Bad Times, Desperate Measures:
Tearing It Up Hardcore-style
Or: Fuck The World, I Want To Get Off
In order to survive in politics, you gotta have a sense of humour. Economy failing because the minister responsible is too stupid to do basic arithmetic without a calculator and an assistant to show him what the buttons do? Ho-ho. The Beast is not a crook? That's a good one. Politicians are elected to serve the public interest? Why nurse, pass the needle and thread, I believe I have ruptured something.
Politics is not for the faint of heart, and it is only the people who can laugh as they promise to rip your testicles off and stuff 'em down your throat that will survive and make it to the top of the heap. You have to find that funny. Because you'd better believe, at the sharp end of the political spectrum, the good guy does not win.
You'd also better believe that they were shitting you when they told you that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Why, that makes it sound as if it's not their fault that they are more twisted than a gay armadillo, it's the power they have. Not their fault. Why, if you were in their position, you'd be just as crooked. So really, it's not their fault at all, it's your fault. You, you twisted skanked up dope fiend, you're guilty, and the politicians are innocent, and they never inhale.
You bet bubba. Ha-ha.
It's a lie, of course. Power does not corrupt. The truth is power attracts the corrupt. And absolute power attracts the absolutely corrupt. And remember what I said about the good guy not winning the big fights because in the end he lacks the essential killer wolverine instinct to go straight for the jugular and not let go until your opponent is cold and dead? Believe me, I've watched good guys get eaten up by the system. Guys who felt they could make a difference if they just stood up and made their voices heard. If you listen real close, you can still hear them howling around their rubber gags in the asylums of this great nation. Oh yeah, the system knows how to deal with the good guys.
Politics is the art of controlling your environment. And the most efficient method of controlling your environment is to be on the attack, because if you're not giving it, you can bet your bottom dollar you'll be bent over taking it hard before the day is over. Although the sex analogy isn't the best one I could have used there, because politics as drugs is closer to the reality. Picture them as hardcore dope fiends who are on the ragged-edge of constant withdrawal and need to keep hitting the spot for one more fix otherwise they're going to crumple up inside their own skins and expire messily in a pool of their own vomit piss and shit.
That's your typical politician.
The bizarre fact that they also seem to have a great deal of sex is another issue altogether, and one that will require some brain-bending theorising to ever even come close to understanding.
But that's not why we're here today my gentle innocent readers. We don't want to talk about the sex lives of our countries glorious leaders. No sir. Because we've already eaten this morning, and we don't want to have to upchuck violently all over ourselves, that would be a real bad scene. Believe me, I know about these things. So we'll leave that one alone for the time being.
Instead we will talk about something else.
Only a madman goes to a political convention of his own free will. That is why I am sitting here writing these words in a strip joint, watching the political convention on television at a minimum safe distance. Surrounded here by an orgy of excess and jutting nipples, baying crowds, the scent of sex heavy in the air, the junkie shooting up in the corner, it strikes me that this is an infinitely cleaner and more naturally honest place than a convention could ever be.
Four more years. The chant is the sound of the future dying. But you know, I'm going to let you in on a little secret here. Part of me respects The Beast. I have always known where I stand with him, and that is indeed a rare thing. I don't have to like him to respect him. And to a very large extent, The Beast is responsible for all that I am.
You see, I never particularly wanted to control my environment. I was happy enough to let it be. And then The Beast came along, and all of a sudden, I was Pushed Too Far. And I had to fight back. Like one of those lone nutcases who holes up in a mountaintop cabin every now and then, alongside a crate of PCP and a stack of ammo for all of his assault weapons.
Mind you, the only reason I'm still alive today is because I work in print journalism, and nobody gives a fuck about you unless you work in television. How much damage can I cause anyway? It's only words. Who the fuck reads anymore? You've watched the television newscasts, you know what I'm talking about.
Dumb down this, you fucks.
So, where was I before we shot off on this horrible tangent? Jesus, it's difficult to concentrate when a cute redhead keeps rubbing her tits over your head. Ah yes, the convention. That rutting-spawn conglomeration of all that is worst in humanity. I mean, have you ever known anybody who has actually attended one of these things? Of their own free will? If that's not evidence for supporting a vigorous and aggressive castration program, I don't know what is.
The important thing about this particular convention is however that my dear old friend one-time General Abigail 'mass-murdering-psycho-bitch-monster-from-hell' Carter, has an important announcement to make. Haven't heard from her since she wriggled out of her genocide charges and straight into bed with The Beast.
Memo.
From: The Desk of Mitchell Royce. The Word. Head Office
To: The Fetid Stinkhole of Spider Jerusalem.
Spider, where the hell is my fucking column? I've been sitting here expecting you to call for three days, and now I'm having to send you faxes? What the fuck is this Spider? Are you playing some sort of sick GAME again? I will NOT communicate with you via facsimile communication only, I don't know what weird kick you get out of it, but CALL ME NOW!
The convention is coming up this weekend and you said you'd cover it. YOU SAID! Not me, you took this job, and god damn it Spider, you will honour this commitment, because I have commissioned a special edition on Monday morning for your sorry excuse for a column. And all I have from you so far is some seriously weird-ass expense receipts from third world pharmaceutical suppliers.
I mean it Spider, you will not dick me around on this. Pick up that fucking phone now!
Yours sincerely,
Royce.
Memo.
From: Spider Hugecocksuckmebabynow Jerusalem.
To: The Word. Head Office.
Fuck you Royce. You want to know what I do with your faxes? I wipe my ass with them, that's what I do with them. I wipe and then I flush, and all the time I'm thinking of you, you ungrateful jabbering spunkstain.
Your column will be ready when I decide it is ready. I will call you, when I decide I need to speak to you. I WILL cover this convention, even if it kills somebody else. And do you know how I will cover it? I will cover it with NO FUCKING INTERFERENCE FROM ANY DIPSHIT NO-TALENT EDITORS. Do we understand each other here Royce? Or do you want me to come down to the office?
Believe me Royce, you do not want me to come down to the office. I have been pissing glass all day, and I am in NO MOOD for fucking side-trips just because you feel lonely and need a cuddle.
So go wrap your dick in barbed wire and give it a smack with a brick. I've got WORK to do!
PS: Send more drugs.
Yours sincerely.
Spider Jerusalem.
Memo.
From: Spider Harderharder Jerusalem.
To: Commissioning Editor, CNNNBC.
Subject: Your Nightly News Broadcast.
Eddy-boy. What the hell are you playing at you diseased gibbering wretch? There is no way in HELL the riots have calmed down yet! Christ! I look out of my window and I can see at least a dozen brutal skirmishes involving the Riot Police and National Guard. Sometimes THEY ARE EVEN FIGHTING EACH OTHER! There is SMOKE Eddy! They haven't even put out all of the fires yet! And your piss-poor excuse for a reporter Nancy DingleDongle whatever-the-fuck, comes out with some report saying that the city has calmed down and by the way if we tune in later we can watch her screwing?
THIS ISN'T NEWS!
Eddy, I feel as if we are friends, so please, take some advice. I don't care if Nancy is a good lay. I don't care if your entire editorial team are so good in bed they would have made the '62 Chargers Cheerleading team feel deeply inadequate. (But boy, those girls sure could rock. See attached files.) I don't care if you think you're doing the right thing. What I care about, Eddy, is that the bullshit I see on your nightly news broadcasts pays at least SOME FUCKING RESEMBLANCE TO THE SHIT I SEE GOING ON OUTSIDE MY WINDOW!
The Party In Power National Convention is coming up soon. Be there. I know it doesn't sound like news, but trust me. It will be. I have a feeling.
Your friend always.
Dr Jerusalem.
Time for a history lesson kiddies, crawl up onto Uncle Spiders lap and I'll tell you all about it.
A lot of things changed a great many years ago, on the 11th of September. If we ever feel as if we're fighting a hopeless battle today, then it's probably because the war was lost a long time ago.
All of a sudden it became acceptable for journalists who dared question the then Party In Power, to be sacked overnight. A worse fate awaited any politician who dared question the way the tide was turning. Any sort of dissent, and they would find themselves accused of giving 'aid and comfort' to the enemy of the state, the legal definition of treason. It was a really bad scene, and I'm eternally glad I wasn't around to see it, because I don't think I would have made it through in one piece.
It got even better though. Soon the Party In Power were introducing all sorts of sweeping Orwellian laws, such as The Patriot Act. And bingo, that was it, right there. The whole god-damned ballgame. Suddenly the Government (which might be your friend, but do you really want to bend over and spread in order to find out?), claimed the power to detain indefinitely any non-citizen without charge, if they were considered to represent a threat. The law allowed the government to search any citizens house without giving prior notification. They claimed the legal right to monitor and record all communications either by telephone or electronic communication that any citizen might make, along with access to bank and credit card details. Not to mention public library records, just in case anybody was reading the 'wrong sort of books'.
The wrong sort of books. Yeah. Heard that before.
The Justice Department gained the right to monitor conversations between criminal suspects and their lawyers. The intelligence agencies gained the power to designate any group of people as a terrorist organisation. The legal thresh-hold for gaining a search warrant was lowered from 'probable cause' to 'relevant to an ongoing investigation'.
But the real gem in all of this was the power created for the President by the President to bring to trial any non-citizen in a military tribunal, which could impose the death penalty, and which would not be subject to judicial appeal. In other words, the creation of the Kangaroo court, and we all know what those are used for.
The citizens felt safe though. They didn't realise how easy it would be to introduce further legislation down the line which provided the means to invalidate citizenship. These days, the first thing the police do when arresting you, after they've done beating on your kidneys with sticks anyway, is to read you the '87 Citizenship Invalidation Warning. This power The Beast gave unto them, and how they enjoy using it.
They had a thing called the Bill Of Rights back then. But the Patriot Act, well, that baby immediately invalidated half of them in one foul blast. Bye-bye First Amendment right to freedom of speech and assembly. So long Fourth Amendment prohibition against unreasonable search and seizure. Fifth Amendment right to due process, kaput. Sixth Amendment right to a prompt and public trial, thanks for coming. Eight Amendment protection against cruel and unusual punishment, you were cute, but not cute enough. All gone.
And you know what the worst thing was? The people back then, they didn't seem to care much about what was being done to them. I guess it was all just too horrible a reality to confront.
Land of the free? Ha-ha.
What? Well, I guess some things aren't funny. At least, not to the doomed generation. It's very hard to keep your sense of humour when you know you are deeply and profoundly screwed. And, if you're still smiling... Well, I guess a career in politics is for you. Congratulations, join the line, the world is yours for the fucking. Just try not to come too loudly, some of us are trying to sleep.
But maybe I'm being too harsh on them. Hell. Maybe it started even earlier than that. Maybe it was when Kennedy was shot. Jesus, that was one weird scene. Everybody was too busy asking who shot the guy, that nobody bothered asking the question why.
Still, I don't suppose it really matters. History is not the action of individuals, it is the result of sweeping titanic forces that we can understand about as well as we can control. If it hadn't happened to Kennedy, it sure as hell would have happened to somebody else.
Say, while you're all still sitting there on my lap. No, it doesn't matter. We don't have time right now. The Filthy Assistant has returned.
"Who the hell are you?" I ask.
"Spider." She glares at me. "Yelena. Remember?"
"No!" I scream in a demented style, "Where is the other one!"
"You mean Channon?"
"Yes! Channon! I need my Filthy Assistant!"
"I'm your filth... I'm your fucking assistant Spider."
"You are?"
"Yes." She sighs.
"Where is Channon?"
"She's sitting over there. She is your bodyguard now. Do I really have to explain this to you every single day?"
"Why is she sitting way over there if she's supposed to be guarding my body?"
"I think she's hoping one of these strippers is going to stab out your eyeballs with her genetically enhanced perk-o-nipples."
"I see. Fair enough. That would probably be fun for everybody. Did you successfully achieve your tasks?"
"Yes." Yelena drops a small plastic transmitter onto the table in front of me. "I met the man, he was where you said he'd be, and he gave me this to give to you."
"Excellent." I clutch at the transmitter, with it's single small shiny button. I stroke it. "What about the other thing?"
The Filthy Assistant digs in her pockets. "Here are your drugs."
"Outstanding." Fuck the transmitter. "And what about the other thing?" I smile.
"Spider. I am not buying a schoolgirls uniform."
"It's just for wearing around the office!"
"You are not an office."
"Channon would wear it."
"No she wouldn't. She said no. That's why you told me to wear one. And thank-you for letting me be your second choice on who you'd like to see wearing one. And who was that guy you had me meet anyway, he was really creepy?"
"I am pleased you asked." I turn my attention to the drugs.
"And?"
"WHAT?!" Surely she does not expect a tip!
"Nothing." She sighs again.
Mental note to self, must get an assistant that does not sigh so much. It is in danger of bringing me down. Still, at least I'm growing some manly stubble.
Memo.
From: Spider Jerusalem, Internal Affairs Desk, The Word.
To: The Office Of The President.
Dear Beast.
I was clearly out of my mind on dangerously contaminated drugs last night when I sent you that rude and frankly offensive transmission. Please accept my humble apologies, I just don't know what came over me. Something similar happened in Florida once, but that's a whole other story.
Anyway, don't believe a word that they say. I am STILL on your side. Don't listen to those mindless drones you hang out with, they are only interested in stabbing you in the back at the first opportunity they get, the King is Dead, you know the riff. If only Caesar could see us now eh?
And remember. Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus.
PS: No, I'm not going to tell you how I keep getting a-hold of your private fax machine number.
Yours in love and affection,
Spider Jerusalem.
Politics is a dangerous business. Let us imagine the son of a Secret Service agent has a job in the Office of Strategic Planning. Let us also imagine that private-citizen Abigail Carter runs that same office. Let us further imagine that one day Ms Carter takes something of a shine to the aforementioned Secret Service agents' son, and arranges to entice him into a broom cupboard, where she proceeds to strip the poor boy naked and have her wicked way with his sobbing skinny body, all done in the name of furthering his career, or so she whispered into the poor boys ear.
It's just a hypothetical of course. But just suppose.
James Carville once said: "Elections are about fucking your enemies. Winning is about fucking your friends."
Of course, he had just helped get his good buddy Bill the Whore-Hopper elected, so he probably knew something first hand about being fucked by a friend. But I digress. Again. Ye gods, how in the hell am I going to bring some kind of sense to this impenetrable mess of random events? You'd better skip ahead to the sex part or something, because for damned sure this thing is only going to get uglier.
It says in the Bible. And I recommend everybody read it, it really is full of fun facts for all the family.
Revelations 14. The Lamb and His People.
Then I looked and there was the Lamb standing on Mount Zion; with him were 144,000 people who have his name and his Father's name written on their foreheads... Of all mankind they are the only ones who have been redeemed. They are the men who have kept themselves pure by not having sexual relations with women; they are virgins.
Now, normally I don't like to quote passages from the Bible to my readers, but I think it important to mention that those 144,000 men are made up of 12,000 each of the 12 tribes of Israel. So, the sharper amongst you will be spotting the problem here. 'The only ones who have been redeemed'. If you ain't a pure virginal Jewish man, then you sure ain't going to heaven.
Abigail Carter ain't a pure virginal Jewish man. She's going to hell.
And I am going to usher her there.
What does God want with all those virginal men anyway? Ah well, it doesn't matter. Another day perhaps. For now we have bigger fish to fry? Bigger than God?
You bet.
Memo.
From: The Office Of Edward Hackle, VP and Commissioning Editor, CNNNBC.
To: Dr S. Jerusalem.
Dear Spider.
There must be something wrong with your television hook-up, because whatever you are watching is clearly not what I am broadcasting. If you look closely, you will notice there is in fact precisely zero factual content to any of our broadcasts. Our news broadcasts are simply the televisual equivalent of the girl going next door to ask to borrow a cup of sugar before the sex begins. So quite how you seem to have wound up at the conclusion that it should bare any resemblance to events outside your window, I do not know. Didn't you realise that when we started our nude news readers with celebrity dildo of the week feature?
I mean Jesus Spider, if we wanted to know what was really going on out there, we'd all be reading your column. But we're not, are we.
Just joking.
I happen to know for a fact that in reality we do all read your column. All of us. Everyone When we're not too busy watching you that is. We just don't pay for it. Which must really suck for Royce.
How is old Royce by the way? I haven't seen him in ages.
Anyway, I'll have one of our engineers drop by tomorrow, see if we can't get that television of yours working properly. Stop stressing. It's not like anyone really watches the thing anyway.
In the meantime, please find attached a transcript of a telephone conversation our lab-boys picked up yesterday. I think you might find it very interesting.
Yrs always.
Eddy.
Transcript.
Intercepted 12/04/93. 02:18hrs. Logged: CvX:3927a.
Routine software decoding, bugged. Cypher lambda_2
"Hi there, this is Busby Howell. Do you know who I am?"
"Why yes sir Mr Howell, you're the special aide to the President!"
"That's right son. I am. Now listen to me, this is very important."
"I'll just write it down then sir."
"NO! YOU SCABROUS FREAK! YOU DON'T WRITE ANY OF THIS DOWN OR SO HELP ME YOU WILL BE THE RECIPIENT OF A LOW-CALIBRE HOLLOW-TIPPED ROUND TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD!"
"Yes sir! No writing down! I understand sir!"
"I don't think you do son. Are you sure you're not recording this in any way?"
"No sir."
"Good. Now listen to me." *sound of high pitched screaming in the background* "Oh Jesus. Just, hold on a minute..." *something squelches* *pause - 33 secs* "Are you still there son?"
"Yes sir. I am. Sir."
"Good. You realise what I am about to say to you is very highly classified, and you could go to federal prison for a very long time if you divulge any of this to anybody?"
"Yes sir."
"Excellent. I trust you son. You are a shrewd judge of character. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! CAN'T YOU FUCKING CONTROL IT!"
"Sorry sir?"
"I'm not talking to you son. Just be calm. Are you calm?"
"I'm very calm sir."
"Good. I know we have good people working for us down there. Here's what I need you to do. I need you to bring the Presidents emergency helicopter up here to his Shropshire mansion."
"I'm. I'm not sure if I can do that without my superior officers orders sir."
"God dammit! This comes direct from the President himself! He is your superior officer!"
"I understand sir."
"Listen son, we've got something of a situation up here." *sound of something growling* "And we have to deal with it as quietly as we can. And we really need to get that chopper up here." *voice shouting in the background - 'Buzz! Oh Buzz! We are so screwed if the press ever find out about this! I mean, big time screwed. They'll lock us away in tiny cells with large men called Bubba who will butt-fuck us for all eternity if this gets out!'* *pause - 12 secs* "You didn't hear any of that did you son?"
"No sir! I heard nothing!"
"Good. That was not the Presidents voice."
"No sir."
"And this is not my voice. At least, not if anybody ever asks you."
"This isn't you. I understand sir."
"Excellent. So I need you to go get the helicopter warmed up, and fly it up here ASAP." *sound of prolonged high-pitched gibbering, fades into a woman's voice shouting obscenities. Duration, 23 secs.* "GOD DAMN IT ABIGAIL! LET ME GO! You're getting BLOOD EVERYWHERE!" *pause - 17 secs*
"Sir?"
"I'm here son. It's okay. Everything is going to be okay. Just get the helicopter up here. Okay?"
"Yes sir! It's on it's way sir!"
End Transcript.
Logged: Duty Operator # 732.a
The cute redhead is back up onstage. Having sat here for almost 19 hours straight now, there is some horrible pattern becoming apparent in the movements of the strippers. There is a sort of logic here, as if they are obeying some sort of strange non-Euclidean geometry. The arcs described by arm and leg. I feel very strongly that it is something that should be taken down on paper and written about in obscure scientific journals.
Ah, this is getting too weird.
I think they are maybe starting to grow rather fond of me. Though perhaps it is the simple novelty of seeing someone more entranced in their work than with their young nubile bodies. I just don't know. It's an experiment you all ought to try one day, go into a strip joint and sit down and do the Sunday crossword. See what sort of effect it has on the girls.
The most awful part of political reporting is the boredom. It can creep up on you like a pack of stealth-suit equipped diseased hyenas. And then with the horrific savaging. I do not think either of my Filthy Assistants are equipped for life here at the cutting edge, I can tell their senses are growing dulled under the never-ending beat. Although I must admit, I kinda get a kick out of the way they have fallen asleep in each others arms over on that couch against the back wall.
They are not taking enough medication. Not like me. No sir.
Anyway, we're into the graveyard shift now my loyal and dedicated readers. That time when the stubborn drive to see something through to the end over-rides all common sense and we keep going even though our eyelids are drooping, the veins deep red, exhaustion seeks to claim us as we hurtle off the road and through the central reservation into oncoming traffic. The pieces are starting to come together. I expect some of you have worked it out already. So buckle up, we're on the home straight now, not far to go and if we're very lucky, maybe some of us will get out of this alive.
Memo.
From: Spider Allhailhisglory Jerusalem.
To: Commissioning Editor, CNNNBC.
Dear Ed.
Fuck you.
Sincerely,
Spider.
PS: Thanks for the transcript. You are quite correct. Very useful.
PPS: Don't you DARE send any of your bully-boy fascist stormtrooper engineering freaks anywhere near my apartment. I WILL ram an assault rifle up their assholes and send them back to you the hard way. Do we understand each other?
I honestly don't know how much more of this I can stand. The convention is into it's 32nd hour. It hurts my brain that people can talk for so long without actually ever saying anything. And what sickens me most is the sight of maybe 30 or 40 of the Presidential Press Corp seated right there in the front row, catching the flying spittle in their awe-struck wide-open mouths. They have no shame. My anger grows like a stick of bamboo, over a foot each day. Cowards, all of them, never daring to ask any difficult questions. Unless 'Mr President, how much do you love us?' counts as a difficult question these days. WHICH I RATHER SUSPECT IT MOST DEFINITELY DOES NOT!
My apologies. I should not be shouting at you, sweet loving reader.
"ASSISTANT!" I shout.
"What?!" Both Channon and Yelena jerk to attention.
"Why are neither of you more filthy than you are!"
"Fuck off Spider." They both mutter in unison. This is great, it's like some sort of circus trick. I wonder if they do everything together.
"I have decided that from now on we will do all of our reporting in the nude!" I start to take off my trousers.
"Ohgod." And again, they both even clap their foreheads simultaneously. This is almost the best thing ever. But not quite. The best thing ever is yet to happen. But soon. Oh yes. Very soon. I get wet at the very thought.
"Now is not the time for prayer!" I sit back down and key up an 8-times projection of the live broadcast from the convention. The image hangs, shimmeringly enlarged into the smokey air. The music stops, the redheaded stripper finishes her twist around the pole, heads turn, all attention falls upon The Event. "It's show-time." I clap my hands together and rub them greedily before reaching for my cheap little plastic transmitter. Oh yeah baby, come to papa.
You know something, it's terrifyingly easy to have high-grade bio-engineered toxins delivered to the front door of a private citizen in this country. And I mean terrifyingly. If I can do it, then the gods alone know what your neighbours are sitting on right now. Still, at least the security services are extremely proficient at keeping anything remotely dangerous away from anybody that matters, you know, rich people, and politicians. And really, that's what matters.
Or should I say, they are usually very proficient.
Unless of course something hypothetical has happened. Like, oh, I don't know. Let's just imagine that some horrific sexual event has taken place, and as a result a squad of secret service agents happen to turn a blind eye while an ex-Yugoslavian mercenary friend of mine wanders into an empty conference hall the night before a big event and plants a little radio-controlled something in the speakers dais.
Nothing lethal you understand. Not even I could get away with a high-profile assassination. Heavens no, this is all legal and above board, in a fucked up kind of way. You'll see why in a minute, because I do believe Abigail Carter is getting up to talk now.
"Mr President. Esteemed colleagues. Conventioneers." Oh, how Abigail cuts a razor sharp line in that expensive tailored suit. You can tell it chafes her though, not being in uniform. She hates that she had to hand in her resignation over that trifling little orbital bombardment incident. I know what she's up to, it doesn't take particle physics, she's taking the opportunity of delivering a speech at the Convention in order to announce that she herself intends to run for office. She has her eyes set on the Ministry of Bloody Offence. God help us all.
She must be stopped! I clutch at the transmitter, my eyes going wide and crazy. I caress it's plastic flanks gently, before stabbing my finger down upon that prim and perfect button.
"AH-HA-HA-HA-HAHAHAHAHA!" I throw my head back and gibber with joy.
"Uh. Spider?" It is the voice of the Filthy Assistant, intruding upon my moment of absolute victory!
(What do you mean, 'which filthy assistant? How in the hell am I supposed to know? Okay, it's the taller one with bigger tits. Happy? Can we get back to the story now?)
"WHAT?!" I respond, in a reasonable manner.
"Nothing happened. When you pressed the button. Uh, nothing happened." Channon looks worried.
"OF COURSE SOMETHING HAPPENED!" I have absolute confidence, because I happen to know that a fine spray of microscopic biological agents is very difficult to spot, even on a image that has been enlarged 8 times over. Trust me, I know about these things. "Just wait. It will take a moment." I explain. And it will. Even now my lovingly crafted in a third world slum laboratory agents are making contact with Abigail's skin, entering her blood stream, flooding her brain. Affecting change from within like the good little bio-weapons they are.
"I feel deeply moved to be able to stand here in front of you today." Abigail continues, "To bask in the warm glow of your loathsome fetid dead-fish stares. The delegates, bless you all for being too inbred and stupid to do anything other than vote for the party which brings you most naked flesh. Why, if any of you had even half a functional braincell, you would surely rise up and hang each and every one of us here on the stage for gross crimes against humanity."
An eerie sort of silence settles over the conference hall.
"What did you do?" Yelena whispers in awe.
"A simple aerosol-dispensed endorphin bomb containing an interesting cocktail of fun drugs to make this whole speech go off with a bang. Basically my Filthy Assistant, I have introduced a great big giant truth drug to the proceedings. Abigail Carter can tell no lie."
"While I would like nothing more than to execute each and every one of you low-life diseased curs, with your weak gay haircuts, glory be, you really do disgust me." There is still an otherworldly silence in the convention hall as she continues her now totally improvised speech. And I'm impressed, you can tell she has a military background, she knows how to curse.
Oh Abigail, if only there wasn't a biological agent inside your system creating an overwhelming urge to keep talking, you might be able to find enough self-control to shut yourself up before much more harm is done. Unfortunately.
"You're hardly any better than The Beast, believe me, sucking that bastards dick in order to get off with that little case of mass-murder I committed years ago was quite possibly the most foul and unpleasant thing I've ever had to do. But still, I suppose it's fair enough, I must have murdered damn near quarter of a million innocent civilians. Wow, that was great, I still get off on it to this day. I might just get off on it RIGHT NOW!"
Oh yes, along with the truth drug and the verbal-diarrhoea agent, I also thought to include an aphrodisiac. I'm thoughtful like that. And the camera pans now across the stunned faces of The Beast and his front bench cohorts. They know they are witnessing something truly awful, one of those defining moments of a generation, in years to come we will still remember where we were, all it would take is for one of them to rush forwards and drag Abigail from the stage. To stop this horrible freakshow before it reaches critical mass. But no, they are career-politicians, and they recognise a sinking ship when they see one. And each and every one of their gut-instinct reactions is to stay the hell away from her, just in case they get dragged down too.
And so this sick and depraved show is allowed to continue. Live and in colour. According to the ticker tape counter I set up earlier, the footage from the convention is already being pre-empted into 43% of all other world-wide transmissions. Taking you over live, to where a key figure in Government is having what we can only describe as, a funny turn.
"I am General Abigail Carter!" She screams. Or was it more of a gasp. I'm not sure. "And I am worth more than all of you slimebag puss-buckets combined! I am rich beyond your wildest dreams, and I have stolen it all from the pocket of the taxpayer! I have murdered, and I have tortured, and I have even eaten small live kittens for a bet! They were so good, I started eating them for fun! VOTE FOR ME YOU FUCKING MORONS, SO I CAN SHIT ON YOUR GRAVES!"
Oh, my dear Abigail. I did promise that I would bring you down. The irony is, that you've really brought yourself down. And all it took was a little spoonful of truth.
We shall pull a curtain over this sorry scene before the purgative element of the device starts to kick in.
Email_X-Sender: spiderlovesme@bigdickdaddy.com
X-Apparentlyto: beastlove@bighouse.gov
Delivery-date: 16/04/93 21:01:42 +0000
Received: from [61.214.65.72] (helo=n17.grp.scd.kariboo.com)
by imailg1b.svr.pol.com with smtp (Exim 3.35 #1)
Dear Beast.
Hi.
Spider here again. Sweet trick, getting the secret service to set you up a number of HIGHLY CLASSIFIED email accounts so that you can access all the anonymous Chilean porn you want. You wanna watch out though, I mean, anybody could find out about it. And we wouldn't want that now, would we.
So, how's it going? I hear the convention was a BLAST. Who would ever have thought things would turn out that way. Wish I could have been there, but alas I was far too busy.
Still, I guess everything turned out for the best? What, don't believe me? Well, why don't you have a little look at the attached telephone transcript... It didn't take all that many questions before I found somebody willing to talk about what really happened that night. Ye gods Beast, I thought I was one twisted fucked up little monkey, but really, I feel like the rank amateur I so clearly am when compared to your good selves.
I think you'll find that whoever the despicable terrorist was who set off that endorphin bomb at the convention was actually doing you a favour by exposing Abigail Carter as the fiendishly depraved sociopath she turned out to be though. Can you imagine the shitstorm if this transcript ever got released to the general public? I mean, that's not just Abigail's voice there. Is it?
I guess it must be something of a relief for you to be rid of her, and in such a way that you can maintain plausible deniability. I'm sure EVERYONE will believe you knew NOTHING of her true nature. But still, it's going to be fun watching you have to appear on television and deny it for the next 36 hours straight.
In a weird sort of way, I feel as if somebody has done you a favour.
In a weird sort of way.
Your friend in times of dire need.
Spider Jerusalem. (Pure. Virginal. And Jewish.)