Wednesday, July 19, 2017


these days the boy is taking the lead, as youth often does over experience. the two huddle most of the time together tightly under the stone awning of the cave, rarely going out for fear of the sun, whom even in their early stages of development realize is unusually grand and terrifying.

boy: hug me.

man: we do this for warmth?

boy: no, because we are one. is Yellow Monster gone?

man: almost. the sky is injured from its wrath. pink skin with red splotches. then royal purple as befits a maniacal ruler.

boy: any help from the wind?

man: for days now the wind has been angry with us. nowhere to be seen. or rather felt. we have dishonored it by our cowardice.

boy: we'll just have to change into stars ourselves. i fear our god is fickle and shows when he wants.

man: there's no pleasing the wind. it just blows.

boy: perhaps we can do something to get in its good graces. it will come for us in our time of succor.

the boy begins to cry.

man: what is the water eyes?

boy: crying. i am happy. my middle is not crying out.

man: ah yes, food, just recently learned that word. we have sampled all the plants in the area.

boy: even the poisonous ones. but we are still not stars.

man: by the grace of the wind. we still have much to learn.

boy: there is nothing more to eat. food is boring.

man: unless we venture further than our immediate circle. legend speaks of other beings like ourselves, lesser yet greater. we will have to battle them. winner makes a meal out of the other.

boy: how disgusting and powerful. i choose to be...vegan.

man: but i am so weak. we are surely Yellow Food soon.

boy: where did you hear of such a legend?

man: in the wind.

boy: when you are there, in that space, can you explain to me what you meant by barren wasteland?

man: it's actually quite the opposite. the land is filled with wastes and shiny objects and trinkets. all of which have more weight than the wind. but it's a trick. these things are tied to the rock, not the rock music. they are weighed down by gravity. it's not the wind.

boy: ah, i see. gravity is the anti-wind. good lookin' out.

man: everything is in opposites. the duality of not being a star. while we are one.

boy: yes, i am beginning to see this. i tire quite easily of this body. there's nothing left to do in this body. it's excruciatingly limiting. i want out.

man: more to go. and more to come. always.

boy: i cry because of the duality. i can summon the water if i think about it enough, which is belief. remember, our inside is our outside. soon the water will fall here on the outside. sleep now.

man: sleep now.

the prehistoric pair are awakened by the sound of droplets on their protruding foreheads. a rainstorm rages in front of their little tidy home of stone, whipping around the surrounding palm trees.

boy: our prayers have been answered!

man: yes, i feel it, too!

boy: o glory! i actually HEAR the wind! rustling through the icicles at the top of our cave.

man: the water level is rising. what happens when this place floods?

boy: do you know how to swim?

man: swim?

man: go out there and fix it. you have the young legs. you'll always have the small young legs.

boy: but you have the heavier mind. okay, fine.

boy: i don't get it. the wind is guiding the water to our plants. the plants get thirsty like we do. it's easier to eat them cos they don't have eyes which can water.

man: the plants are drowning. it's too much water. the wind stayed away too long and is making up for lost time.

boy: do we pray for it to stop?

man: no, we remove the plants and keep them safe with us inside. and block our front door with a boulder or something.

boy: uprooting them will kill them, i have a feeling. it would to us.

man: then i suppose we pray.

boy: yes. pray. always pray. the wind won't give us anything in a day we can't handle. it knows when to stop. the wind knows what it's doing.

the man starts to cry.

boy: what is it? maybe i shouldn't ask it seems commonplace?

the man notices for the first time a painting on the interior wall next to the entrance. it is of a straight vertical line in red paint, elongated, crossed by another line in red paint, this line horizontal and shorter than the vertical line.

man: *still crying* the water didn't reach the level of this symbol and erase it before our eyes could see it! it didn't wash away in the storm like our crops! alleluia!

boy: *crying* yes, alleluia.

the man and the boy hug and cry with each other.


President Bump is giving an interview with the New York Times.

Bump: so you'll fire Sessions for me?

New York Times: what?

Bump: yeah just call him up and do it for me, wouldja? you have his number, right? you have all the numbers. i'm late for my son's wrestling thing.

Bump races to the amphitheatre and ducks behind a bank of metal fold-in chairs used as economy seating.

Bump: it's all economy seating.

as some women in skimpy outfits touch each other, one whose name is Jail Bait, Bump turns his massive head into that of Mueller. their heads touch and it hurts.

Bump: damn you.

Bump picks up Mueller and carries him to the arena stage and body-slams him on the spongey mat of the squared circle.

Mueller: you can't fire me! not without a messy Constitutional crisis!

Tiffany Bump in a suit has replaced Bump Jr. as ring announcer.

Tiffany: in this corner, Truth. in the opposite corner, Threat. but who is who?

Bump: i don't want you off the case, Bob, that would be unfair to the president. i want the best minds to look into the financial dealings of all my ex-wives. that's where my money is! i had to pin you down here cos you're never around.

Mueller: the truth is awesome. i love the truth. the truth is like a winding path up a mountain covered in mist. it stays there in all its glory waiting for a spelunker to uncover its secrets. the spelunker merely uses his two hands to climb each step of the mountain until what is hidden is cleared of all fog. the flashlight he carries with him is more important than his boots. no mater how S-shaped and convoluted the various turns, all roads lead to the top, the one point that is undeniable.

Bump: uh, okay Jake the Snake, shred the receipts when you get them, wouldja? got a dinner thing.

Bump sits alone at the Cream House long table all set for a state dinner. no one is there. not even the waiters. not even Melania. Bump claps a long, loud Citizen Kane clap.

Bump: the invitations went out, right? hello?

echo: hello? *clap*

at the convention, all the bigwigs from computer and entertainment are hobnobbing with Jared and Ivanka at the garden terrace in full view of drone cameras.

Bump races his way to the G20 dinner just in time for the dessert rolls.

Bump: where's my placemat? where's my card? i see i'm in between two beautiful women.

the two lovely First Ladies smile.

Bump: just like before. nothing's changed. excuse me, ladies, business, you know.

Bump: hello?

Jared: i did it, pop.

the hologram of Steve Jobs: ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Jared Son-In-Law!


Jared gets up on the dais and huge overhead-projector screen in the back, stretches the spongey foldable steel S-shaped microphone to his lips, and lets out a humongous BLACK BOLT which reverberates all throughout the amphitheatre and destroys all of Silicon Valley.

Bump: boy what'd you do that for?

Jared: you always say to destroy your enemies whenever you get the chance, pop. all of Hollywood was there.

Bump: do you know how to hack computers?

Jared: no.

Bump: me, neither. i'll ask Vlad.

Bump gets up and sits next to Putin on the other side of the long table. he stares at Putin's eyes and touches his balls.

Putin touches his own balls and nods in agreement.

Bump rejoins the Japanese Leader and his wife.

Japanese Leader: senbei?

Bump: no thanks, gives me gas.

wife: sake? rice wine?

Bump: no thanks, hun hun, rice makes me think of my weddings.

wife: is made with your wedding rice...

there is a strange hustle and bustle in a room at the tippy-top of Bump Tower. the Secret Service didn't get an invite.

Bump Jr: is everyone here?

Jared: my wife doesn't know i'm here!

Manafort: oh hey Rob. lose some weight?

Rob: no.

Black Widow: i can't wait for this! there are no ice-cream socials in Mother Russia! let me ask my interpreter did you bring the scoop?

interpreter: *turning on tape*

Black Widow: when you're done give it to me. i work at the New York Times. got a lush office with an overlooking window to Stark Tower.

Bump: oh hey Scarlett.

Black Widow: hi, boss. you were terrible last night.

Bump: that's unfair to the president. hey guys, change of plans. i know everyone was excited for the ice-cream social but that's so Americana. there's a new hipster joint on the East Side, or West Side, called Ice & Vice. strange flavors and even stranger denizens. i'm president to these Bernieheads, too.

Vlad Putin: i brought the nuts!

Bump: thanks, buddy. and i brought the cherries! yeah they got lemon-charcoal cones and a Three Little Pigs flavor, bacon ice cream! it's all very cool. you can see the cold emanate from their ovens.

Vlad: happy way for our two nation-states to get acquainted with each other again.

Bump: i think so. it's all one big Roman Empire anyway.

Vlad: before we go venture, let us all take a moment in prayer for our befallen hero, John McCain.

Bump: yes. speedy recovery. just goes to show, you make fun of a man one day and it all comes back to haunt you later when you find out how much of a jackass you are. i pledge, i promise from this day forward, scout's honor, i will never use an internet meme again.

Brian Williams: The 11th Hour starts now on a Wednesday night. Day 2921 of this still-young Bump Administration...

Ashley Parker: as i was saying...

Brian: i love your smile. it comes out the way Kirsten's does, it's all sour when you're reporting fatuous facts and serious stories but then you stop to smile and by golly that smile could melt Mars! i love it when you gals do that!................i'm sorry, but all of this reporting is quite useless. we might as well go for it while we still can...

Kirsten Powers turns her head to witness the Pope rise from her bathwaters in all her dripping, wet-haired glory.

the Pope: care for a drink?

Kirsten: uh..........

the Pope: no, i meant wine. join me in my private boudoir. tell me all about your conversion to the Faith.

Kirsten: *following* i was a hardcore atheist before...

the Pope: that's hot.

Kirsten: then i met Jesus...

the Pope: never meet your heroes.

Johanna Konta tosses and turns in her apartment she leased for the Championships. her bedsheets are dripping with sweat and worry.

a vision appears before her.

Konta: Jesus?

vision: no, it's me, your coach.

Konta: why'd you do it? you gave me so much confidence.

coach: didn't save enough for me.

Konta: i wanted to win Wimbledon for you so badly. for the country second.

coach: always do it for you, my beautiful pupil. and you are beautiful. on the inside, not just hot.

Konta: you are the wind beneath my wings.

coach: always. please don't sing that song. that's a version of Hell in some circles. i love Bette but Codrus doesn't. which country is it again? UK? Hungary?

Konta: Australia i guess.


at the spirit cave, the hooded figure holds up a poster of an Oldsmobile sedan driving on the surface of one of the moons of Saturn. the Men from the East, who have all removed their hoods, ooh and aah.

hooded figure: gentlemen, this is what we're after. this is goals. this is what we want to do with the wheel. this is evolution. we want to set our sights high. we want to set our sites to the furthest star. we want to fly. not just cars, flying cars. may nothing block us from our imaginations.

one of the Men from the East gets there late atop a new horse for him. the horse bucks him off and his saddle comes off. the Man crawls his way inside and is not scolded by the hooded figure.

Man from the East: this is why i like this church. it's not stuffy like the others.

hooded figure: i will always welcome any who come. may this flame that burns eternally in our circle guide our centers into one body. the one body which lights us on fire forever.

the hooded figure picks up a staff, which is a patriarchal cross, and lights the top of it on the campfire in the middle of the cave. the blue flame turns red. the hooded figure goes around the room offering each Man from the East to hold out his hand and let it get burned, but each politely refuses.



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