Where Are The monuments to Benedict Arnold?

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


The still sizable though shrinking majority of malcontent Americans, mostly loyal to traitors from the lost Confederate states, who mostly favor guns, knives, and obese sheriffs for advancement against real and imagined foes, and who know how to add a lot and subtract a bit, and fit a heavy load into over-sized pockets, and multiply a great deal, but not so much about dividing, or the need for fairness or accuracy in calculating shares in any of those divisions, continue to know best how to get theirs. In a cozy view that stays close to home, honor is reserved for the traitors, us, the losers, and scorn for the aggressors, them, the winners. Don't say as a bunch they are not smart. You might get shot. Some things do not change. In the zero sum game they play, it's easiest when you don't give a shit who, or how many, you stick it to.

 

Take a knee-capped and failed Mafia Don like Don DeDrumpf. That Johnny Come Lately don't give the biggest shit. He tried to stick it to all comers. Short rapid strokes work fastest to come quick. Especially on cranky coots and codgers who can't come. Every sap is a sucker in the making. They work it like a dull jackhammer cracks ice. Trying so hard to be hard behind closed doors, the dumbest want to come first the worst. Betrayals come easy.

 

The Unpaid Internet Content Provider said, "Nothing new there."

 

The Unpaid Internet Content Provider had been commenting on the behavior of three elegant imbibers of complex nectar from the phallic purple spikes that protrude with such unabashed lust from the beauteous Pride of Madeira each Spring. The traffic in which they merged was heavy on this typical afternoon. He knew it was typical because it kept repeating, repeating, repeating. Beauteous purple nectar is an excitable high, after all. Some of those sips were akin to slurp and sucking. Some of the trips taken were far out there. Who don't dig that?

 

Each representative of their species went about their business without hostile intent. No territory had to be marked by walls. No weapons were drawn. No performance anxiety arrived to despoil the scene. Cocky hummingbirds, of course, don't stop for red lights and are scared of nothing. Bees know what to do and don't stray or bend. The sweetie pie butterflies, though slow, and simple minded, hung in there from behind. Fragile life is short and shaky for butterflies. Their screams go unheard when they fall. If that's not it is what it is at work, what is?

 

He added, "That's not dumb if you ask me."

 

"Don't give me any of that differently abled stuff."

 

"Not me. That stuff is retarded."

 

"Get to the point if you have one."

 

"What makes you keep thinking there's only one?"

 

After a difficult few days in which he performed four prolonged nose jobs to make up for lost revenue at the unhealthy behemoth to which he was bound, none of which were necessary nor sufficient, a tummy tuck, a breast lift, a breast reduction, and a pair of ass lifts for a couple of non-binary newlyweds, while the sad sack with a basal carcinoma on his head who'd been chewing Pepto Bismol tablets in the waiting room puked on the hardly used carpet, and a burn victim preyed on the obsessiveness of his mind that insisted there was more to be done, always, Dr. Thomas Wu was in no mood. Though one of them by default, a winner despite the odds, he too knew it is easiest when you don't give a shit.

 

"There's no point," he snapped.

 

"Nothing new there."

 

Every predator needs prey. All prey need to survive. Every carnivore needs teeth. Sharp teeth are ruthless. Sharp teeth grab, grip, rip, saw, bite, tear, chew prey. It is not easy for prey to defend against teeth. Scales, shells, armor, quills, speed, and skills are desirable defenses, though not in every case. When all else fails, prey need to escape. Once is not enough. It is not always the strong who survive. Higher consciousness on the flat material plane, without elevation or depth to rely upon, though better than lower, goes only so far for so long. There are no second chances for the done and departed in the grasp of sharp teeth.

 

"So, what makes tonight different than any other night?"

 

"That's why we're here to find out."

 

"Let's go, then."

 

The ruthless carnivores who were happy and proud to replace wolves by any means necessary, are now being replaced by smarter, cannier wolves who are setting higher functioning traps. Is a promise of entitlement still a promise when it was a lie from first concoction? Robot making machines don't wanna hear it. The former favorites anointed by governments and religious warriors tweet, bleat, cry, and howl like sheared lambs at the inequity. Who are they to stick it to us like we stuck it to them for so long? Them, that's who they are. Guns come in handy against them. Us deserve to be first due to the pallid color of pampered skin called white, though it's not. A promise received by us to remain irreplaceable remains. It was written in an old language hard to understand that made no sense. Sanctimonious stories that get told and told and told starring superheroes who walk on water and feature lightning, plagues, sins, and thunder are proof, and still cool today. Who else but a godlike creature don't need no icky sex to fuck around? The color of these thin skins range from corny pink to buffed beige in the main. Thin skins are easily chafed and subject to chills. The eternally right answers can't be wrong. No big brains with facts get to spoil such a sure thing. Isn't that a question for armies and night riders to decide?

 

Or is it the robots making the machines making robots? What if it's true the robot database knows you better than you know your so-called self?

 

"Walk on water? What kind of superhero walks on water?"

 

"Old school."

 

"Pre-school."

 

"Can't leap tall buildings or catch a speeding bullet like that."

 

"They missed out on comic books to read."

 

"There's no reading in the dark."

 

"One of many sins."

 

"It's not healthy for closed eyes to read in the dark."

 

"Not just in the dark."

 

"Don't mess with my myopia. That's what I hear when my ear hits the ground."

 

"Bedtime stories help to keep illiterates asleep."

 

"Rubes are never not ripe for the plucking."

 

"Nothing new there."

 

What they were doing that was the same as it ever was, though it appeared on the edgy surface to be different, which it also was, was detecting. It looked a lot like meandering because it was that too. Perhaps they would run smack into the point where contradictions clash and illuminate circles square between the eyes. Not all treasure gets buried for good.

 

"I still don't get why they are following you."

 

"You never get out of these blues alive."

 

"But still."

 

"Whoever they are."

 

"You don't go anywhere."

 

"Remember, it's we."

 

"That's what I call dumb."

 

Followers need to be led to follow. The count begins with the first digit. Was it the custodial crew camouflaging tracks in the swamp who led? Was it the low rider giving the finger to the SUV packed with spoiled children squealing like sows? Was it the hybrid techno-yup who never encountered a sunset he was unwilling to despoil with a two stroke engine? He was proud to reperesent an indivisible prime number. Or one of his thug dogs who barked systematically like a primitive breed of beta robot? Though a mere hybrid the dweeb felt strongly as if he inhabited more than half a man. His thug dogs felt like more than half a man as well. Were they also afraid of wolves?

 

"Are you watching out for where you're going?"

 

"We."

 

Following was not the only or easiest way to get where you never expected to be but it was a sure thing. There were heights to scale and falls to take. Peeping Toms were hiding out in clusters to pounce. The road in any direction was not wide. They passed slabs of concrete getting poured, hot plastic formed by molds, sticks and stones breaking bones. The wind blew stiff from the ocean and petered out to become a breeze that followed meandering rivers and streams to settle atop evaporating lakes in the desert. The sky was puckered like a dry raisin awaiting a wet kiss. There were jobs that needed doing and harsh results relying on crooked numbers. Big words will never do when pinched between digits. An uncounted array of cracks in roofs needed a soulful patch. An upstanding roof gets nowhere without a solid foundation. Followers need to get to the bottom before giving it a fucking rest.

 

Or is it the man with the gun over there telling me I've got to beware?

 

"We."

 

 


Submitted: April 23, 2021

© Copyright 2021 marclevytoo. All rights reserved.

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