Passing Wind

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: marclevytoo

Tearing the house down.

The Unpaid Internet Content Provider was partaking from the lone keg at the Corralitos Brewing Company of an experimental Red Ale containing snippets of cardamom and crushed Fresno chilies, ingredients for which he had fiercely vouched in a drunken flourish aimed at the bemused brew master, when he clutched at his neck and nearly choked grossly from his nose. He appeared to have lost his decorum somewhere between throat and below the belt. He pointed impolitely at the wide flat screen on the outdoor wall, and sputtered, "Would you look at that?"

 

The glittery opening act, an apparition of a squiggly round mound of flesh the color and constancy of vanilla pudding stepped out from a cloud of smoke the color of a flaw in an aqua opal and stood his ground on a jiggly stage. He was wearing a rawhide gun belt with silver bullets, anthracite studs, and luminescent lifts in his shiny shoes, and he stood taller as he jiggled in a shadow of no doubt, though still not very tall. Reaching with gnarled, stubby fingers for a microphone that appeared to be dangling from the hologram of a noose, he tugged, but stumbled. He needed a better handle on his grip.

 

Undeterred, though, by snotty elite science, he tiptoed into the void with a great wealth of jellied depth, and intoned in a heavily modulated basso profundo, "My fellow citizens, prepare to assume the position and bow. The All White Broadcasting Company is proud as all darn heck to be broadcasting for the first time from our pristine beachfront studio in the spanking clean capital city of our reborn nation, Pass Christian, Mississippi."

 

In a stirring preamble before fulfilling his duty to hoist the President-for-Life of the Certifiable States of America closer to Heaven, his heady voice began to soar in denunciation of the undesirables still to be eliminated from the afterbirth of their immaculate nation. As it turned out there were a fuck of lot of undesirables deserving mention. He began to list many of them by name, address, telephone number, and last known whereabouts. The drum roll ran on and on like a galloping nag trailing the field. In conclusion, he reminded one and all they would repent now or be going to Hell soon.

 

Big, who was having none of a ruined beer with added cardamom, not even a pinch, and was sitting with two distinctive alternatives on the table in front of him, a murky Saison Noir and a lemony Blonde Ale, remarked with some sense of awe, "Does he know we can hear him?"

 

The state of the state studio had been smartly erected a full 14 feet above sea level to protect against the pesky rise of the Gulf of Mexico underfoot. The gently lapping waves served as reminders to remain well behaved in a polite autocracy. Thus the table was set.

 

The Unpaid Internet Content Provide was not 100% unimpressed. "Co-star is not a bad role for a blob to score in a pilot project with no guaranteed funding," he conceded.

 

"The audience gets the show it pays for."

 

"Those poor sore knees," Thomas Wu sighed.

 

Big, who was largely born and begotten as an Okie from Salinas, remarked, "My people."

 

"Watch your back, it's starting."

 

"It's crawling up my neck."

 

"It's up my ass it's crawling."

"Pin worms."

 

"What kind of creepy man does it take to come up with a creepy concept like hell?"

 

"So staid and unoriginal."

 

"He had a lot of help from many acolytes, sycophants, and soldiers."

 

"Co-starring Harry Houdini and Captain Hook."

 

"The Stephen King of his day."

 

"When they were not only illiterate but certain the Sun revolved around their bare ass sketchy selves."

 

"While sifting sand on the flat earth."

 

"And hefting swords."

 

"The heat in the desert burns unguarded heads and feet."

 

"It takes thick skin."

 

"None of them ever swam in the ocean."

 

"The best they could come up with was a mirage."

 

"Don't forget psychedelics grow wild in the desert."

 

On a living split screen, as ad revenue continued to be be tallied in a neutral corner, the obesely suave image of President-For-Life Ronaldo Rumpf came into focus from the center of a noose that did not resemble a vagina, and floated in a hazy sea of aqua and peach tinged pink before tying up at a dock that did not resemble a gallows. He straddled a crossroads that did not resemble a bulls-eye and sucked it up and in, and puckered to be immaculately born again. You had to be there. Elsewhere, hearts of viewers nationwide soared like multiple scud missiles seeking targets in a corn field. The crescendo of canned applause would have shattered his ear drums if real.

 

In the quasi-comfort of their own semi-detached homes, many responded by memory from recorded scriptures, "Amen."

 

Thomas Wu, who snipped and sewed skin for a living, and was highly qualified to detect smoke from fire, predicted, "Follow the ellipsis of bouncing balls."

 

President-for-Life Rumpf stood tall and as erect as a punchy kangaroo on a platform that did not resemble a three ring circus, ready to tee off square down the middle. It was no less than another magical moment no matter what. He was wearing a loose polyester ensemble over a cinched corset, neatly tucked in. His roving eyes peered into a distance for any ill wind that might be blowing as a lackey placed his ball on the tee. You can never be too sure about winds that blow. He took his stolid stance with a moist, rubbery grip on the stiff shaft of a driver, legs spread like a pair of stuffed flounders below his manly paunch, before whacking the tar out of that baby.

 

"Those colors are not complete without shag rugs, lava lamps, and Lucite furniture poured from molds."

 

"The haze is cover."

 

"For cracks."

 

Unaccountably, President-for- Life Rumpf hooked his virtual drive into the deep virtual woods where sleepy bears from bad dreams posed a threat. It was not supposed to happen like that. He was not a happy hooker. It had been a mistake on the part of lackeys soon to be unemployed to inform him prior to tee time that another pair of formerly core states, Wyoming and Idaho, had been seduced by the unfair subsidies offered by the enemy, and returned with tails tucked between butt cheeks back to the cheater USA. Wyoming, he presumed, is where the scary bears in his dreams lived.

 

"Turn it off and shut it up."

 

"I believe the aesthetic gene has gone missing from the confederacy."

 

"AWOL."

 

"Who's hiding out?"

 

"Who's kidding who here?"

 

"Who's not?

 

 

 


Submitted: November 18, 2020

© Copyright 2020 marclevytoo. All rights reserved.

Check out marclevytoo's Book


The Gene Puddle

See the boy run. See the ma keep running. See the dummkopf Drumpf keep bumbling from behind.

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