Crime Wave

I’ve got AIDS. The worst thing about having it is having it. The fact that people think you’re afag runs a close second.

I’m not a fag. I’m a junkie with a 40-year-old monkey on my back.

Reliable rejuvenations ruined me. I periodically purge myputrefied system with black-market blood transfusions. I bought some Desert Storm surplus blood back in ’91. It dried out my sex drive, downsized my redblood count, and devastatingly deep -sixed me into total devolution.

Or somebody poisoned me on purpose.

Maybe a minor miscreant I maligned in May ‘6i. Possibly a punk I pilloried as purple-tinged a loooong time ago. Perhaps a perpetrator with a perfect sense ofpoetic justice.

I’m pulsatingly paranoid now. I’m a hemophiliac homophobe and a crucifiable Christian abed at the Gay Roman Inn.

I see six of my scandal-rag scapegoats hooked up to hydration machines. They strategically strafe me with hate in their eyes. They huddle within hailing and hurting range and haunt me as I hatch this harangue in the Hush-Hush style.

I’ve got a sharp shiv shoved under my bed. I’ve got the guardedly gayfriendly tale that you’re about to get. I’ll pander to pederastic pride or hurl some hurt in the spirit of the Hush-Hush holocaust.

The gonif three gurneys down is staring straight through me. I can’t place him in my backlog of blackmail and bad juju. I’m going to cut him out of my thoughts and concentrate on my story while I can still alliterate alluringly.

I

The debilitating dirt drought of Spring, ’58.

It hindered, hampered, and hog-tied Hush-Hush. It forced us to print presumption as veracity verified. It forced me to misconstrue old morgue memos and pass them off as fresh scandal skank.

JACKIE GLEASON FIGHTS FOOD FIXATION AT FAT FARM OUTSIDE PHILLY! JOHNNIE RAY MAULED IN MEN’S-ROOM MISADVENTURE! STARLETS STATE STEVE COCHRAN TOPS TAPE AS TINSELTOWN’S MR. KINGSIZE.

Bum bits and rumor retreads. Libelous liabilities and lightning rods to lasso lewd litigation. Unprovable assertions to attract unremitting heat in an unenlightened climate.

Maureen O’Hara keestered Confidential last year. The mag maligned her and said she groped a guy at Grauman’s Chink. She sued successfully. Confidential detailed Dorothy Dandridge’s dipso descent. She sued successfully. Monkey see, monkey do: A chain of chimps sued Hush-Hush. Our current courtroom count stands at o-and- 3. We’re mainlining monetary liens and moving toward Bankrupt Boulevard and Moribund Mesa. We’re taking it up the ass bad.

We’ve dramatically downscaled our dimensions. We moved into a dumpy building down from the downtown dog pound. The doped-out dentist down the hail drives my new crew crazy. I cut my old crew loose to cover court costs and slapped up some fresh slaves from the Salvation Army. They’re all dry drunks with the shimmy-shimmy shakes. Dental-drill noise drips through the walls and drills its way under their skin. They drop type trays and drizzle glue all over my pasteup plates.

Our circulation has circled down to the scandal-rag cellar. Whisper was whispered to top our toll by ten figures per month. Ben Luboff scammed skank for Whisper. I hated him. I owed his bookie brother two big on Basilio-Robinson. Ben bought bonus buzz-dirt off me and bought down my debts with his brother sometimes. I hated to humble Hush-Hush and humiliate myself– but I had to now.

I looked around the office. A dry drunk dropped a cigarette and scorched a scalding shot primed for pasteup:

Lezzie Lizabeth Scott with a loin-lapping look at Linda’s Little Log Cabin on Lankershim Boulevard.

Shit–

It was time to pound the pavement proactive. I walked down the hall and wiggled into Dr. Dave Dockweiler’s chair.

Dave said, “How long?” I said, “Forty-eight hours straight.” Dave jacked joy juice into a spike and found a vividly viable vein in my left arm.

He said, “Three good ones too hot to print. I’m going to an American Legion smoker tonight.” I concocted a commie conspirator’s clique and twisted a fist to twang my target vein.

“Paul Robeson is pouring the pork to Pat Nixon. I swear this is no shit. He’s got her hooked on that big roll of tar paper he’s packing, and she’s leaking him all of Tricky Dick’s secrets, and Robeson’s feeding them to the Kremlin, and they’re feeding them to Senator John F. Kennedy, who’s going to run against Dick in ‘6o. This is no shit, I swear to you. Oh, and Sammy Davis Jr. is flicking Mamie Eisenhower. I swear to you, Dave, this is no fucking shit.”

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