A Target For Assassins

Paranoia

Part 15 of 30

It'd be a terrible, strange, not-very-nice feeling to be marked for assassination. I can see it from every angle, me in my innocence walking along minding my own business, then from the shooter's scope with the hairline bullseye, the gun barrel letting him discern the precise bearings. What a dirty skunk he is to want to shoot me, the most innocent do-gooder and go-getter in the world! Before me the world was basically lost in a jungle of misery and confusion, then with a few run-of-the mill blog posts enlightenment came to the masses. It only happened relatively recently that I went to a hypnotist who helped me give up all reticence when it came to writing and just puke it out. Since then the world's been a better place. I hardly recognize it.

But there are cases where even if you're a great guy you're still an assassination risk, and I suppose they could mistake me for someone else. Some people say I look like Einstein, some say I remind them of Martin Luther King, and others say I resemble Butch Smith, a childhood friend. So if I thought long enough about it -- that's long enough -- I could get really paranoid. To think, a mob boss is out there somewhere hiding in my humble neighborhood. There’d be no better cover. Then he goes out seven or eight times to walk his dog -- like me -- and the sight of me humbly picking up dog poop is so offensive that he wants to make me a victim. He radios to the gang: “I'm going for a head shot." That's terrible!

So without professional security, I have a lot of bases to cover. My next defense might be plastic surgery. They operate on me with plastic knives and forks, no clinking of metal to alert the assassins at their rendezvous nest, full of vipers. An eye-tuck here, a nose-tuck there, next thing I’m barely recognizable to myself in the mirror. Even my mother wouldn’t recognize me, although she's passed on.

Even if there aren’t any actual assassins gunning for me -- and this is where the real value to my schemes reside -- there are lots of attacks on other people, guns blazing, knives coming down at a 45 degree angle, people poisoned, you name it. The other day there was someone shot out of a cannon and he landed on the interstate and 12 cars ran over him trying to avoid him. That's another cause I promote: "Avoid Distracted Driving." They’re screwing with their radio, reaching to the glove compartment for make-up to apply on the trip, lipstick, or trying to hit the kids in the backseat, or just putting it on cruise control and drifting off for a catnap. It’s far too easy to imagine 12 cars running over an assassination victim if he's crossing the road.

Despite the risks, I still need to go out today, pick up a friend from a medical appointment, and of course tend to the dog, her business. If you should comment on this and I fail to answer you, assuming you deserve an answer, please call the police and let them know: "A guy from your area has just been assassinated. Please send help and a body bag. What's he look like? Sort of like his old friend Butch Smith. Or try Einstein or Martin Luther King, Jr."

February -- Got the Moves Like Dagger

Note: This is largely a fictional account of what I'd love to see happen to February. Yes, I'm trying to destroy February as a month, but, no, I don't (necessarily) want to accomplish it by violent means. Still, how satisfying it'd be -- one of those wish fulfillment things -- if my peaceful values could be just slightly different, and I could see a palace assassin plunge the dagger in, and watch February writhe in pain on the floor and finally die. Am I right?

The council of months was underway at the palace, high in the atmosphere somewhere, the various lords and ladies of time in the large courtroom awaiting their annual decisions. Decisions pertaining to how the kingdom would measure time for the year. Would it be as it had been for the last 10,000 years, with no variation, or could this be the year there might be a change?

As a lowly guest, being an acquaintance of a friend of a day in January, I stood behind a curtain in the very back, straining to hear, wondering, Might February be out? I had no reason to hope, but, being a hopeful guy, I couldn't help whispering a slight prayer to that effect. The same prayer I'd prayed the last 4,000 years.

Trumpets sounded, meaning the Council of Months' business session had ended, and they'd be returning to the court and to the great round table. The table itself was a matter of some controversy, true story. The vote had been 11 to 1, February outvoted again, who, inscrutably, always agitated for a rectangular table. My opinion, February would do anything to change the subject, to give us a reason to think of anything else but its shortcomings. And that's true, when you're misshapen in some way -- say you've got only 28 days to your name -- you tend toward strange eruptions around your betters.

So the months gathered before us and we listened for the announcement. There would be no change to the calendar. The vote was almost unanimous, 11 to 1, and the predictability of time had been maintained once again! February shifted uneasily in his chair, then in a pique slammed his fist to the table. Obviously he had lobbied for more days. I muttered to myself, "What a disgrace..." The other months were rolling their eyes and showing signs of irritation with yet another of February's many annoyances.

It had been widely hoped, not just by me -- like one of those impossible dreams -- that at some point the other months might just vote February out entirely, then divvy up its days between themselves. I'd long hoped they'd keep a kind of stump month, say with 10 days of the old February, and for those days to be a time of revelry and cussedness. I think it'd be good for society -- rife with criminality as it is -- to get it out of its system all at once.

Little did I know we were closer to that happening than I ever had reason to expect! For behind the scenes, behind the curtains, the plot was already in motion. An assassin from a violent group called the Coterie of Devils (represented in the picture as a literal coterie of devils) lurked. We didn't know a thing about it. But all of a sudden, in a flash, this big burly guy with no shirt and the hairiest back I ever saw sprang from a hiding place and plunged a dagger into February's back. There was an unbelievable gasp in the room, many exclaiming, "Conspiracy!", and I myself distinctly gasped the following words, "Well, hush my mouth!"

But what could anyone do? The guy was a stabbing machine, going like speed typing, and the other months, weighed down in their royal robes, and not being trained for defense, were motionless. February took at least two dozen lightning thrusts. Then the assassin, in one last act of boldness, mounted the table, dropped his pants, and mooned in the general direction of February's bloody dying form. This daring gesture accomplished, he leaped to the floor and ducked quickly behind the curtain and was gone.

I sensed the mood was a bit weird, like the usual miasma that goes with shock. Sure, no one liked February, but having him stabbed by an assassin? That's damned tough to endorse. But I decided to go for it, and stood strong on the table, waving a bloody napkin from February's place at the table, and shouted, "Let this be a day of independence for the progress of time and its descendants!" And what's this? The bastards booed me down, and I had to slink out of there in total disgrace, excoriating myself in no uncertain terms, "Too soon, stupid, what the hell were you expecting, you stupid idiot?" 

Your Place At The Kennedy Assassination

As more and more kids of my generation become senile and forget it all, I suppose I should address the assassination of President Kennedy. We just had the last World War I veteran die, and, for all I know, I might eventually be the last one to actually remember the events in Dallas in 1963.

When I say I will address the assassination of JFK, of course you'll excuse me if I say I'm not going to address everything about it. The scope of that would be so massive, for one, and, two, it's already been done in an encyclopedic way that would far surpass anything I might say by way of ignorant, secondhand conjecture. Not to downplay the veracity of my own opinions. Plus, I simply haven't got the time to do it, since I too am feeling more senile everyday.

So please excuse me if, in the course of this present post, I confine myself to a more narrow purpose, to document the supposed feelings of a few of the folks along the motorcade route. To accomplish this task, first, I will give my own thoughts about standing on parade routes; then, second, I will express some of the supposed thoughts of the people on the motorcade route that day in 1963. The two, my parade thoughts and my thoughts about their thoughts are two separate things, but obviously both will come out of my own head.

First, what I'm thinking when I'm on a parade route. Thanks to the assassination of JFK, oftentimes when I'm on a parade route, I'll think about it. I'll think, If there's trouble, will I be a reliable witness as to what happened?, as I wish I would have been had I been on the scene at Dealey Plaza in 1963. I wonder, depending on the dignitaries present in the parade, if I would leap into action if there were an assassination attempt. In 1963, of course it all happened so quickly, and most people were caught off guard, and anyway, it was the Secret Service's job to protect JFK. But I was at a parade in which former Beatle Pete Best passed by, and someone might've dashed the car, a diehard Ringo lover. For about 20 seconds, I was ready for anything. Lastly, when I'm at a parade and I don't have a video camera, I figure I won't be the Zapruder of the day. I glance over and see another guy with a camera and figure that's our Zapruder.

Notice how concerned I am about possible assassination attempts, all thanks to what happened to JFK. And what happened to his brother and MLK didn't help. I think the key thing in my favor -- and I'm proud of this -- is that, more or less, I can well imagine that I'd be fearless in facing whatever. I like to think I would be. Only, you don't want to leap in if there's no genuine attempt and end up looking like a fool or in jail. Like if an antique car backfires, and I immediately assume it's an attempt on Pete Best's life, I rush the car and push him into the backseat, thereby breaking his hands. Him being a drummer, that'd be disastrous.

But I've been at political events where there's been some genuinely prominent politicians, including, now that I think of it, Barack Obama before he was president. The Secret Service was out in force and told a guy next to me to keep his hands out of his pockets. It honestly could've been that I might've had to have tackled that guy. Again, I would want to have probable cause to do so, or I'd be the one who went to jail. "But he had a gun!" ... "It wasn't a gun, it was sunglasses."

And there have been others who went by me and were able to leave the building or outdoors venue, thanks to my vigilance and willingness to lay my life on the line. And I haven't even mentioned my various time travel fantasies over the years in which I'm able to change history. It bugs me to realize that even if I could travel through time, of course the folks on the scene wouldn't believe me that I was from the future, and it all would've happened anyway. That's only partially true, though. For instance, JFK's security forces never would've believed me, true, because I was just a random kid from the future, but if I could've made my way to the Texas School Book Depository, Oswald didn't have any security, and I would've stormed the sixth floor. I'd love to be the guy to go back in history and kill Oswald. The problem with that would be justifying it to the authorities at the time, since he hadn't done anything yet, except take a couple shots at General Walker, who I wouldn't know from Adam. Let's say I did kill him, then I get back to the present day and everything's changed. Since no one else would know the difference, it'd be no big deal.

My second purpose today is to think of the thoughts of the folks on the actual motorcade route. Whoever was a block away or more would be thinking, "Too bad I was a block away or more. But at least I was there!" Their testimony is worthless, since they were in the wrong place. But those who had the foresight to be right there on the scene -- including Zapruder, although he would've been smarter to have several cameras going simultaneously from various points along the route -- all have a story to tell.

Here's what I imagine they've been thinking over the years: 1) "If only I would've known what was going to happen, I would've done something to prevent it." 2) "It was like a blur, it happened so fast." 3) "I just turned my head for a moment, then--. 4) "I thought it was firecrackers." 5) "It's haunted me all these years, I wish I hadn't even been there, I haven't been able to sleep since." 6) "I was on the front row of history, damn the luck." And so forth. It's a combination of despair and understandable helplessness.

I might back up -- since I thought of a few -- and sketch out some of the thoughts of the folks up-route. 1) "When he passed my station, he was OK." 2) "He wasn't killed on my watch." 3) "I did what I could on my block. All was well." 4) "He was good as new when he left my side." You can see, their thoughts take a different tone, one of heroic participation in the event, as though they had anything to do with where the marksman wasn't. They're a lot more opportunistic, but it's hard to prove they weren't each individually responsible for the president's safe passage thereto, since maybe their vigilance thwarted a second completely unknown assassin.

As for me, I resonate most with Number 5 of the first group, "It's haunted me all these years..." because that's exactly how I feel about it. Nothing in life has haunted me so much, and that includes all the many challenges of puberty. To think Oswald could carry a gun in there that day and do this, it's still too much.

Put Me Amongst The Girls

I have great news to report: THE GRANGE SISTERHOOD HAS BEEN TOPPLED. And I toppled a couple of farmers' daughters too.

Think back to yesterday, when I engaged in some fierce sacred sword play, preparation for what I needed to accomplish. I was channeling single-minded energy with such intensity I was able to burn my initials in the lawn. The power of thought is so strong, quite frankly I won't leave home without it.

I picked one narrow, short sword to take to the grange dance. Then when the time came I drove down the hill and turned south. About as soon as I did, they were taking potshots at me. One of the men in trees shot out my back passenger window. But I kept on, my thoughts completely on point. I saw one of them up ahead raising his gun, so I moved his gun up with a motion of my sword just as he was shooting. Then glancing off to the left, across the road I saw another guy fall dead from his tree.

They seemed surprised to see me pull into the grange compound. But I parked and walked on toward a central point. No one was going to shoot me now. They wanted to see how it played out, perhaps toy with me. But if there's any toying to be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

Everything was mostly in motion. I could hear Johnny Hotshot's band inside the grange. Whatever preparations in the barn there were, they'd been done and folks were coming out. Back to my right, behind me, by the cars, were some of the callow boys of town, thinking they'd come out for some quick action. But if there's any action to be had, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

Appearing like a vision of both loveliness and hideousness, out came the orgy participants and the farmers' daughters with the young grange men playing their part as suitors. If you didn't know better you'd think they were deep in heat. The grabbing, groping, soon to become a group grope. The farmers' daughters looking bored, the young men very much into it, the matrons chests heaving, busting at the seams, the men in full arousal. But if there's any arousing to be be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

They were arrayed in the grove, the farmer's daughters calling for the callow boys to come over. The orgies were getting down to business. I stood my ground, taking in the full scene. I felt for my short sword in my pocket. It felt hot, blazing. Then from the barn came Lemuel with the horses in proud procession. They were heading over by the fence, setting up to destroy the boys from town. But if there's any destroying to be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

Lemuel saw me -- they must not have told him I was there -- and he seemed surprised. There was a strange look on his face. Not exactly fear. He moved in to quiet the horses and seemed to be whispering something to the lead horse, Honest Maude III. Everything had come to a head!

The boys from town were beginning to move that way. But I pulled my sword and pushed them back. They fell backwards and were knocked unconscious. The orgy clumps were seething and sizzling like a devil that knows perdition's at hand. They doubled down, getting it on even more intensely. I don't know what the farmers' daughters were thinking, but they were no longer acting. This was their life and they needed to play the part with fervor. But if there's any playing to be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

Into the midst of that seething, writhing mess I strode -- like John Brown -- purposely putting myself where the horses would have the best shot at me. Hallelujah! The Moment I Was Born For! Just then Lemuel ran for the trees and shot me a look of approval. I glanced down at the horses' hooves. They had extra sharp horseshoes, cleated in a major way, kind of like the chariot wheels in Ben Hur, but of course not as long.

I raised my sword to the heavens and felt such a surge of righteous power go through me, the lights of the grange compound flickered and Johnny Hotshot's sound system went out. We heard nothing now but the stillness of a late summer night and the moans of the orgies, now much heated up. The horses turned toward me, looking over their shoulder to get their aim right. But if there's any aiming to be done, O teacher, put me amongst the girls...

I reached down -- no man can do this and survive! -- and unsnapped my pants, unzipped myself, took off my pants, including my undies, and stood there as proud as I've ever been in my life. The sword lay limp on the ground. But not to worry, the true sword was very much present and accounted for. At this sight, the horses went into a mighty frenzy. I should've been kicked to death well before now. Hallelujah! I spun there in place for all the grange to see. Maybe in some parallel universe I'm still spinning!

The orgy hushed. They were ready to say Sayonara to me. Ha ha! The horses, in a mighty frenzy, were now so enraged, not knowing what to do. But what they did is they began kicking each other wildly. And with those sharp Ben Hur cleats finding their mark, being embedded in the heads of one another, it was a sickening scene. Blood was in a wild spray, horses were falling dead in a terrible arc all around the perimeter of the orgy field.

I stood my ground, with naked orgy participants running in fear for the sidelines. Then I spun again while thrusting my hips, and I think I was unconsciously shrieking several of the most powerful incantations of Peruvians rituals, as my mind was not understanding but my spirit gave the utterance. When I aimed at the barn -- thrust -- it burst into flames. When I aimed at Lemuel's house -- thrust -- I saw the lights flicker inside and heard bloodcurdling screams from within. When I aimed at the horses -- I quickly pulled back -- as the last survivor sat back on his haunches and put up his front feet, just like in the westerns.

I stood there like that then as all things except the burning barn became very quiet, perfectly still. It was then that two of the farmers' daughters came and straightened out some of the blankets. I really hate to spell out precisely what happened next, except to say I'm still smiling this morning. And if there's any smiling to be done, all together now, put me amongst the girls...

After what might be called a personal climax of sorts, I learned that Lemaperu and Peru's spirits were merged with the horses. It was their Peruvian deviltry that had died. The others, being very afraid, went along with them out of fear. Even Lemuel had had enough, and what he was whispering to the horse was being whispered to the Peruvians, "Your day has come!"

There might still be some mopping up, but for all intents and purposes, the Grange Sisterhood has been destroyed!

The Grange File -- Well, Hush My Mouth

First, if I am assassinated before getting this posted, you will not be reading this sentence until something happens. If worse comes to worse, I need to make a final request to whoever comes into my house and finds my body: If my computer is still running, you must finish paraphrasing the contents of this file at my right hand. But if the ones who assassinate me have taken the file, there will be nothing at my right hand. In that case I will need you to push the "Publish Post" button on the screen.

But let's say the assassins have also damaged my computer. You will have to open my Blogger account on a different computer and find my list of posts. The one you will look for is called "The Grange File -- Well, Hush My Mouth." (Blogger is saving drafts for me.) You will need to open it and see how far I've gotten. If it's anything beyond these paragraphs of instructions and perhaps the next introductory paragraph, then please see that it is finally posted on my blog. And please cover my body with a sheet so Grandma isn't traumatized, should she wake up.

Then call the police. I believe we can assume the police will know what to do when they find a body at a crime scene. But if they seem to be ignorant on the subject, I think the procedure is that they should rope off the scene of the crime, draw an outline of my body in the chair, and call the county coroner, who will pronounce me dead. Then you can expect a pack of rabid funeral home wolves to arrive, fighting and clawing each other to see who will ultimately make money off my funeral. Please do not let them take me through the north door. I hate the north door!

I spent the better part of an hour going through Grandpa's "Grange File" and I will summarize the contents of everything that is relevant to our present day concerns. Wait! There was a shot! About scared me to death! Someone literally just second ago shot through the window! Glass is shattered all over the place. I'm on the floor behind the big chair, with just my keyboard stretched out. Terror! Terror! (Kind of dirty back here. Hope I didn't tear my pants on the chair lever.)

OK, it's been quiet for 10 minutes. Back up. Definitely going to skip summarizing this stack of recipes for grange meals. Also the more benign grange board meeting notes. Although it is interesting that in '56 they changed from giving out 50 year pins to the more expensive gold watch. Were the Eisenhower years that prosperous? Must press on... Another shot! Oh crap! And from the north side, that one could've taken me out! There's a hole the size of a walnut in the wall just above me! This is getting dicey. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Run spell check on that.

There are sirens in the distance, so I might be OK. I had my back up against the wall for a while. There's a big delay. I'd hate to die without getting this done. I don't want an asterisk next to my name at the graveyard, meaning you died less than honorably with unfinished business.

I just saw some headlights coming up the hill, then suddenly go out. Someone's pulling in the drive. I might need to finish this tomorrow, if I make it through the night. I've got a towel over the monitor. It's not completely dark but close enough. There's a wicked breeze coming through the shot out windows.

Oh my God! A brick just managed to get itself heaved, presumably by someone doing the heaving, right through my bedroom window! Is this the end of the world? Is this how it ends? No! The sirens are getting closer! I could see all kinds of shadowy motions through the broken glass. There's limited escape for anyone up this hill. The car's gone. It was some big old lumbering '50s model, the kind the grange people like. My heart's pumping wildly, like the motor on an antique washing machine.

I ran to the north side and looked across the way toward the school. The police are on the way! Meaning this file is going to have to wait. I don't know what to do with it. OK, I stuck it in the freezer under some old pork chops. Need to get those out. Looks like some freezer burn. Need to start marking the meat packs with dates. That's a good tip for any food buffs out there. Use your meat in the order you freeze it, going in chronological order. You can save a lot of money by buying it on sale and freezing it. But your savings will not be as great if it's spoiled by freezer burn.

The police are pulling into the drive, like Gangbusters, parked all cattywampus, their headlights slicing through the gun smoke at weird angles. Meaning I need to hit "Publish Post" now in case they turn out to be some corrupt cops and kill me at the door. I hate it when cops go bad. But that's another opinion for another day.

Pray for me ... and check the meat in your freezer. It's always later than you think.