Chronicles of the Shade – Part III – Episode 6
Using his mystical powers of concentration, Lance once more became The Shade. It was no trouble at all to whisk his way past the bald-headed goon stationed at the Times-Two Building. He then faded against the wall as two black-shirted Times-Two employees marched past him.
Sure looks a lot like Mussolini’s Department of Education building before and during WWII, he thought, remembering that he had met the National Director of Education in Firenze when he had been a student and long before he had become The Shade. That man had then been a shoemaker, spared the fate of most of the Fascist gang, but never allowed to take part in politics again. He remembered speaking to the man, a cultured and educated person, who thought that all he was doing was putting John Dewey’s pragmatic theories into practice. He shook his head as he muttered, “Complete misunderstanding of Dewey.”
As The Shade entered the elevator he remembered what this former Fascist official had said to him, which was that all Mussolini wanted to do was to have the government and big business together rule the country. As Lance punched the button to the floor of the editorial offices, he thought that he was, as Yogi Berra famously said, experiencing dejà vu all over again. The modern Repugnican Party was a mirror image of Italian fascism, at least in theory. And Dullard Rumnose, with the aid of the Irish Mafioso Pauley O’Roarke, was primed to put this theory into practice in the United States.
Who would have thought that the Party of Lincoln could have devolved into the Party of Fascism in a scant thirty years. But devolve it did, starting with Roland Fagan, that turncoat Dem with the phony Bollywood smile, the guy who started breaking down the unions, starting with Air Traffic Controllers—making us all less safe to fly—and ending with Barnaby A. Liar, who took the country into two senseless wars, all for the profit of the oil companies and the enrichment of Ricardo Chancey, that snarling, robotic presence who still haunted the D.C. scene.
Arriving at the 14th floor, Lance slipped quietly into the inner sanctum of the most secret plotting room of the Nuevo Times-Two editorial offices. Two reporters sat facing one another at their computers, their pale faces illuminated by the computer screens. Over near a corner of the large room, his face buried in the latest issue of Mad Magazine was the Editor-in-Chief of the Times-Two newspaper, Roberto Tomassho. And behind the bullet-proof glass in the totally encased corner office sat the king of decadent journalism, the “dirty digger” himself, Rhubarb Morelock. Morelock was cutting out paper dolls with a pair of manicuring scissors, while whistling softly to himself.
As The Shade glided to the windowless wall of the office, standing in the shadow cast by a giant one the reporters lifted his gaze from the computer screen, cracked his knuckles loudly, and said to no one in particular, “What that piece by Leggy Goonan, huh?” The reporter, who styled himself as a former Gonzo journalist, had even adopted the soubriquet, “Gonzo,” even though he wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He was referring to a guest column written by the former Press Secretary for Barnaby Liar, she of the callipygian proportions, who had deigned to write a simplistic piece of propagandist drivel for the Times-Two
Editorial page.
The other reporter, a smallish, balding man with a two-day growth of beard, thick eye-glasses and a skin problem, pursed his lips, unsure of what to say. Then he said, “Well if she went to a journalism school, it wasn’t at the University of Missouri.” The reporter, one Percy Peck, was probably the best stylist on the Times-Two staff, but he was never given a prime column all to himself. Instead he had to patch up the prose of others, including that of the reporter who sat opposite him.
The Editor-in-Chief raised his head from the magazine he was reading and addressed the reporter called Gonzo. “Hey, Gonzo,” he said, picking bits of salad from his teeth with a long fingernail, “What’s the latest about Johnny Useless and the vote fraud campaign.” The person about whom Tomassho was speaking was the Attorney General of Yohio, who had decided to circumvent the State law by making people show ID when they went to vote, targeting only the young, the poor, and the black, whereas those wearing diamonds and pearls were welcomed with a bow and a flourish.
Gonzo grimaced. “I heard that what worked in 2010 ain’t going to fly as high this year,” he said.
“Why in the deuce not!” exclaimed Tomassho so loudly that Rhubarb Morelock jumped involuntarily and cut his finger on the manicuring scissors he was holding.
“What in blazes is going on out there!?” roared Morelock, as he put his bleeding pinky finger in his mouth, so it sounded like, “Wha ‘n brayzis gung ahn, ou dere!?”
Gonzo winced. He knew from experience that King Morelock didn’t like to be disturbed when he was meditating, even more so when he was suffering pain.
He also knew that Tomassho was going to throw him under the bus.
“It’s Gonzo, Chief,” said Tomassho on cue. “He’s decided at the last minute to spill some bad news.”
Gonzo thought quickly. “It’s Percy, Boss. He didn’t let me have all the facts in time for me to put them together for you.”
Percy Peck sighed. It’s the old chain of command, he thought. The chain gets pulled and what’s in the container gets dumped on the low man on the totem pole. By this time, Morelock had left his glass cubicle, still sucking on his finger, and Tomassho had risen from his chair, hands on his hips and staring at Percy Peck. Gonzo was back to staring at his computer screen.
The Shade, hidden from view, could hardly refrain from letting out a huge guffaw. What a bunch of eight balls, he thought. Typical business-style way of doing business. Oh, well, what can you expect from anyone who works in the editorial offices of the Nuevo Times-Two.
Percy Peck cleared his throat and stood up, a bit unsteadily, from his seat. He knew what was expected of him. He would give them the bad news and for that he would be forced to work overtime while his bosses enjoyed another round of golf at the Westchester Country Club. “Here’s the thing,” he said in a choked voice.
“Speak up, man,” said Morelock, after taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping his finger in it.
“Yes,” said Tomassho, “Speak up, man.”
Peck then quickly recounted the events that led up to plans of subverting the Yohio vote. Fearless Bob Fosdick had just filed a lawsuit in Federal Court to remove secret software on the SS&S electronic voting machines that wirelessly transmitted results of ballots cast—and 80% of Yohio machines contained this software. If Federal judges accepted the suit, then there would finally be a safety check on any chicanery involved with changing the vote totals, something that was strongly suspected in 2010.
Having heard this explanation, Rhubarb Morlock virtually turned the air blue with curses heard before only in the land of Oz, and those only in the seediest part of Sydney. When he finally settled down to a quivering mound of wrinkled meat, Morlock inhaled deeply and expelled the air slowly from his lungs, the way they teach you in exercise class. “That’s it for Faux News,” he whispered, slowly returning to his glass cubicle. “Fannity and von Sustenance predicted that Yohio would be solidly Repugnican, but now there’s no chance, no chance.”
Well, that’s it, said The Shade to himself. A Federal judge has blocked a giant voting fraud scheme. Everyone knew that the SS & S Machine Company was poised to “lose” hundreds of thousands of votes in “the cloud,” where they could be lost or chosen at will. No need to find out anything more, he mused, as he made his way to the door and out of the office, the Repugnican attempt to win Yohio has turned to ashes, and as Yohio goes, so goes the nation.
Lance took a taxi back to the Carlyle, where Lara was waiting up for him. “Well, Mr. Super Sleuth, did you find out anything that you couldn’t have learned by watching MSNBC?”
Lance smiled as he sat next to her on the setee. “You might say that I saw a most unusual display by the owner of the Times-Two and Faux News.”
“Tell me more,” said Lara, tucking her knees beneath her as she turned towards Lance, clasping her hands in her lap.
“Not much to tell, I’m afraid,” said Lance insouciantly. “The most interesting parts are not fit for your delicate ears.”
AFTERMATH
November Seventh began with a bright, blue sky in Nuevo York. Hurricane Sandi had devastated Lower Lamhatten and Statin Island. The Battlery was awash with dirty water and debris. In Nuevo Jersey, its inhabitants were stunned by the ferocity of the storm. Not since 1938 had a storm vanquished the North East and laid the compacted population stricken, without power, without clean water, and without hope.
Governor Chris Crusty of Nuevo Jersey had abruptly changed his tune. Faced with the wrath of Mother Nature, he embraced the efforts of Bam Orama to bring solace to the inhabitants of the land that had fashioned itself after the Jersey of Old England. But it was Jim Messiah who saved the day. He took over from Axelhead and Poofe and made sure that it would be a 50-state campaign.
The election was an anti-climax. Bam Orama swept through the nation, winning both the popular vote and the electoral vote. The lone disappointment was Norte Carolina, the only “swing state” that barely went to Rumnose. Everyone knew that this result was due to the gerrymandering that the Repugnican legislature had imposed on the Tarheelers. What was most disappointing was the fact that three stalwart women of Western Norte Carolina—Patty Cleaver, Jan Widden, and Suzi Wilcox–had been exposed to nasty Repugnican lies in the final week of the campaign. Another casualty had been Ram Rapper, of Ares Hill, who was clearly the better candidate, but who fell to one of the scumbags who received bags of money from the coffers of Cal Stove and his “American Dead End” SuperPac.
But Stove and the rest of the money men—the Cocks, the Adelbrains, the Papes—had spent their money in vain. Bam Orama, with the help of young people, Latinos, blacks, women, and others who were thoroughly pissed off with the antics of the Repugnican Party and its coalition of stupid white men, bankers, coupon cutters, and the congenitally misinformed, had given them a huge thumping. This prompted the head of the Repugnican Party to do some serious rethinking about its viability.
“Crap,” exclaimed Joe Schultz, the nominal head of the Repugnican Party, as he surveyed the destruction that had befallen his cohorts. “This is worse than the McPain fiasco in 2008!” Schultz kicked his chair, wincing as he experienced a sharp pain in his ankle. Schultz was standing in an almost empty room, the flacks having left, with only those whose job was to clean up the debris being on the scene, mostly large black men with smiles on their faces.
Far away, relaxing in the Penthouse suite of the Carlyle, Lance and Lara were enjoying a snifter of Amaretto with some petit fours. Lara was the first to speak.
“Well, Mr. Super Star, did you manage to have Bam Orama win the election with your exploits of derring do?”
Lance, looking somewhat shamefaced, gazed at the sheen of the liquor in his glass before replying. “It really didn’t depend on me at all. Once I discovered that the plot to deconstruct the Yohio voting machines had been scotched, I knew it was all over.”
“So it was a Federal judge who saved the day, eh?” said Lara with a curling, superior smile, just the corners of her lips slightly raised.”
Lance was sufficiently chastened. “I guess that we don’t always need a super hero to determine our fate,” he said. “Sometimes it might just be enough to trust our fellow citizens to do the right thing.”
Lara turned towards him on the bed they had been sharing, while they looked at the last of Bill Maher’s show. “So why don’t we give it a rest for awhile, take a cruise somewhere. It looks as if Bam Orama is going to take care of business in his next four years.”
Lance smiled. Yes, he thought, perhaps a cruise to Río would be just the thing. Go down there for Carnivál and forget all the nastiness that had permeated the electoral process. But another part of him had his doubts. They’ll never give up, he thought. The Repugnican right would continue to obstruct the progress of the union. Yesterday it was the John Birch Society; now it was the Tea Party. The names change, but the players remain the same. Today one could begin to hope. Tomorrow was another day.
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