What if I was a Russian billionaire and could afford anything? Around 15 years ago approximately, I noticed while living in eastern Europe that there was a special business catering for eccentric Russian billionaires, if they wanted to be a tram driver in Vienna or a homeless person in Prague for a mere week or two, this Russian business would organize anything for them. They would fix it.
Sometimes a Russian billionaire would want Lady Gaga just to perform for them one night only, and they would fix that if the price was agreeable. Later Lady Gaga could lecture regular people back home on green energy with her money made. God bless her cotton picking little (hopefully not evil) heart.
But what if the fixers could fix an a littlecting class for me, with my billions of Russian roubles? We'd get a regular Darwin outback kind of homeless aboriginal lady to act like the drama/acting coach. Then Tom (yes the Cruise one, super dreamboat) and I would face off like in acting school and do Meissner technique.
"You're a fucken shlut", I'd say to Tom.
He'd no doubt be pleased and smiling and admit the truth of the moment, "I'm a fucken shlut."
Then, as per the Meissner acting technique, I'd recognize and verbalize his emotional state:
"You're a giggly, chuckly little petrol sniffing fucken shlut aren't you?"
Then, as the abbo lady from Darwin droops under the weight of her alcoholic flagon beveridge, Tom would have to admit, as per the Meissner technique, the truth of the moment he is confronted with:
"I'm a chuckly petrol sniffing fucken shlut." He retorts, becoming more serious and less chuckly.
I wait and proceed with my role, I'm really angry, it's like I'm acting angry because Tom is a giggly petrol sniffing fucken shlut.
"Get fucked yer farken shlut! Fuck off!" I roar. The other acting students on the bench barely register any emotion, they feel like they're just witnessing another performance, there have been so many in their collective years at acting school.
The acting teacher rouses from her drunken stupor to coach me:
"Tell 'im to give you a dollar the farken shlut."
"Gis a dollar yer farken shlut," I say unconvincingly, I have so many roubles, I'm a Russian billionaire looking for a new experience.
"You want a dollar," Tom says back. He doesn't seem convinced, he's not laughing now but doesn't look bored either, he seems interested, I'll call it out, see where it's going.
"You're interested." I say.
"I'm interested," Tom fires back. After an evaluative pause where I remain silent he adds, "you're pensive."
Wow this guy is good I think to myself. I wonder if my girlfriend in St Petersburg is screwing some other guy. "I'm pensive," I admit.
"You're confused," Tom says. Like he doesn't give a shit and just saying it's cloudy coz it's cloudy.
The acting coach specially selected from the sidewalk in Darwin with no acting experience apart from public drunkenness rouses up:
"Tell 'im to fug off the farken shlut and give you some flagon," says mother Gwendolyn.
"Fug off yer farken shlut, give us some flagon," I say convincingly.
Fifteen minutes later, around the latte machine. Everyone is getting coffee, Tom rifles through his clipboard notes, "ok Benovich the schedule says now we go for a walk through Belgrade, we'll get into an orchestrated pre-planned bar fight with fake sugar glass like in the movies..... Yada yada..... You get to call me cocksucker a hundred times..... Bla bla bla.... We get in the bus pre-arranged then climb onto the roof through the hatch..... How come you haven't called me cocksucker yet Benovich?"
"I was kind of saving it for later, you'll notice there's no clause saying I can't make jokes about twenty Africans jerking off on you simultaneously, I was thinking to save it til then...." I offer helpfully.
"Twenty African guys?" Tom asks perplexed.
"It was my favorite joke with my mother, I used to always get a kick out of mentioning it to her, she was one of the few women I could share that kind of gutter humor with....."
Tom looks perplexed, "oh!? Ok...."
"Since she died I missed cracking those jokes, but now you're here and we're gonna have the bar fight then climb onto the roof of the bus saying our frantic pre-arranged lines to the bus driver about the CIA agent stuff... I was thinking I could run my African guys jokes by you on the bus roof and call you a cocksucker then Tom."
"Ok... well sorry about your mom then..."
"Someone help me with these ankle weights, make me a coffee already, what am I paying for? come on, the clock is ticking, Tom's Cinderella he has to be back by midnight chop chop bitches, he doesn't work for peanuts you know."
Moments later, on the roof of a bus slowly cruising through Belgrade....
"So why is it so important twenty African guys jerk off on me simultaneously Benovich?"
"Coz you're a cocksucker," I respond.
"Oh, ok," Tom responds. After a moment he changes topic, "so is it going to affect you much? The blockade on banks and Russian money?"
"Tom do you know how many cells are in the human body?" I ask Tom.
"I don't know, billions? Trillions?"
"At the very least billions Tom, this means everyone's a billionaire. Look at that guy down there sleeping on a cardboard box, look!" (Tom looks). " I paid thousands of rouble to the Crazy Russian Experience people to have that guy's life in Warsaw for a week! I was hanging out in soup kitchens with gypsies. But here's the thing Tom, we all had more or less the same amount of cells in our bodies: billions."
"Everyone's a billionaire," Tom says in an affirmative sounding way, understanding the philosophy.
"That's it Tom, everyone has their own beliefs, you have scientology, I believe everyone's a billionaire and come into life naked with nothing and leave life naked, with nothing, their worldly honors and prestige and wealth and rank becoming zero, just a true or false attitude in their everliving soul."
"So you're not worried about losing your fortune? What about your family? Don't they depend on you for their lifestyles? Don't your kids go to nice schools in London? Someone was just telling me that," Tom says on the bus' rooftop.
"I don't know Tom, maybe we could all learn from mother Gwendolyn and her disdain for worldly things..."
"Apart from alcohol," Tom offers.
"Ok Tom, what's next on the schedule, aren't you meant to be giving me a hot oil massage all over?"
"I am?" Tom responds surprised.
"Just fucking with you cocksucker, ha ha. Let's go get something to eat, check out that restaurant over there..."
Moments later in restaurant....
"So I cannot understand how you actors can tolerate doing PR all the time with faggy dopey people. Do you actually enjoy sitting down and talking crap with James Corden?"
"Who's James Corden?"
"Isn't he some fat obnoxious English fag guy you have to run and sell your movies to on the talk show circuit?"
"Well yeah I mean have you smelt Conan O'Brien's breath before?"
I nod, affirming the negative, "this is how Russians say no, by nodding, it's ass backwards I know."
"Well you know all those African guys jerking off on everyone in hell or wherever you're always rattling on about? Well Conan O'Brien's breath smells like he swallows."
"Good lord, that's terrifying." I affirm.
"Yeah! Isn't it? It's all part of the job, we're getting paid like billions and everyone's jealous of me coz they're stupid dumbasses driving a bus around like losers all day and I'm Tim Cruise flying F-14s and shit, think about it," Tom says.
"It's Tom Cruise, you said Tim," I interject critically and helpfully.
"Yeah whatever, point is we're rich as hell and I'm Tom Cruise and people can go see my movies and get the t-shirts and jerk off on them," Tom says nonchalantly.
"They can jerk off on the DVDs and TVs playing your movies," I say.
"And the merchandise, if they're not traumatizing anyone or harming kids, what's the problem? If they're consenting adults and want to stand around in a circle and jerk off on my DVDs, let 'em. Live and let live I say." Tom says. "As long as those DVDs aren't my personal property and they haven't stolen them I mean. Although I mean, it's not really my business whose stealing DVDs of my movies really I guess."
I put my titanium chopsticks down, I must be the only person in the place eating pizza with chopsticks but I'm an eccentric Russian billionaire, I can do that. "So Tom, who is your favorite Bond actor? Roger Moore or Sean Connery?"
"I actually got into Timothy Dalton quite a bit in preparation for my Jack Reacher roles.... (Looks around restaurant, antsy to leave), Benovich I kind of feel like getting some fresh air and taking a walk, let's do our scheduled script development workshop on the streets," Tom says.
"Ok I'm just wrapping up here, I'll get my security guy (motions to security guy) to pick up the tab."
Outside, both characters start walking towards camera.
"So I'll be honest with you Benovich, I never read all of your script but I love the part how Tableaux says, 'join those dots, bitches,' whenever he blows stuff up." Takes more steps. "To be honest, Hollywood is a pretty messed up world, for example, did you know Nicholas Cage can't even write?"
"Not even with a magna-doodle, you know those magnetic pens you doodle with?" I ask disbelievingly but at the same time fascinated.
"Nope, word around town is he's struggling to get up to the letter Pee in the alphabet and has to watch sesame street all the time. Apparently he mainly practices with an applicator of ladies roll on deodorant on his lounge room wall in Malibu while he watches sesame street," Tom says informative like.
"No way! Is that why he couldn't get cast in Kindergarten Cop?" I ask incredulously.
"Bazinga!"
"Wow," I offer, amazed.
"Same time Benovich, Cage is a shrewd player and has good management, he's been known to buy good scripts like yours seems to be and then just use them for roll on practice. Not even crayon practice as he only ever uses ladies roll on deodorant to write with."
"He just spends hundreds of thousands on great scripts then just uses the blank side of the paper to practice writing his ABCs???" Was such a thing possible one wondered.
"Up to P only Benovich, he can't even write QRSTUVWXYZ, he's not that smart," Tom interrupts.
"And then his management won't let anyone buy those scripts and change them around?"
"Rarely, so that's always something to worry about for up and coming writers in Hollywood Benovich, your script can disappear in a black hole we call the Cage effect or else Tarantino or someone can buy it and turn it into something completely different that doesn't even resemble your movie and then you only get a story credit, not even a writing credit and on top of that your original script is gone and can't be used. Not everyone wants that to happen with their script. It's not like sending your child to school and expecting they'll be well taken care off in their poshy English boarding school. It's like your script is a wild tiger at the circus that needs to be tamed by the right people," Tom explained.
I walk on, listening, the air is cold and my hands are stuffed in my pockets for warmth.
"So tell me your movie idea, don't tell me mother Gwendolyn is in it because that's not gonna fly."
"Yeah right, look my idea is pretty cool. You know the CIA and KGB they used to develop these remote viewing teams to practice out of body intelligence gathering, like on the astral plane. Ok so the CIA develops some big giant farm compound they nickname Animal Farm. Then they're focused on intelligence gathering amongst the drug cartels and actual police authorities in Brazil. There are a lot of blurred lines and crooked cops in bed with the cartels who are based in Mexico or somewhere. The CIA is running Animal Farm to spy on the cartels in Brazil. At Animal Farm they're doing all kinds of crazy out of hand stuff in order to brainwash and control regular folks that they kidnap to be part of their program."
"That's how they recruit people for Animal Farm? Just kidnapping regular Americans?" Tom asks.
Ok
"Anyone who's Stateside, Indian students, Americans, white people, black people, homeless people. They mostly want extremely susceptible to suggestion kind of people, so anyone dopey enough to wait in line for a week for movie or concert tickets, teenagers maybe, crazy homeless people. They have to be vulnerable looking as well, like noone will miss them much."
"Ok," Tom says, "go on."
"So the main guy the characters at Animal Farm are focused on in Brazil is an actual guy called Da Silva that works at the Sao Paulo airport. He's part of the cartel drug movement system and sees a lot of what's going on. He's not actually aware of the remote viewing team at Animal Farm watching him, but he's the focus of all their attention. On top of that, the guy Tableaux, that you mentioned, is struggling to maintain his sanity and formulate an escape plot from Animal Farm with anyone that looks like they can keep their shit together mentally and not be a liability."
"Sounds fascinating Benovich," I think I'm actually going to read it on the jet flight home. "I can't promise you anything though. Hollywood's not a system where folks can just pay for their movie to get picked up. Tell me this, is there anything for the Chinese market like a Chinese Kung Fu hero that helps Tableaux escape? Something like that could crack the Chinese market wide open, they hate the CIA," Tom says.
"No I don't have anything like that," I offer.
"Well don't be surprised if someone picks up your script and adds that just so they can crack open the huge Chinese market and double their earnings. Hollywood loves Chinese money these days." Tom says.
"Well yeah I don't know that much about it. I already have an agent to shop my script around. I'm offering it to you as well so whatever. If you enjoy it at least it will make your flight home pleasant. If you see Nicholas Cage, don't offer it to him! Ha ha," I laugh.
Tom is becoming antsy to move onto the next thing, "Benovich, I'll tell you what, I'm working for you til midnight as per our arrangement. How about I knock off at ten pm. I just got a message saying there's a private jet available at the airport, we can skip our scheduled darts game and instead I'll offer you ten hours of feedback and script development over the internet, just not in person coz my schedule won't allow it. How does that grab you?"
"Yeah sure Tom, if you'll read my script...." I say.
"Yeah I'll read it, looks interesting, but another thing, I know we agreed in our contract you can call me cocksucker a hundred times but I want to cancel that effective immediately and just keep everything polite and respectful, no dopey banter, you hear me?" Tom says stopping and sticking a hand out to shake.
"Ok. Call me Benzino from now on, Benovich sounds so pre-Ukraine warrish," I say, shaking hands with Tom. "I'll tell you what, why don't you grab this taxi here back to your hotel and take the rest of the day off, it's been interesting meeting you," I say as I hail a taxi with my left hand while shaking hands with Tom.
At the airport later that day, around 1030pm, Tom's personal assistant steps down from the small private jet's staircase, "Tom, your son Connor is on the phone waiting for you, what should I tell him? We're ready for takeoff."
"I'm super tired Janelle, it's been a long day, just take a message and I'll call him back later, I just want to go to sleep I'm exhausted," Tom calls out from his ride as he grabs his bag from the trunk nearby.
Moments later Tom turns out the overhead light in his cabin, Janelle and a couple of other auxiliary looking folks sit behind in the small private jet cabin. Tom looks out the window as the jet taxis slowly down the runway. An airport baggage truck driving in the opposite direction flies by an empty old Serbian McDonald's Big Mac carton, making it spin up into the air spinning pirouettes before cascading down. Next to Tom on the armrest sits a copy of Benzino's movie script, "Sleepytime Land", the lights from the airport outside stream through the glass window and over the script, as the jet picks up speed down the runway and takes off. Tom looks outside at the Belgrade lights as the jet banks right. A dinging sound is heard in the cabin and the fasten seatbelt light goes off. Tom's eyelids droop and he begins to nod off, he remembers unusual events of the day, mother Gwendolyn yelling uncouthly, 'get f*cked you f*cken shlut'..... Benovich saying, 'twenty African guys jerking off on you, cocksucker...'.... 'get f*cked you f*ckem shlut....' again rang out the shrill voice of mother Gwendolyn.
Tom fell asleep as the exterior light faded and the jet levelled out at high altitude. Janelle helped herself to the copy of Benzino's "Sleepytime Land" script. The unusual title drew her attention and she decided to drink a small glass of liqueur and read the script....
***
In an undisclosed CIA location, probably in Virginia, far from the secret CIA location 'Sleepy Time Land', at a kind of executive, generously staffed facility, some office employees mill around a board propped up on the floor like an A shape sign with two flaps like a ladder. "Special meeting, boardroom, all security clearance levels P-30 and above MUST attend if on site, even if not on duty, 7pm". Folks remarked about the communique, they had never seen a meeting announced in such a manner. Normally they would receive an electronic message on their secure devices, typically an email alert. But there hadn't been any. A small asterisk after 7pm lead to a notice near the level of the floor saying to notify the relevant colleagues. There were signboards like this at restrooms, elevator shafts, kitchenettes and dining areas, by snack machines and water fountains. Word got out. Those who had P-30 and above security clearance knew that what they knew, did not have to be shared with the President or Joint Chiefs nor Congress. So there was zero chance of anything leaking to the media but a false leak, possibly devised by a P-30 or higher level clearance.
At 7pm at the boardroom a sign announced a special lecture from a mysterious B.T. Nobody knew who this B.T. was. How could they not know? Didn't they know everything? Or at least someone close to senior leadership should know so this was the hot topic of murmurs around the entryway door, which was locked. Precisely at 7pm a clicking sound occurred caused by the boardroom door's locking device unlocking. Folks waiting around did not wait further for an invitation but pulled the door open. Inside the room was dark except for a little light from the projection screen occupying the opposite wall from the entry. The room sat around twenty five people around the one long table along the centre plus another forty or so in chairs around the perimeter. As everybody milled in and the lights came on with motion detectors, it appeared a man they hadn't seen before was sitting under the roof projector on a chair next to a laptop computer on a small table. This must be B.T. people assumed. As everybody sat with no fuss and little talk, the man stood up and addressed himself to the room:
"I'm Black Trash," he said, without a hint of humor, "welcome."
The response from the room was muted, they were all ears.
"Y'all have worked as field officers at some point in yo' careers." Everybody immediately noted Black Trash was speaking in a form of ebonic, ghetto parlance, not commensurate with a university standard education. "You would have approached some target, pretending to be gay, trying to soak up some information." Black Trash scanned eyes to see some glimmer of understanding. "Well that doesn't work when you been tasked with infiltrate the rolling 60s crops."
"Crips! You must mean crips, sir," someone helpfully pointed out.
"It is what it is," Black Trash continued in a somewhat surly and self assured way, it was unclear if he'd acknowledged his slip up or even meant to make one.
At this point every muscle apart from Black Trash's above the eyelids had already become a microcosm and study in reaction to unexpected stimulation. The unexpected stimulation began with the unique and unheard of quaint technique of advertising the meeting with no electronics, instead using some kinds of old school signboards harkening to a stroll through a shopping mall. Everybody's subconscious mind had already noticed the curled and friendly calligraphy of Black Trash's chalk strokes and had noted the script style of whoever wrote out his chalk letters was smooth and friendly. The approximately three score of folks about the room were not sure what to make of him. Who sent him there? What kind of clearance did he have? Who was he? Was he really an expert infiltrator of impenetrable black ghetto gangs? This latter thought would even cause irises to expand smaller, making pupils in eyes look bigger. Sceptical thoughts and beliefs triggered by Black Trash would cause a marvellous multiplicity of stupendously Intelligently Designed muscles in the forehead to crinkle and fold like staggeringly beautiful and intricate waterfalls cascading in a jungle delta over mossy stones. Finally a comedian in the group piped up:
"So we can go see you for an oil change and you ain't going to shaft us?"
This tremendous humor in such an unusual moment caused a sprinkling of folks to guffaw instantaneously, before they could control themselves. Others who had seen bizarre and unusual things neither laughed nor budged a solitary muscle at any of Black Trash's utterances but internalized everything, showing nothing externally seemingly.
"Oh we're gonna have fun motherfucker, don't doubt it...." Black Trash immediately responded. At no point had he demonstrated any emotion or conducted his bad old self in anything but a calm and measured way. "Y'all got a little dossier in front of you, open to page one, you'll find a truth written at the top of the page concerning this here image."
Black Trash flicked some buttons on a hand held controller and the lights dimmed and the screen he stood in front of lit up. Some of the folks seated nearest the screen moved their chairs back. Each perimeter chair had a little platform attached to the right side front with the same dossier on it everyone at the table had. A large and unusual image of ghetto life showed up on the screen. Children hop-scotched while gangsters mugged people for shoes at gun point. Cops arrested people and businesses operated. It was all fantasy as not so many things could realistically happen in such close proximity of each other. Anyone's subconscious mind would think so. Black Trash began to play some music softly.....
"Each of you has a written truth, top of page one. And a grid location where it's written, at this point the image was divided horizontally and vertically like a chess board into 64 squares. Look at your written reality and its location in the scene." Nobody needed to be asked twice, they all realized they were in training and Black Trash had their undivided attention and interest now, he was there to teach them. "Those of you with 'goodish shoes' stand up please," Black Trash held his index fingers on each hand out, folding them like quotation marks. Five people stood up. "Please indicate your grid location to the group."
Someone said, "C-7", everyone looked at the grid location, it was like where you would find a black paun on a chess board at the start. However there was no chessboard, a man was taking off his shoes, seated on his derriere against a brick wall in an alley next to some trash cans while two gangsters waylaid him with a hefty automatic handgun. "Everyone watch out for c7 square because there'll be a bonus question for a thousand dollars, where's the fourth G there if the first three Gs are in plain sight. Ok stand up anyone who has the word Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, I probably don't need to tell any of y'all wizard asses the meaning of that, or do I?"
Three people stood up, again Black Trash requested their square, they all fell on B8, what would normally be the black queen's knight on a chess board, they knew Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte was a popular German kind of cake, Black Forest cake, but in the context of Black Trash's quiz, all they could see was a guy with a big afro hairdo like Mike Tyson's manager Don King famously sported, in the background was a kind of ghetto wedding with folks in buildings around about throwing rice and confetti on the married couple.
"I don't think anyone can see any Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte there Black," said one kind hearted New Yorker in her late 30s without a trace of mean spirited-ness or frustration and a hint of exasperation instead.
"Y'all have to think abstract, consider how the brother's hair gonna look with rice and confetti," Black Trash said in his ghetto baritone.
Everybody realised immediately what Black Trash meant. Someone finally piped up, "but don't black forest cakes have cherries on them?" Everybody turned and looked at him, to which he annexed the question, "too like?" Everybody looked back at Black Trash, in unison.
"Good thinking, look at the drug deal going down on D4, at the centre of the board, what's gonna happen to that brother's brain if that pistol in the other brother's pants gets whipped out from his tushi?" Everybody's eyes followed the likely trajectory a bullet going through the brother's brain on D4 towards B8 might take and simultaneously realised the D4 brother's brain would be the cherry on the afro hairdo brother's head on B8.
"Damn," someone said.
"'xactly, now you're thinking straight," Black Trash reported.
On the wall, as Black Trash rambled on about incest and blunt force trauma with a gas pipe, the clock speedily whizzed around one hour, then another half hour.... Black Trash continued:
"So that's right Casey, well done, the marines on C4 are all about it, well done! Ok so that's all sixty four squares on the board, now has anyone figured out the fourth G on C⁷?"
One or two hands went up, "is it anything to do with the 4G cell phone network?" Everybody looked over at the speaker and the other handraiser piped up, "yeah I was going to say the same thing," he said.
"Anticipating someone would mention that, I brought in some food stamps as a auxiliary style back up prize, I hope you guys knock yourselves out with them," the two gentlemen had never actually seen food stamps before and weren't sure what to do with them or how they worked. One of them reached out and received them as if someone were passing him an exotic but tiny and harmless crab.
"So for one thousand dollars, where is the fourth G on C⁷ square?" someone asked.
Black Trash pressed a button and the entire ghetto board scene disappeared, then all the file numbers from A1 to H8 (including the transgender gay guy Jamie on H8, disappeared except for C⁷. "Ok our next topic du jour is The Good, The Bad and the Ugly," with that the words Black Trash spoke appeared on the screen and lastly the C⁷ drifted over to the start of ood to complete the spelling on Good, as a capital G, the C and ⁷ hooking up together, as it were. Next to 'The Good' was a Tinkerbell fairy spinning around and a flag of Laos and some pictures of CIA evacuations of Laos by Air America and photos of Laotian folks resettled in America. Next to 'The Bad' were images of MK ULTRA, one of the darker chapters of CIA history, and the rotating head of Linda Blair from the Exorcist, in juxtaposition to the rotating Tinkerbell fairy. Finally next to The Ugly was a picture of Ozzie Osbourne biting a bat's head off and a picture of the Wuhan Institute of Virology.
"Any questions before we get started? Are you looking at your dossier notes?" Black Trash prompted.
Folks were, indeed, looking at their notes. There was no shortage of educated minds in the entire building, or minds capable of scrutinising a matter. A major problem in general was a superfluity of information. More specifically everyone was generally associated with one particular focal point of interest, if it was Sri Lanka then they wouldn't normally analyse Ukraine, however given the food shortages from Ukraine, this reality was potentially fluid. It was still unclear what Black Trash had, if indeed anything, to offer them.
"Y'all might want to order something from the cafeteria, on yo' phone app, get them to bring it up y'all. We want to keep bathroom breaks to a minimum and little catch ups with yo' old buddies from Tora Bora or yo' Godson's christening can wait y'all. Go ahead and get some coffee tart from the kitchenette here if need be."
Comically, the inquisitive lady from New York, from a moment ago, spoke up from the kitchenette annexed where she had gotten herself some coffee tart and enthused, "yeah! Coffee tart! It what it is y'all!!" in a deep ghetto baritone in a whimsical and bold way.
Folks knuckled into their dossier briefing, scanning it, hoping to get a good night's sleep, it was already almost 9pm and coffee cake was being served.
"Black Trash, how long will we be here tonight?" Someone asked.
"Possibly til 4am, coffee will be served and you can take a nap in yo' office or somewhere if you really need," Black Trash responded.
Jesus bro:
https://youtu.be/U8U_gR58eJU
Folks were served from the cafeteria or absented themselves briefly to fulfil their needs. Black Trash spoke til around half an hour after midnight rehashing the CIA involvement in Laos and the Air America involvement there. Questions were asked and answered and the whole thing was like a refresher specifically on Laos in the 1970s. After another break Black Trash produced a large black plastic trash bag from somewhere, perhaps for dramatic effect. He introduced his next topic, The Ugly: MK ULTRA. Again the spinning demonic head of Linda Blair from the Exorcist did slow revolutions on the screen like a disco ball wafting circles.
"Black Trash, much as I'm dying to know what you've got in your black trashbag right now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to head to my office and catch some zees (zzzzzz), I'm absolutely exhausted, just give me an hour and a bit," one gentleman excused himself as he strode out.
"Don't let me catch you watching the war in Ukraine in there," Black Trash called after him.
"Folks, can you tell me which thing I'm going to flash onto the screen next, that every single black ghetto in America has?" Black Trash challenged them.
"A school?"
"A baseball helmet?"
"A prison cell?"
"A crack pipe?"
"Five grams of crystal meth?"
"A bakery?"
"A deck of cards and dice?"
"A record store?"
"Soul food?"
Black Trash said, "no," then he asked, "any more guesses?"
"A toilet bolted onto the floor of a communal prison cell for multiple people affording little or no privacy?"
"Sliced pizza for under $5 a slice?"
"Tampons?"
"Mexican food?"
"Gin and coke?"
"Individual cigarettes for sale?"
"Unregistered firearms?"
"A Marine Corps recruitment office?"
"Pepsi?"
"Fudge?"
Nobody could think of anything for a moment.
"You'll never guess it in a million years. I'm willing to put two hundred dollars on the table but it would just be a waste of time," Black Trash advised them.
"Bell-bottom jeans?"
"A Chevy Impala?"
"A VHS player?"
"Gold teeth?"
"Platinum teeth?"
"Silver teeth?"
"Diamonds shining in peoples' grills?"
"Corn on the cob?"
"Pancakes?"
"Homicides???"
"Gang violence??"
"Brown sugar?"
"Regular cocaine not crack cocaine?"
"Anticipating you would never guess," Black Trash interrupted.
"A belt!?"
"Vinyl records!?"
"Anticipating you would never guess," Black Trash reiterated.
"LSD!!??" Someone fairly exploded.
"Not in a million years," Black Trash pressed his button and an image of the popular Simpsons cartoon character, Ned Flanders, showed up on the screen. Specifically Ned Flanders screaming his high pitched girly scream over and over again.
Ned Flanders scream:
https://youtu.be/m3gok0k3mcw
Along with the image of Linda Blair in the Exorcist, it was a pretty dynamic audiovisual introduction to the MK ULTRA program that Black Trash had devised, by the looks of it.
"Now what do you suppose is in my black trashbag?" Black Trash asked the group as he held his black trashbag aloft.
"A shit ton of acid?" Someone asked.
"Correct," Black Trash affirmed, spinning his black trashbag around to reveal a big label on it saying 'LSD' on the other side of the bag. "Now watch this revision film on the MK ULTRA program," Black Trash clicked his remote controller some more and the lights dimmed slightly.
"Ok so what are the History Channel even talking about y'all?" Black Trash upped the lights and put a foot up on a rung on his chair. "Ask me questions."
"Why didn't Rebecca get any colored crayons y'all?" Asked one gentleman with a distinctly Hispanic accent.
"Is she really on acid the whole time? How much?"
"Didn't aliens invade DC and LA in highly reported viewings and fly over Phoenix and no-one kind of even cared about it because Barbara Streisand was more interesting or whatever?"
"That isn't really LSD in your black trashbag is it Black Trash?"
"It isn't black trash, it's actually just confetti which we'll pretend is acid in a moment, pass me that funnel over there so I can start pretending to funnel ridiculous amounts of acid down Foxworth's throat," Black Trash directed, indicating a plastic kind of funnel on the floor with the narrow end sealed up.
"Why do I need to be the guinea pig?" Asked Foxworth in his regional New York City accent.
"Coz you don't have frizzy nigga hair likely to hold all the confetti if it spill, that why," Black Trash affirmed.
"Black Trash where'd you get all this shit coffee from anyway, is that why they call you Black Trash?" Asked the guy with the Hispanic accent in a serious and non disrespectful tone holding his empty cup upside down, "seriously."
Ignoring him, Black Trash asked the group, "now I know today everyone is so 'evolved' (makes ditto sign again) that all we seem to have to worry about is being friendly to gays and transgenders like Jamie on square H8 of my chessboard from before, but in the 1960s things were a little different. Can anyone tell me how much of the world's total LSD supply Dr Sydney Gottlieb procured through the CIA for his crazy evil scientist experiment y'all?"
"All of it," Casey, from earlier, responded.
"Is that right?" Black Trash asked the group. Perhaps he was more expert on crack cocaine use in the black ghettos and wasn't really sure.
"That's my understanding of my research of the case," Casey explained, "but obviously you had people cooking up their own LSD and a good amount floating around in society for people like Jimi Hendrix to gobble up."
"That reminds me," said Black Trash, "and if you check your notes, you'll see there's a little bi-line about Hendrix and his LSD usage. But ultimately, who would you rather be telling your little kids about when you're telling them all about uncle Sam, Jimi Hendrix or Sidney Gottlieb?"
"Sidney Gottlieb was a monster, he killed a lot of people with his crazy acid experiments against their will. Hendrix was a maverick, he only used LSD according to his own free application of his own free will, demonstrating american freedom at every turn, and made pleasant and not especially negative music and even nice bedroom wall posters for everyone to enjoy, I'd have to say Hendrix," opined one of the agents.
"Well we're not going to put anyone on the spot about they opinions or anything, but thank you for sharing your opinion, Marks," Black Trash said. "Now y'all got the quiz on page eight, pay close attention: twenty questions, multiple choice, bring yo' bitch ass back to college bitches, here we go. Foxworth sit his ass down and place the funnel in it throat, I got my ice cream scoop here we gonna scoop out one big old scoop of pretend LSD confetti." (He does so after Foxworth obliges him by tilting his neck back and placing the sealed dramatic funnel into it mouth [sic]. "Whoop there it is y'all, not to sound too black or anything with a name like Black Trash and all." Black Trash pauses, then continues, "now question number one, how messed up would a brother be on a dose that big y'all? We're talking like two ice cream scoops in term of volume, Benitez read out the option."
Benitez reads the five possible answers for question one: "agent Foxworth, if that were real acid going into his ass and not just confetti in a fake funnel, would be (a) less likely to survive than a Jew hiding under the Nazi hierarchy's meeting room table, (b) deader than a motherfucker after it done shot up a bank and started shooting at the police, (c) ain't getting up from that shit unless someone light his ass up with helium or something, (d) gonna be stoned so hard it likely the angels in the afterlife won't know what to do with his ass, and finally (e) gonna be tripping so hard ain't no way the motherfucker gonna be able to play his guitar I don't care who he is."
"Thank you Benitez, circle the answer you think is most correct, go to question number two," Black Trash continued. "Look here our buddy Ned Flanders again, screaming his little yellow ass off," the image of Ned Flanders took up the entire screen and the images previously shown, disappeared. The screaming sounds of Ned Flanders were overtaken by Black Trash's deep ghetto baritone, "now I'm going to show you how terrifying white folks can look to us black folks," Black Trash informed the group and an image of He-Man, another white cartoon guy took over the screen while Ned Flanders shrank off to the bottom left corner. He-Man busts out his sword and invokes his power by the power of Greyskull (some dopey castle that means a lot to He-Man fans). There were no other cartoon characters like Cringer the Tiger, only Ned Flanders being zapped by He-Man's sword then screaming as before, now seemingly because of He-Man zapping him with his sword. "See what I mean?" Black Trash asked the group. "Taken individually, neither of these white guys look scary. But put 'em together like that and it terrifying, think about it y'all," Black Trash challenged the group.
He-Man
https://youtu.be/7yeA7a0uS3A
"Speaking of white slave-owners like Mr He over there," indicates He-Man on the screen, "flip over to page nine, the Bell Witch hauntings from the time of President Andrew Jackson, over two hundred years ago." Black Trash flicked a button and a video presentation of the Bell Witch hauntings of 1817 played. "Did y'all know President Andrew Jackson had land in Red River Tennessee during his Presidency? Check out my long lost cousin and the story he tell:"
Red River hauntings:
https://youtu.be/pQfdXMd8438
"Now isn't that interesting," Black Trash regaled after seemingly going completely off the topic of LSD seemingly way off on a tangent. How was any of this related to MK ULTRA folks were wondering. "Now think, the ink is practically still drying on the American Constitution, Thomas Jefferson has not bothered to mention his black girlfriend, just King George the Fit of England and guess what? Even though all men are created equal, the black slaves won't have to pay any more taxes to King George the Fit, isn't that swell? Now answer this question: Betsy is the name of Benjamin's sister that was haunted, but what's there to say that President Andrew Jackson didn't nickname his carriage he rode in Betsy too? Agent Paul, read the possible answers please."
Agent Paul was a white lady that had some kind of white looking genetics about her that weren't tanned, not even brown eyes. Maybe she was from Minnesota or somewhere super cold like that, who even knew? "(a) there's no historical record of President Andrew Jackson ever nick-naming any of his carriages Betsy so it's safe to assume the carriage he rode in to Red River wasn't nicknamed Betsy, (b) perhaps subconsciously President Andrew Jackson thought his carriage's name was Betsy therefore the statement is true, (c) the story says President Andrew Jackson's carriage lost a wheel due to the supernatural haunting powers so a carriage without a wheel isn't really a carriage therefore the question is moot, (d) a carriage isn't like a boat that is referred to as she so there's no reason to think President Andrew Jackson's carriage would have a female name as there's nothing to say it ended up in a lake, (e) as the carriage became affected by the same supernatural haunting powers that affected actual people like Betsy and her family, we can say that everything the supernatural haunting powers affected, human or otherwise, were Betsy otherwise none of the above," agent Paul finished.
"Are we gonna get graded on this Black Trash?" In a tone indicative of incredulity asked the Puerto Rican fellow from earlier who was not, seemingly, overly fond of Black Trash's coffee.
"Quickly finish that question as we go on to question three, the teenage mutant ninja turtles, in case you didn't know, were bipedal turtles, walking erect like certain apes we know (looks at the Perto Rican agent and arches his brow in a show of scrutiny, meanwhile flicks an image of the turtles on the screen with their names below). Named for shining lights of the Renaissance, Donatello and the team are the good guys. Does anyone know the name of they evil nemesis?" (Flashes an image of Crang then plays a short video of Crang). "This is they nemesis y'all, pay close attention, notice it's a brain with a mouth y'all."
Crang:
https://youtu.be/oTIPhPUPuRw
"Ok," Black Trash continued, "imagine we gonna plan a operation theatre (Black Trash says theatre as three distinct syllables with the 'a' in the middle all on its own) to take down Crang with some yummy chocolate cake full of LSD. I mean that's why we were looking at LSD in the first place right? To see if we could use it in our enemies' water supply or something during wartime. It's not like the Chinese are only sending us Powderpuff Girls dolls in the mail, how about ten tons of fentanyl killing American kids every year. It's a war, they fighting us from behind walls y'all."
"Black Trash, how are we gonna get the LSD filled cake to Crang and get him to eat it? Then what are we gonna do to manipulate him or her after that?" The boisterous agent from New York asked.
"Exactly," responded Black Trash. "Discuss that question in groups of two or three for a few minutes and then choose the best answer from the multiple choice on the screen. Black Trash walked to the back of the room that afforded a small transparent view through tinted glass in the daylight hours overlooking the gun range below which clicked off methodically most weekday mornings starting around 9am. Black Trash adjusted the buttons that adjusted the blinds, in momentary listlessness and pressed his face against the pane and glanced between the horizontal shutters.
A moment later, Black Trash tackled another question on the quiz: "watch this short informative film from the National Board of little movies from Canada y'all, spiders on drugs;"
Spiders on drugs y'all:
https://youtu.be/sHzdsFiBbFc
"Now watch these bears not on drugs fighting other critters y'all:"
Bears vs other critters:
https://youtu.be/37Bt6ZyWJT0
"So the question is: if we were to lock a football helmet onto the bear's head, such as in MK ULTRA experiments, playing maddening messages such as pop songs from Paris Hilton, jack the bear up full of LSD like ten funnels worth (takes the funnel from Foxworth's proximity), plus strap on an electro-shock jacket onto the bear to zap it full of electricity like whenever, just like an mk ultra experiment, apart from being animal cruelty, what might happen if we release the bear in these conditions in a Walmart y'all? Choose the best answer on the screen."
Black Trash noticed one of the students was hot. Not at all scrawny or skinny, neither a dump truck, she had all the buxom juiciness Black Trash looked for in a woman. A solid mane of hair veritably spouted from her cropped, swept up high black hair, like a whale bellowing water after bursting from the ocean's depths. Black Trash began pounding her Mexican looking ass in his mind, such pretty light skin. Her stout little legs, the glow of her cheeks. Black Trash imagined screwing with her like hippopotami in a watering hole somewhere. Maybe she was confused and needed rescuing from the folks lobbying for transgenderism.
"Ahem," Black Trash cleared his throat. "Let's go on to the next question. Take note, it's on the screen: an African American family, Laquonda, Tanisha, Zeldaberry and Tanniya (shows a picture of four women, three presumably sisters and one mother, in the background two men, around the mother's age, appear to be sprinting away with batons, lending a confusing and humorous aspect to the picture) relocate to Idaho. They try their luck in a new business venture, opening a store in the local mall called 'Who-da-ho?'"
"Black Trash, permission to ask a question sir?" Asked one fellow who had remained quiet up until this time.
"Granted, what's on your mind?" Black Trash asked.
"Well look, not meaning to be rude or anything, I think you're kind of entertaining, a bit of a tough act to follow, but I can't understand the raisson d'être of your class you're running." The guy asking had a southern twang which really came out when he used a French turn of phrase. He was clearly a straight shooter as they say.
"Well hell, I'm sorry I haven't explained myself to anyone, my background is in black ghetto areas, running field agents in those areas. I've also worked as a case manager for operatives working in Saudi Arabia tasked with assisting the most important families there stay happy and on their game, especially in conjunction with the State Department in that regard. As I'm going to put all of that behind me now and focus exclusively on a new Artificial Intelligence initiative that the Agency is fostering, I've been requested to distill the quintessence of my expertise into a podcast course running around seven hours or so (checks his watch). So this is a one off kind of deal and it's going on a podcast. Does that clear things up a bit?"
The Texan sounding guy looked back and forth between Black Trash and Laquonda, Tanisha, Zeldaberry and Tanniya standing in front of their store called 'Who-da-ho?' and then the picture of Laquonda's two male friends sprinting away from her with batons, back at Black Trash, scratched his head, looked down at his page and scratched his head some more and kept quiet. Finally slumping his head onto his palm with his elbow on the table for support.
Suddenly Black Trash's phone began to sound an incoming call, "Well shoot I thought I'd left my phone on silent after religiously imploring you all to do the same," Black Trash said good naturedly grabbing at his phone, "well I'll be dammed, I'm getting a phone call from New Zealand and I'm sure I don't know anyone in New Zealand, how mysterious! Look everybody!" Black Trash waved his hand over his phone then half turned his left fist over the top of it to answer the call and put it on loudspeaker. He flicked a button on his remote controller for the tv projector on the wall and sure enough, Black Trash's phone call came up on the screen and clearly the unusual international dialling code, presumably for New Zealand, as there was a little New Zealand flag there as well, and a basically foreign looking unrecognizable phone number.
"Hello," said Black Trash.
"Bin? Is that you? Bin, let me tell you I'm still waiting for that delivery to arrive...." the voice with the New Zealand accent began droning on about deadlines and scheduling, he appeared to be a businessman expecting a delivery from the States.
Black Trash put his phone on mute and asked the group what the hell the New Zealand guy was talking about. The desirable Mexican American looking lady with the attractive hairdo spoke up, "he's saying Ben, that's how New Zealand people say Ben, he must think he's talking to his business contact Ben in the States." Wow, good-looking and smart, Black Trash noted about his favorite pupil.
"Ben's not with us anymore sir, I'm afraid you'll have to reach him elsewhere," Black Trash interrupted the call and disconnected. "Ok wow, that was random and unexpected," Black Trash seemed nonplussed and ready to go on with his next question but then gave the matter another moment of thought, "you know what? And excuse my french here, but fuck New Zealand y'all, you know what I'm saying? Free trade agreement with China my ass. We should be arming the Australians to annex New Zealand, goddam 'Bin'", folks laughed gently at Black Trash's outburst against the New Zealanders and his way of mimicking they pronunciation of Bin. "Anyway next question, it's difficult to believe, but this situation actually played out with one of the agents I was tasked with overseeing that was sent to Saudi Arabia to basically babysit an extremely toxic and bratty third or fourth wife of a local chieftain there. My agent, call her agent X, was so insulted by this Saudi lady's toxic behavior, and so upset she was going to miss her brother's wedding back in Galveston Texas, she basically took it upon herself to assassinate the Saudi lady she was tasked with babysitting. Unbelievable, right?" People nodded in agreement, some folks jaws even unconsciously lowered in disbelief at such a thing. Could Black Trash even be telling the truth? What a betrayal of her nation and the honor of her station, to disobey her superiors in such a wanton and murderous way. Finally the cute Mexican American agent asked, "did she make it to her brother's wedding?"
"Yeah she did, we never found out what had happened for another two years after that and even then it was just by coincidence and dumb luck as she had covered her tracks real well. Even the Saudi Intelligence never found out what happened and you can bet the media will never find out about it. Something like that could absolutely snowball way out of control. What I'm telling you now must never leave this room." Black Trash paused dramatically to see if he had their understanding. Everybody leaned slightly forward, they were like fascinated snakes at a Berber bizarre or something like that, listening to a snake charmer's piccolo. "Well my boss and his boss, who was the assistant director of the entire agency at the time, we were really the only people with any authority in the know about it, we sat around discussing what we should do about it. At the end of the day, we didn't want the story seeing the light of day so I hatched a plan that met with their approval."
"What was it?" Asked the Texan sounding agent who was only a moment ago demonstrating annoyance and frustration with the class and now was all ears.
Black Trash continued, "well we basically hatched some story about infiltrating a mental hospital to uncover a cartel assassin lying low there. We told her we didn't have anymore information than that and that she would have to go undercover in this hospital and unearth whatever information she could, no matter how long it took. I brought her in myself with the assistant director and told the staff there we wanted to have her committed for believing she was in the CIA and being crazy like."
Exhalations of 'dang!' and 'damn!' and more colorful language was ejaculated by the agents present. Animated discussion ensued. "How long has she been in there now Black Trash?" Earnestly asked the Puerto Rican sounding agent unimpressed with Black Trash's coffee a moment earlier.
Black Trash checked his wristwatch, "well we're coming up on February 29 in a week so that'll make it two leap year ago."
"Shut up!" The whole room broke out into laughter and happy conversation and discussion. Surely Black Trash was pulling they legs with his kooky sense of humor. Nobody could believe that story. For his part Black Trash checked his last email from the agent in question, sent from the mental hospital. Given the reaction of the class he figured he'd skip showing them the emails from her and just let them think he was contriving fiction. Truly the truth is often much stranger than fiction, Black Trash surmised. He decided to move on with the question, "ok so check the multiple choice questions on the wall, choose the best answer from the options provided, given the case history I just described."
The class had quietened down and carried on with their test when an emotive and jocular female voice began singing like a Mozart aria, "Michelangelo is cool but rude."
Someone else spoke back after a moment non urgently while buckling down on they paper, "Raphael is cool but rude, Michelangelo is a party dude, isn't that right Black Trash?"
"I believe so," Black Trash responded. "I'll be dammed if I know what Donatello was all about, I think I remember Leonardo just was they leader or something."
"Donatello didn't do shit, I got babysat by the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles while my mom screwed johns in our tiny apartment and smoked crack, I'm pretty sure Donatello didn't do shit but he had a bo stick like the big rat guy that was they boss."
"Wait you said you grew up rich and went to an ivy league school," someone chimed in.
"But if I was poor like a double agent in the ghetto, that's how it would have went down, either way I still watched the Ninja Turtles when I was a kid," the agent responded good-naturedly.
Noone was in a hurry and were just rechecking slowly their answers as per Black Trash's request. "Listen up y'all, while I won't be much involved in the project, they is going to be some openings on a new out of body remote viewing program the Agency is working on. It's at a facility called Sleepy Time Land, way out west. We're looking for five to ten or even a score of volunteers. And whoever wants to check it out has to fly straight out after this podcast lecture finishes around 4am. We're about to get started on our last section: the Ugly, so if you need to powder your noses, go right ahead."
"So just stick around after class and fly out to Sleepy Time Land way out west if we want to volunteer Black Trash?"
"That's the deal, we don't think more than five to ten people would want to but if you're serious, fly out there this morning and stay the weekend then commit to the project or don't. You can all fly out if you just want to check it out and get away for the weekend," Black Trash advised them as he set the screen to Ozzie Osbourne biting a bat's head off and the Wuhan Institute of Virology. They still more coffee tart in the fridge if y'all are hungry, help yo'selve. Those of you flying out to Sleepy Time Land at 4am I'll see you off from the jet plane like. If you're super tired you can go sleep in the room next door, grab a blanket and watch Young Guns 2, it's starting now ... Ok the Wuhan institute of virology y'all...."
Young Guns 2 cuz
https://youtu.be/ylvuRp2IG-g
A few folks walked out with they security blankets or what have you, to go watch Young Guns 2 and nap on the floor or whatever. Black Trash began receiving a call on the wall via the projector, he answered the call verbally, saying 'answer.' An image of a young white man in a desert during the daytime filled up the wall.
'Agent Tiler from Pine Gap Australia reporting Black Trash,' the agent said, apparently in real time although it was in the early hours after midnight in Virginia, clearly it was blazing hot in the Australian desert. 'I'll be returning home through the teleport and stepping into the room with you to follow the briefing there in person with you. I've been following the deal about coronavirus but I was busy before that finalizing my report.'
'Did you keep it under two sentences?' Black Trash asked.
'Yes,' responded Tiler from the desert of Northern Australia on American government territory known as Pine Gap. 'I finally went with, "the culture centres around a football team called the union of jolly homos." Homo is pronounced as home-o. Two syllables.'
'Well that's just one sentence,' Black Trash responded. Agent Tiler did not respond to him and eventually said, 'bye, I'll be in there in a few minutes.' Agent Tiler walked off screen and presumably headed towards the teleport back to Virginia.
On the wall, the clock skipped an hour and some until almost four am, Black Trash sauntered slowly towards the wall with the imagery about the Wuhan Institute of Virology and they special rats. Agent Tiler from the northern Australian desert had obviously come through the teleport and sat at the front of the meeting room near the screen on an individual collegiate style chair. Black Trash began handing out A4 folios, one to each attendee, starting with Agent Tiler. 'If y'all could complete this here survey, Human Resources would certainly appreciate it, they're trying to introduce more one off training sessions like this. Just mark your answers towards ten fo' shizzle cuz to indicate satisfaction or zero watchu talking about there Willis for dissatisfied or some place in between. We good?'
'Black Trash are you gonna take us out to the tarmac for the flight to Sleepytime Land?' One all nighter night owl asked, handling his bag at his side on the floor with his right hand.
'Not only that, but I'll be flying with y'all as far as Vegas, my stepbrother's getting married and they gonna have a bunch of family in town, wouldn't miss it for the world.' Black Trash responded looking at his wristwatch on his left wrist. 'Matter of fact, we're trialling a new technology embedded in that paper so whenever you're finished with your survey, leave the sheet anywhere in the building and someone should pick it up. I've made a note of numbers. Everyone heading to Sleepytime Land meet me next door while I wake up some cowboys. The rest of y'all are dismissed, get some sleep.' Black Trash unplugged his laptop computer and folded it into his palm and left the room and many of the folks there never saw him again. But his podcast was available online y'all.
......
Over Nevada some of Black Trash's colleagues fixed to bid him bon voyage. It transpired only Black Trash would be disembarking in Vegas and there were various supply chain shortages so it would be easier to fly at a low enough altitude for Black Trash to parachute out safely. No point landing and taking off again.
'Black Trash, we hope your white-boy stepbrother with the severely autistic personality amongst his numerous MPD multiple personalities finds true happiness with his white trash poll-dancing no good hick slut girlfriend.'
Everybody nodded in agreement with Agent Jack's words.
'I just hope grandma get the grandchillin' she expecting before my stepbrother go ahead and do somethin' stupid like change he gender y'all. You know what I mean?' Black Trash responded with true sincerity.
Nobody really knew exactly what Black Trash meant exactly but everyone knew families were complicated and everyone's family was a little kooky at the best of times.
'Black Trash we also got you this pair of loaded dice and some counterfeit ten dollar notes so you can enjoy gambling in the side alleys of Vegas, off the Strip. With the niggaz and rats amongst the trash cans B,' Agent Jack gave Black Trash a wad of counterfeit money and a pair of loaded dice to swindle folks at back alley craps with y'all.
'We also got you some chips Black Trash, for when you go indoors,' the special Agent that Black Trash had taken a shine to earlier for her sexy good looks held up an opaque ziplock bag.
'You mean like potato chips?' Black Trash asked as he shouldered his parachute backpack and buckled it on and then calmly produced a small tub of Ben and Jerry's chocolate chip ice cream and a spoon, passing her the lid. Clearly he meant to eat it as he drifted downwind on his parachute to Vegas.
'No dawg, casino chips you fool!' the cute special Agent chided Black Trash playfully. 'We all pooled our leftover chips in together and are hoping you can win us all some neat stuff or at least something for your stepbrother and his fiance.'
Black Trash waited for her to shove the ziplock bag down his pants. Unfortunately, she never took the hint but with the parachute backpack on and his Ben and Jerry's ice cream tub in hand, there was nothing for it but to look down at his crotch to indicate his desire.
The cute special Agent found a side pocket on Black Trash's thigh and shoved the ziplock bag in there and pressed the Velcro flap shut. Hopefully it wouldn't fly away on the way down to the casinos.
Moments later Black Trash popped his chute, immediately after jumping out of the low flying airplane. Everyone on board saw his unique Snoopy on his Sopwith Camel canopy design with his BT initials embroidered above it. His right boot started emitting pink smoke. It was quite a sight to behold. They wondered if they'd see him again as the small Lear jet banked left and climbed to a higher altitude.
https://youtu.be/2soGJXQAQec
"Do y'all reckon Black Trash has a shot at craps with those there special loaded dice?" Asked one of the agents present.
"As long as he stays on the backstreets he should be fine. I don't reckon he'll go far with Sheila's chips unless he's real good at counting cards in Blackjack like," another agent opined.
"Black Trash is as black trash does, ain't that right Sheila?"
"I reckon," confirmed Sheila.
"Shoot I miss that son of a gun already, you reckon he's hit the deck yet?"
The sun sank a little lower towards the horizon as the company rose to a higher altitude and continued cruising. After a while, a hitherto unseen man emerged from the cockpit. Tall, very slim and sporting dark, short hair with tanned skin, he wore a football styled shirt with the number '89' on it. Dramatic rock music piped around the Lear Jet as around fifteen to twenty agents considered the newcomer.
https://youtu.be/a3JSbOt7CLo
"Y'all listen to everything I say, if you address me call me sir or eighty nine. I will not be seeing you in person again after you jump out of this plane in a moment near the Utah/Arizona border. Understand first and foremost, that now and during your entire time in Sleepy Time Land, you absolutely will not be drugged up in any way, shape or form with any kind of hallucinogenic drug or any other kind of drugs. You WILL see crazy shit. Your hand or some other body part might seem to temporarily disappear or someone might go invisible for a while even though they're still there or some brain cells in your brain might end up temporarily in a parallel Galaxy, we won't even know for sure. You're scheduled for three days down below there and those of you that wish to continue the experiment may stay longer and those who don't may return to Langley in three days time where they can be debriefed by a psychologist or the like if they feel uncomfortable with what they see or experience.
Do NOT freak out. Do NOT start screaming and panicking. We had one guy see a giant squirrel following him around and he was totally freaked out. No-one else even saw it. We're experimenting with subatomic particles and some kind of fancy microwave machine from a different solar system. It's pretty crazy shit. Now pay attention, I'll allocate you to a team right now, I'll slap this team patch on my chosen leader's shoulder. You can change your leader every morning at breakfast but you can never change your team. If you leave for Langley or wherever else and return to Sleepy Time Land, you're always to stay in the same team alloted to you now. Charm Quark leader (slaps the Charm Quack [sic] patch on someone's shoulder), and you three, grab the parachute bag under your seat, jump out the plane first when we open the door, find the Charm Quark teepee down under using your navigation aids, make a beeline to your teepee and follow the instructions there. Boson team (slaps the Boson patch on someone and allocates three more folks to her team), jump out second, find the Boson teepee, ditto. Ditto JFK team (slaps JFK patch), jump third, find your teepee and stay close to it. White Fang (slaps patch) and Trout Timepiece (slaps patch on someone's shoulder), you two join White Fang team and you two join Trout Timepiece team, jump fourth and fifth, find your respective teepees first thing and play there. Don't go visiting each other's teepees. This is NOT college. Get familiar with your teepees and follow your instructions there. If it says eat this or don't eat, do whatever it says. Always remember not to freak out if you see something crazy. You won't need weapons, or to hunt. Just keep your wits about you and document any paranormal experiences you have.
We've almost descended into place. You should all have your parachutes in your lap, Charm Quark team. Stand up on line and shoulder your packs. Buckle up at the front across your chest like so. Door's opening, jump out now, go!"
The four members of the Charm Quark team jumped out of the open door of the low flying Lear Jet, following in Black Trash's literal footsteps only a moment before. The packs they had shouldered were surprisingly small and many of the folks had commented on how surprisingly small the packs were. After the last of the three Charm Quark followers followed their shoulder badge toting team leader out of the jet, 89 commented to the remainders:
"Yes, those parachute bags are neat and small, aren't they, observe the design as you descend, they're quite small. Boson team, muster up." By now everybody had noticed their team leader's badge and some of the other team leaders' badges. The subatomic teams, Charm Quark and Boson, did indeed have badges depicting a subatomic particle design. However White Fang group had a grey wolf on their badge and JFK had a profile of the President and his famous quote: 'ask not what your country can do for you.... Trailing into suspension points as there wasn't enough space for long diatribe. Trout Timepiece team had a handheld pocket watch, like from the 1800s or something, half opened, a watch face showing three o'clock could be seen part covered by a gaping trout on the watch cover. The latter jumped out last and the Lear Jet's door closed with a pull inside from 89. The Lear Jet immediately began gaining altitude and banked left in a south westerly direction and began turning around to head back east. The five teams plunged simultaneously, with Trout Timepiece the last to open their chutes.
Just before the last to jump from Trout Timepiece team pulled their chute open, time went back to when that person was last to jump off the plane. 89 told the agent,
"Make sure your earpiece is turned on," and 89 reached over with his right hand to turn on the agent's Bluetooth earpiece. "That better, can you hear me now?"
The last to jump nodded yes and 89 supposed that everyone could hear their interaction as he'd checked all their Bluetooth earpieces were lit up as they jumped out of the Lear Jet one by one. 89 was the only crew on board and the jet was on autopilot while he waited for the last jumper to depart the plane. As he saluted that person goodbye and turned for the cockpit, the last to jump noticed the word 'Actinium' on the back of 89's football shirt. At the same time the jumper jumped, she barely had time to ask 89 why it said Actinium on his football jersey, not knowing much about the various elements, of which Actinium was the 89th element, before ripping open her parachute as they all knew to pull their string three seconds out of the plane.
As her chute opened and tugged her freefall into a gentle fall, 89 responded from the cockpit as he assumed control of the jet, "maybe it's because I'm radio-active. Ok everyone pay attention, this is 89 talking to all your asses, not just Agent Fullerton from Trout Timepiece. All your chutes are now deployed and you're enjoying the fall this spring. You might notice teepees below marked with other team names apart from your own. Just don't interfere with them or try to approach any teepee that isn't your own. Take out your navigation kit when you hit the ground and buddy up with your team and head to your teepees. Follow the instructions there and don't freakout about your sanity, go fluid."
89 cut out and they never heard from him again as they fell to the ground and found their buddies and rolled and packed their chutes and got their navigation map and compass out which was extremely straightforward as the compass was gently built into the laminated, waterproof map, barely a blip on the surface but still a fully functioning compass embedded in the map. One by one each team trod to their respective teepees from one or two miles to fifteen or so mile treks. Most teams arrived by sundown with the farthest travelling arriving just after sundown. Those that were armed were that much safer from any wandering critters like actual wolves or coyotes, those that didn't bring a service pistol or taser could use the knife from their parachute pack or pick up a rock or stick from Nature. They also had material to start a fire in their parachute backpacks for flaming faggots, just sayin'.
https://youtu.be/2zNSgSzhBfM
Team JFK mounted a ridge and their leader, Jenkins pointed across a valley on the other side of the river they had just crossed with a simple rope bridge to a barely noticeable spot on the other side.
"That's the Boson team, the sons of bitches, you can see them mounting that cleft there then disappearing over the other side."
"Well I haven't seen anything strange yet, but I have noticed some subatomic particles floating around in the air, which is a little unusual," Agent De Souza quipped.
"You think? What the hell is a Boson anyway? I never studied particle physics. Someone give me a refresher," a third agent remarked.
Jenkins warmed to the occasion to show off his knowledge, and relished being their leader, at least until breakfast, as it afforded him the ability to walk in front of the team of four. At the rear Dacosta brandished his Glock pistol with the safety on, just in case a bear jumped out at them or something.
"The current standard model shows four universal forces acting on matter and anti-matter: electromagnetism, moved by the photon field; the strong force that binds neutrons and protons in the cell nucleus, moved by the gluons field, or gluons; and the weak force, moved by w and z bosons."
"Do they have w and z bosons?" the third team member asked, noone knew his name or anything about him.
"They hadn't mentioned that at any point when we were on the flight," Jenkins responded, "but I would guess their teepee instructions might go into detail about that, basically the weak force as manifested by bosons is the only force that can affect all twelve fermions we currently know of. Gluons and photons do not affect all twelve fermions."
"What the hell is a fermion?" De Souza asked.
"There are twelve main subatomic particles now recognized by science, think of them as six dark eggs and six white eggs you cannot get at a supermarket because Joe Biden is a f*ck up."
"Okay," De Souza answered.
"The dark eggs are leptons and the white eggs are quarks, together they're twelve fermions. The gluons and photons affect certain fermions with color charge or electric charge respectively but the weak force, the bosons, have the ability to change all fermions into something else."
"Actually Jenkins the photons and gluons are bosons also, just not z or w bosons. The bosons and fermions both spin and are differentiated by whether they spin as a full h-bar value or multiples of an exact half h-bar value. Consider that the sun and moon do not spin on their axis whereas the Earth does. Science does not know of any subatomic particles spinning except as full or half integer values of an h-bar," the third, unknown agent said.
"Well I'm not as schooled as you are, obviously, what exactly is an h-bar?" Jenkins asked the third agent.
"H-bar is actually my middle name, so it's what you guys can call me from now on. In particle physics it's an exact standard way of measuring subatomic particle spin," h-bar retorted.
"Wait a second," De Souza interjected, "didn't you just say you never studied particle physics h-bar? And now all of a sudden you're spouting off about the spin differentiating fermions from bosons?"
"Well yeah, I'm just reading off my smart watch here," h-bar responded.
"Didn't 89 say no smart phones and there's no cell phone coverage here at all?" Docosta asked.
"My smart watch has a large memory and no internet connection at the moment," h-bar responded.
"Wait, what, no internet or cell phone connection at all this weekend?" Da Souza suddenly turned white as if he'd just opened the door to his house in Virginia to police at 3am in the morning.
"Yeah weren't you listening? What the hell? You forgot to tell your wife your mistress would be coming over? Ha ha" H-bar insisted.
Suddenly a bell toting cow appeared behind two of the men facing Da Souza as he crumpled into a defeated, hyperventilating heap on the floor.
"Holy shit! Holy shit! Where the hell did this cow come from? Holy shit! God-dam!" Jenkins was both enthused and in disbelief, clearly there was absolutely no way a cow could have just walked up behind them, it had very clearly appeared from nowhere and was living and breathing and chewing its cud.
"Holy crap, that 89 up there told us crazy shit like this would happen, he said we had to document it all in our teepees, ain't that right?" H-bar looked at Dacosta and Jenkins for approbation, they were both stunned and looked at the floor where Da Souza was freaking out but ok. It had not yet occurred to them that Da Souza had freaked out over the suddenly apparent cow, in fact it seemed that he had freaked out about the news about no cell phone coverage for the weekend. Still they had not actually thought anything cognitively as the suddenly appearing cow had really surprised them.
"Da Souza what the hell is the matter with you? You upset there's no cell phone service in Sleepy Time Land? Holy cow, sure as hell looks like there'll be fresh milk here, what do you say cowboy?" Jenkins spoke heartily and positively while giving the cow's rump a playful pat and holding his left palm on its back. "Reckon we ought to call her Daisy Da Souza? Come on, what the hell has your goat?"
"It's my son, the no good son of a bitch. I was going to send him to West Virginia with his no good fuck buddy useless slut girlfriend this weekend," Da Souza was clearly upset.
"Why Da Souza? What's the problem?" Dacosta asked.
"My son's a no good son of a bitch, now President Biden has written off his university debt he's already planning on investing his college money into industrial level marijuana plantations, the son of a bitch. When he sees I'll be away all weekend he'll throw a party at my house and destroy it. I just finished shellacking the patio, he's gonna fucking destroy everything! God!!" This final ejaculation of 'God!!!' by Da Souza was more like a blood curdling battle cry mixed with an equal half of defeat, chilling. "Goddamit, goddamit!" Da Souza seemed like a man defeated.
"Holy cow, can you guys believe this shit? Holy cow! Dacosta son, get a rope around this cow, we're going to lead it to our teepee this here afternoon on God's green Earth and have ourselves some fresh milk for breakfast, God willing, what do you say?" Jenkins lead.
"Aye aye captain."
Jenkins continued, "son do you want me to give you a kiss and read you a bedtime story tonight? Should I wipe away your tears and do your hair tonight while you tell me all about that wayward son of yours?"
"Yeah fuck you too Jenkins. Also the cow is pretty shocking. Get on then, let's step into that goddam teepee before the sun sets goddamit," Da Souza overcame his temporary despair and lead the way back to the teepee from h-bar's instruction as the latter carried the map.
"Goddamit I thought Da Souza was upset he wasn't going to get to watch the new Top Gun movie tonight, ha ha!" Jenkins laughed heartily as he coaxed the newly found cow up a rise. "Industrial level marijuana plantations indeed! Ha ha ha," Jenkins laughed more at Da Souza's representations. It was much different to the life he had known as a Colonel in the military and more recently in the CIA.
"I already saw the new Top Gun movie," Da Souza grumbled, "I'm surprised Iceman and Maverick didn't send each other flowers and little love letters and put glitter all over each other."
"Yeah really?" Dacosta inquired from the rear as he walked behind Jenkins and the new addition to the team up the hillside with its udder and teats dangling below, "I thought it was pretty cool."
*
"Wassup Penny? What can you see down in the valley?" The Californian Agent Newport asked the Charm Quark team leader.
"Well that cow we all saw, kind of inexplicably appearing amongst what has to be JFK team, they've just roped that up and headed on out. They must have had a little powwow down there, it's just too far to say," Penny passed the field glasses to Newport.
"Dawg, how long til we get to base dawg? This is taking too long," the Mexican sounding Rodriguez grumbled under his little pack to agent Simpson nearby.
"Dawg this, dawg that, haven't you learned our names yet Rodriguez? How the hell did you get let into the CIA anyway? You find a golden ticket in your chilli back in Guadalajara or something dawg?" Agent Simpson asked Rodriguez.
"Dawg I told you, my father worked for the State Department, he was with the Mexican embassy attache to DC and got recruited by the State Department to represent American trade interests in Mexico. Then Trump got elected," Rodriguez said as he stopped hiking and produced a water canteen, "how much further to this bitch it's like I need a shower dawg."
"Then Trump got elected?" Simpson shot back, "and what were you doing Rodriguez? Practicing ocean swimming between Tijuana and San Diego, with a snorkel and flippers?"
"Dawg shut up dawg. Talk and talk, you should see how high I scored on the entrance test for the CIA. It's like I'm so smart everything just exploded into dust at the testing center dawg," Rodriguez said in a relaxed way.
"Yeah well hopefully you didn't have to sell your soul to the devil Rodriguez," Simpson rebuffed.
"Dawg shut the hell up, shut up. Talk to me about science or something, what the hell is a charm quark?" Rodriguez responded.
"Science isn't for sure yet. Consider science now says every subatomic nucleus particle from our parents day, is now comprised of three quarks. Two up and a down quark or two down and an up quark. So every proton and neutron supposedly is two up quarks and a down or two down quarks and one up. They have positive or negative electric charge, the ups and downs and there's always two of one and one of the other."
Rodriguez listened as Simpson continued, "well nothing exploded into dust when I joined the Agency, dawg." Simpson rolled his eyes as he said that, towards Penny and Newport as they had proceeded to hike ahead, shouldering their packs and leaving their binocular spectacle, "and I might not be as smart as you, but nuclear physics is super difficult to understand. Consider if I was able to put a chicken egg in your pack just using my mind and the power of Sleepy Time Land here."
"So?" Rodriguez shot back, falling into the rear of the four Charm Quark team members with Penny and Newport at the fore.
"So a key principle of nuclear physics is that even though I intend for there to be an egg in your pack, we wouldn't know if it was broken or not unless you looked or we tried filming it," Simpson paused. "So like, say you choose to open your bag or we have some means of measuring a response, only then would we know if the egg was broken or not," Simpson offered.
"Dawg that's crazy, you're saying the essence of an egg will be in my bag based on your thoughts making that an active passive reality, but my desire to know about the fruition of your intention will cause the egg to actually physically exist in a measurable way, but then, the energy we put into actually measuring the egg will determine if it's broken or not?"
"Beautifully put Rodriguez, I can see there is something to your brainy boasting. In fact, if we put a measuring device that only detected wetness, then would this make the egg appear from seeming nothingness or make the already broken egg appear from seeming nothingness?"
"Dawg that's complicated," Rodriguez retorted.
"Well dawg there are so many subatomic particles I couldn't explain them all to you, kaons and pions and relativistic pions. I always like to stick to the egg analogy because there's an obvious nucleus and an obvious membrane, plus a protective shell, easy to wrap your head around. You feeling me?"
"I'm feeling you dawg," Rodriguez responded.
"Well what physics is saying is that charm quarks are heavier than regular quarks, kind of like a big grouping of regular quarks. So if one kid can throw an egg at a bus, and one magician can make an egg fly at a bus without an actual arm actually throwing it, then charm quarks...."
"..... are either a busload of kids throwing an egg each at a bus from outside the bus or else a volley of magically flying eggs flying at the bus without any arms or anything actually throwing them," Rodriguez finished his thought.
"I don't really know dawg," Simpson volunteered, "it's what I would say, but physicists talk about a quantum state where the eggs aren't measurable by our science and every white part of the egg is two downs and an up quark but every yolk is two ups and a down quark, but they're just there in theory in big numbers."
"That's the particle wave theory dawg, I've studied that. If it's moving through space it's a particle, if it's moving through a solid it's a wave, it goes through the solid like a vibratory field," Rodriguez said.
"It's super complicated," Simpson replied.
"Nobody's figured it out yet, I know, it's like Nascar racing. You stop watching it for a decade and you come back and all the names have changed, the old drivers have retired," Rodriguez seemed happy with his conclusion and his scientific curiosity had been appeased with regards to subatomic particles. However, his curiosity continued unabated. "Dawg what's up with agent Newport? Why does he talk the way he do?"
"Newport's autistic, you didn't know that?" Simpson shot back.
"Straight up autistic dawg?" Rodriguez asked without knowing what to think.
"He's really autistic bro. Watch him with agent Penny, you think she's hot?" Simpson asked.
"She's alright dawg, I'd do her, nothing to write the folks in Tijuana about," Rodriguez responded.
"Well Newport is never going to put the moves on her because he's straight up autistic."
"He doesn't dig women dawg?" Rodriguez asked.
"He doesn't dig women or men or little fifteen year old girls or dolphins on the beach dawg, he cannot be drawn into a conversation about sex. He's a straight up high functioning autistic mega dweeb," Simpson reported.
"Straight up dawg," Rodriguez accepted. "Man that 89 guy said head straight to our teepee, how much further to go?"
"Finally! Home sweet home!" Agent London, the White Fang team leader for the day, dumped his pack from his shoulder, all but blocking the single triangular opening in their cavernous four storey high teepee.
"Boss what are we going to do with the wild boar? Where do you want it?" Two female agents hoisting a wooden pole over their shoulders, with a gutted, uncooked wild boar hanging from it, perked up.
"Don't let Alvarado here cook it, he'll probably screw it in the ass to tenderize the meat," Agent London quipped.
"Ladies do not listen to this Appalachian fool, and never touch his moonshine or anything else his dirty little white soul might offer you to touch, in the middle of the night. You've probably got a better chance of avoiding a heart attack taking a covid vaccine," Alvarado laughed hard. At the same time he kinda knew he didn't like Agent London, and would leave Sleepy Time Land before being stuck with the guy for more than a few days.
"Look we sure as hell don't want the dead thing bleeding in here ladies, that's what your menstrual cycles are good for," Alvarado continued.
"The son of a bitch is right ladies, although I wouldn't have put it like that. I'm going to build a fire over there and drape up a little smokescreen there, so basically just leave it over there, well away from the one teepee door and I'll cook it over night," Agent London said.
"Bro if that wind picks up tonight, it's going to burn this goddam teepee to the ground," Alvarado complained, his voice becoming concerned.
"I don't think so bro," London said 'bro' in a contemptuous kind of way, "this thing is made out of kevlar, I don't think it's gonna burn, look," and so saying London held a lighter to the lowest part of the wall which sat about two inches from the grassy floor.
"London, I absolutely do not want smoked pig smoke wafting into my crib this weekend, you're gonna have to cook it way on over down there," Alvarado pointed about thirty yards off towards a little gully affording some natural protection and distance from travelling smoke and embers. "And I'll tell you guys something else, I'm in charge of counter espionage from Johnny Chong over from Beijing, so I'm going through your packs to check for any security hazards."
"But...." Agent Stella protested.
"No buts, we all know London is working on his how to kill your wife and get away with it for dummies book and I don't care if you ladies have gay love poems or the turbo deluxe vibrator in those bags of yours. Something as innocuous as a plastic two dollar dream catcher from the ninety nine cent store could be a mole from communist China and I don't want any issues," Alvarado spoke with certainty.
"But didn't 89 say absolutely no electronics allowed in Sleepy Time Land?" The other female agent, Morris, asked.
"Well shoot, just another reason for me to go through those packs, you can never be too safe. You three go ahead and move that bloody boar away from here and start cooking it and I'll check your packs," Alvarado insisted.
"I don't want you messing up my matrix sequels DVDs," London informed Alvarado.
"Bro, I already had you pegged for a complete and utter dumbass, now you're just making it public," Alvarado responded to London, outside the teepee as Agents Stella and Morris shouldered up their wild boar skewer once again.
"I'm not a dumbass," London told Alvarado.
"Bro anyone that watches matrix sequels is a dumbass, even Keanu Reeves even if he never saw the actual finished edit of the movie. That's how dumb you are, you wouldn't even understand a totally piece of shit movie when you saw one, coz you're a dumbass," Alvarado told London, in no uncertain terms.
"The matrix sequels are not dumb movies, they're awesome movies," London fired back, without becoming upset even.
"Bro they couldn't even get Lawrence Fishburne to come back for that nonsense, he must have an actual working brain maybe. Keanu Reeves is a rotting zombie playing a has been movie star bro, it's like you're operating and coexisting in reality while at the same time just running on shit for brains bro. I can't believe I'm having this conversation, you're making me feel like that rooster in the old cartoons, Foghorn Leghorn. You ever see that ladies? He's always dealing with a stupid dog, trying to place boundaries and shit. Bro I hope you don't snore and jerk off in your sleep and shit bro, this is going to be a long weekend under the same roof with you bro, let me tell you," Alvarado was raising his voice as London had set off already with the wild boar bearers.
"Trout Timepiece, here we go, we're on our little mission. So much easier now we have mules to ride," Agent Barker, the newly elected team leader from earlier that morning, stated from atop his mule. Behind him rode two other agents, also atop their own individual mules.
"Did you guys all remember daylight savings are in effect?" Agent Copper asked from the rear.
"What the hell are you talking about Copper? It's late September and daylight savings have been in effect since March and will be until early November. How did you sleep last night in that big old teepee, you get a good night's rest?" Agent Fullerton, the last to depart the recent flight asked.
"I'm fine Fullerton, I think I just spent the last ten months looking at ridiculously small satellite photos of North Korean troop movements, life had become a little boxed in and now I'm riding a mule in Arizona or somewhere, is that where we are?" Copper asked back.
"That's a long time to be looking at little iddy biddy grainy photos of troop movements in North Korea Copper," Agent Barker opined. "Were they moving anywhere interesting?"
"Well they were before we carpet bombed the shit out of them, that's for sure," Copper responded.
Back at the White Fang teepee area, London, Stella and Morris had arrived at the gully Alvarado had indicated and begun building a fire to slowly roast the boar they had brought thus far. Stella and Morris collected tinder while London prepared the flames, following an ancient ritual entirely known to all races of humankind before the industrial revolution, the three worked quietly. Then Morris made a sudden realization which she did not bother to think about much before mentioning it,
"Hey didn't that 89 guy allocate only the three of us in the White Fang team?"
"Well yeah actually, Charm Quark, Boson and JFK were all four people, our group and Trout Timepiece were the last six at the back of the plane," Stella responded quietly and uncertainly.
"So where the hell did Alvarado appear from? Do you remember seeing him on the flight?" Agent Morris asked.
Stella's eyes kind of looked off hazy into a ravine focusing out as her brain tried to remember the flight. Black Trash was being mollycoddled for his wedding thing he was going to. The agent from NY went around asking for cash or casino chips for a wedding present. People were having the time of their life, many of whom after being pent into cubicles squinting at grainy satellite photos on computer screens for months on end. Folks were laughing. The flashback of Stella's recollection ended and the shrubbery of the present location came back into focus. Stella put her finger on her forehead trying to remember, "I'm really not sure, I've got to be home soon to attend my son's college graduation in Boston, I really don't know what's going on."
"Well I totally cannot remember Alvarado being on that flight now that I think of it," Morris responded as they approached London with more kindling. "Do you remember Alvarado being on the flight, London? Stella and I are just now realizing we don't remember him being on the flight and 89 only allocated patches to the three of us."
"Let's go to the teepee and check, you know I don't remember seeing a patch on his shoulder a moment ago in the teepee either," London said.
"That's right!" Morris observed, "he wasn't wearing the flight jackets we were all wearing on the flight, no velcro!"
"Trust a woman to notice how a man dresses!" London mused as they hurried inside the teepee.
Each teepee had a couple of very elegant and sparse stairs, more like upraised ladders without railings, to arrive at tiny platforms yards above the ground for sleeping. London sprang up one and then the other while Stella and Morris looked around the floor.
There was absolutely no trace of Alvarado, not even a foot print. The packs they had left with him were on the floor near the center of the teepee along with their instructions guidelines, some pens, and a mostly empty diary, presumably for taking notes. Stella flicked through the pages,
"89 said we should document all kinds of paranormal activity, he mentioned some guy seeing a giant squirrel, I guess Alvarado beats that. Say, this book already has notes in it." Stella looked at the black vinyl binding of the mostly unfilled diary, "that's odd, look, it's embossed with the Herbal Essences logo, that's like my favorite shampoo and conditioner. Look inside, it says something about haircare in here, look at those handwritten notes Morris," Stella passed the diary to Morris while she looked for a pen and London finished up his extensive search of the teepee including at the doorway for footprints.
"It's very unusual," London reported, "I can see all of our footprints and even where you laid the wild boar down outside not half an hour ago," London looked at his watch and his voice betrayed a clear note of disbelief and even a hint of panic, although it was really just a suggestion as London was a pretty solid guy.
"But not Alvarado's right?" Stella finished London's thought while she stepped over to the teepee entrance to look at the footprints in the dirt there.
"Well there's nothing for it," Morris said in a relaxed way, grabbing a pen herself from the little table below, "we'll have to make notes, what's the date today? September 24? Let me just write this down after all this undated jazz about hair follicles and creativity. Looks like notes an actual aspiring hairdresser would make by the looks of it. I guess I should make a note of that too as that in itself seems strange." After writing for a moment, the clear headed Morris said to London, "London why don't you go ahead and finish preparing that roast pork on a spit, maybe try finding some herbs. Herbal Essences, gosh darn it," Morris threw out the last sentence more to herself than anything else as she realized the pig needed herbs and the diary was from her favorite haircare products at the same time.
Agent Stella began examining the instructions guidelines in a small pamphlet in earnest as London left to tend to his roast. As Stella looked at the binding on the instructional pamphlet, she spoke her thoughts to Morris,
"Morris first make a note that it's a haircare brand embossed diary when you remark on the notes you found in the diary. And note that there's no other diary here to take notes in. Note we found only two pens. One unmarked and push button biro style, the other advertising a window furnishings South of Phoenix."
"Let me see the other one, is it unmarked?" Morris asked back. "Ok it's disappeared, where is it? It's vanished, we only have one pen."
"Man Alvarado seemed like a real prick but I'm already kind of missing the guy, how long did we know him?" London called out from the teepee entrance as he strode in intending to find any kind of tools available or perhaps do a kind of inventory, "I kind of want to get all our tools together. Did y'all just mention a pen went missing? That's one less tool we're working with, we really don't have much."
"Don't want to lose my train of thought here guys," Morris called back as she wrote her notes, now seated on the floor using the little table she'd found in the middle of the teepee, "one seemingly unmarked pen was located then apparently disappeared however we never literally saw it disappearing. The other pen seems to be advertising material for window furnishings in the South Phoenix area however there's no zip on it. Herbal Essences embossed diary check. Aspiring undated hairdressers notes fill first ten pages or so, check. Made Alvarado's acquaintance while furling our parachutes, check?" Morris looked up towards London and Stella for validation. London was on his feet moving around, combing the room for any kind of loose objects. Stella was seated nearby on the grassy floor methodically going through their three respective parachute packs which also had other extras like canteens, swiss army knife, their maps, which Stella was laying out side by side on the floor next to her.
"That sounds about right to me," London called back from one of the two upper daises where the beddings were located, "definitely don't recall actually seeing him falling around us in the sky however I wasn't paying that much attention at the time.... I was kind of focused on studying the lay of the land."
"Stella how about you?" Morris looked at Stella who had not retracted an atom's weight of attention from her task at hand, she seemed pleased to find a new item in one of the packs. "Stella do you remember when you first saw Alvarado?"
"I think he walked over to me while I was rolling my chute up, I think at the time he looked like he was dressed the same as us with his pack already on his shoulder. He never had a patch because he wasn't made team leader was my understanding," Stella responded. "Oh neat look! 'The Perfect Police State' by Geoffrey Cain. Perfect reading material, a must read!" Stella waxed joyful at her new find like the woman in the gospel parable that unexpectedly found a missing coin while housekeeping. She carefully lay the book down amongst her new inventory and patted the team leader patch on her shoulder clear of any lint.
"Agent Stella no understandy pamphlet instructionsy..." Agent Stella said in a part playful, part baffled and resigned but calm tone and passed the pamphlet to London for his perusal.
"When does housekeeping become ho use keeping?? Exactly how much space is required?? Answer the question." London read housekeeping as one word and ho use as two distinct words followed by the word keeping, "oh I totally understand that," London laughed, "I can answer that."
"Well good," Stella responded. "Guess that means I can go wash my hair then."
Meanwhile at Camp Boson... Agents Sheila, Jack, Terry and Tim were all suddenly sporting white t-shirts fashioned with large displays at the front showing various types of actual bosons: x,w, photon and gluon. Apparently agent Terry was a photon and had his back propped up against a tree trunk outside the boson teepee and was sleeping or passed out. Around him, Sheila, a gluon, Jack, an 'x' boson, and Tim, a 'w' boson. Basically the following scene unfolded:
The gluon suggested to the X and W boson that they hold smelling salts to the photon's nose, to revive him. After a moment, the photon opened his eyes and looked around himself:
"Where am I? Is this heaven? Am I in the afterlife?" Agent Terry asked, looking at Agents Sheila, Jack and Tim.
The photon regarded the X, W and gluon with a confused look on his face. The gluon piped up.
"Don't you remember we descended to Sleepy Time Land after Black Trash left, Agent 89? We all four of us here spent last night in the teepee?" Agent Sheila asked. It seemed like an eternity ago she had bid Black Trash adieu and gifted him some casino chips in his thigh pocket.
The photon waved the smelling salts away and looked at the X and W boson, vaguely seeming to recognise them, then looked back at the gluon, who now set her face in a resolute and sad way to the photon.
"We're terribly sorry Agent Terry," Sheila began. She seemed to be on the verge of tears and Agent Terry began to feel concerned about it. Agent Terry looked at Agents Jack and Tim who stood next to Agent Sheila as she squatted by Terry's side. Their faces seemed to wax stoic. "There's no easy way to tell you this...."
"Sleepy Time Land, Alpha Bravo Charlie twenty seven, copy...." the earpiece from 89 on Tim's ear squelched with a mysterious voice from wherever. Some crickets or cicadas began a rusty choir and birds chirped. If a movie camera were around with the old fashioned thirty five millimetre film there would be a focus pull effect with the camera zooming in while simultaneously tracking away lending the scene further dramatic poignancy.
Agent Sheila paused, choking tears. Agent Tim squatted next to her, "bro we accidentally poisoned you, you've only got five minutes to live, if you move your body now you'll only survive an extra minute."
"How did you do that?" The photon asked.
Agent Jack stayed on his feet, "I accidentally put the wrong thing in your can of sardines or whatever you were having for breakfast, trout or herring whatever," it was hard to tell if Jack cared that much or what his emotions were. But the photon accepted his new reality, this was, after all, his job. He began to wonder if he'd go to heaven or hell. Thank God he never had to push a fellow Agent and citizen out of a window and make it look like a suicide he thought to himself.
"We're terribly sorry Terry," Agent Sheila seemed to be the only one that cared. Agent Terry was touched by her warmth and comfort and certainly didn't expect Tim and Jack to cry for him. The moment lingered for a while in the atmosphere of pathos and forest sounds, and finally the photon meekly asked if he could be given a bible to hold on to.
"Just messing with you dawg!" Sheila burst out into laughter and Jack and Tim also began laughing however it was clear that Sheila was the ringleader and had been putting in the most effort and getting the most pleasure from her cruel ruse.
"Can I have my bible dawg?" Sheila was rolling on the dirty, grassy floor outside the teepee in hysterics now.
"Get up photon, you're just a heavy sleeper and your snoring was annoying the hell out of us, you had to be drug out of the teepee just so we could sleep. We couldn't even believe you slept through all of that and being propped up against a tree and through breakfast," the w boson informed the photon.
"Can I have my Bible?" Sheila mimicked Terry, still in a delirious state of jocular hysterics and laughing in a side splitting way spread out on the floor.
"Dang Sheila, you got your acting style downpat and everything," Agent Tim commented somewhat disinterestedly but with a genuine note of admiration.
Amongst the Trout Timepiece folks, Agent Barker rode his mule through an incline amongst the sycamore forest of northern Arizona. The three man group had arrived after nightfall the previous evening, hiking some ten miles, agreed the next morning over breakfast to change leadership to Barker, after a relatively uneventful evening. Some notes were made in their notebook and a little fire was made in the teepee center to make coffee and eggs and toast. The mission required the men to go on a small expedition in search of certain plants. The mules were a plus found grazing outside their teepee in the morning.
Suddenly the three mules disappeared and the riders fell from where they had been perched upon. Copper fell in the shallow riverbed of the arroyo and Barker fell on the dirt trail beneath him after the arroyo. Neither of them were injured. However Fullerton fell the wrong way on a large stone a little smaller than a bowling ball, and hurt his back.
"Ouch Agent Fullerton, are you okay?" Barker asked.
Fullerton made some hurt noises while Barker and Copper ministered to his needs. After a while it appeared he was okay and the men proceeded on foot towards where they expected to find the plant matter their official teepee task had tasked them with subordinating.
"Jesus, that's the last time I ride a donkey," Fullerton griped.
"A mule," Barker reproved him.
"Whatever," Fullerton spat back, dismissing the difference as minuscule compared to the pain in his back which he hoped would go away.
"God this reminds me of the time my stepson perforated his anus from way too much gay orgy group ass-sex and couldn't walk properly for a week," Copper philosophized, "YOU remind me of that, Fullerton, with your little limp and sore tuckus."
"Well that's great to know Copper, fantastic," Fullerton said dismissively.
"Well now that sounds unusual, your stepson was quite a character was he Copper?" Agent Barker asked above his Trout Timepiece badge as he eyed the sun decline towards California and the west, still some four hours or so from setting. He saw an eagle fly above heading towards Death Valley it seemed.
"And then some. And then some," Copper responded. "Has it ever occurred to you Barker, that folks in faraway countries that have the misfortune of a Lockheed Martin Stealth Bomber turning their village into rubble now have the option of buying handheld signs over the internet thanking Lockheed Martin for doing that?"
"No it didn't," Barker shot back truthfully.
"Well that's because you never knew about my gay stepson's artistic endeavors. For you see Agent Barker, of the CIA, not only could my stepson commit to a gay gangbang with all the boys and perforate his anus in groupsex, so as to walk just like Fullerton here. But he also dabbled in his art studio, so that he developed, amongst other eyebrow raising artistic endeavors of his, handheld placards stating just that: Thank you Lockheed Martin Stealth Bomber for turning my village into rubble."
"Wow," Fullerton seemed genuinely impressed. "That beats everything. Son of a bitch. How much is he flogging those signs off for?"
"Only like ten dollars plus postage and they're pretty well legible, I mean they're pretty easy to read. You know that church that makes those God Hates Fags signs? I mean they're also very legible signs," Copper responded.
"Well yeah I never heard some transgender guy complaining oh those God Hates Fags signs are too hard to read, I mean they're pretty gosh darn legible, really. I mean shoot, if I was from some scrappy faraway village and I figured maybe my town would get bombed by a Lockheed Martin Stealth Bomber and I wanted to get that sign beforehand just in case, I mean yeah, you know, I'd want the sign to be legible if I was paying all that postage to Iran or wherever," Barker explained.
"Well they're going with the F35 already for Iran, the Israelis are really the first guys to use it in combat missions over actual air defence zones into Iran so I mean your stepson Buck or whoever needs to do some F35 signs Copper, really," Fullerton interjected.
Trout Timepiece, here we go, we're on our little mission. So much easier now we have mules to ride," Agent Barker, the newly elected team leader from earlier that morning, stated from atop his mule. Behind him rode two other agents, also atop their own individual mules.
"Did you guys all remember daylight savings are in effect?" Agent Copper asked from the rear.
"What the hell are you talking about Copper? It's late September and daylight savings have been in effect since March and will be until early November. How did you sleep last night in that big old teepee, you get a good night's rest?" Agent Fullerton, the last to depart the recent flight asked.
"I'm fine Fullerton, I think I just spent the last ten months looking at ridiculously small satellite photos of North Korean troop movements, life had become a little boxed in and now I'm riding a mule in Arizona or somewhere, is that where we are?" Copper asked back.
"That's a long time to be looking at little iddy biddy grainy photos of troop movements in North Korea Copper," Agent Barker opined. "Were they moving anywhere interesting?"
"Well they were before we carpet bombed the shit out of them, that's for sure," Copper responded.
Stone temple pilots
https://youtu.be/0zqXU_buXZM
That evening, after everyone had returned to their teepees and attempted the day's activities, all noticed a written communication on paper stating there would be a football game between them the day after tomorrow. How the paper itself came to be there was mysterious, as everyone assumed nobody was physically visiting the teepees while they were out all day, although this was a logical assumption. However the deficit of footprints and other suchlike evidence gave the lie to it. Mysterious. In any case White Fang and JFK were assigned to the same Purple team, Charm Quark and Trout Timepiece were assigned to an opposing Yellow team. They were instructed to prepare their offensive and defensive playbooks that evening as the morrow would bring other activities.
White Fang and JFK sat in their respective teepees and video-conferenced with a kind of holographic projection without the use of any kind of perceivable electronic device.
"Ok now, we have more paper communications suddenly and mysteriously manifested here people, it says we'll be getting one guy from the Boson team to make nine. Charm Quark and Trout Timepiece will get two members of Boson to round out nine for them and there'll be one substitute tackle from Boson in case anyone wants to rest," Jenkins confirmed, reading from his mysterious papers that weren't there a moment ago.
"Well who's QB and who'll be their receiver?" Alvarado asked, "that's the first order of the day, isn't it?"
"Well Goddamit this is the CIA and everybody played football in college except for little old me," Morris pined.
"Me neither, I ain't done never played no football," Stella assisted in a faux hillbilly accent.
"Well fine, you girls can be defensive/offensive tackles then, just block at the line of scrimmage," H-Bar said. "Ok I was about to get drafted into the big leagues as a wide receiver when I got drafted by the CIA so I'll be our wide receiver," H-Bar said modestly and matter of fact like. After a moment he paused, "unless you guys know something I don't," he hinted inquisitively.
"No that's fine," De Souza said after a moment of silence where nobody else challenged H-bar's credentials. "How about quarterback? Any aspirants?"
After a moment of silence De Souza spoke again, "I know Terry in Boson played quarterback."
"Well how are we going to recruit him? He's not on hologram here to talk to," Stella inquired and subsequently declared.
"Yeah and what if the other team wants him for their quarterback?" Alvarado asked.
"No they got Penny," London immediately responded.
"Penny?" Alvarado asked. "That blonde lady?"
London responded, "yeah she plays lingerie league, she's real good."
Alvarado then asks, "can we consider our defensive position for a moment? With only nine on the field I understand we might have three on the defensive line with De Souza, who's the biggest, in the middle. If we're having Stella and Morris there on the ends, I mean I don't know, maybe one or both should be cornerbacks if they're super fast. H-Bar must be our safety right? Or what?"
After some time, as both the Yellow and Purple teams discussed their positions and logistics through the cross teepee holographic system CTHS® operating system, it was announced their respective coaches would address them. The Yellow team, Charm Quark, Trout Timepiece and half of Boson were addressed by Tobias, their new coach. The CTHS® operating system voiceover described him as 'not an emotionally disturbed person, but going through a tough divorce, capable of bringing their football to a whole new level and not an illegal alien nor a Canadian neither'.
Similarly JFK and White Fang and their guy Terry from Boson were addressed by their new coach Da Silva on the CTHS®. In the case of Terry, this was effected by Terry actually leaving the Boson teepee some distance and CTHS®, which, like the United States Postal service, being deployable in rain, hail or sleet/snow, being switched on outside. CTHS® described Da Silva as 'a Brazilian but not a drug dealer'.
JFK and White Fang immediately realized Da Silva was Brazilian through his accent. He didn't seem capable to remember everyone's name and be never showed a holographic pen nor paper neither a gizmo to record notes, so he just seemed to call everyone 'guy'.
"Hey you guy," Da Silva would say pointing at the linebacker or wide receiver. "Why you going to run around pointlessly like a complete f&$ing idiot? You think the defence is going to just lie down and play with the grass like they on a acid trip, that your big plan?" The players with a background in football amongst the purple team became interested in Da Silva's concept of offense.
After clarifying a number of key matters, Da Silva, with his Purple team's undivided attention riveted onto his holographic image began to discuss his plays: "Ok guys, let me tell you how I run offense," Da Silva began. "First of all, all my offense falls under the basic umbrella of: Chicago or Somalia, you tell me which shithole we're dealing with here bro?"
Amazing. "The reason I do like that is because I know Chicago is fucked up and I'm sure I wouldn't want to go to Somalia absolutely no way either. So you got to think: the defensive line at the scrimmage, they're like Chicago or Somalia, one or the other, you decide. But whether it's some gun toting gangbanger in Chicago or some terrorist in Somalia, you figure out which of the two the defensive tackles are, we don't want them to sack the quarterback. As we want to go somewhere that's not Chicago or Somalia, that's somewhere forward, preferably the end zone but we can kick a field goal whatever, just don't let the gangsters from Chicago or Somalia mess us up. Now if you think Chicago is the defensive tackle at the scrimmage give yourself a reward. Now the rest of those guys that can make life unpleasant way near the back, the cornerback and everyone, we're calling that Somalia. Now I tell you my first play: "'I don't want your stinky hot-dog bitch', let me show you how that work."
Amongst the Yellow team of Tobias, defensive plays were being scrutinized.
"Forty six, forty six, top down, fix, accelerate," Tobias looked at how the offensive line would operate calculating Stella and Morris might be weaker offensive tackles, as relatively light women.
Penny the quarterback looked at Newport in person in their teepee as the hologram of Tobias roamed spectrally above them.
"Newport, you're 46," Tobias said holding up a suddenly manifested holographic yellow jersey with the number 46 on it. He gestured to throw his holographic yellow jersey at Newport and amazingly, in Newport's teepee, Penny, Rodriguez and Simpson were dazzled to see the Yellow team jersey actually manifest in mid air near Newport and physically land in front of him. As if Tobias' holographic yellow jersey had somehow taken on matter in Newport's teepee by magic or some freak of physics. However Tobias did not seem surprised and followed up,
"Put on your 96 jersey Newport, what did I say your job was?"
"Hit Stella, block Stella, thwart Stella," Newport responded.
"That's right, that's your job. What's so hard to understand? Are you autistic or something?" Tobias asked somewhat gruffly.
"Actually yeah, he is," Penny responded for Newport.
"Oh, ok, okay, I see," Tobias ruminated, then waxed inquisitive, "what exactly are you doing for the CIA?"
"Well being autistic, I'm supposed to spot patterns non autistic people might not see. Especially things based on how people conceptualize their ideas. As I'm fluent in Russian, I focus on analyzing what the Russian Federal government is doing with regard to the war in Ukraine, outside the immediate Ukraine theatre," Newport stated.
Tobias was all ears. Just a moment ago he'd dazzled the Charm Quark teepee with a neat trick of physics, although the Trout Timepiece and Boson players did not witness it from their respective teepees. But now he was the impressed one.
Amongst the Purple team, Terry spoke to the teams from outside his own Boson teepee over the inter-teepee holographic system. "And I want you to know, that Sheila here in Boson group, is an absolutely dodgy bitch and I do not want her knowing our plays so she absolutely cannot be allowed to play for Purple team as a substitute."
"Ok that's fine Terry," Da Silva responded, "who do I tell Tobias should be the substitute?"
"Get Tim to be the subby and make sure he doesn't learn anyone's plays," Terry responded, "they can put Sheila and Jack on for Boson."
"Ok my favorite wide receiver is Drake London coach," London offered, "he's like my Mexican primo, know what I'm saying?"
"No I don't, I speak Portuguese not Spanish," Da Silva retorted to London.
"London is a great wide receiver no doubt, you saying he's your cousin, is that really true London?" H-Bar asked.
"No he's not literally my cousin but the Mexicans call everyone primo so if he and I were Mexican I'd be calling him primo," London offered, followed up by, "is what I'm saying."
"You saying you can catch a long ball on plays with two wide receivers London?" Coach Da Silva asked.
"Bro are you kidding me?" Alvarado became bloody and incensed. "This sucking, f*cking mistake of humanity couldn't catch a two thousand pound bomb if he was sitting in an Iraqi shack carpet bombed simultaneously by two hundred air force pilots on Go pills flying in a straight line one after the other, are you serious? This guy went to Alaska and couldn't catch the flu. They were thinking about sending him to Wuhan from Langley coz he wouldn't be able to catch COVID." Alvarado finished by affecting a pleading tone as if he were Yul Brynner begging an unknown audience of millions not to smoke, "don't let London play wide receiver coach."
"Okay wow, that's pretty persuasive Alvarado, you ever play wide receiver yourself?" Da Silva asked in his calm Brazilian accent.
"Wait a second, London went fishing and they stapled trout onto his hand with nine inch nails. All he had to do was brag and he still couldn't catch something, I mean I'm not even sure if I've made myself clear on the matter or not," Alvarado pleaded.
"Ok JFK doesn't want to listen to this catty bullshit. We're all fat linebacker types except for H-Bar and we're gonna just sit here and eat our hamburgers and listen to Vanilla Ice or play baseball with a stick and a crumpled wad of paper if you can't stop the girly bitching coach," Jenkins from JFK teepee asserted.
Coach Da Silva proceeded thus:
"Ok fine look, no offense although actually yes offense, I'm going to make you the centre London, now let's say the centre London or quarterback Terry call Yellow team Newport 46 the mike while playing my stinky hotdog pass or throw combinations. Look at the zone here, the quarterback will fake to Alvarado who's running here right up to him. Once we're blocking here we have a running back heading to downtown Chicago for a smash and grab shopping spree like is normal in San Francisco nowadays. We're exporting all that madness to Chicago and with Twitter and the media chiming in how great smash and grab shopping is for democracy, these clowns have no choice but to all run over to the running back and see how Chicago can be uplifted win shoplifted."
Everyone's eyes in White Fang and JFK teepees as well as Terry standing outside the Boson teepee followed Da Silva's holographic field markings on the cross teepee holographic system CTHS®. "See here is where the mike is basically peddling hotdogs in Daley plaza downtown Chicago for all the Somali refugees visiting from Minnesota, that's their final defensive line. There's so much exciting new styled smash and grab holiday season shopping happening plus the mike is here selling his little hotdogs with his little hotdog stand. See you later, Terry fires off to H-Bar in the end zone. Touchdown Purple team. Then just figure out your touchdown victory dance and drink some Gatorade," Da Silva said good naturedly with his Brazilian accent and smiled.
"Are we gonna have those little towel things hanging on our butts in case we need to blow out nose after that?" Dacosta from JFK queried.
"We're on the verge of taking this team into the playoffs," Stella declared and held aloft her Purple team's purple towels in response to Dacosta's question from the different teepee.
"Yeah we're bringing the fashion accessories too," Morris chimed in next to her, as she wiped mascara from her eyelids with her Purple team's purple towel, "see how that works bitches? We got our shoulder pads and helmets now, we're all set for the playoffs."
"Okay, great," chimed in London to his White Fang teepee mates, "now say entity."
"Entity," said Morris.
"Now you say, entities," London said, looking at Stella.
"Entities," Stella said.
"Say it again," London cajoled.
https://youtu.be/uAE6Il6OTcs
In the yellow tent Rodriguez spoke up:
"Ok this is how we're going to beat Purple Team and the H-Bar Terry combination which otherwise would be unstoppable, our secret weapon, meet Peregrine Took, the female falcon. She flies two hundred miles an hour and will hit H-Bar straight up dawgs," Rodriguez brandished Peregrine Took on his forearm, dramatically ripping away his yellow buttock towel uncovering her.
"Are you allowed to call in air strikes like that?" Newport asked with definite inquisitiveness. "I mean is it according to regulations?"
"How come you're not asking me if I recruited Peregrine Took from Atlanta's bench?" Rodriguez shot straight back at Newport, curious to know how his autistic mind would process the unusual scenario.
"He kinda has a point though Rodriguez," Simpson interjected.
"Well we're not playing regulation football with eleven players, and even if we were, I'm pretty sure it doesn't actually say in the NFL rule book you're not allowed to use an actual bird of prey as an offensive tackle, just like you're only allowed to have eleven players," Rodriguez replied.
"So that's like a real bird right Rodriguez?" Barker asked from the Trout Timepiece teepee miles away. "I mean from here it looks pretty real from here on the cross teepee holographic system (CTHS®), it's not like a robotic drone is it?"
"No dawg, I got this from a coyote from the Sinaloa cartel, this is the real deal. Don't ask me how but I've got this bird trained to hit H-Bar, that's all she's going to do in defence."
"What about in offence?" The quarterback Penny asked.
"She ain't playing offense, it's too much work for her," Rodriguez said. "She needs to be chillin' like a villain."
"Well that's not something I factored into our defensive playbook, but you say she'll basically keep H-Bar tied up on every offensive play of theirs?" The coach Tobias asked.
"Dawg, H-Bar might as well walk off the field and go to Colonel Sanders on every play asking for priority access to the restroom, he's going to be out of action every play," Rodriguez said with calm and unassailable certainty.
"Jesus Rodriguez, that thing isn't going to rip his eyeballs out is it?" Penny asked.
"Yeah and Rodriguez, Trout Timepiece are all like against the unethical and cruel treatment of animals, not to mention the Constitution prohibits cruel and unusual punishment," Fullerton from Trout Timepiece opined.
"Look dawgs, Penny dawg, Fullerton dawg. Boson dawgs. All dawgs. H-Bar will have a helmet and Miss Took won't be scratching his face off so there won't be any cruel or unusual punishment neither unethical treatment of animals, if that's what you consider H-Bar," Rodriguez promised.
"Ok fine so who are they going to run with without H-Bar?" the coach Tobias asked.
"JFK is too fat to run eligible receivers effectively," Newport surmised.
"That's right," Penny said. She then noticed Rodriguez looking at her and added, "dawg," to him. More in a polite way than snarky.
"Well then White Fang will have to provide their eligible receivers," Rodriguez suggested.
Some time later it transpired that the five different groups finished their football training and other activities required of them in Sleepy Time Land. They were told to rest up one final night in their teepees then hike to a certain co-ordinate and find a secret entrance to a hidden underground rail-line. Alvarado imagined, the night before, when the instructions about the underground rail-line came through, that it would be the fabled hidden train line used by Area 51 and the aliens from the outer space program. So for a joke, he began working on posters for the train and some tree-sap for posting them on the train interiors. His posters featured mutilated cattle and a little spaceship with two little aliens inside saying "so long earthlings and thanks for all the cow blood." When the train pulled up one carriage was purple, the other yellow, but not by paint but electronic lighting. There were only two carriages.
"Next stop, Colorado," indicated a recorded sounding voice on the train PA system. The purple and yellow teams soundlessly entered their respective carriages without any fanfare or talk. Alvarado carried his posters ready for posting up which he proceeded to do upon boarding. Everyone wore their football outfits and pads and their helmets were attached to their rucksacks. Rodriguez carried a bird cage with a blanket draped over it.
"You know this stupid bastard has been learning French for over twenty years and doesn't even know the word for skin?" London motioned at Alvarado hanging his posters as he sat with Stella and Morris and the others from Purple team, JFK and Terry and Tim from Boson.
Without looking around from hanging his posters, Alvarado responded, "you know this dumbass calls himself a doctor after purchasing a fake PhD degree from the University of Warsaw on Khao San road in Bangkok for fifty bucks when he could have had it for twenty? Don't even ask me what he actually learned like that, it's too disgusting to mention." Alvarado seemed nonchalant as he stepped up to the next point on the train he'd decided to decorate. After a moment of silence as he engrossed himself in his next poster, Alvarado stated, "the French word for skin sounds like English poo people."
Tim from Boson issued the following declaration: "you know Alvarado, studies have shown, like from London's Alma Mater, that grey aliens engaged in cattle mutilation in order to sap vitality rich cow blood, are least likely than any alien race, to thank earthlings for anything."
"Yeah, well, if you were to put that on a poster, I wouldn't be adverse to hanging your contrary opinion on the wall of this train here now, would I?" Alvarado said as he deftly finished hanging his latest poster and prepared his next poster for hanging.
To Alvarado, as he finished his task, it became apparent his teammates had once again succumbed to the all prevailing allure of the handheld screen. Despite their instructions to surrender their phones, it seemed somehow someone had procured a phone, and, as there was only one, everyone had predictably hunched around it like monkeys. Perhaps Da Silva would be giving them final instructions for their impending football game, or else 89 or someone in a similar role could explain how to return to Quantico or Langley or the Capitol or wherever. Alvarado walked to the other end of the carriage where his Purple Team teammates sat around. He took deliberately slow steps, why always rush? he asked himself. Slow down, step slowly. He wondered how he'd signal his intention to stay at Sleepy Time Land. He grabbed the silver bars that ran the length of the ceiling, some things never changed. He noticed his posters and smelt the leftover blob of congealed tree sap he had fashioned into putty. He let the waft of the sap enter his brain, right next to the nostrils and enjoyed rubbing the ball it formed, the size of a quarter while doing long division the old fashioned way, checking by nines in his head. How bland the train walls looked without his posters, completely empty. Not even an imposing camera could be seen, he sensed noone was watching them. Apart from God. Nothing American on the train announced itself anywhere, apart from their shoulder pads and helmets. Not even a Made in Gary, Indiana label on the carriage or a solitary American flag. No USA emblazoned anywhere. Unless someone spoke there was nothing American to hear. Even their individual group patches like White Fang and JFK and Boson had no American flags or State flags or government department logos or motifs of any sort. Not even a few recognisable initials like NSA or NASA or DHS. Nothing. Perhaps the carriages were only meant for aliens he wondered.
"Check this out, Damian Omen is going to kill this guy just by thinking about it, how bad ass is that?" London asked his colleagues as he held the phone out in front of him. At his sides Stella and Morris, and around and about them, the rest of the team sat or stood leaning in, watching and listening.
Damian Omen, badass,
https://youtu.be/juVSDX_kv9Q
"He's definitely having some conflicting emotions there you can really tell," agent Stella opined with a woman's understanding.
"Check out Damian's birthday present in this scene," London responded.
More Omen hijinx.
https://youtu.be/srVIPpMNYvE
"There he's just straight up kinda evil don't you think?" Agent Morris asked.
"Check out the 2006 remake, instead of a rottweiler there's like a german shepherd but it's the same kinda scene, the nanny suicides after the dog tells her to," London narrated as he played back his favorite movie scenes, apparently without internet.
"Isn't that lady the actress from 10 Things I Hate About You? Katherine someone? She's so pretty," Stella asked.
"No you're thinking of someone else, that's Julia Stiles but yes, she might be the same lady from that movie," London responded.
"She has such pretty hair," Morris commented.
Alvarado's eyes rolled, how long would it take to get to Colorado? How fast was the train moving? It was in a tunnel the entire time and seemed to levitate on the tracks noiselessly. It was difficult to tell their speed exactly.
"Man Gregory Peck, that's going back a long time," De Souza commented. Stepping away from the huddle to stretch his legs he wondered aloud, "say you guys have any idea what Rodriguez is carrying in that container of his in the next carriage?"
"No idea," Da Costa replied curtly, "hopefully food, I'm feeling peckish myself."
In the next carriage, where there was no way to view the Purple Team carriage, the Yellow team sat comfortably. Nobody had a hidden screen to watch tv on but Sheila discovered a mysterious paper bag sitting in the middle of the floor containing green and red horizontally striped football socks for the team to wear. Previously they had just been wearing their own socks.
"Wow, great socks," Penny remarked as she took her shoes and socks off and raised her new socks to her knees. "Does our star tackle get a pair Rodriguez?" Penny asked good naturedly about Michaela Peregrino the hunting falcon.
"Does she get a pair?" Rodriguez asked back.
"Hey Penny, take a look at your socks!" Sheila remarked with amazement.
Strange to say, Penny had not noticed, or else suddenly, without anyone realizing before Sheila, it appeared the glove part of Penny's sock was made for a hand not a foot. Such as you'd see on a long sleeve glove in a hospital or on a dishwasher or in a department store.
"Well that's odd, isn't it?" Noticed Penny. "I can't, I mean really, maybe I can just fold the little digit socks over the top of my foot and try walking like that." Penny suggested in a motivated way, tying her laces after shoving her dainty little feet into her boots after folding the finger gloves over the top of her sock on the top part of her foot. "Let me just see if there's any point you folks taking your shoes and socks off just yet," Penny announced as she grasped a football in her left hand from a seat and began to stutter step and pivot and dart around the carriage from one end to the other, stopping, turning, ducking, sprinting, faking, fake hurling, spinning, ducking, running. Everybody watched her graceful and unpredictable movements. Truly you could never guess where she would step, clearly, she was every inch the athlete.
The following paragraph has been redacted by an outsourced German based company with ties to the communist Chinese auto market:
"I don't know, I mean it doesn't really bother me, that extra padding. I guess you all don't need to change socks if you don't want to. These wouldn't work for catching the ball any, it's all cotton or wool or something like that," Penny stated as she pulled another glove from the bag and studied it."
As Penny darted around the Yellow Team carriage a very entertaining overlay of Boston's More than a feeling (mo-mo-m-mm-mm-mm-more) played around a guitar solo crescendo part. Penny finally stopped and turned and wound up her left arm to throw a long pass....
Boston, more than a feeling:
https://youtu.be/zOILAZHf2pE
Somehow, in movie-like fashion, the mis-en-scene morphed from a fantastic underground train to an open field in Colorado. Some mountains stretched through yarns of clouds and cotton candy in the distance. Newport was the receiving wide receiver on this play and he watched Penny's forty yard throw arc up towards the pre-established zone. Mysteriously, three JFK players from the Purple Team had their eyes on Newport and prepared to tackle and cover him. They were not in time to stop him from making the catch but considered also recalling the ball should Newport spill it or not make the catch. Trout Timepiece watched the players from JFK approaching Newport after throwing off their opposing players and could see them running towards Newport, however some mysterious quirk of physics made the three approaching JFK players invisible to Newport. He makes the catch and proceeds to run the thirty yards to the end zone. Touchdown. But he can't see three guys running at him. Two of them were at odd angles but one came right from in front of him and was completely invisible to Newport, but not to Trout Timepiece or Penny. So De Souza crunched into Newport where otherwise Newport might have stopped and turned and let De Souza's momentum fly by him.
As noone was around, no water boys, no back up team players apart from Rodriguez's as yet unveiled linebacker Michaela Peregrino, (as per the Caggatti Urrimo Italian Beer Tuesday afternoon football team stats line up), an actual hunting falcon sitting in a covered cage away from the sideline. No cisgender cheerleaders, no coaches Da Silva nor Tobias. It was, in fact, surprising to hear disembodied whistles and orange (instead of yellow) flags (only one on this play), fly onto the field. A spectral, kind of holographic football umpire about twenty yards tall, that absolutely nobody nor anybody could not help but notice, materialised near the sideline. Everyone just assumed he was an astral projection and not a flesh and blood kind of person or else some kind of hologram.
The twenty yard high hologram or projection or whatever the suddenly appearing umpire was, in vertical black and white stripes like Hamburglar, rolled its wrists around eachother without them actually touching in a forward motion hanging them in front of himself, pointing the fists thereof at eachother, a few inches apart, stating in a very loud, twenty yard high voice: "False start, offence, illegal formation. Five yard penalty. Fourth down, snap the brick at the twenty five yard line."
And with that the lingering and muted Boston music and the umpire disappeared. There was no point arguing with someone who wasn't even there.
Walking back a further five yards from where the snap would have been, Penny asked Newport about the play:
"You didn't see De Souza right in front of you there?" Penny asked Newport incredulously.
"No I couldn't see him until I got hit, actually maybe a second before I got hit, he was completely invisible," Newport responded.
The orange flag had mysteriously disappeared from the field. The Yellow Team took up their positions. Sheila the Yellow Team centre grabbed the ball from Newport and queried loudly, "did big brother just call the ball a brick y'all?" Then she stood in place with the ball ready to crouch down and snap on the play. "Fourth down and like eight yards Penny? We gonna punt?"
Penny called the next play, "vamos a tienda, a la tienda, cincuenta y tres, cuatro, ¡Baltimore!"
Penny preferred to call her plays in Spanish after the team crouched in preparation. With less than eleven players there were no four tackles and three linebackers or vica versa to blitz Penny from JFK and the crew. But there were six anyway plus a couple of cornerbacks and a safety or whatever behind them. Everyone on Yellow Team, apart from the hunting falcon, Michaela Peregrino, understood Penny was calling number 53, Morris, the linebacker, the mike. Yellow's running backs and centre knew who to run at and block for Penny based on her nominating Morris the mike. If Penny said she's going somewhere, vamos a.... in Spanish, it meant she wanted a running play. She would not be hurling the ball on a throwing play but faking and handing off the ball to a running back to run the ball up the actual grass. If she was punting she'd be calling a number in the 90s not a small odd or even number after the mike. There was no dirt, rocks, snow or ice or even mist when folks exhaled, just grass and dandelions. And spores thereof.
Sheila the centre snapped the ball. Immediately JFK's Jenkins and Da Costa and Alvarado from White Fang forthwith slammed into their opposites like grotesque sumo wrestlers grunting and shoving. Penny takes a few steps back and waits for Barker and Copper from Trout Timepiece to run nearby her and hands the ball off to Barker. Noone from Purple Team's first line of defence can see much of that. Penny pretends to go into a huge throwing motion in case anyone still thinks she actually has the ball. Stella the linebacker has now penetrated all of Penny's protectors and launches herself onto Penny grabbing her around the waste and dragging her down as she landed on top of her. Defenders ran at Copper and then by the time Barker had made five to ten yards the cornerbacks were headed his way and could clearly see the ball.
Later on when Penny actually intends to throw the ball, she'll say vámonos, let's go, instead of vamos a, we're going to. Also she'll use an odd number after calling the mike. Her use of a city name with gritty urban culture referred to the zones and routes the running backs would be covering and need blocking in. Her use of a specific even (or odd on a throwing play) number after naming the mike was related to zone and route along with the city name. And, her choice of 'store' (tienda) for the running back hand-off play was related to how the handoff would go down. If you knew the playbook, you'd understand. It all got covered in the teepee in preceeding evenings. Finally H-Bar stopped Barker after a thirty yard run. No one from Purple Team expected a running play so far from the end zone, least of all on the fourth down.
Anyway Yellow Team made their dopey ten yard minimum so it was back to first down and ten, some forty five yards from the end zone they were running to. Too far for a field goal attempt.
Penny looked around at everyone's gait, mostly the Purple Team's. If the women were walking sprightly because they were having fun, it could reveal some vulnerability or complacency. How tired were the cornerbacks and safety? Were their gaits tired or actually just conservative and determined, indicating more in the tank. How were their arms swinging? Super droopy arms could be the result of super droopy shoulders, a sign of failure (even just a negative attitude). Were the arms and elbows aiding a kind of limp, balancing it out? Penny watched everyone's direction, what was their spirit? Especially what their knees and ankles were doing, why were they pointing where they were? Especially in conjunction with everyone else's, that spoke volumes. Eventually they congregated near H-Bar the quarterback and resident football star for advice. Penny realized a lot of the players weren't in NFL level peak fitness or strength. She decided to go with a 'I kinda feel like....' throwing play. She perceived a pocket would be available about twenty yards forward the line of scrimmage, throwing to her left. The fact that Newport might not actually be able to see defenders, for whatever reason, mattered as well. With their nine players they only needed four folks on the line, the centre and three other guys. That left four eligible receivers, in theory. Penny's 'I kinda feel like' plays meant an eligible receiver would be right next to the four scrimmage guys that were permanently ineligible to receive a pass, unless the other team touched the ball first. Under normal circumstances, it would be up to Purple Team's defence coordinator, H-Bar, to realize that eligible receiver's eligibility based on the shirt number. However since everyone only had one jersey and they were only showing defensive positions, H-Bar would have to look closer at how far the eligible receiver was from the offence's line, which was only four players in these modified rules.
Penny wanted Fullerton to receive the pass on her next play. As everyone congregated after Penny quickly scanned where everyone's knees, ankles, hips, shoulders and elbows were at, which took like five seconds, no point overthinking it. Like a taxi driver rolling through a party nightlife zone watching out for undesirable wobbly people probably drunk enough to vomit.
"Me encuentro como mal de la cabeza," Penny announced she 'kinda felt like she had a headache' or something along those lines.
"¡Vámonos!". She wasn't saying 'vamos a', nor, '¡ánimo! (punt or field goal attempt), so she wanted to throw the ball.
"Fullerton by the bay!" Penny stipulated who she wanted by the scrimmage line to catch the ball.
"¡I-95, al norte (northbound)!" Penny made mention of the major artery that runs up and down the United States eastern seaboard. If you were in a conventional war with the USA, it wouldn't hurt blitzing the thing to seriously disrupt eastern seaboard ground vehicle traffic, cars and tanks and trucks. But on the football field it referred to blocking everyone at the defensive line and right of them (northbound) for Fullerton to run a forward route with no switching and turning, just a straight line forward. Penny saw Stella amongst her teammates and nominated her the mike, "¡noventa y tres!"
Everyone crouched or stopped into their positions. The folks on the line prepared to slam into eachother. If they weren't familiar with the three main blocking styles line people used at the line, they had been refreshed. Everything was in working order, sinews, elbows, knees, z shapes from feet to sloping, crouching shins to almost horizontal thighs. Everybody waited to pounce like so many jaguars in a Rudyard Kipling novel at a weak pacific herbivore not even worthy of a page number. The Yellow Team waited for Penny to call an odd number as she was going for a throwing play. They knew where to run at the defence to block as she'd nominated Stella the mike. They knew Fullerton would be running straight forward to receive a pass. They knew where Fullerton was and where he was going. The Yellow Team was ready to go. Penny would call one last odd number, the magnitude of the number would indicate the depth of play she wanted.
¡Trece!" Penny finished calling her play with the number thirteen.
The Yellow Team was well aware of what Penny had NOT said, namely she, 'kinda felt like giving (her) man more than just decades of grief and an un-flushed toilet,' so they weren't overly on guard for a blitz.
Crunch. The ball flew back from Sheila to Penny. Bullseye, Penny's aim was on fire like an Apache helicopter gunship parked outside Arnold Schwarzenegger's majestic vista suite in a blockbuster movie. Fullerton took a bow. Penny was on a roll and feeling cocky. She wanted a definitive touchdown next play and she wanted to throw. Therefore she called the play as her team assembled nearby:
"¡Dios mío señor Wong, he perdido mis cheques de viajero!" Just as surely as dogs smelt each other's ten day old piss and butt rings, Penny's communication held a wealth of information.
"What kind of traveller's checks did you lose señorita Penny?" Sheila asked back.
"¡American Express!" Penny responded in her dopey Spanish accent. Wow, someone had to storm the end zone and catch the ball from Penny and put Yellow Team up six to nada. It was a spine tingling moment. The Yellow Team waited for more information from Penny.
Penny's preferred choice for receiver was Copper for this variation of American Express. Newport had been switched with Copper anyway back to running back. American Express let three potential wide receivers storm the end zone. Copper's actual cartilage and sinew and bones (on his left leg only, around mid thigh) had been blown off in Iraq by an IED and festered on the desert floor, rotting, the calf bone in good shape, notwithstanding, but festering likewise under a desert palm. Until it could fester no more, not even marrow. His new metallic limb featured the word 'Stainless' in upper case bold letters from the titanium knee to the ankle. On the reverse side it said 'Nirvana', also in vertically upper case lettering. Whether it was a nod at Buddhism or Copper was a fan of the famous 90s rock group by the same name had not yet been discussed. American Express, like many plays, gave Penny scope to run the ball herself, if need be, should receivers be difficult to reach or some other calculus of the unfolding gameplay require it.
Something in the way of a laundry room bro,
https://youtu.be/DtViove7OoQ
Penny barely dithered fractions of seconds choosing her wide receiver before deciding to run the ball herself as they were too crowded. It looked like she had the defensive line beat as her teammates appeared to be blocking well. Then, suddenly, Alvarado appeared out of thin air right in front of her flying towards her. Crunch.
"Suck on that bitch! Give your divorce lawyer an affidavit about that bitch! Huzzah!!" Alvarado gushed with bombast as he reached a hand out to help Penny up after decking her from a basically unintended state of invisibility. Penny reached up for Alvarado's hand in a show of good sportspersonship of non specific gender. Suddenly a phone began to ring loudly.
"What the hell? Who's got a phone around here? I thought none of us had phones," Terry asked loudly.
Everyone looked at London who produced his old phone with his favourite movie clips on it. "Jesus, I swear this thing has no SIM card, who the hell could be calling me when I don't even have a sim card?" London asked everyone aloud and turned his speaker on loud, "hello??" London answered in confusion and exasperation.
Those present at Black Trash's training program recalled the odd call he received from New Zealand, once again the strange New Zealand voice wished to speak to Bin: "Bin, have you sorted the dicking out?" [This is how New Zealanders actually say 'decking', it's considered normal and not a crime nor misdemeanor].
"Aargghh!!!" London screamed in fright as if he'd accidentally grabbed a lizard in a bush. "Aaarrrgh!!" He screamed again, flinging his super old legacy phone without an even SIM card far away.
Alvarado looked up at JFK as JFK moved by, expecting some kind of paternal like feedback perhaps might be forthcoming about his verbal manner with Penny. JFK always had something to say Alvarado mused, if not now then later. Who knew when? JFK being likeable enough and Penny had sex appeal.
Stella and Morris, who didn't know the rules of football asked opposing Yellow players:
"What's the deal now?"
Newport and Copper heard this and Copper responded:
"What's the deal now? We're crazy thirsty, we just burned up a sweat, we need to hydrate."
"Hey, wow," Newport interjected, "look at those little parachutes dropping down, there are little bottles hanging from them, maybe that's water."
Indeed, some kind of Gatorade had magically appeared out of thin air floating down on little individual parachutes, no bigger than large handkerchiefs. Folks just reached up and took a drink, removing their helmets and wiping they faces with the parachutekerchiefs. The strings appeared to be made from minty fresh dental floss.
Flossin' always an option y'all:
https://youtu.be/8qoSRHTu7-4
"Ok this is definitely great Gatorade," Stella opined.
"And this is definitely minty floss on holding it," Morris added. "But we still don't know the rules of football. What happens when the quarterback gets sacked?"
"Well what do you know about?" Copper asked, leaning on his metallic left leg from the knee down as he lazily swung his actual flesh and blood right leg he'd brought home from Iraq with him, as he quaffed Gatorade and wiped his face.
"We know about NWA," Stella answered him.
"Northwest Airlines?" Newport asked.
"Niggaz with Attitude," Morris responded.
Copper's eyebrows went up.
"See on the streets there's two types of people," Stella informed Newport and Copper.
Morris added her voice to Stella's: "white rich fucks and the ones who get harassed like me. Pull over to the side is routine for me, tying up my shit like they looking for a key of cocaine, but they'll never find the shit. Ain't got nothing better to do and nobody else to fuck with. Thinking everything is stolen but can't face facts that a young black nigga's just rollin', making more money than they'll ever make. Taking more shit than they'll ever take!"
Copper looked at the two agents, both looked pretty hot and kind of do-able. He wasn't sure about their song so just said: "well ok, if you ladies say so."
JFK approached Penny and the football was gently removed from her hand.
"I believe the lady overcame her little interaction with Alvarado without losing control of the ball. I further believe that was after the fourth down," one of JFK spoke with JFK's characteristic charisma and good natured well meaningness, "therefore this pigskin is now property of JFK."
Purple's quarterback from JFK, H-Bar, poignantly plucked the pigskin from his fellow JFK band member that had gotten the ball from H-Bar's opposite, Penny. H-Bar nonchalantly raised the ball high in his right hand from the narrow tapered end while pointing at the sky with his left index finger.
"Eight hundred dollar bill," H-Bar announced the play to everyone in a loud voice.
"Announcing a substitute!" Rodriguez from the Yellow team called out loud to everyone. "Penny's coming off, Michaela's coming on."
Who the hell was Michaela? Nobody from Purple team knew this Michaela but could see Rodriguez running over to his mysterious looking tool box on the periphery. He seemed to have a hunting falcon on his left forearm. The fact that it was wearing a little yellow tunic with a double digit number 49 on it seemed to suggest its name might actually be Michaela.
Bon Jovi living on a prayer....
https://youtu.be/ohFtQIPqGSo
"Alright whatever, Michaela's the mike then," H-Bar announced.
Rodriguez went to his defensive position with Michaela Peregrine, the hunting falcon cum defensive tackle intended to thwart the wide receiver Terry, on his left arm. JFK, White Fang and the rest of Purple team assumed their positions by the line of scrimmage. London, held the pigskin in his right hand, crouched down. Sweat dripped down foreheads. A hush descended. Penny stalked up and down the sideline with another reservist.
Yellow team huddled down into their defensive positions, ready to pounce. London snaps the ball, penalty flags and the umpire appear.
"Penalty. Illegal formation, Yellow team, number 49 must have its feet on the ground," the umpire called.
"Wait, umpire, this is like a legal eagle here, it doesn't have feet," Rodriguez interjected. "It's got like claws or something."
"Its claws have to be on the ground at the time of preparing for the snap and during the snap, five yard penalty - Purple team," the giant holographic umpire, bigger than a billboard, commanded and disappeared.
The Purple team moved forward five yards and the Yellow team moved back five yards. Nothing was said. From the sideline Penny waved some pompoms that has just manifested from thin air on the grass next to her.
"Y-E-Double L- oowww!" Penny hollered to all present, egging her team on with a final 'oowww' such as people would say after bumping into something.
Michaela stood next to her handler Rodriguez all of one foot tall. London snapped the ball. Michaela took wing and immediately made a beeline for Terry the star wide receiver.
"Time out! Time out! Cannot process!" Newport called out after taking his helmet off. This after Morris slammed into him and pushed him onto his back, getting him laid, as it were.
As the play was over Morris took her helmet off and stood over Newport who got onto his feet, "what's there to process Newport? You should have been tackling someone but instead I knocked your dick into the dirt. Can you process that?"
But truly Newport could not process how a peregrine falcon could be used to play offensive tackle. He was so hung up on the notion that sooner rather than later, H-Bar would fire a torpedo at the bird, knocking it out of action.
"So what if he does dawg?" Rodriguez asked Newport. "You gonna cry like a bitch for your little amiguita Penny? She gonna explain to you again what humor is or something dawg? Didn't you say you had to study casual humor for twenty years in night school so you could just hang out with regular people and understand when they were cracking jokes? I got a joke for you dawg, how come the communist piece of crap from the craphole factory never worked? You know the answer to that dawg?"
"Ohhhh! We're half way there!" Stella began singing.
"Woohoo! Living on a prayer!" Morris completed, the two songbirds doing their pop music shtick again.
"Don't you even care about your pet? That's your pet right there!" Newport insisted to Rodriguez, gesticulating towards Michaela the peregrine falcon who was casually grooming feathers with her talon after making a reasonable debut."
"Dawg I'm gonna eat that bird if H-Bar takes her out. You can pluck the feathers for me dawg and put them all in a straight line and spend two hours figuring out how to stop the wind from blowing them away dawg. What's the matter with you?" Rodriguez casually versed Newport as he stood in front of Newport with his helmet under his arm and adjusted his glove. "Try tackling someone from the Purple team dawg."
"You're just going to eat it?" Newport asked back with genuine curiosity as though the concept were completely new and plausible.
"Dawg I like all my Thanksgiving buzzards well done, blended into a puree even the mash potato and cranberry and everything dawg, so I can suck it all through a straw without taking my eyes off the soccer game. That's how we do around Mexico, didn't you read up on the Spanish American war dawg?" Rodriguez left Newport with food for thought and turned on his heel after fixing his glove and walked away, stuffing his helmet on.
H-Bar had a chance on the previous play to see how the hunting falcon zipped straight over to Terry. As luck had it he'd chosen a different eligible receiver for a shorter pass them Terry might receive. In light of the bird's play, H-Bar decided to go for a running play:
"Salt & Pepa," (code for Stella or Morris which meant a running play by default as neither were meant to catch the ball, lacking practice in football), "twenty one hundred North Korean hackers!" Ok so H-Bar meant a certain play where Morris would start running before the ball be snapped. H-Bar would fake to Stella but Morris would actually receive the ball from her little pre-snap run over to H-Bar. Twenty-one hundred North Korean hackers indicated her route and the support her team would provide her in defending her.
"Shoop!" H-Bar called and London snapped the ball. Morris came running slowly over to H-Bar and received the ball. The hunting falcon was airborne already making a beeline towards Terry. For the second time Terry had the unusual experience of fending off an aerial attack from above. On the Yellow Team Newport heard H-Bar's call, twenty-one hundred North Korean hackers. What the hell did that mean? He saw H-Bar hand the ball off to Morris and saw the fakery for Stella. Trout Timepiece were all yellow all around him, they were going to block everyone from JFK moving towards him. Terry swatted at the falcon, the goddam thing wouldn't let him even see the grass properly. Newport saw Morris hit the acceleration and pounced after her. Somehow Trout Timepiece stopped JFK from hitting him. He chased Morris. He saw a gap between her elbow and body and the ball. He swatted the ball out of that gap as he hit her, the ball tumbled out of her grasp. Simpson dived onto the loose ball, taking possession. He went nowhere from there as he was tackled. Purple Team lost possession.
Rodriguez brought the hunting falcon back to its cage and Penny came back on.
Penny reverted back to english or whatever, "sanguine crossing, eleven!" She called the play. The ball flew back towards her from the snap.
The play fizzled into a two yard run, second and two. Barker the running back failed to evade Tim who was now substituting for Purple.
Sheila crouched down, Penny called the next play:
"Thousands of special forces in hazmat suits and flamethrowers burning zombified people in cocoons from a mutant fungi outbreak spread by ants."
The fact Penny said the mutant fungi outbreak was spread by ants had particular meaning. Everybody crouched down. Jack from Boson swaddled up in a slow jog running from one compass point to the other behind Penny as Sheila snapped the ball.
By the time Penny caught the ball caught twirling in slow motion from Sheila's hands, she had already seen her mutant fungi outbreak play working out successfully and had already decided to go with her signature Beatles Penny Lane fireman barbershop play next, possibly even going for a field goal if Fullerton could get enough steps in. Who knew, maybe he'd break free of a tackle and score a touchdown.
Again, JFK and White Fang had other ideas. Penny fired off her torpedo and stepped away from Alvarado barreling towards her to crush her. Was it the rest of White Fang or JFK that intercepted her torpedo? Penny watched the man run closer and closer to the Purple Team end zone after intercepting her pass. Morris took her helmet off after scoring the game's first touchdown after intercepting Penny's pass to Fullerton. Nobody could stop her.
Big Brother the umpire manifested and indicated it was a legitimate touchdown putting his two hands up in the air high above his head, parallel, without crossing his arms, but straight up. The Purple Team broke out in some kind of pre-rehearsed looking song and dance routine, riffing on the
Black Eyed PeaS
| Where Is The Love?
A war is goin' on, but the reason's undercover The truth is kept secret, and swept under the rug | |
If you never know truth, then you never know love
Where's the love, y'all? Come on (I don't really know)
And where's the truth, y'all? Come on (I don't really know)
And where's the love y'all?
As they broke out of their spontaneous song and dance London pointed for his teammates with his right and left index fingers down. He wanted to go for two instead of just kicking a one point goal.
Trout Timepiece stood around grilling Penny about her name:
"So is that like a Greek thing like Penelope or more like a Latin coin, penny?" Barker asked.
"Yeah I mean my two cents, you're in some kind of domestic relationship with Alvarado or were, by the looks of it, so that makes you "his" Penny kind of thing like he's Hispanic or something?" Copper seconded.
"Who even was the Greek Penelope? I can't believe she's named after a one cent coin. Was this ancient Greek Penelope friends with Zeus or something?" Fullerton asked.
"She was with Odysseus, but he wasn't Hispanic," Barker answered.
"Man that's going back a long time," Copper interjected. "Say, wasn't Odysseus gone a long time away from Penelope because of the Trojan wars?"
"Yeah it's kind of like Alvarado, he's always off doing something overseas," Barker opined.
"Hey they're going for two points everyone," Penny yelled to all her teammates. "Da Souza is the mike," she announced as she watched their collective body movement.
"Wait, how can Da Souza be the mike? We don't even have the ball?" Fullerton asked loud enough for his entire team to hear.
"We best get it asap," Penny responded.
The Purple team got into position, H-Bar called the play, "OxyContin Sackler, nation of addiction, forty seven!"
London had yet to crouch but still had the ball in his hand. But did crouch and play the ball back once he understood the play: crunch the Yellow Team starting with Newport. Any eligible receiver should penetrate the end zone or near abouts, starting with Terry. London was never to be an eligible receiver thanks to Alvarado's recommendation of him.
Jack from Boson, Yellow Team, read the Purple quarterback like the cover of a somewhat predictable New York Times bestselling action paperback and ran to his Boson teammate from Purple to thwart his advance, pummeling with his full weight like a boxing bag swinging on a rusty chain after a secret mafia onslaught in a dastardly gym basement full of cigarette smoke and crime. Terry caught H-Bar's pass and came within a foot of the end zone before Jack drove him back. Two point play averted.
Jack immediately began dancing Gangnam Style and singing about Oppa and Gangnam and indecipherable Korean stuff. The Yellow Team parked in front of the songstresses Stella and Morris and backed Boson Jack up with his impromptu victory dance.
Pace, pace, pace, kick. The ball flew into the air: six, zero Purple Team, five minutes left in the first quarter. The Yellow Team still didn't have that much to dance about, not having scored.
After the two point play London was feeling stiff all around his skeletal muscular system and walked over to Tim on the sideline with Rodriguez' bird of prey.
"Got Purple cuz?" London asked after taking his helmet off and using the bird of prey's cage for a bench as there was nothing about, not even a picnic basket or Yogi Bear.
Tim from Boson replied by taking off his Yellow Team shirt and shorts, revealing Purple Team colours beneath and bursting into a Red Hot Chili Peppers song like a singer from the TV show Glee,
"The more I see the less I know, the more I'd like to let it go, hey oh! Woho, woho, woh!"
Tim from Boson barely had a moment to catch up to Purple Team around the thirty yard line when JFK kicked the ball deep towards Yellow Team's end zone. Strangely, perhaps due to particle physics, the Boson player still had his Boson patch but now sported a shirt with a seeming/seaming advert for Mint Fresh Thyme Gum across his chest and back. He seemed to be the only player with a kind of advert on his uniform.
Xmas Carol anyone?
https://youtu.be/UrgpZ0fUixs
High above the Iberian Peninsula and France and the adjoining blue pearl represented by the Atlantic, Tom Cruise woke. His PA had fallen asleep with the script for Sleepy Time Land and a post it note saying 'buy Tom socks from K-Mart', written by Tom's PA. Man that's cheap, K-Mart, Tom thought. Maybe the PA was trying to rip Tom off.
After reading for a while Tom started making notes on the borders of the pages in pencil for Benzino:
'Basically any movie, even just a wildlife documentary, would benefit from a well shot scene of me running around like in a judo outfit in the dark smashing a giant vertical gong and rousing troops from inherent impending danger. There should be just enough lighting for the women to notice my beautiful face. plus we need a helicopter almost crash landing on a rooftop kinda thing.'
London watched Jenkins from JFK kick the ball way towards Yellow Team's end zone. At first glance it looked like Yellow Team might have other options apart from just catching and running the ball up. Engrossed in the game his right hand instinctively moved toward his waist pocket, not really expecting to find much there. But lo. A plastic sachet like for ketchup or something. London scrutinized the mysterious plastic condiment. Extremely Crazy Suicidal Hot Wasabi. London looked over at Simpson who caught the ball, electing to run it forward. Yellow Team must want to get on with business. London realised, sitting on Rodriguez's hunting falcon's cage, the bird beneath him, Michaela Peregrine whatever the stupid predator was called, London realised that mysterious Wasabi package should be fed to the bird post haste. He immediately began digging around for earthworms to appeal to the bird's natural culinary instincts. Simpson got tackled after running twenty yards or so, first down.
At this point the mis en scene of the football game became a pastiche of the highlights of the second and third quarters and much of the fourth quarter, all sans the hunting falcon, who had a Wasabi burnt throat. If you could imagine Leonardo Da Vinci coming up with the sickest montage of football beauty infused with all the rad parts from the second half of Stairway to Heaven, you would have an idea of the amazing plays that ensued, and their musical and audiovisual interpretation towards cinematic perfection.
If.
I mean there'd be like the full nine United States Supreme Court (SCOTUS cuz) folks just standing for a photo opp at the end of that montage with two justices on either end sporting a yellow or purple giant hand glove like you see at football games then zooming out Dan Brown would be swinging from a noose in front of them. That's how sick it would be bro. Think about it.
Tribute:
https://youtu.be/_lK4cX5xGiQ
Finally, after three quarters of the game were elapsed in cinematic glory into one amazing montage featuring Led Zeppelin music, the players paused to drink Gatorade or whatever. The scores were locked in the high twenties. Three minutes or so were left on the 'scoreboard', itself an unexplained aerial phenomenon featuring an eery spectrum or gamit of green and white lights. Non yellow coloured penalty flags appeared and disappeared mysteriously over the quarters.
The two teams breathed heavily and quaffed they [sic] beverages. Probably a good time to listen to the early 60s classic, Duke of Earl.
https://youtu.be/AkwM3GLW8BQ
In the back of some abandoned 4wd somewhere, in an unwatched and broken TV screen in the back, some local CBS subsidiary, perhaps in an obscure Appalachian mountain trail somewhere... An advert announces Wayne's World playing the next night....
Wayne's World bro, No Stairway to Heaven....
https://youtu.be/8Qi3JERmk9E
Coming up at 8 Central time, Lady Gaga discusses how happy she is she never got fat like Jessica Simpson,
"I mean that's one thing I'm really glad about...." (says Lady Gaga in an exotic and unpredictable location).
Then after half an hour of that, including twenty three minutes of commercials, at 830pm DEA and ATF with Kevin Spacey...
A modern American city, like Philadelphia, outdoors in a public square, Shakespearean actors play Hamlet before a small audience. Kevin Spacey is modern day Hamlet (grabbing a sword).
"I tell you Horatio, I will best Laertes at this game, I have been in constant practice while abroad," Kevin says looking at a sword Horatio proffers him.
"Well I tell you now Hamlet, and EVERYBODY here!" Responds Horatio leering at the audience in magnificent thespian style, "DEA Drug Enforcement Agency, this is a bust and you're all under arrest for suspicion of trafficking schedule one narcotics!" Horatio brandishes a hidden firearm and points it at the audience who are startled and dumbfounded.
"Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms!" Says the player playing Laertes holding aloft his identification as an actual ATF agent. "I confirm, this is a bust, everybody stand up and place your hands on your heads while our players frisk you.
Then at 930pm Central, Sean Connery is Bond, James Bond 007 in Dr No...
https://youtu.be/b15-P12gIf0
On the field in Colorado, Tiler from Langley Virginia stepped onto the gridiron. He approached the Purple Team in their huddle. With a minute and change on the clock. The scores settled around 27 each.
"Morris is wanted in Langley immediately, secret assignment, take a train from yonder there," Tiler waved towards a clump of nondescript bushes covering a subterranean hatch with a rung ladder cemented vertically into the pipeworks covered there.
Morris began stepping towards the bushes, undoing her helmet.
"Wait a second Morris, I need your helmet and jersey, I'm playing in your stead," Tiler accosted Morris, not the first man to encourage a woman to take her top off for him.
JFK waylaid the remaining team including the new look White Fang,
"There's a minute and change on the clock, we're playing Purple Haze, Newport's the Mike," Da Souza announced.
Tiler realised he'd been too into Morris' bust to remember to ask for her shoulder pads. He ran from the huddle to find Morris walking over towards the bushes and the train.
"Morris, I need those shoulder pads in your hand there," Tiler stutter stepped to a halt as if jumping off a moving object while Morris stopped and turned at his voice.
She flung the shoulder pads to Tiler, "maybe I'll see you around," she said and turned away to continue walking. Tiler proceeded to step away and immediately noticed Morris had left a key on the shoulder pads with her name and a Washington address, he took an imprint of the key with a soft putty in a wooden box he carried and made a note of Morris' address.
"Morris, your key! Maybe you will see me around!" Tiler called out and threw her her key, none the wiser. She caught it and walked off saying nothing.
Linebacker Darius Leonard:
https://youtu.be/TkObQm2yof0
Ben's notes
Nebraska Fordham college game
https://youtu.be/nqLI1suuuzU
Cocaine Bear
https://youtu.be/koo-hyACsvA
How to sack quarterback without drawing a penalty with Kevin Hart:
https://youtube.com/shorts/m-a2mIi29QU?feature=share
NFL jersey numbers explained
https://youtu.be/m19QYLJdPAM
Look at running backs, offensive rushing yards, explosive sprinting, see tight ends
Plays to consider.....
https://youtu.be/jCKDw-THl1I
https://youtu.be/gkHXVG41RBw
Random CIA football game beer commercial featuring random Italian beer noone has ever heard of plus montage of team players with Three 6 mafia background music:
https://youtu.be/nyZW0jFZNv0
Purple Team.
London, height: six feet, 220 pounds. London's dopey smiling face and smart looking blinking eyes with black paint smeared under them over his pale skin and long beard with the position Centre at the bottom of the screen (somewhere, possibly in the back of an unlocked, tagless and abandoned super old four wheel drive, the screen that is).
Purple team music
https://youtu.be/_2wsx1onlOE
High school football bro:
https://youtu.be/c6wMH2AGbwg
JFK
D-tackle / Jenkins,m;
D-Safety / De Souza,m;
D-CB/O-QB... H-Bar,m;
D-end... Dacosta,m
White Fang
D-LB//... Stella93,f;
D-LB//... Morris53,f;
O-Centre- London,m;
D-end//O-WR...Alvarado,m
Charm Quark ... Yellow
O-QB Penny,f;
Rodriguez,m;
Simpson,m;
D-LB//O-WR Newport96,m
Trout Timepiece, it was all yellow, song for fags...
https://youtu.be/IgDPhIHHRFM
O-RB / Copper,
O-WR Fullerton,
O-RB Barker (all male)
Boson
O-C Sheila,f; yellow
Jack,m; yellow
O-WR...Terry,m; purple
Tim,m purple/yellow (substitute)
Michaela Peregrino the hunting falcon on Yellow's defense team only: LB
