American Samizdat

Sunday, February 19, 2006. *
Do check out, Beneath the Valley of the Fever Swamps....

In a hermetically sealed bunker restroom, 10,000 feet below a cliff-face located 374.76 km north of Butte Montana in the newly annexed Albertalands, Big Time is standing in front of a gleaming urinal, fly wide open, waiting.....always waiting.

Enter the off-the-books, ultra-secret, internets-savvy, super-sweeper from the local NSA office, who stands beside his supreme Commander and - opens up.


The Sweeper: Commander, we've picked up a piece, purportedly from the Oakland Tribune, belittling the incident.

Big Time: So, f*@king what? A million bloody papers have written about that. Jesus H. Christ!

The Sweeper: Yes, but this time, they brought up the money, sir.

Big Time: Bastards! Who owns that piece of crap?

The Sweeper: Those people in Denver, the ones that made the deal with Gannett.

Big Time: Gannett? Aren't they the ones that raised all that 'inconsistency' garbage in their national ass-wipe organ last week?

The Sweeper has finished doing his own business and has zipped up. He does not move, however, because Big Time is still waiting.....

The Sweeper: Yes, sir.

Big Time: We will screw them; we will screw them and all the screwheads that ever worked for them! No more mergers for them and they will never get another story from the WHIG again. Never, ever!

The Sweeper: Well, we are trying to get a fix on one particularly shadowy figure that may have started all of this sir, but it has been extremely difficult to pin-down the individual involved. They seem to be operating outside of all the usual commercial and political boundaries.

Big Time tries flushing the urinal, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the sound of the splashing might start the flow. It does not.....

Big Time: Are you talking about one of those scumbagged two-bit, tin-plated wordsmiths that are hiding out in the deepest reaches of the fever swamps? The ones we haven't been able to reach out and crush yet?

The Sweeper: Yes sir. And there is one other problem, sir. It's an old one that we haven't been able to kill.

Big Time: An old one?

The Sweeper: Yes sir. And it has echos all the way back to the days when a former Tribune editor had the gall to bring in that Hillbilly from Louisville on......(and here The Sweeper's voice lowers to a whisper).....on......Iran/Contra.

Big Time groans. He can feel a deep tightening down there and he now knows that it will be hours before he can let go of his lunchtime sack of beers....

BigTime: You're talking about that a-hole Burgin, aren't you?

The Sweeper: It's worse than that, sir.

BigTime: How can it possibly be worse than that? We took care of all that. That scum-sucking cretin Thompson is dead, right?

The Sweeper has kept his eyes down the entire time but now his gaze nervously drifts from his own shoes towards the too-tight oxfords of the commander standing next to him. He can't help but notice the flecks of glistening spittle spattered all over the toes....

The Sweeper: Well, yes of course, sir. At least the flesh and blood is gone.

Big Time: What the hell are you talking about, you stupid, worthless techno-dope?

The Sweeper: Well, sir, we're starting to pick up.....uh......Doppler Echos.

Big Time: Doppler Echos? Christ almighty!

The Sweeper: Exactly, sir. The info waves have already started to compress and crest; our latest algorithms predict a trillion terabyte convergence that will hit the MSM in approximately 13.4 newscycles.

Big Time: Call our Network you fool! Get Roger to clear the godddamn decks. We'll go 36 hours, non-stop, with that pansy-boy Britt Ecklund immediately. We can even resurrect Morton The Downer Jr. and first abduct, then cgi in, that traitor Cronkite if we have to. We must cut this s&#t-hammer off at the knees.

The Sweeper (making strangled, gurgling noises in his throat before he finally blurts out): But it's not possible, sir.

Big Time: Not possible! Shut the hell up you stupid weasel!

Big Time begins to rhythmically pound both fists down on the top of the urinal. In an instant, the SS minders jump The Sweeper and smash his head against the wall. As he is led, bleeding, from the gleaming room, The Sweeper has one last thing to say....

The Sweeper: It can't be stopped sir. There is no focal point; it's coming from everywhere and the fever swamps are now expanding exponentially.

BigTime begins to hyperventilate. He is still pounding his fists on the urinal and his face is going purple as he starts to scream....

BigTime: Shut them down! Shut them all down!!!!!


........Fade To Black and Birdshot Blue......

posted by Uncle $cam at 9:19 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment





Site Meter



Creative Commons License