Part 24 (1/2)

He took out the p.o.r.nographic Tarot deck, which he used when he wanted a really far-out fantasy for his o.r.g.a.s.m, and shuffled it thoroughly. Let's have a Markoff Chain masturbation to start with, he thought with an evil grin.

And, thus, without ever contacting the Legion of Dynamic Discord, the Erisian Liberation Front or even the Justified Ancients of Mummu, Markoff Chaney began his own crusade against the Illuminati, not even knowing that they existed.

His first overt act-his Fort Sumter, as it were-began in Dayton the following Sat.u.r.day. He was in Norton's Emporium, a glorified 5 & 100 store, when he saw the sign: NO SALESPERSON MAY LEAVE THE FLOOR WITHOUT THE AUTHORIZATION OF A SUPERIOR. THE MGT.

What!, he thought, are the poor girls supposed to pee in their panties if they can't find a superior? Years of school came back to him (”Please, may I leave the room, sir?”) and rituals which had appeared nonsensical suddenly made sense in a sinister way. Mathematics, of course. They were trying to reduce us all to predictable units, robots. Hah! not for nothing had he spent a semester in Professor ”Sheets” Kelly's intensive course on textual a.n.a.lysis of modern poetry. The following Wednesday, the Midget was back at Norton's and hiding in a coffee urn when the staff left and locked up. A few moments later, the sign was down and a subtly different one was in its place: NO SALESPERSON MAY LEAVE THE FLOOR OR GO TO THE DOOR WITHOUT THE AUTHORIZATION OF A SUPERIOR. HE MGT.

He came back several times in the next few weeks, and the sign remained. It was as he suspected: in a rigid hierarchy, n.o.body questions orders that seem to come from above, and those at the very top are so isolated from the actual work situation that they never see what is going on below. It was the chains of communication, not the means of production, that determined a social process; Marx had been wrong, lacking cybernetics to enlighten him. Marx was like the engineers of his time, who thought of electricity in terms of work done, before Marconi thought of it in terms of information transmitted. Nothing signed ”the mgt.” would ever be challenged; the Midget could always pa.s.s himself off as the Management.

At the same time, he noticed that the workers were more irritable; the shoppers picked this up and became grouchier themselves; sales, he guessed correctly; were falling off. Poetry was the answer: poetry in reverse. His interpolated phrase, with its awkward internal rhyme and its pointlessness, bothered everybody, but in a subliminal, preconscious fas.h.i.+on. Let the market researchers and statisticians try to figure this one out with their computers and averages.

His father had been a stockholder in Blue Sky Inc., generally regarded as the worst turkey on the Big Board (it produced devices to be used in making landings on low-gravity planets); profits had soared when John Fitzgerald Kennedy had announced that the U.S. would put a man on the moon before 1970; the Midget now had a guaranteed annuity amounting to thirty-six hundred dollars per year, three hundred dollars per month. It was enough for his purposes. Revenge, in good measure, he would have. He would have revenge.

Living in Spartan fas.h.i.+on, dining often on a tin of sardines and a pint of milk from a machine, traveling always by Greyhound bus, the Midget criss-crossed the country constantly, placing his improved surrealist signs whenever the opportunity presented itself. A slowly mounting wave of anarchy followed in his wake. The Illuminati never got a fix on him: he had little ego to discover, burning all his energies into Drive, like a dictator or a great painter-but, unlike a dictator or a great painter, he had no desire for recognition. For years, the Illuminati attributed his efforts to the Discordians, the JAMs or the esoteric ELF. Watts went up, and Detroit; Birmingham, Buffalo, Newark, a flaming picnic blanket spread across urban America as the Midget's signs burned in the stores that had flaunted them; one hundred thousand marched to the Pentagon and some of them tried to expel the Demon (the Illuminati foiled that at the last minute, forbidding them to form a circle); a Democratic convention was held behind barbed wire; in 1970 a Senate committee announced that there had been three thousand bombings in the year, or an average of ten per day; by 1973 Morituri groups were forming in every college, every suburb; the SLA came and came back again; Atlanta Hope was soon unable to control G.o.d's Lightning, which was going in for its own variety of terrorism years before Illuminati planning had intended.

”There's a random factor somewhere,” technicians said at Illuminati International; ”There's a random factor somewhere,” Hagbard Celine said, reading the data that came out of f.u.c.kup; ”There's a random factor somewhere,” the Dealy Lama, leader of ELF, said dreamily in his underground hideout beneath Dealy Plaza.

Drivers on treacherous mountain roads swore in confusion at signs that said: SLIPPERY WHEN WET MAINTAIN 50 M.P.H. FALLING ROCK ZONE DO NOT LITTER.

Men paid high initiation fees to revel in the elegance of all-WASP clubs whose waiters were carefully trained to be almost as sn.o.bbish as the members, then felt vaguely let down by signs warning them: WATCH YOUR HAT AND COAT NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST PROPERTY. THE MGT.

The Midget became an electronic wizard in his spare time. All over the country, pedestrians stood undecided on curbs as electric signs said walk while the light was red and then switched to don't walk when the light Went green. He branched out and expanded his activities; office workers received memos early in the morning (after he had spent a night with a Xerox machine) and puzzled over: 1. All vacation requests must be submitted in triplicate to the Personnel Department at least three weeks before the planned vacation dates.2. All employees who change their vacation plans must notify Personnel Department by completing Form 1472, Vacation Plan Change, and submitting it three weeks before the change in plans.3. All vacation plans must be approved by the Department Supervisor and may be changed if they conflict with the vacation plans of employees of higher rank and/or longer tenure.4. Department Supervisors may announce such cancellations at any time, provided the employee is given 48 hours notice, or two working days, whichever is longer, as the case may be. (Employees crossing the International Date Line, see Form 2317.)5. Employees may not discuss vacation plans with other employees or trade preferred dates.6. These few simple rules should prevent a great deal of needless friction and frustration if all employees cooperate, and we will all have a happy summer.

THE MGT.

On April 26 of the year when the Illuminati tried to immanentize the Eschaton, the Midget experienced aches, pains, nausea, spots before his eyes, numbness in his legs and dizziness. He went to the hotel doctor, and a short while after describing his symptoms he was rushed in a closed car to a building that had a Hopi Indian Kachina Doll Shop in front and the Las Vegas CIA office in the back. He was fairly delirious by then, but he heard somebody say, ”Ha, we're ahead of the FBI and and the Cesspool Cleaners on this one.” Then he got an injection and began to feel better, until a friendly silver-haired man sat down by his cot and asked who ”the girl” was. the Cesspool Cleaners on this one.” Then he got an injection and began to feel better, until a friendly silver-haired man sat down by his cot and asked who ”the girl” was.

”What girl?” the Midget asked irritably.

”Look, son, we know you've been with a girl. She gave you this.”

”Was it the clap?” the Midget asked, dumbfounded. Except for his p.o.r.nographic Tarot cards, he was still a virgin (the giant women were all so d.a.m.ned patronizing, but his own female equivalents bored him; the giantesses were the Holy Grail to him, but he had never had the courage to approach one). ”I never knew the clap could be this bad,” he added, blus.h.i.+ng. His greatest fear was that somebody would discover his virginity.

”No, it wasn't the clap,” said the kindly man (who didn't deceive the Midget one bit; if this guy couldn't pump him, he knew, they would send in the mean, tough one; the nice cop and the nasty cop; oldest con in the business). ”This girl had a certain, uh, rare disease, and we're with the U.S. Public Health Service.” The gentle man produced forged credentials to ”prove” this last allegation. Horses.h.i.+t, the Midget thought. ”Now,” the sweet old codger went on, ”we've got to track her down, and see that she gets the antidote, or a lot of people will get this disease. You understand?”

The Midget understood. This guy was Army Intelligence or CIA and they wanted to crack this before the FBI and get the credit. The disease was started by the government, obviously. Some f.u.c.kup in one of their biological war laboratories, and they had to cover it up before the whole country got wise. He hesitated; none of his projects had ever been consciously intended to lead to death, just to make things a little unpredictable and spooky for the giants.

”The U.S. Public Health Service will be eternally grateful to you.” the grandfatherly man said, eyes crinkling with sly affection. ”It isn't often that a little little man gets a chance to do such a man gets a chance to do such a big big job for his country.” That did it. ”Well,” the Midget said, ”she was blonde, in her mid-twenties I guess, and she told me her name was Sarah. She had a scar on her neck-I suppose somebody tried to cut her throat once. She was, let's see, about five-five and maybe 110-115 pounds. And she was superb at giving head,” he concluded, thinking that was a very plausible Las Vegas wh.o.r.e he had just created. His mind was racing rapidly; they wouldn't want people running around loose knowing about this. The antidote had been to keep him alive while they pumped him. He needed insurance. ”Oh, and here's a real lead for you,” he said ”I just remembered. First, I want to explain something about, uh, people who are below average in stature. We're very s.e.xy. You see, our s.e.x gland or whatever it's called works extra, because our growth gland doesn't work. So we never get enough.” He was making this up off the top of his head and enjoying it. He hoped it would spread; he had a beautiful vision of bored rich women seeking midgets as they now seek blacks. ”So you see,” he went on, ”I kept her a long time, having encores and encores and encores. Finally, she told me she'd have to raise her price, because she had another customer waiting. I couldn't afford it so I let her go.” Now the clincher. ”But she mentioned his name. She said, 'Joe Blotz will be p.i.s.sed if I disappoint him,' only the name wasn't Joe Blotz.” job for his country.” That did it. ”Well,” the Midget said, ”she was blonde, in her mid-twenties I guess, and she told me her name was Sarah. She had a scar on her neck-I suppose somebody tried to cut her throat once. She was, let's see, about five-five and maybe 110-115 pounds. And she was superb at giving head,” he concluded, thinking that was a very plausible Las Vegas wh.o.r.e he had just created. His mind was racing rapidly; they wouldn't want people running around loose knowing about this. The antidote had been to keep him alive while they pumped him. He needed insurance. ”Oh, and here's a real lead for you,” he said ”I just remembered. First, I want to explain something about, uh, people who are below average in stature. We're very s.e.xy. You see, our s.e.x gland or whatever it's called works extra, because our growth gland doesn't work. So we never get enough.” He was making this up off the top of his head and enjoying it. He hoped it would spread; he had a beautiful vision of bored rich women seeking midgets as they now seek blacks. ”So you see,” he went on, ”I kept her a long time, having encores and encores and encores. Finally, she told me she'd have to raise her price, because she had another customer waiting. I couldn't afford it so I let her go.” Now the clincher. ”But she mentioned his name. She said, 'Joe Blotz will be p.i.s.sed if I disappoint him,' only the name wasn't Joe Blotz.”

”Well, what was it?”

”That's the problem,” the Midget said sadly. ”I can't remember. But if you leave me alone awhile,” he added brightly, ”maybe it'll come back to me.” He was already planning his escape.

And, twenty-five hours earlier, George Dorn, quoting Pilate, asked, ”What is Truth?” (Barney Muldoon just then, was lounging in the lobby of the Hotel Tudor, waiting for Saul to finish what he had called ”a very important, very private conversation” with Rebecca; Nkrumah Fubar was experimentally placing a voodoo doll of the president of American Express inside a tetrahedron-their computer was still annoying him about a bill he'd paid over two months ago, on the very daynight that Soapy Mocenigo dreamed of Anthrax Leprosy Pi; R. Buckminster Fuller, unaware of this new development in his geodesic revolution, was lecturing the Royal Inst.i.tute of Architects in London and explaining why there were no nouns in the real world; August Personage was breathing into a telephone in New York; Pearson Mohammed Kent was exuberantly balling a female who was not only (Barney Muldoon just then, was lounging in the lobby of the Hotel Tudor, waiting for Saul to finish what he had called ”a very important, very private conversation” with Rebecca; Nkrumah Fubar was experimentally placing a voodoo doll of the president of American Express inside a tetrahedron-their computer was still annoying him about a bill he'd paid over two months ago, on the very daynight that Soapy Mocenigo dreamed of Anthrax Leprosy Pi; R. Buckminster Fuller, unaware of this new development in his geodesic revolution, was lecturing the Royal Inst.i.tute of Architects in London and explaining why there were no nouns in the real world; August Personage was breathing into a telephone in New York; Pearson Mohammed Kent was exuberantly balling a female who was not only white white but but from Texas; from Texas; the Midget himself was saying ”Rude b.a.s.t.a.r.d, isn't he?” to Dr. Naismith; and our other characters were variously pursuing their own hobbies, predilections, obsessions and holy missions). the Midget himself was saying ”Rude b.a.s.t.a.r.d, isn't he?” to Dr. Naismith; and our other characters were variously pursuing their own hobbies, predilections, obsessions and holy missions). But Hagbard, with uncharacteristic gravity, said But Hagbard, with uncharacteristic gravity, said, ”Truth is the opposite of lies. The opposite of most of what you've heard all your life. The opposite of most of what you've heard from me.”

They were in Hagbard's funky stateroom and George, after his experience at the demolished Drake mansion, found the octopi and other sea monsters on the wall murals distinctly unappetizing. Hagbard, as usual, was wearing a turtleneck and casual slacks; this time the turtleneck was lavender-an odd, f.a.ggoty item for him. George remembered, suddenly, that Hagbard had once told him, anent h.o.m.os.e.xuality, ”I've tried it, of course,” but added something about liking women better. (Goodness, was that only two mornings ago?) George wondered what it would be like to ”try it” and if he would ever have the nerve. ”What particular lies,” he asked cautiously, ”are you about to confess?”

Hagbard lit a pipe and pa.s.sed it over. ”Alamout Black hash,” he said croakingly, holding the smoke down. ”Ha.s.san i Sabbah's own private formula. Does wonders when heavy metaphysics is coming at you.”

George inhaled and felt an immediate hit hit like cocaine or some other forebrain stimulant. ”Christ, what's this s.h.i.+t cut with?” he gasped, as somebody somewhere seemed to turn colored lights on in the gold-and-nautical-green room and on that outasight lavender sweater. like cocaine or some other forebrain stimulant. ”Christ, what's this s.h.i.+t cut with?” he gasped, as somebody somewhere seemed to turn colored lights on in the gold-and-nautical-green room and on that outasight lavender sweater.

”Oh,” Hagbard said casually, ”a hint of belladonna and stramonium. That was old Ha.s.san's secret, you know. All that c.r.a.p in most books about how he had turned his followers on with hash, and they'd never had it before so they thought it was magic, is unhistorical. Has.h.i.+sh was known in the Mideast since the neolithic age; archeologists have dug it up in tombs. Seems our ancestors buried their priests with a load of hash to help them negotiate with their G.o.ds when they got to Big Rock Candy Mountain or wherever they thought they were going. Ha.s.san's originality was blending has.h.i.+sh with just the right chemical cousins to produce a new synergetic effect.”

”What's synergetic?” synergetic?” George asked slowly, feeling seasick for the first time aboard the George asked slowly, feeling seasick for the first time aboard the Leif Erikson Leif Erikson.

”Nonadditive. When you put two and two together and get five instead of four. Buckminster Fuller uses synergetic gimmicks all the time in his geodesic domes. That's why they're stronger than they look.” Hagbard took another toke and pa.s.sed the pipe again.

What the h.e.l.l? George thought. Sometimes increasing the dose got you past the nausea. He toked, deeply. Hadn't they started out to discuss Truth, though? George thought. Sometimes increasing the dose got you past the nausea. He toked, deeply. Hadn't they started out to discuss Truth, though?

George giggled. ”Just as I suspected. Instead of using your G.o.ddam prajna prajna or whatever it is to spy on the Illuminati, you're just another dirty old man. You use it to play Peeping Tom in other people's heads.” or whatever it is to spy on the Illuminati, you're just another dirty old man. You use it to play Peeping Tom in other people's heads.”

”Heads?” Hagbard protested, laughing. ”I never scan the Hagbard protested, laughing. ”I never scan the heads heads. Who the h.e.l.l wants to watch people eliminating their wastes?”

”I thought you were going to be Socrates,” George howled between lunatic peals of tin giggles, ”and I was prepared to be Plato, or at least Glaucon or one of the minor characters. But you're as stoned as I am. You can't tell me anything important. All you can do is make bad puns.”

”The pun,” Hagbard replied with dignity (ruined somewhat by an unexpected chortle), ”is mightier than the sword. As James Joyce once said.”

”Don't get pedantic.”

”Can I get semantic?”

”Yes. You can get semantic. Or antic. But not pedantic.”

”Where were we?”

”Truth.”

”Yes. Well, Truth is like marijuana, my boy. A drug on the market.”

”I'm getting a hard-on.”

”You too? That's the way the balling bounces. At least, with Alamout Black. Nausea, then microamnesia, then the laughing jag, then s.e.x. Be patient. The clear light comes next. Then we can discuss Truth. As if we haven't been discussing it all along.”

”You're a h.e.l.l of a guru, Hagbard. Sometimes you sound even dumber than me.”

”If the Elder Malaclypse were here, he'd tell you a few about some other gurus. And geniuses. Do you think Jesus never whacked off? Shakespeare never got on a crying jag at the Mermaid Tavern? Buddha never picked his nose? Gandhi never had the crabs?”

”I've still got a hard-on. Can't we postpone the philosophy while I go look for Stella-I mean, Mavis?”

”That's Truth.”

”What is Truth?”

”Up in the cortex it makes a difference to you whether it's Stella or Mavis. Down in the glands, no difference. My grandmother would do as well.”

”That's not Truth. That's just cheap half-a.s.sed Freudian cynicism.”

”Oh, yes. You saw the mandala with Mavis.”

”And you were inside my head somehow. Dirty voyeur.”