Robert Mueller III is still standing on the roof of the Cream House, he hasn't left, hasn't slept, hasn't batted one eye. his arms are still raised high and will speak to whomever will listen.
Mueller: ONE MORE DAMN WEEK!!! i ain't giving up the car keys this far in. i've come too far and we've come too long. loose lips sink Coast Guard vessels. you're gonna be disappointed like when you don't quite receive the exact Christmas present you were yearning for but that ain't my problem. i won't be lulled into thinking you're an okay guy and this is all meant to be parody and you did this all for Katy Perry and you're just an AM reality radio host who happens to roll the knobs.
President Bump looks up from his bedroom window at the Cream House, lilac lace curtain lithely blowing in the short wind.
Bump: get down from there, man, you look like a crazy person.
Bob: nice try siccing those Rapunzels at me at the last desperate minute. this is why i never leave my office, i bought a La-Z-Boy sleeping couch brand-new brand-new-engines expressly so you couldn't track where my home is. was. how much did you pay them?
Bump: enough to get their nails did. can't did their hair. let me ask you, Bob, from up there i can still see it, is that a bulge in your wallet or are you just happy to see me?
Bob: Rapunzel Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Bump: can't. it's immovable. like destiny.
Eye Luggage stands immovable in the wind, firework-shoots of her purple hair and her brown-rubber leg-band strings and the piece of evidence-paper gentle blowly in the wind like triumphant trusses.
Dirg is dumbstruck for many reasons. he doesn't quite know his next move. he stares at her in shock and uses the opportunity to scan her up and down.
Eye Luggage: the way things are going for us, reverting that is, your junk art will be the next framed Mona Lisa. at least Warhol acknowledged the non-subtle way he referred to cans. we've got to put a stop to this, nip this wildblaze in the bud before it infects pretty girls with low self-esteem.
Dirg: we? you and what posse? are you referring to Hollywood? nevermind.
Eye Luggage: a little army i like to call women. not little women. ironically we've been around longer than any relic rule which prohibits us from the front lines. we've BEEN on the front lines since forever we were birthed, taking all the bullets into our savage bosoms. bozooms bazookas. you know, the fairer sex? call us ugly but we've always been fair. why couldn't you draw a webcomic that was a how-to on how to prepare Toxic Masculinity Soup?
Dirg has his eyes kept wide-open for him from some unknown force inside air the remainder of this encounter.
Dirg: my best nesting friend would love you. he's done something similar, a short film that starts off as a cooking show but degrades into a Leftist rant on why the world sucks now. cuck carrots and pink pepper in the broth, that sort of thing. it's all very tricky and eye-popping. with a green background for the greenscreen. i'm sure it will win all the awards.
Eye Luggage: i believe in second chances and the prison-industrial reform system. if you write a longform letter IN WRITING---a heartfelt, deep, non-fake apology to Mr. Stan Lee---i will deliver it onto his feet and then maybe i'll see about your case. i might put you off detention and your account will be unsuspended. i may be just in my kindness. see you dudes just don't realize how hurtful you've been to us all these centuries. you thought your slights were homeslices but they were just slices. you're stupid, can't be helped, flawed genes. you inherited rockeater traits into your tongue cells when you ate milk for the first time. you are right now blog-banned from ALL blogs which touch this university of higher enlightened learning.
Dirg: what?! even the official MARVEL youtube channel?!! not that! anything but that! how does that channel touch the school?
Eye Lugagge: Mr. Lee has taken up residency here at Obec C.
Dirg: i don't care about nothing wimpy weblogs but i need that Marvel channel! i've poured my heart, soul, and throat beliefs into that youtube comment section for a decade now, carefully crafting my message to troll out i mean elicit illicit responses from unsuspecting future conscripts to my cause. i've been shaping the debate in the dark i mean the shadows for years for just this revolution we're seeing now to break free into the mainstram like punk did with Cobain. you should see the deep detailed analysis i give whenever a new comic book is printed, i go over each line with anyone who'll talk well type to me. you can't take this away from me, it's my puppy, my identity-politics, actually it's my only very identity at all!!!
Eye Luggage: you've bared your soul instead of your butt at me and i appreciate that. i'm telling you, the climate we have now---no rain---we're gonna need an Alex Jones on the Left, a Liberal Alexa Jones, and i'm just that woman-person! you've no doubt seen my underground webshow have you not?
Dirg: now that i think of it, i might have in passing, like when i get those Comcast driveby ads of all of Hilary's good works paid for by the Dems Loghouse which gets me so incensed i break the screen of my Pear Watch. it's like paying for puttanesca and getting the spaghetti instead of the whore.
Dirg: i'm sorry, you gained a grovel. satisfied? no, you're insatiable, aren't you.
Dirg begins licking the lip of his tip of penis.
Dirg: *eyes turning red from water* i said i was sorry. i need to see Stan Lee. i NEED to see SuperStan or i am stained forever, the boy with the cobweb tattoo...
Dirg takes out his dick from his zipped pants and masturbates in front of Eye Luggage to her everlong disgust, she is horrified, mortified, but she can't yet look away. if for science if nothing else, this is a house of learning. in two seconds and but one stroke up and down, Dirg makes the gang-sign with his other hand and---it's too late---the green plants by his feet are now winter whitecaps.
Eye Luggage: what the FUDGE-WITH-NUTS are you doing, you sicko psycho creep cretin cartoon?
Dirg: this is the thing men do with girls now. our generation's never hugged a girl before, this is our version of sex: jacking off in front of the pretty girl we have a crush on. we've been crushing on them, they are crushed, we're relieved, they're relieved, no touching involved. emotionless embracing, we're so disassociated from our feelings we're terrified of the female presence to go up and stroke the hairs on her arm or say hi behind her back. women are images to us, not real breathing people. this is my altered attraction to you: a cum-connection made from my distant rainbow. of cum.
Eye Luggage: well it's working, i was able to draw that out of you, something i'm sure you've never told anyone, especially your mom. i can see your poor-pumping green heart running scared on fumes covered in gaseous green slime begging to be let out of the constrictive cage of the brittle bones of your ribs. i can see your crack, it's growing.
Dirg: one more thing before i vanish like a ghost: do you have a slim Harley hammer you use during sex back under your bedroom with a ballpeen to crush balls and peens?
Eye Luggage: of course i do. i already vomited earlier today so my tank is empty. i would arrest you, i'm a cop, college cop, the security-guard on duty and of record, but more than anything i just feel sorry for you. zip up, ship up, and escort yourself off. the grounds. you like escorts, right? you'll never be schooled here like this again.
Ariana: here was my idea: Seth Meyers should have done Weekend Update like he always used to do, no mention the entire time that he's the host or anything, he just does his normal segment. and Che and Jost are nowhere to be found. that would have been funny.
Pete Davidson: you're right, babydol. okay, i relent, you're welcome back on set. i'm using a coiled phone right now cos i got my dime back to work said phone.
at the Magical Fruit campus coffeeshop, with Camus on the front roof sipping air bubbles, a gathering of the Resistance stands ready for their renaissance. the only remnant from a previous more-strident more-militant café, the Bernie Furnace---which was ironically firebombed by ecoterrorists---the half-circular booth, is carried over and plopped into the temporary sanctuary of this present café. a booth crying on the outside, with one serrated left edge full of damp nails and cut-apart wood fragments which resemble toothpicks. brown Pac-Man. Symone and Angela flash their yellow-stained teeth as they smile-talk.
Simpsons Swartzwelder: this was my idea, divas. i did this first. don't talk to me. i've never once shaved my beard and my chin hurts like hell. i'm not hideous but i want to maintain my Pynchon popularity cred. remember when cool cats like Aretha wore brown headbands in global rainforests?
Symone Sanders: you a welder or an elder? i love your environmental Simpsons episodes. oooh, Sister Angela Rye, you know it's on when you ditch your relaxed locks for a head full of rough braids. and those glasses you never wear, smart-mode sista! warrior on, princess! we eligible for this election!
Angela Rye: Sister Symone, we look good with our brown headbands on, blends so nicely to us. we will fight. civilly of course, with out fistful discourse and diaphragms.
Symone: my belly is phat bursting at the seams with sustenance. Bernie Sanders was obviously my father. what is up with America? i thought Nazi rallies were a thing of the past. October Surprises were never like this. this is some scary shit in the simmer.
Bump: it's just a joke. you know, entertainment? the Doyers made the worst move! cost them the Series.
Symone: get the fuck up outta here! don't be a baby. how do you even know YOU were born here, citizen child? you were a baby at the time!
Bump: one more thing before i become the departed: if yous had just given me an NFL team, none of this would have happened.
Symone: i love baseball, all us folk do. i mean the dueling walk-off catches! the rubbing of those bats with that black book! that's a magical spellbook you know, i know it well, the players with the cute butts place their bat inbetween the covers of that black book and rub all that feminist witch wych wonderfulness salt into those bats up and down with each stroke till that bat achieves wood. reminds me of the book i'm reading currently, Narnia, off Serena Williams's recommendation during the Great Book Hunt where she wore the brown headband on PBS! who knew Serena likes Narnia?
Angela: hey man, it's the black-girls-are-magic thing. i'm honoring my last-name thang now more than ever, pass the black salt. newly-minted The Atlantic writer Jumpin' Jack Flash Jemele Hill and Dapper Don Lemon will join us later.
Laertus: i heard that, preach it, sista. we ready, we here, and we seen.
Roger Federer arrives at Savannah Guthrie's house which coincidentally is a sprawling mansion of rye in Savannah, Georgia. just at the tip of American Gothic before it went American Industrial.
Fed: so this is your backyard court. on the front lawn. grass tennis courts, you don't see those anymore. nice. go for your lesson? let's start with the basic stroke: the tweener. you'll get it fast, you don't have a penis. to worry about. down pat, it's all in the technique. wait, where is everybody? you said this was a charity-auction tournament thing, where's Everlong Effervescent Evert? where's Bud Collins in the chair-umpire chair?
Guthrie: i'm afraid this is gonna be a private lesson. i need work before i can show my stroke in public. girls just want to have fun. hold up while i don my pink Olivia Newton-John legwarmers.
Fed: okay. let's ready.
Guthrie: can you do me a small favor, you fondue fireman? you frenchie-swiss dripping with sex sweat fighter. instead of using our racquet strings to hit tennis balls, can we use eggs?
Fed: shit. reminds me of the days of cat-gut.
the crones have lithed their way back to a backroom on the far reach of the decked but not stacked Titanic, a small square with no smoke alarms. there they busy touching up the dogs in the area, cleaning them, fluffing them, tonicking their tails, shampooing their coats and conditioning their schnozzes, alleviating their allergies, fitting them with little baby-powder bows, even bowed that last nail on the inside of their paw wrist, hemming up their nails with the lightest cut, rolling their tongues neatly for fresh breath, and generally opening up their yellow eyes to the world of earthly luxury.
Gladyce: you think the Titanic will like running on electric from now on? instead of those toxic steamstacks? it's more efficient in the long run.
Doryce: they won't know who to blame, it was you all along who did it, who made it happen, a woman. dogs did. they're sure to score high at the show. coffee break? NOT Magical Fruit, their stuff makes me toot. we have a Faema at home, let's use it. in our ship room. oh, and you know how that Faema coffeemaker works, right? that blue flashing button you always push? yeah, well, that's actually for THREE cups of coffee, not one. you drink a lot of coffee unknowingly. you have to read the icons more carefully, the thin icon you always miss is actually a pictograph of a teacup for 1 cup of coffee standard serving size for 1 human witch.
Gladyce: let's not start that again, dear...………………….what? i'm getting a message in my coiffed coiled ear-cuff...……………...yes, Sally, thank you, thanks for the heads-up and florist flowers...………..well it seems we got an intercept from Headquarters. apparently all these dogs we've been grooming are not for a pageant, they're for fucking dograces!!!
Doryce: *punching her fist with her other fist* disgraces! grab my coat, let's go. imma fuck that man. up. i'm not voting for Pedro for President or even dogcatcher!
a quiet girl storms into the belled glass door at Lush and sits down on the ball sofa. you can tell she used to be a go-getter but has since turned mousey from her college experience. not looks-mousey, manner-mousey.
Madame Pons: hello, Pakora. nice to finally meet you non-online. we've typed by tea so much we're drowning buddies. wait, you're white!?
Pakora, with the pink headband: yes, and my white girlfriend is Euroclydon from Europe.
Madame Pons: wow.
Pakora: i always see you here. you're burning the midnight oil.
Madame Pons: only with LUSH officially-licensed candles. i'm committed to this work---i WILL third-see it through---not just sit through it---so i sleep on the ball couch. this is my office now, where i sleep. haven't been home in weeks, forgot what the place looks like. haven't spoken to my sister in ages, sometimes i think she's just using me for money, to pay off her house, that she doesn't care about me as a woman-person. i've electrocuted myself more countless times than i care to remember trying to get healing spells right, or help spells left. but no call. except from customers. scrapes, bruises, and a loss of energy befall me, literal loss of energy flowing through my body, zapped and sapped.
Pakora: i've lost the will to write. my diary is dormant. i feel like any art i do is ruined by the times. i'm waiting for it to be over so my art and allergies can flourish again, so my poem stances and entry engagements can mean something larger again, not just about the one framed thing it always does or gets accused of. i must wait: 2, 4, 6 years. i'm waiting to wear a thong again.
Madame Pons: i know about diaries. but your block comes not from the writer but from the non-reader. step into my chamber and let's begin. btw hey girl, you know what this egg does?
Pakora: *quick scan* not a clue.
Dirg: *by modem* so i tried to get that new Picard series on CBS All-Access but they said i will pay for that.
Laertus: *by phone* um, chief Mahomes, that series hasn't been made yet, dudey. you seem stressed, bud, something happen to you? you're relaxed, dazed, and distracted.
Dirg: just my vertigo rearing its pretty head again. gotta sit down by a tree.
Laertus: make sure to get plenty of rest. rent a cot at the student store. come on over to the Magical Fruit for a late-lunch, everyone's left to battle. the place would be dead with you here. rest your back on the heated throw i've laid out for you on the boothseat. or table if you prefer. sink your cock into a cup of iced coffee and cool it off. hey, so is it still a joke? mild meme-warrior mayhem on Mischief Night?
Dirg: um, sure...……...i think.
Laertus: oh okay, just checking. taped can of beans for your thoughts.
Bump: *by threeway using Dirg's Pear Watch* yeah i can use him either way, he looks Middle Eastern, right?
Laertus: you're invading my space, sir. Dirg dear, just don't pick up any suspicious brown packages on the way over, they could be Maury paternity papers!
Dirg: or from mestizo migrants. signaling their skin color, heehee. sorry i'm not into it tonight. it's depressed for me right now and we still have to have energy for Halloween. i was gonna go dressed as a Mexican Cowboy and run to the border to join the posse comitatus---i was committed to the comitatus as a patna---but, eh, it seems like too much work, i'm too depressed to down. i haven't looked at any college babes in cosplay all day. cos i've been banned from college. hey where's your costume? no makeup, outfit, get up, or green hair dye!? i can see your hairy freckles, you're so plain-looking.
Laertus: so i won't get recognized. i'm going this year as the White ghost. she was such a beautiful soul, a librarian soul, her funeral was on Halloween which is goth but damn. *muffling cries* why is everyone dressing up as Maleficent this year? even my mom!
Dirg: *stumbly*…………………….cos...……….Maleficent is magnificent...………..she's the Avenging Angel for all women...….
Laertus: wow, you didn't even inquire as to how hot my mom is. something is definitely wrong with you. she is not milfy enough for you, she is a beautiful soul i'd die for, that's all the makeup she needs. Salvadoran sunglasses not required, her lines and white jeans tell her tale. and her '70s puffy off-raspberry beret. cos she's metal? two horns? nothing? gang signs lead to wars? anything? don't worry, i'll hand out all the candy back at the house, in your state you really shouldn't be giving kids those Halloween Hershey's Kisses with the CREEPY tissuepaper tags on them.