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Slight Re-Write of my Halloween Story

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Author Topic: Slight Re-Write of my Halloween Story  (Read 327 times)
Bad Penny
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« on: October 27, 2010, 03:43:39 am »

The Legend of the Haunted Port-o-Potty



Maj. Drinker stood downwind of the snack wagons at the county fair somewhere in Red State America, savoring the aromas of buttered roast corn-on-the cob and corndogs and pizza slices.  He felt like a stranger here, so near to where he’d been born and reared, as his experiences overseas in the service of the little-known United States Intelligence Gathering and History Fabricating Administration had led him to feel contempt towards the simple folk at the fair who seemed so ignorant of what had to be done, and who had to die, to keep them safe from the world outside their borders.  They seemed to him to take a certain pride in their gullibility, equating faith in their government with love of country.  It was only recently that Maj. Drinker himself had begun to read of the nation’s Founding Fathers, who framed the Constitution from the perspective of their distrust of government.  He was just beginning to understand that he was as estranged from the happy fairgoers as they themselves were from their own nation’s founders, but that he now lay at the opposite end of the moral and philosophical spectrum from those founders.  He saw the fairgoers as being neither good nor evil, but as taking encouragement from their preachers, who told them every week that they were better than those who didn’t attend their particular church.  Beyond that, even the most wide-eyed and innocent among them just stone-cold didn’t care, so long as the roast corn-on-the-cob and the corndogs and the pizza slices kept on coming.  Coming their way, that is.

The appetizing aromas nearly distracted his mind from returning to his early operational days in a little-known German village called Bacondoublecheeseburg.  His superiors there introduced him to a plan which appealed to his Skull-and-Bones schoolboy mind: Operation Bluebeam.  Operation Bluebeam was a plan to project enormous holographic images of culturally important figures (Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Glen Beck, whomever) into the night sky.  But the young Lt. Drinker felt he had a better idea: seeing as society was fracturing away from mass cultural experiences to individual microcultural envelopment, in that such public events as vaudeville and cinema gave way to television in the home, which provided a means by which people who lived together needn’t look at one another, even as television, in turn, would give way to Walkmen which allowed one to listen to his or her own psychologically pre-assigned music while ignoring the world around him or her.  The future Maj. Drinker had the idea that the logical extension of this was that Project Bluebeam should reach its victims individually and intimately and in an isolating, rather than a social, environment, and what setting could best meet this criteria than....

Maj. Drinker abandoned his reverie as the woman who occupied the summit of society in this tiny village, Mrs. FitzWhatsitt, approached the experimental device.  Said Mrs. FitzWhatsitt: “Oh, how horrid the thought that I should have to regain my comfort in so filthy and proletarian a contraption.  Nevertheless, regain my comfort I must.  Oh, pity me!”  THe noble Mrs. FitzWhatsitt stepped, disgustedly, towards the Port-o-Potty.

Maj. Drinker grinned, more mischievously than sadistically, at the though of the experiment now immanent.

Flicking the switch to power-up the holographic projection device, and adding the code for Mrs. FitzWhatsitt’s personal data, he heard her shrieking:  “Oh, no!  I’m being haunted by the ghosts of my shattered credit score!  Marshall Field, Carson Pirie Scott, HELP ME!  MY CHARGE PLATES ARE HAUNTING ME!”

She ran from the Port-O-Potty sobbing, yet she managed to say: “Such a fright positively aided me in the completion of my bodily functions in that smelly thing, as it  truly SCARED THE CRAP OUT OF ME!  I shall never patronize this foul fair again!”  She walked away in a huff.

The disturbance caused interest in the Port-O-Potty to spread through the crowd.  One man entered, only to leave shouting: “My late Uncle Elmer told  me Jesus wants me to vote Republican!”  Another emerged shouting: “No, the ghost of John Lennon told me that Jesus wants us all to vote Democratic!”  The relatives of the two men squared off against one another, until the joyful events of the fair gave way to a brawl loud enough to drown out the tinny recorded calliope music emanating from the fairground proper.

Maj. Drinker grinned bitterly at the sight, and reached into his hip pocket for his elixir.
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Are you taking over?
Or are you taking orders?
I ain't going backwards!
We're going only forwards!

The Clash, White Riot

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