
- You will see Mayor Jose Cuervo again, but not for a while. And you’re not going to like him nearly as much as you do now.
- Flip the page and you get to meet the female star of this story, Jane Baker. Jane looks exactly like Lady Gaga. Jane gets fucked in the next chapter, Jane gets fucked a fair bit I this book. Do you think she gets fucked in the ass? Do you want her to get fucked in the ass?
- If Lady Gaga doesn’t work for you, picture Jane as someone else. Gwen Stefani, maybe? Oh, fuck, what the fuck do I care? Make her look like you for all I give a fuck.
Jane was all of 12 years old when her mother muttered 15 words that stuck with her for the rest of her life. It was mom’s turn to host Martini Monday, the monthly meeting of The Coven of Bitter, Childless Post-menopausal Witches, of which she was an honourary member, and the old crones were in fine form. Jane’s mother was holding court, telling the ladies of her latest conquest, while Jane was serving canapés. “A good man is hard to find,” mom mumbled after quaffing a multitude of martinis, “but a hard man is good to find!” The coven cackled cacophonously and mom pointed a crooked finger at Jane and said, “Always remember that, Jane.”
Jane always remembered that.
Once again, her mother’s words echoed in Jane’s mind as she awoke on the morning after the Liar’s Pyre to discover that her still slumbering husband was endowed with glorious morning wood. As Jane espied hubby’s prodigious pole, a small whimper of excitement escaped her. “A hard man is good to find!” Jane thought, as she slid down the bed to behold the engorged serpent.
Jane flicked her tongue lightly across the serpent head. Hubby squirmed, just a bit, still not waking, as the snake first twitched, then throbbed. Delighted, Jane licked her lips and went to work.
Over the 14 years that had passed since the moment Jane’s mother had mumbled the magical words that changed the girl’s life forever, Jane had sucked a mile of cock. Six inches, four inches, eight inches, ten inches, tree-trunk fat, drumstick thin, helmet-heads and anteaters, Jane loved them all, despite what she thought of the guys attached to them.
In the process of her hands-on and mouth-open education, Jane had long ago tamed the troublesome gag reflex, so she had no trouble swallowing the throbbing serpent whole. Hubby snapped into a state of consciousness instantly. The only thing he could see was the top of Jane’s head. He was not displeased with the view.
Jane held him in her throat, breathing through her nose. He bucked instinctively, but she pinned his hips to the bed with her forearms and held him still for ten seconds before disgorging his manhood. Jane stared her prey straight in the eye and emitted a low, throaty growl before swallowing the serpent one more time.
Hubby grabbed her by the hair and fucked her face ferociously. Jane thrashed like a wild animal caught in a trap. Her body was out of control, arms flailing, legs spasming. Locked into a primal sexual frenzy, Jane’s mind was devoid of thought. She broke free from his hold, just as he was about to erupt, and hissed, “Fuck me!”
In less than a second his hands were back in her hair. He pulled her head with both his hands and slammed her on her back. Jane rose up on her shoulder blades, hips thrashing in the air, screaming, “Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Hubby thrust his nine inches into Jane’s quivering tunnel and fucked her like a Klingon. He pulled her hair, slapped her face and spat on her, “Take it, you fucking whore.”
“Fuck me!” Jane panted. “Fuck me harder, you fucking caveman. FUCK ME!”
And, just like that, it was over. Hubby shuddered for a moment, fell silent for another moment, and then, in the throes of post orgasmic revulsion, scowled “Look at you! You disgust me, you fucking pig.”
He rolled off of her and began to dress, hastily.
“Hey!” Jane protested.
“I’m a busy man, Jane. I don’t have time to wait around for your orgasm. I have to take a deposition in half an hour.
Jane fumed, silently, unfulfilled, as her husband departed.
- I have no idea if that works or not. It is the first time I’ve made any effort to write a sex scene. I don’t feel cheap and/or dirty! There’s a lot more sex to come in this tale, so I’ll have to work on it.
But there, my friends, is your female star. In the scriptm, this comes before the first meeting of the task force, which is, for the moment at least, CHAPTER 1 of the book
- While I was writing the screenplay, I attempted to watch AND JUSTICE FOR ALL, a 1979 flick starring Al Pacino. Pacino was nominated for the best actor Oscar, and the film was also short-listed for BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY. I liked it when it forst came out but I could not get throughthe first half hour when I tried to watch it again. Talk about PLODDING!
- There’s just no way I was going to “come out of th gates” as slowly as Jewison did in his film. The only thing I learned in journalism school that’s been of any value to me over the years is the necessity of a great lead. Hook ’em or lose ’em.
- So, sex and comedy in the first five minutes
- I want to clearly establish jane as a highly sexual creature right from the start. If not consciously, I want people to be craving more sex subconsciously and by throwing this scene in at the begining I want them thinkng that I have promised them more sex
- I also want to make it clear that Jane is married to a lawyer and it is not going as well as she might like.
Twenty-six year old Jane Baker, blond, beautiful, bright and extremely ambitious, sipped a coffee as she walked into the office of Pius Akecheta, a captain in NYPD’s homicide department. She threw her copy of the first edition of the New York Post on Akecheta’s desk and asked, “What the fuck do you make of this, chief?”
Akecheta, a Mohawk Indian from upstate New York, looked at the 120 point headline on the front page – LAWYERS BURN IN ‘HELL’ – and answered, “I’d say the Post’s headline writers have outdone themselves this time.”
Jane agreed, “Yeah, it’s a beauty. Al Queda?”
“If it was, they just went from zeroes to heroes in the eyes of a lot of Americans. They keep this up and they will quickly become exactly what this country needs.”
“What’s that, chief?”
“A legitimate third party.”
Jane chuckled. “You know the problem with Islam?”
Akecheta, an often-conflicted yet still marginally devout Catholic, scribbled NUKE MECCA on a scratch pad, chuckled and said, “No, but I know what the solution is.”
Akecheta put his pen down, looked up at Jane and said, “Never mind. What‘s the problem with Islam?”
“The Muslim world never underwent an Age of Enlightenment. Science and reason never beat fanaticism into the dark shadows of disrepute. Had that happened, Muslim fanatics would be far less dangerous. They’d be on a par with our Christian lunatics.”
“I don’t know, boss. Your people kept slaughtering an entire continent while you were getting enlightened, and you’ve kept right on subjugating and slaughtering indigenous peoples all around the world ever since.”
Jane, an agnostic, looked at the cross dangling from Akecheta’s neck, thought about bringing up The Crusades, but decided to give it a pass. “How’d they do it?” she said, pointing to the front page photo of charred corpses being removed from the site of the Liar’s Pyre, “Whoever theyare?”
“Your good Lord hates lawyers?”
“Why do you think he created Hell?”
“Well, leaving aside Al Queda, your good Lord, and an overzealous Shakespeare fan with his moon in Dante, what should we be looking for, here?”
“I’m not looking for Dick”
The Mohawk gave Jane a once-over. Tight skirt, plunging neckline on her top, two-inch heels. “Your attire says different.”
“I don’t have time for this. I have to be in court in an hour.”
“He prefers to be referred to as the smartist.”
“What about him?”
“Just a hunch. A wild guess. I know something you don’t. What do you know about him?”
“Not much. Enfant terrible of the art world. Pretty boy”
Akecheta pulled up Fiasco’s Wikipedia page on his computer. “Le grande enfant terrible. He created a video game called Kill God.” Akecheta noticed Jane’s smile but let it go. “The game starts with the Archangel Michael making an appearance in Hell to have a talk with his lost brother, Satan. Michael informs Satan that God has lost his nut. He is going to smite all Earthly disbelievers and create a thousand year Reich, during which anyone who so much as looks at him sideways gets burned to ashes.”
“Burned to ashes?” Jane said. “Really? Just like all those lawyers.”
“Correct. Just like all those lawyers. Anyway, Satan shakes his head in disbelief and summons Jesus, who, apparently, is a guest in Hell. Satan explains the situation and commands Jesus to go forth and Kill God. “
“Well, every boy wants to kill his father, at some point.”
Akecheta searched his mind and remembered that he did, indeed, want to kill his father, on a number of occasions. He pushed those memories aside and continued. “Jesus starts the battle at his birth and moves forward through time. Along the way he must smite those who have killed, or harmed, in his name, in order to get to the next level – the crusaders, the mobs at the Salem Witch Trials, pedophile priests. In his last battle before he gets to Heaven, to go mano a mano with his old man, Jesus must slaughter the Pope. Mercilessly. With extreme malice.”
“Let me guess; that heresy was a winner?”
“He’s still making a fortune from that one. At any given time you’ll find a million or so reprobates playing live, online, at killgod dot com.” Jane, who came from an entrepreneurial family, resisted the temptation to praise Pablo’s ambition and success, and Akecheta continued.
“He fronted an avant-garde, underground, surf-metal band called Something Wicked this way Comes. “
“Ray Bradbury,” said Jane, strutting her literary knowledge.
The cop was impressed, but not surprised. He had nothing but respect for Jane’s brains. The two of them had formed a mutual admiration society since they’d crossed paths, a year earlier. They’d gotten into the habit of impressing each other with their knowledge of literature. The Indian quickly quipped, “Bradbury got it from Shakespeare. Macbeth. Act four, scene one. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’”
Jane knew the line, and was disappointed that she’d never realized that Bradbury had stolen the name of his classic from The Bard. But the girl was not to be outdone by the cop. “And Bradbury got pissed at Michael Moore for Farenheit 911? That’s funny.”
Jane was well aware of Akecheta’s deep respect for Moore, so before he could start on yet another fawning of the man’s works she checked her watch and twirled her index finger. Akecheta took the queue.
“Like Henry Rollins before him, he got bored with rock ‘n’ roll and gave it up for something more edgy. Something with a little more intellectual gravitas, I believe, is the way he put it. He became Homopope.”
“Homopope?” Jane said, stealing a look at a pic of Pablo on the computer screen.”He’s gay?”
“No. He’s a fuck-shit-upper. Just loves to fuck shit up. Gay? I don’t think so.”
Akecheta raised an eyebrow but resisted the temptation to pull the thread. “Or… who knows? Maybe he is. But he pandered to the gay community. He went after the Catholic Church in a verydisrespectful manner.
“He would set up shop outside Catholic churches, on Sunday mornings, wearing a Papal mitre and bondage gear.”
Jane could not resist smiling. The often-conflicted Catholic ignored her grin, and continued, “He would taunt parishioners by quoting Jesus –‘ If anyone says, I love God, but hates the brothers or sisters, he is a liar…Whoever loves God must also love the brothers and sisters.’
“Later in the day, he would hold court at gay brunches, where he would take confessions and offer absolutions for all the sinful acts of debauchery that were committed the night before. He recorded all those filthy, lurid confessions and made them available to homopope.com subscribers. Made a fortune.”
Akecheta continued. “When Benny the 16th got called to the great gig in the sky, Homopope raised a queer army and marched on the Vatican.”
Jane said, “Yes. I remember that. Blood in the streets.”
“Close,” said Akecheta. “Ten thousand screaming fags parked themselves in St. Peter’s Square, and prayed for pink smoke. They chanted, ‘Pink smoke! Homopope! Pink smoke! Homopope!’
“Italian soccer hooligans didn’t care for that much. Nor did the mafia. Offended their mothers. The Italian army had to be called in to prevent a massacre. The Cardinals were forced to appeal for calm to prevent bloodshed. They also had to pick a new Pope double plus quick to put an end to what was, for the Catholic Church, a nightmarish circus.”
Jane had a lightbulb moment, “That stunt may have had a big effect. Maybe Pope Franky was thinking of Homopope whe he started to ask who is he to judge gays.”
When Akecheta said nothing, it occurred to Jane that he might be enough of a mindless follower to relinquish his right to freedom of thought, and surrender to the dictates of the Vatican. She was a bit disappointed.
Akecheta’s mind twitched in confusion. He did not hate gays, despite the fact that he had been taught to. But it was clear that the Church had no use for them. The Vatican had not softened its hardline against homosexuality, when other Christian churches had. Then, along came the new Latino Pope signaling a major change in direction. And here was this… this girl, suggesting thatHomopope may have influenced the Vatican’s thinking. The conflicted Catholic could neither add nor subtract, multiply nor divide. He could not do the math. He was well and truly tharned.
Akecheta snapped out his state of mental paralysis but was still unable to mount a comeback, and he was visibly annoyed.
Jane mistakenly assumed her friend was pissed at her. She’d had enough man shit for one day, thank you very much, and lacked the patience to deal with any more, so she delivered what she hoped would be a coup de grace, “You Catholics should concern yourselves far less with what transpires in the bedrooms of consenting adults, and far more with your pedophile priests.”
Akecheta had heard it before, of course, and he was ready with a response, “Did you ever stop to think that maybe Satan is behind all that business?
“If you were Satan, or even Satanic, would you not attempt to tempt the Lord’s messengers, in order to discredit the Lord?”
Jane rolled her eyes. “So, every child raping priest can get himself exonerated by saying the devil made him do it?”
“We will all be judged in a higher court.”
Jane shook her head. Her friend Pius was getting a little too Pious for the good of the discussion. “Okay, Fiasco’s a social deviant and a heretic. So what?” Jane twirled her finger.
“He’ll burn in Hell. He’s a vile degenerate, a filthy blasphemer,” said Pius, before conceding, “But a fuckin’ eh smart one.”
Jane twirled her index finger again. “Yes. The smartist. What else?”
“He started the whole mail order groom business, with groom with a broom dot com. He saw that women, in this advanced age of sexual liberation, were ready to start treating men, or boys, the same way they have been treated for eons. He understood that the ladies wanted a man who could cook, clean and fuck their lights out.”
Jane had heard of Groom with a Broom. She laughed, “And every cougar with a six figure salary, and/or bank balance, divorced her fat, old, impotent husband and bought herself a third-world groom with a broom?”
“All of whom have donkey dicks, no doubt!” Akecheta added.
“Nice! What’s he doing these days?”
“The world is waiting to see his next lurid collection of vile paintings.”
The feline’s finger twirled in the air.
“For the past decade and a half, he’s been painting scenes of Popes getting together to… ummm… sexually blaspheme Jesus.”
Jane was fully aware that the big Mohawk had legally changed his name to Pius Akecheta. Akecheta was the Mohawk name for Fighter. There had been 12 Popes named Pius. She understood that any person who had changed his name to embrace a dozen Popes would be sensitive about his namesakes. She proceeded with caution.
“Bukkake Baby Jesus. I’ve heard about this,” she said, matter of factly.
The Catholic noted her change of tone. He mentally acknowledged that she was backing off, and carried on. “Yeah. Even Damien Hirst was shocked and appalled.”
Jane did not show any indication that she knew the name Damien Hirst. Akecheta smugly chalked up a point for himself. “He puts a handful of Popes together in one painting. They’ve arrived at the nativity scene in a time machine. All of them are splooging on baby Jesus.”
Jane laughed out loud. The cop looked back at his computer screen, pretending he had not heard her, and carried on. “He hopes to get all 265 Popes into the paintings before he dies. His justification for this filth is that, according to him, the policies and practices of the Catholic Church are defiling the message and spirit of Christ.
“Well, he has an argument.”
“What the fuck would you know about it?”
“Settle down, chief. At least he’s ambitious.”
“Hell is filled with ambitious souls.”
Jane mentally acknowledged his contempt and bowed down to it. “Amen, brother. When is his next BBJ show scheduled?”
“No one knows. Probably not even him. I think he’s been sidetracked with his latest project.”
“The… talking thing?”
The cop lost a point or two of respect for Jane. He not so subtly mocked her, “ Right. The…talking thing. He realized that people who are practically living online really do want to meet, and have interesting conversations with, real live people. He’s giving them the opportunity.
“And they are availing themselves of the opportunity?”
“More than two hundred franchises opened up across the country in the first nine months, and he’s about to take the concept global.
Jane looked at her watch, twirled her finger. She was about to say something when her phone rang. “Okay, on my way.” She turned to Akecheta and said, “You still haven’t told me anything.”
“I don’t have anything. It’s just a hunch. And I don’t always tell you everything.”
“Why do you know so much about him?”
The cop looked at her and pondered whether or not he should answer the question, before doing so, “I’m on a mission.”
Jane opened her eyes wide. “From God?”
“I’m buying a stairway to heaven.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “You’ll be asked to be on the investigating task force. Pass on it. Tell them your caseload is already too daunting. But tell them that you can join later, when you’ve cleared some things off your plate. That way, they’ll keep you in the loop.”
“Already been asked. They’re meeting right now.”
“Why aren’t you there?”
“My caseload is already to… daunting. I’ll join them later, when I’ve cleared some things off my plate.”
Jane smiled. “Excellent! If you and I succeed, where all others fail, we’re heroes and one giant step closer to where we want to get.”
“Remind me, boss.”
“Listen, chief, I am gonna be mayor of this town, and you’re gonna be my Chief of Police. You serious about this hunch of yours?
“Okay, play it and see where it goes. But keep it between us, for now. No one is going to kill all the lawyers on my watch, chief. But don’t limit yourself to the smartist. You are not Inspector Javert, he is not Jean Valjean. And I wanna know what I don’t know when next we parlez, oui?”
- in the process of transforming my screenplay into a book, i’ve churned out 3000 words to cover the first two very short scenes. there are more than 50 scenes in the script. i fear this will turn into a meandering monster. if i can become as bored with my ramblings as others are bored by them, i may be able to keep this down to half the length of war and peace
- pablo fiasco was the name of a graffiti artist, in vancouver, in the 80s. i love the name and it is perfect for the star of this yarn. an explanation of how my star chose the name is forthcoming
- clearly, pablo is a fuck-shit-upper. and he’s very good at fucking shit up. the world needs more fuck-shit-uppers, and I am trying to create an iconic one to inspire others
- pablo has made a fortune, several fortunes, actually, from fucking shit up. i believe that several fortunes can be made by fucking shit up.
- i have, unsuccessfully, attempted to float homopope, jawjaw, something wicked this way comes, and killgod as business ventures. this may be my last attempt to make money from the concepts. others, with more business savvy than i, may well pick up on the ideas and run with them, if this work of mine ever gets popular