Thursday, September 09, 2004

 

Out of the Frying Pan, and Into...?


I’ll get you out of that blogshit, sure. For a price.

What’s your price?

Three goats. Real ones, not robots.

OK, it’s a deal. Get me out and I’ll give you three goats.

Virgin goats.

OK, virgin goats.

And now I’m out of the shit, but the guy in the Jesus suit is gone. Went and got The World’s Oldest Living Janitor his goats—what’s with him and goats, anyway? Funny if ya ask me—and then I got a call from Mullah Billdoug about some dame named Coulter. Never heard of her, but seems like she got iced. Official story is a heart attack, but the Mullah isn’t buying it. Wants me to look into it. Sheesh. I just got out of line in heaven, now he wants me to go back.

So I go back. Turns out the dame was in Mullah Billdoug’s address book. I read the entry once and copied it down.

Ann Coulter, 40-something. Nasty temper. Address varies. No phone. Wants to hijack the forbidden experiment. Works for network of fascists who despise flip flops or any other comfortable summer foot apparel. Seems they want to force the experiment by using mind control. UPDATE: Died of heart attack. Now in heaven, whereabouts unknown. Dispatched agent to follow up, keep tabs. Since victim had no heart, unlikely cause of death.

And so that was me, the agent in the book back then. Huh.

I wait in line, get frisked by a eunuch with cold hands who seems to doubt that I'm really dead again, get inside and head for updowntown, ask a few questions. I’m passing an alleyway when I hear a psssssssst! Buddy! C’mere. And so I look in the alley and I’m face to face with the butt-ugliest man I ever saw. Skin the color of school paste. Black-rim glasses. Fat but not sensuous lips. Sweats profusely. A suit. And there’s a .45 pointed at my head.

“Those things don’t work up here, y’know,” I tell him.

“Shaddup, or you’ll find out what works up here!” he hisses, drooling a little. “What’s your interest in Coulter?”

“Purely personal,” I tell him coolly. “We’re old friends.”

“Really? Not what I hear. I hear you got doubts about what got her here. That you think maybe the chips in her head exploded. That maybe certain powerful figures in heaven and earth are behind it. That maybe you’re working for Mullah Billdoug and he’s maybe thinking that he can stop them. That’s what I’m hearing.”

“You should change the radio station, then, ‘cause it’s all static.”

Last thing I remember is some spray coming out of the end of the .45, and then I was out.

In fact, I’m still out. I think I’m posting this from a dream. Feels funny, like there are fingers sticking something in my brain.

Wonder when and where I’ll wake up?





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