Crime Wave

I loped out to the lilac Lincoln and ran the radio. I latched onto an L.A. station and lucked out on a late-nite newscast. No news: nothing on the massacre in mink or lashed Linda Lansing. My bet: Bad Bob’s boys in the BHPD buried it all. I could buy out of my bind and wave bye-bye with a big bundle of cash.

Noxious night air noodled my noggin. Some thread in my theories thrashed and threatened to lash my logic on the Linda Lansing end. My brain broiled. My mind misfired. I couldn’t cook a contradiction up in context.

I noxiously night-dreamed. I ran the radio dial and got reverential with Rachmaninoff. I pictured a perfect world.

I deliver the dough to Dot Rothstein and pay off my perfidies. I pop down to Paraguay and purchase a palace and some peons. I instigate indentured servitude. I install myself as El Jefe. I spawn the spic Hush-Hush–Husho-Husho en Espaflol. El Presidente Strongman Stroessner stridently defends me. I defame the democratic-minded devils out to oust him. I slather slander in a land with no libel laws. I lance libidinous Latins and lynch leftist losers in print. I pride myself as a prime anticommie. I hobnob with nervous Nazis assimilated in Asunción. I hump their halfspic/half-nordic, radically race-mixed and ravishing daughters. I spot a special Hush-Hush Hilda. She hatches a hole in my heart. I build the Berchtesgaden West as our love lair. We breed a brood of bright little Getchellites. I give them thick thesauruses on their first birthdays.

Oooooh, Daddy-o! I was digging it all, dystopian!

I bopped back to the bungalow. I freeze-framed Frigidaire Frank–

He was beaming bemused and be-bop beatific. His blue eyes blazed and blended with fabric flecks on his shiny sharkskin suit. He bowed and bestowed a benediction.

“I forgive you your transgressions, for I have been to the high mountaintop. I am the way and the truth and the life. Walk with me and you shall not walk alone.”

Sammy said, “That acid shit misfired. The motherfucker thinks he’s Jesus.”

6

Tojo’s burritofied Buchenwald:

Five football fields under a tortilla-tamped tin roof. A sunken sun magnet in the middle of a massive mesa. Nine hundred niflos broiled brown. Bright-eyed brats brought in to sew serapes and loom lacework and shear sheet metal into shiny souvenirs for burro show sharpies. Labor by lathe, loom, and laundry press. Stoop work at standing stations. Slaves slotted down fifty rows roamed by rough boys with bullwhips and Bulgarian machine guns.

Kiddie casas off cattycorner. Corrugated cardboard–courtesy of Carl’s TV in Carlsbad, California.

Facing Maladroit Mesa:

A barbed-wire bordered baby White House built to 1/10 scale.

Righteous replication. Exquisite external detail. A lush lawn that led down to Slave City.

The lawn did double duty as an unpaved parking lot. I pulled up behind a beanerized Buick and a frijolified Ford., I felt felicitously fit and joyfully jingoistic. Tojo was flying a flag. His lusty little Lucifer was trimmed in tricolored lace. I flipped him a salacious salute.

The joint was jumping jackrabbit high.

A bonaroo buffet boded by the barbed-wire boundary. Bullwhips bit bullet-loud. Mangled muchachos moaned and mewed, “Mamacita!” Blackshirted blowhards lounged on the lawn and swicked switchblades into the grass.

I vipped out of the van. I hauled Bad Bob out by the hair. Sammy made a mountain of mink and moved it onto the lawn. The Juke Box Jesus was rope-wrapped and mouth-muted and mummified in mink. He could suffer and suffocate. He could vegetate in the van. He didn’t play in my plan.

Sammy sealed him in safe and soundless. A blackshirt blizzard hit the Mink Matterhorn.

They reveled and rolled like dogs in the dirt. They mauled mink and salivated on sable. They grabbed and grass-stained and chewed up choice chinchilla.

A shadow shot over Mink Mountain and shaded in shiveringly. Pedro Pimentel–the tostadofied Tojo and menudoized Mussolini.

A spiffy spic. A blackshirted blackguard with blackhead pits and bad teeth. A jackbooted jackal not to jive with.

He said, “Stop.”

The blowsy blackshirts stopped and stood at attention.

He turned to me. “Mr. Getchell?”

I said, “In the flesh.” I hair-hauled Bad Bob over to him.

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