| “Welcome to Lucha Libre Night at the Taco Bell Arena in Chihuahua, Mexico. I’m Edificio Del Huevo, your color commentator, and I’ll be assisted by six-time Mexican female mud wrestling champion, Rosita La Chingada.” “¡Hola amigos!” “We’ll be reporting on the hugely anticipated grudge match tonight between Mexican champion Comandante Marco and his American rival, El Grande Bush. There’s a lot at stake in this battle for North American supremacy, wouldn’t you say, Rosie?” “¡Ooooh sííííí! Mexico has been pushing for a rematch since 1846, when the malditos gringos cabrones put a gun to our heads and made us sign over Texas and California. Now if we want to go there for a vacation we have to swim through rat-infested sewer pipes, and mutherfuckers telling us ‘Speak English! Speak English!’ I like English. I luv it! But I don’t need no gringo mutherfucker breathin’ down my neck. “Anyway, if Comandante Marco wins the match tonight, we gonna get back all our land and then we be telling you cocksuckers to speak Spanish. “I know the first thing I’m gonna do when we take over is to move into the Presidential Suite at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas and go skinny-dipping in the Grand Canal. Show the mutherfuckers what a real Mexican chocha looks like!” “Sounds good to me, Rosie, but as they say ‘Don’t count your huevos rancheros before they’re hatched.’ Remember, the norteamericanos are not going to give up all that loot without a fight. “And as we speak, El Grande Bush is entering the ring. He’s wearing his trademark pink tu-tu, dunce cap and glitter mask, and they’re playing his music, ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’” “Hey, Bushie, Bushie! Can we get a word from you for our studio audience?” “Waal, I’d like to address my remarks to the brave men and women fighting in Eye-Rack for the forty-second consecutive year. I honor the sacrifice you are making in the war on terror, and I want you to know that I plan to win tonight so that when you come home you’ll have a home to come home to. “The threat we are facing in this arena here tonight is whether our western states will remain The Home of The Free And The Brave, or are allowed to become an open-air taco stand like the one on Alvarado Street in downtown LA, where the crackheads and stray dogs hang out, behind the convention center.” “How inspiring! What’s your strategy for fighting Comandante Marco?" “I plan to shock and awe him with my lightning speed, twist his head in the ropes and bite his knuckles.” “Excuse me, Ed, cut out that shit. Here comes Mexico’s national hero, Comandante Marco of the Zapatista Revolutionary Army of Chiapas. He looks ready for battle with his headdress of quetzal feathers, jaguar-skin tights and crocodile nose mask. His musical accompaniment is the Mexico City rock band Molotov singing their anthem ''Viva México Cabrones.' Every time I hear that song it brings tears of pride to my eyes, especially the part where they sing ‘No Me Llames Cerdo.’ When I was a leetle girl in the shantytown overlooking the security wall separating Nuevo Laredo from Brownsville, Texas, my mother used to lull me to sleep by singing to me from Molotov’s romantic love song ‘Chinga Tu Madre’, where they sing: Nos vemos Acapulco a la fin de semana Mientras yo cuido à tu hermana Chinga tú chinga tu madre [Ed. See you in Acapulco But first I fuck your sister] “Hey, big boy! You got something to say to your fans?” “Hola, Rosie. I dedicate my life to the glory of Mexico. After I win, not only are we going to reconquer our lost territories, but we are going to sacrifice El Grande Bush on the ancient Mayan altar at Chichen Itzà by ripping out his still beating heart and feeding it to the pirhana fish that swim in the holy cenote. The whole ceremony is going to be filmed by Mel Gibson for his upcoming movie “Jews of The Jungle.” “Sounds great, sweetie. Only how do you plan to vanquish such a great warrior like El Grande Bush?” “I plan to shoot him with a curare-tipped blow dart and then, when he’s paralyzed, I’m going to stomp on his balls.” “And there’s the bell! The two fighters are circling each other warily, looking for an opening, and they are being watched by the masked referee, El Misterioso, who is also wearing a mask. Ed, what do we know about El Misterioso?” “Only that he gained fame as the fiercest lucha libre fighter in South America.” “Wow! Now El Grande Bush leaps forward and head butts Comandante Marco in the chest, but instead of falling onto the mat El Comandante does a backflip, kicking Bush in the face. Bush goes down and Comandante Marco sits on his face, locking him in a French Butt Hold, squeezing the air out of Bush like an Anaconda python between the steel vise grip of his powerful glutes.” “With his last, dying breath Bush reaches between Marco’s legs and manages to insert his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and flip him across the ring like a slingshot. Bush jumps to his feet and delivers a shattering roundkick to the head of El Comandante, who goes flying into El Misterioso who, enraged, punches him in the face. Hey, he’s not supposed to do that. He’s the ref!” “Wait a minute! Now El Misterioso grabs a folding chair and breaks it over the head of El Grande Bush.” “The audience is going berserk. The mariachi band Los Tigres Del Norte has started playing the romantic sentimental love song ‘Volver’, I suppose expressing their wish for a return of Mexico’s northern territories. Meantime, on the American side, Ted Nugent is shooting off machine gun riffs from his guitar. Oh no, that’s not his guitar, it’s a real machine gun! Now gunfire is breaking out all over the place and bullets are flying.” “Comandante Marco and El Grande Bush have recovered from the surprise attack by El Misterioso, and they’re punching the shit out of him in the corner of the ring. They rip off his mask.” “Omigod, it’s Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, and he’s got an oil gusher shooting out of his butt!” “Well, let’s get out of here before the whole place explodes. Reporting to you from Taco Bell Arena, I’m Edificio Del Huevo.” “And I’m Rosita La Chingada…” “Wishing you a big cuevo en el culo, cabrones!” |
CHUCHA LIBRE
| 200motels POLITICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| Recently it was revealed that a defense contractor, The Lincoln Group, was paid $25 million to develop propaganda to be disseminated in Iraq. One of the themes they proposed, a terrorist version of “The Three Stooges,” was rejected by the Pentagon. Using the Freedom of Information Act, this writer was able to obtain a copy of the script. SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing explosives in the body of a dead dog. CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades, two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets. [Reaches for pepper shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup of napalm. Now all it needs is a timer. [Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy meatball! [Starts sewing the dog up, singing] I’m singing in Bahrain I’m friends with Hussein Mohammed calls from the other room: MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned dog? Curley, have you seen my dog Saddam? CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe! MOE: What are you doing in there? CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get back to you later! Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens the door. Closet is filled with bound and gagged hostages. HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph! CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door] Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in microwave and closes door just as Mohammed walks in the room. MOE: I said, What are you doing in here? CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb. MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to show you my latest invention. They walk into the living room. MOE: Well, how do you like it? CURLEY: What is it? />MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin Laden doll for the kids to play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron? CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and everything! MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you press the re-dial button on your cell phone it blows up, and you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything! CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius! MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from The University of Riyadh for nothing! Abdul walks in. ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank. Look what I got for us. CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one! MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the boss. CURLEY: Who made you the boss? MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh! Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley, who goes flying out the window. Explosion is heard. Curley crawls back in the window, all messed up. MOE: Now who’s the boss!? CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe. MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam! Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the microwave oven. MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the microwave? CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix it. MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it is. CURLEY: Moe, no! Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on the microwave. The whole place explodes, with rockets and bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is a shambles. The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their faces. MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven? |
| THEY GOT GAMES! |
| 200motels BEIJING OLYMPICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| SCENARIO: Curly Sayyed is at the kitchen table stuffing explosives in the body of a dead dog. CURLEY: Let’s see. An artillery shell, three hand grenades, two sticks of dynamite, a box of bullets. [Reaches for pepper shaker] Don’t forget the gunpowder, nyuk nyuk! And one cup of napalm. Now all it needs is a timer. [Winds up an egg timer and throws it in] Thatsa’ spicy meatball! [Starts sewing the dog up, singing] I’m singing in Bahrain I’m friends with Hussein Mohammed calls from the other room: MOE: Saddam! Here boy, come to papa! Where is that damned dog? Curley, have you seen my dog Saddam? CURLEY: [Frightened] No, Moe! MOE: What are you doing in there? CURLEY: Nothing, Moe! [To dog] I gotta’ put you away. I’ll get back to you later! Curley grabs dog off table, runs over to the closet and opens the door. Closet is filled with bound and gagged hostages. HOSTAGES: Mmmph! Mmmph! CURLEY: Sorry, folks! [Slams door] Curley runs over to the microwave oven, throws dead dog in microwave and closes door just as Mohammed walks in the room. MOE: I said, What are you doing in here? CURLEY: I was just getting ready to make a bomb. MOE: Well, that can wait. Come into the living room. I want to show you my latest invention. They walk into the living room. MOE: Well, how do you like it? CURLEY: What is it? />MOE: What do you mean, what is it, you stinking offspring of an imperialist pig? It’s an Osama Bin Laden doll for the kids to play with. Do I gotta’ explain you everything, you moron? CURLEY: Oh, it’s so cute! It’s even got the little beard and everything! MOE: Yeah, and it’s got the little kalashnikov. And when you press the re-dial button on your cell phone it blows up, and you got the little puddles of fake plastic blood and everything! CURLEY: Moe, you’re a genius! MOE: Well, I didn’t get a Masters Degree in Engineering from The University of Riyadh for nothing! Abdul walks in. ABDUL: Sorry I’m late, boys. My bus got run over by a tank. Look what I got for us. CURLEY: Matching suicide belts! I want the green one! MOE: Just hold on, there. I get the green one ‘cause I’m the boss. CURLEY: Who made you the boss? MOE: Oh, a wiseguy, eh! Mohammed pulls out a rocket launcher and fires it at Curley, who goes flying out the window. Explosion is heard. Curley crawls back in the window, all messed up. MOE: Now who’s the boss!? CURLEY and ABDUL: You are, Moe. MOE: All right! Now, where’s my dog Saddam? [Walks back in kitchen] Saddam, boy! Saddam! Curley rushes in and gets between Mohammed and the microwave oven. MOE: Hey, what’s going on here? What have you got in the microwave? CURLEY: [Frantic] It’s a surprise! I was just getting ready to fix it. MOE: Oh, a surprise, eh! Well, let’s cook it and find out what it is. CURLEY: Moe, no! Mohammed reaches around Curley and pushes the button on the microwave. The whole place explodes, with rockets and bullets whizzing around. When the smoke clears, the place is a shambles. The Three Jihadis are standing in the rubble with their clothes torn to shreds and soot all over their faces. MOE: [To Curley] What was in that oven? CURLEY: [Like a moron] I forgggget! MOE: You forget! Well, here’s something to help you remember! Moe starts chasing Curley around, firing a machine gun. Curley runs around in circles, jumping up and down to dodge bullets. CURLEY: Whoop! Whoop! Scene fades as the theme music plays. THE END |
| “Welcome to Lucha Libre Night at the Taco Bell Arena in Chihuahua, Mexico. I’m Edificio Del Huevo, your color commentator, and I’ll be assisted by six-time Mexican female mud wrestling champion, Rosita La Chingada.” “¡Hola amigos!” “We’ll be reporting on the hugely anticipated grudge match tonight between Mexican champion Comandante Marco and his American rival, El Grande Bush. There’s a lot at stake in this battle for North American supremacy, wouldn’t you say, Rosie?” “¡Ooooh sííííí! Mexico has been pushing for a rematch since 1846, when the malditos gringos cabrones put a gun to our heads and made us sign over Texas and California. Now if we want to go there for a vacation we have to swim through rat-infested sewer pipes, and mutherfuckers telling us ‘Speak English! Speak English!’ I like English. I luv it! But I don’t need no gringo mutherfucker breathin’ down my neck. “Anyway, if Comandante Marco wins the match tonight, we gonna get back all our land and then we be telling you cocksuckers to speak Spanish. “I know the first thing I’m gonna do when we take over is to move into the Presidential Suite at the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas and go skinny-dipping in the Grand Canal. Show the mutherfuckers what a real Mexican chocha looks like!” “Sounds good to me, Rosie, but as they say ‘Don’t count your huevos rancheros before they’re hatched.’ Remember, the norteamericanos are not going to give up all that loot without a fight. “And as we speak, El Grande Bush is entering the ring. He’s wearing his trademark pink tu-tu, dunce cap and glitter mask, and they’re playing his music, ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.’” “Hey, Bushie, Bushie! Can we get a word from you for our studio audience?” “Waal, I’d like to address my remarks to the brave men and women fighting in Eye-Rack for the forty-second consecutive year. I honor the sacrifice you are making in the war on terror, and I want you to know that I plan to win tonight so that when you come home you’ll have a home to come home to. “The threat we are facing in this arena here tonight is whether our western states will remain The Home of The Free And The Brave, or are allowed to become an open-air taco stand like the one on Alvarado Street in downtown LA, where the crackheads and stray dogs hang out, behind the convention center.” “How inspiring! What’s your strategy for fighting Comandante Marco?" “I plan to shock and awe him with my lightning speed, twist his head in the ropes and bite his knuckles.” “Excuse me, Ed, cut out that shit. Here comes Mexico’s national hero, Comandante Marco of the Zapatista Revolutionary Army of Chiapas. He looks ready for battle with his headdress of quetzal feathers, jaguar-skin tights and crocodile nose mask. His musical accompaniment is the Mexico City rock band Molotov singing their anthem ''Viva México Cabrones.' Every time I hear that song it brings tears of pride to my eyes, especially the part where they sing ‘No Me Llames Cerdo.’ When I was a leetle girl in the shantytown overlooking the security wall separating Nuevo Laredo from Brownsville, Texas, my mother used to lull me to sleep by singing to me from Molotov’s romantic love song ‘Chinga Tu Madre’, where they sing: Nos vemos Acapulco a la fin de semana Mientras yo cuido à tu hermana Chinga tú chinga tu madre [Ed. See you in Acapulco But first I fuck your sister] “Hey, big boy! You got something to say to your fans?” “Hola, Rosie. I dedicate my life to the glory of Mexico. After I win, not only are we going to reconquer our lost territories, but we are going to sacrifice El Grande Bush on the ancient Mayan altar at Chichen Itzà by ripping out his still beating heart and feeding it to the pirhana fish that swim in the holy cenote. The whole ceremony is going to be filmed by Mel Gibson for his upcoming movie “Jews of The Jungle.” “Sounds great, sweetie. Only how do you plan to vanquish such a great warrior like El Grande Bush?” “I plan to shoot him with a curare-tipped blow dart and then, when he’s paralyzed, I’m going to stomp on his balls.” “And there’s the bell! The two fighters are circling each other warily, looking for an opening, and they are being watched by the masked referee, El Misterioso, who is also wearing a mask. Ed, what do we know about El Misterioso?” “Only that he gained fame as the fiercest lucha libre fighter in South America.” “Wow! Now El Grande Bush leaps forward and head butts Comandante Marco in the chest, but instead of falling onto the mat El Comandante does a backflip, kicking Bush in the face. Bush goes down and Comandante Marco sits on his face, locking him in a French Butt Hold, squeezing the air out of Bush like an Anaconda python between the steel vise grip of his powerful glutes.” “With his last, dying breath Bush reaches between Marco’s legs and manages to insert his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and flip him across the ring like a slingshot. Bush jumps to his feet and delivers a shattering roundkick to the head of El Comandante, who goes flying into El Misterioso who, enraged, punches him in the face. Hey, he’s not supposed to do that. He’s the ref!” “Wait a minute! Now El Misterioso grabs a folding chair and breaks it over the head of El Grande Bush.” “The audience is going berserk. The mariachi band Los Tigres Del Norte has started playing the romantic sentimental love song ‘Volver’, I suppose expressing their wish for a return of Mexico’s northern territories. Meantime, on the American side, Ted Nugent is shooting off machine gun riffs from his guitar. Oh no, that’s not his guitar, it’s a real machine gun! Now gunfire is breaking out all over the place and bullets are flying.” “Comandante Marco and El Grande Bush have recovered from the surprise attack by El Misterioso, and they’re punching the shit out of him in the corner of the ring. They rip off his mask.” “Omigod, it’s Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela, and he’s got an oil gusher shooting out of his butt!” “Well, let’s get out of here before the whole place explodes. Reporting to you from Taco Bell Arena, I’m Edificio Del Huevo.” “And I’m Rosita La Chingada…” “Wishing you a big cuevo en el culo, cabrones!” |
CHUCHA LIBRE
| 200motels POLITICS |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| THE PASSION OF NINO DE JESUS BENITEZ Excerpt from 200motels short story "Follow Your Dream" |
| 200motels FICTION |
| Comedy |
| Tragedy |
| Nonsense |
| Bullshit |
| [Scenario: Niño de Jesus Benitez has escaped from the mental hospital on Ward's Island and made his way to Hell's Kitchen on the West Side of Manhattan, where he goes to the object of all his dreams and desires, a garishly-painted fuchia forklift truck parked in a vacant lot] Niño de Jesus frequently had marveled at it on his way to work and one day, when the proprietor had left the gate unlocked, he snuck in for a closer look. Climbing up the ladder on the side and peering into the control booth, he noticed that they had left the key in the ignition. After all, one might reason, who would steal such a monster? Only a crazy man! From that day forward the machine became a constant landmark of his scattered emotional terrain. The idea of it would pop up when he was riding the subway into town from his rented room in Corona, when he was eating beans and rice in the shared kitchen of his boarding house, when he was watching Mexican gangster movies showing smartly tailored guys with mustaches smattering each other into fragments with machine guns. If the average person is distracted by thoughts of sex every eight seconds as scientists contend, then Niño de Jesus Benitez, who had not the slightest interest in any form of human contact, who was a fanatical Catholic fundamentalist sober or drunk, had found the ideal vehicle of transferal for all his earthly animal tendencies. The fuchsia forklift took over all his waking thoughts and dreams. He changed his commute so that he could pass it twice each day, crossing himself and uttering a devotional prayer on his way to and from his job as (what else?) a forklift operator. The fuchsia forklift came to have a deleterious effect on his job performance at the industrial bakery where he worked. His previously close relationship with the dependable little yellow forklift that he drove became strained, the same way a man might devalue his plain but faithful wife after becoming infatuated with a younger, lovelier woman. He began treating her with contempt and insouciance, letting her battery water run low and forgetting to recharge her when he went on break or ended his shift. Sometimes, out of spite, he intentionally banged her against concrete surfaces, damaging her fiberglass body and exposing her insides. Occasionally he would drive her around without first raising her fork, causing sparks to fly as the prongs scraped painfully across the reinforced cement floor. The yellow forklift, which was named Teresa since its last driver had painted his child’s name on it, sadly deteriorated from her previously spunky self and now dripped tears of hydraulic fluid as she dragged herself forlornly about the premises. Finally, the loading dock foreman, Bolivar Marticorena, took notice and stepped in to champion her. “It’s a crime the way you abuse this machine,” he asserted. “Why don’t you go to hell!” retorted Niño de Jesus with the defensive indignation of somebody who knows perfectly well he is being justly accused. Whether Bolivar was right or wrong was beside the point. Niño de Jesus knew the Mexican foreman had it in for him because he was from Ecuador. Besides, he knew Bolivar’s hideous secret, that he was a demon from the depths of hell who had ascended into the world by way of a stairway behind the furnace in the sub-basement of the factory, a filthy, hellish place where the slops from the drainage system fell into a slop sink which connected it to the city’s sewer system. Niño de Jesus sometimes went down there because the foul odor kept others away, and he could get some peace and quiet while he sipped from a pint bottle of Ronrico to steady his nerves. As the old saying goes, once you get past the smell you’ve got it licked, and Niño de Jesus passed many agreeable solitary moments there, alone except for the occasional water bug or garden variety rodent. That is, until the day when he heard whistling, chuckling voices coming from behind the giant hundred year-old furnace in a dark corner, towering like a steel mountain behind a blackened lagoon of a cesspool of shiny sewage and putrefied rat carcasses. Intrigued, he squeezed his skinny body into the narrow passage separating the furnace from the wall until he had gotten behind it. There was a solid green door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. The voices behind the door had gone silent when they heard somebody trying the handle. There was total silence for several seconds, when suddenly a terrifying chorus of howls and screams startled and frightened Niño de Jesus. Panicked, he tried to scramble back through the narrow passage from which he had come, but in his haste he snagged part of his clothing on a piece of metal protruding from the furnace. Unable to move, he heard the voices come right up behind him, mocking him and threatening him in unknown languages of gibberish. Disembodied faces spun around in the air, laughing and menacing as Niño de Jesus, soaked in sweat and praying to Jesus for salvation from these infernal spirits who, enraged that he had discovered their hiding place, now laughingly taunted and threatened him with destruction and the loss of his immortal soul. He passed out, hanging there like a marionette in this dark, stinking subterranean pit of filth and demons for an immeasurable period of time. Once he woke up to find giant water bugs crawling all over his clothing and body, sucking the salt perspiration. At the end of the short passage, rats stuck their heads in curiously, wondering how long it would take for him to die there so they could begin eating him. Passing out again, he retreated into a dream state of delirium. At length, he was discovered by the old man, Tato, whose job in the factory it was to search out and kill bugs and rodents, for which purpose he carried with him a little tin first-aid case that he called his “maleta de muerte,” stuffed as it was with the traps and poisons that were his instruments of destruction. He would assemble all the little dead critters he had collected during his shift in a white bakery bag and show them to his boss as proof of his indispensability to the company. His manager, a hardened man of fifty, might very well be biting into a sandwich at the time of such an exhibition, where a glance into the bag would transport him into another little unique dimension of hell, one of water bugs stuck to glue traps, their shells and wings in disarray, many still alive with antennae furiously thrashing about; maggot-ridden corpses of mice stuck to traps with blood flowing out of their mouths and laying in their own droppings. “Muy bueno”, the manager would tell the old man as he chewed his sandwich. And he meant it. Tato, with his small body and unabashed enthusiasm for squeezing into dark corners of the factory, flashlight in hand, performed an invaluable function. The manager, although repelled by this little menagerie of loathsome filth, was nevertheless heartened by the knowledge that none of these animals would contaminate the food product or, even more horribly, intrude their pointy little heads during a factory tour by customers or a government inspection. “You’re doing a fine job,” he would compliment the little man in fluent, though heavily anglo-inflected Spanish. “Get out there and kill some more!” The old man, elated by this encouragement, would recommence with renewed ardor. Tato found Niño de Jesus Benitez suspended in the narrow passage behind the furnace, his clothes tangled in the machinery, and helped cut him free with a box cutter. After he had cut him loose, the toothless old man cautioned Niño de Jesus in barely comprehensible Spanish, “Never go there. There are bad things.” This episode had a major impact on Niño de Jesus’ mind, and he started going down to the sub-basement on a regular basis, not to nip the bottle but to monitor the activity behind the furnace. In the silence, punctuated only by the gurgling and plopping of the rancid, filthy factory waste water flowing through the drainage pipe into the slop sink, he could make out the sounds coming from the green door at the end of the narrow passage, the infernal whistling and chuckling of rats mixed with human voices shrilly screaming and the shouts and pleadings of tortured souls being impaled on spikes, branded with red-hot pokers, having their eyes gouged out. This was the work of the Jews, who ascended a staircase leading from the pit of hell to emerge in modern New York. He formulated a clear picture of this diabolical intrusion of demons and determined that the bakery was a mere front for the methodical infiltration of Jew-demons into the world, a hellish Fifth Column organized to deliver humanity into the embrace of Satan. Armed with this knowledge, Niño de Jesus Benitez came to develop a clear understanding of the events of September 11, which, though having occurred many years before, were still the major preoccupation of New York society. He came to realize that the buildings’ collapse, while precipitated by the airplanes having collided into them, actually resulted from fissures in the earth’s crust caused by the Jews burrowing underneath them and weakening their foundations. Niño de Jesus, straining to hear, could distinguish over the roar of the furnace and the rushing flop of sewage into the slop sink the barely audible moans and pleas of priests who, stripped naked and chained to posts, bleeding and sweating, their pathetic moans and pleas for mercy and salvation drowned out by the hellish baritone laughter of monstrous leather-clad lesbians wearing huge dildoes who flagellated them unmercifully with barbed wire cat o’ nine tails whips. He decided to alert a priest, Father Guzman, a saintly man who ministered to the unfortunate Central American undocumented aliens out of St. Anthony’s Parish in Corona. Father Guzman listened sympathetically to Niño de Jesus’ description of the events taking place behind the green door and wrote him a referral for psychiatric counseling, which Niño de Jesus immediately tore up after leaving the priest’s office. “If they think they’re going to get me, they’re crazy!” TO BE CONTINUED! |
