The guy on the triple underpass was definitely Harry Coin. I recognized him through my binoculars. The guy in the window at the Book Depository very likely was this galoot Oswald that they've arrested. But I didn't get a good look at the gink on the County Records building. One thing I'm sure of: we can't keep all this to ourselves.
At the very least, we pass the word on to ELF. It might alter their plans for OM. You've heard of OM? It's their big project for the next decade or so. This is a bigger Mindfuck than anything they had planned. We get all our horse from friendly governments like Laos.
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The CIA would have our ass otherwise. Maldonado stares at him levelly. Bernard Barker, former servant of both Batista and Castro, dons his gloves outside the Watergate; in a flash of memory he sees the grassy knoll, Oswald, Harry Coin, and, further back, Castro negotiating with Banana-Nose Maldonado. But this present year, on March 24, Generalissimo Tequilla y Mota finally found the book he was looking for, the one that was as precise and pragmatic about running a country as Luttwak's Coup. It was called The Prince and its author was a subtle Italian named Machiavelli; it told the Generalissimo everything he wanted to know-except how to handle American hydrogen bombs, which, unfortunately, Machiavelli had lived too soon to foresee.
Seven ambulances and thirty police cars were soon racing to scene But only five years earlier Atlanta had a different message. When God's Lightning was first founded, as a splinter off Women's Liberation, it had as its slogan "No More Sexism," and its original targets were adult bookstores, sex-education programs, men's magazines, and foreign movies.
It was at that point, really, that God's Lightning and orthodox Women's Lib totally parted company, for the orthodox faction, just then, were teaching that male supremacy and orgasms were part of the International Kapitalist Conspiracy. President began; but in Santa Isabel itself, as Tequilla y Mota underlined a passage in Machiavelli,. I've been here nine days now and I am absolutely convinced there is not one Russian or Chinese agent in any way involved with Generalissimo Tequilla y Mota, nor are there any troops of either of those governments hiding anywhere in the jungles.
At the same time, in a different hotel, Tobias Knight, on special loan from the FBI to the CIA, concluded his nightly shortwave broadcast to an American submarine 23 miles off the coast: "The Russian troops are definitely engaged in building what can only be a rocket-launching site, and the Slants are constructing what seems to be a nuclear installation. And Hagbard Celine, lying 40 miles out in the Bight of Biafra in the Lief Erickson, intercepted both messages, and smiled cynically, and wired P.
While the most obscure, seemingly trivial part of the whole puzzle appeared in a department store in. This replaced an earlier sign that had hung on the main showroom wall for many years, saying only. The change, although small, had subtle repercussions. The store catered only to the very wealthy, and this clientele did not object to being told that they could not smoke. The fire hazard, after all, was obvious. On the other hand, that bit about spitting was somehow a touch offensive; they most certainly were not the sort of people who would spit on somebody's floor-or, at least, none of them had done such a thing at any time since about one month or at most one year after they became wealthy.
Yes, the sign was definitely bad diplomacy. Resentment festered. Sales fell off. And membership in the Houston branch of God's Lightning increased. Wealthy, powerful membership. The odd thing was that the Management had nothing at all to do with the sign. George Dorn awoke screaming. He lay on the floor of his cell in Mad Dog County Jail. His first frantic, involuntary glance told him that Harry Coin had vanished completely from the adjoining cell. The shit-pot was back in its corner and he knew, without being able to check, that there would be no human intestines in it.
Terror tactics, he thought They were out to break him-a task which was beginning to look easy-but they were covering up the evidence as they went along. There was no light through the cell window; it was, therefore, still night. He hadn't slept but merely fainted. Like a long-haired commie faggot. Oh, shit and prune juice, he told himself sourly, cut it out.
You've known for years that you're no hero. Don't take that particular sore out and rub sandpaper on it now. You're not a hero, but you're a goddam stubborn, pigheaded, and determined coward. That's why you've stayed alive on assignments like this before. Show these redneck mammyjammers just how stubborn, pig-headed, and determined you can be. George started with an old gimmick. A piece torn off the tail of his shirt gave him a writing. The point of his shoelace became a temporary pen. His own saliva, spat onto the polish of the shoes themselves, created a substitute ink.
The message shouldn't land too close to the jail, so George began looking for a weighted object. In five minutes, he decided on a spring from the bunk mattress; it took him seventeen minutes more to pry it loose. After the missile was hurled out toe window-probably, George knew, to be found by somebody who would immediately turn it over to Sheriff Jim Cartwright-he began thinking of alternate plans. He found, however, that instead of devising schemes for escape or deliverance, his mind insisted on going off in an entirely different direction. The face of the monk from his dream pursued him.
He had seen that face somewhere before, he knew; but where? Somehow, the question was important.
He began trying in earnest to re-create the face and identify it-James Joyce, H. Lovecraft, and a monk in a painting by Fra Angelico all came to mind. It was none of them, but it looked somehow a little like each of them. Suddenly tired and discouraged, George slouched back on the bunk and let his hand lightly clutch his penis through his trousers. Heroes of fiction don't jack off when the going gets rough, he reminded himself. Well, hell, he wasn't a hero and this wasn't fiction. Besides, I wasn't going to jack-off after all, They might be watching through a peephole, ready to use this natural jailhouse weakness to humiliate me further and break my ego.
No, I definitely wasn't going to jack-off: I was just going to hold it, lightly, through my trousers, until I felt some life-force surging back into my body and displacing fear, exhaustion and despair. Meanwhile, I thought about Pat back in New York. She was wearing nothing but her cute black lace bra and panties, and her nipples are standing up pointy and hard. Make it Sophia Loren, and take the bra off so I can see the nipples directly.
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Ah, yes, and now try it the other way: she Sophia, no make it Pat again is wearing the bra but the panties are off showing the pubic bush. Let her play with it, get her fingers in there, and the other hand on a nipple, ah, yes, and now she Pat-no, Sophia is kneeling to unzipper my fly. My penis grew harder and her mouth opened in expectation. I reached down and cupped her breast with one hand, taking the nipple she had been caressing, feeling it harden more. Did James Bond ever do this in Doctor No's dungeon? Sophia's tongue not my hand, not my hand is busy and hot, sending pulsations through my entire body.
Take it, you cunt. Take it, O God, a flash of the Passaic and the gun at my forehead, and you can't call them cunts nowadays, ah, you cunt, you cunt, take it, and it is Pat, it's that night at her pad when we were both zonked on hashish and I never never never had a blow-job like that. The second blast lifted me again and threw me with a crunch against the wall. Jesus H. Particular Christ on a crutch, I thought frantically, whatever it is that's happening they're going to find me with come on the front of my trousers.
The machine gun suddenly stopped stuttering and I thought I heard a voice cry "Earwicker, Bloom and Craft. Then the third explosion came, and I covered my head as parts of the ceiling began falling on me. A key suddenly clanked against his cell door. Looking up, I saw a young woman in a trench coat, carrying a tommy gun, and desperately trying one key after another in the lock. The woman grinned tensely at the sound. I limped after her down the hall. Suddenly she stopped, studied the wall a moment, and pressed against a brick. The wall slid smoothly aside and we entered what appeared to be a chapel of some sort.
For the chapel was not anything that a sane man would expect to find in Mad Dog County Jail. A black Cadillac awaited us. He was an old man, more than sixty, but hard and shrewd-looking. I was pushed into the back seat-which was already full of grim-looking men and grimmer-looking munitions of various sorts-and the car started at once. A taste of their own medicine. What makes you think Sheriff. Meanwhile, wipe the come off your pants. Cowboy the son of a bitch. In an ordinary hit, you can be precise, even artistic, because after all the only thing that matters is that the person so honored should be definitely dead afterwards.
Cowboying, in the language of the profession, leaves no room for personal taste or delicacy: the important thing is that there should be a lot of lead in the air and the victim should leave a spectacularly gory corpse for the tabloids, as notification that the Brotherhood is both edgy and short-tempered and everybody better watch his. Although it wasn't obligatory, it was considered a sign of true enthusiasm on a cowboy job if the guest of honor took along a few innocent bystanders, so everybody would understand exactly how edgy the Brotherhood was feeling.
The Dutchman took two such bystanders. And in a different. Further back, back further: February 7, , Vincent "Mad Dog" Coll looks through the phone-booth door and sees a familiar face crossing the drugstore and a. But tilt the picture another way and-this emerges: On November 10, , the "World's Greatest Newspaper," the Chicago Tribune announced the election to the Presidency of the United States of America of Thomas Dewey, a man who not only was not elected but would not even have been alive if Banana Nose Maldonado had not given such specific instructions concerning the Dutchman to Charlie the Bug, Mendy Weiss and Jimmy the Shrew.
Who shot you? Mother is the best bet, Oh mama mama mama. I want harmony. The Dutchman still replies: Oh mama mama mama. French Canadian bean soup. We drove till dawn. The car stopped on a road by a beach of white sand. Tall, skinny palm trees stood black against a turquoise sky. This must be the Gulf of Mexico, I thought. They could now load me with chains and drop me in the gulf, hundreds of miles from Mad Dog, without involving.
Sheriff Jim. No, they had raided Sheriff Jim's jail. Or was that a hallucination? I was going to have to keep more of an eye on reality. This was a new day, and I was going to know facts hard and sharp- edged in the sunlight and keep them straight. I was stiff and sore and tired from a night of driving. The only rest I'd gotten was fitful dozing in which cyclopean ruby eyes looked at me till I awoke in terror. Mavis, the woman with the tommy gun, had put her arms around me several times when I screamed. She would murmur soothingly to me, and once her lips, smooth, cool and soft, had brushed my ear.
At the beach, Mavis motioned me out of the car. The sun was as hot as the bishop's jock strap when he finished his sermon on the evils of pornography. She stepped out behind me and slammed the door. Just then the driver of the car gunned the motor. The car swung round in a wide U-turn. In a minute its rear end had disappeared beyond a bend in the Gulf highway. We were alone with the rising sun and the sand-strewn asphalt. Mavis motioned me to walk down the beach with her.
A little ways ahead, far back from the water, was a small white-painted frame cabana. A woodpecker landed wearily on its roof like he had flown more missions than Yossarian and never intended to go up again. A private execution on a lonely beach in another state so Sheriff Jim can't get blamed? If ever a man had KKK written all over his forehead, it was that reactionary redneck prick. If you're against commies, you've got to be against me. And a militant radical is nothing but a big- mouthed liberal with a Che costume.
We're the real radicals, George. We do things, like last night Except for Weatherman and Morituri, all the militant radicals in your crowd ever do is take out the Molotov cocktail diagram that they carefully clipped from The New York Review of Books, hang it on the bathroom door and jack-off in connection with it. No offense meant. Preferably not at all. And I. Why did you rescue me? The woodpecker turned his head and looked at us with the other eye. I might have guessed, I thought, a Hope fiend.
She went on, "It took a whole book to answer that one. As for Hagbard, you'll learn by seeing. Enough for now that you know that he's the man who requested that we rescue you. That splotch of come on your trousers has had me horny ever since Mad Dog. Also the excitement of the raid. I've got some tension to burn off. I'd prefer to save myself for a man who completely meets the criteria of my value system. But I could get awfully horny waiting for him.
No regrets, no guilt, though. You're all right. You'll do. I doubt you ever met a woman who believed in the real laissez faire capitalist system. Such a woman is not likely to. She shrugged out of her trench coat and spread it carefully on the floor. She was wearing a black sweater and a pair of blue jeans, both tight-fitting. She pulled the sweater off over her head. She was wearing no bra, and her breasts were apple-sized cherry-tipped cones.
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There was some sort of dark red birthmark between them. She tugged them down over her hips. I felt my hardon swelling up inside my pants. How can I know facts hard and sharp-edged in the sunlight and keep them straight when this happens? The Woodpecker pecked on the out-house door; He pecked and he pecked till his pecker was sore Don't you know how to play?
Did you ever think that life is maybe a. Life is a toy, George, I'm a toy. Think of me as a doll. Instead of sticking pins in me, you can stick your thing in me. Fm a magic doll, like a voodoo doll. A doll is a work of art. Art is magic. You make an image of the thing you want to possess or cope with, so you can cope with it. You make a model, so you have it under control. Don't you want to possess me? You can, but just for a moment. I shook my head. The way you're talking-it's not real. It happens that at such times I'm more open to the vibrations from outer space. George, are unicorns real?
Who made unicorns? Is a thought about unicorns a real thought?
How is it different from the mental picture of my pussy-which you've never seen-that. Does the fact that you can think of fucking me and I can think of fucking with you mean we are going to fuck? Or is the universe going to surprise us? Wisdom is wearying, folly is fun. What does a horse with a single long horn sticking straight out of its head.
Then she bowed her head. I had no right to do that. Hit me back, if you want. But I'm afraid you've turned me off sexually. You're a healthy man. But now I want to give you something without taking anything from you. She slipped her mouth around it. It was my jail. She took her lips away from my penis, and I looked down and saw that the head was shiny with saliva and swelling visibly in rapid throbs.
Her breasts-my glance avoided the Masonic tattoo-were somewhat fuller, and the nipples stuck out erect. She smiled. Shut up and get hard. This is just quid pro quo. When I came I didn't feel much juice jetting out through my penis; I'd used a lot up whacking off in jail. I noted with pleasure that what there was of it she didn't spit out. She smiled and swallowed it. The sun was higher and hotter in the sky and the woodpecker celebrated by drumming faster and harder. The Gulf sparkled like Mrs.
Aster's best diamonds. I peered out at the water: just below the horizon there was a flash of gold among the diamonds. Mavis suddenly struck her legs out in front of her and dropped onto her back.
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I can't give without taking. Please, quick, while it's still hard, get down here and slip it to me. I looked down. Her lips were trembling. She was tugging the gold panties away from her black- escutcheoned crotch. My wet cock was already beginning to droop.
I looked down at her and grinned. They don't meet the criteria of my value system. I think they're nuts. It was sore anyway, like in the rhyme. Her hand was moving rapidly between her legs. In a moment she arched her back, eyes clenched tight, and emitted a little scream, like a baby seagull out on its first flight, a strangely virginal sound. She lay relaxed for a moment, then picked herself up off the cabana floor and started to dress. She glanced out at the water and I followed her eyes.
She pointed at the distant glint of gold. A buzzing sound floated across the water.
After a moment, I spotted a small black motorboat coming toward us. We watched in silence as the boat grounded its bow on the white beach. Mavis motioned at me, and I followed her down the sand to the water's edge. There was a man in a black turtleneck. Mavis climbed in the bow and turned to me with a questioning look. The woodpecker felt bad vibes and took off with a flapping and cawing like the omen of. What the hell am I getting into, and why am I so crazy as to go along? I tried to see what it was out there that the motorboat had come from, but the sun on the gold metal was flashing blindingly and I couldn't make out a shape.
I looked back at the black motorboat and saw that there was a circular gold object painted on the bow and there was a little black flag flying at the stern with the same gold object in its center. I pointed at the emblem on the bow. People who chose a golden apple as their symbol couldn't be all bad. I jumped into the boat, and its pilot used an oar to push off.
We buzzed over the smooth water of the Gulf toward the golden object on the horizon. It was still blinding from reflected sunlight, but I was now able to make out a long, low silhouette with a small tower in the center, like a matchbox on top of a broomstick. Then I realized that I had my judgment of distances wrong.
The ship, or whatever it was, was much more distant than I'd first realized. It was a submarine-a golden submarine-and it appeared to be the equivalent of five city blocks long, as big as the biggest ocean liner I had ever heard of. The conning tower was about three stories high. As we drew up beside it I saw a man on the tower waving to us.
Mavis waved back. I waved halfheartedly, supposing somehow that it was the thing to do. I was still thinking about that Masonic tattoo. A hatch opened in the submarine's side, and the little motorboat floated right in. The hatch closed, the water drained out, and the boat settled into a cradle. Mavis pointed to a door that looked like an entrance to an elevator. She pressed a button and the door opened, revealing a carpeted gilt cage. I stepped in and was whisked up three stories. The door opened and I stepped out into a small room where a man was waiting, standing with a grace that reminded me of a Hindu or an American Indian.
I thought at once of Metternich's remark about Talleyrand: "If somebody kicked him in the backside, not a muscle would move in his face until he decided what to do. He bore a striking resemblance to Anthony Quinn; he had thick black eyebrows, olive skin, and a strong nose and jaw.
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He was big and burly, powerful muscles bulging under his black-and-green striped nautical sweater. He held out his hand. We shook hands; he had a grip like King Kong. Fortunately, I have Viking ancestors, as well. My mother is Norwegian. However, blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin are all recessive. My Sicilian father creamed my mother in the genes. I wouldn't have believed a submarine like this could exist without the whole world knowing about it.
This is what the liberated mind can do. I am the twentieth-century Leonardo, except that I'm not gay. I've tried it, of course, but women interest me more. The world has never heard of Hagbard Celine. That is because the world is stupid and Celine is very smart. The submarine is radar and sonar transparent. It is superior to the best either the American or Russian government even has on the drawing board. It can go to any depth in any ocean.
We've sounded the Atlantic Trench, the Mindinao Deep, and a few holes in the floor of the sea that no one's ever heard of or named. Lief Erickson is capable of meeting the biggest, most ferocious, and smartest monsters of the deep, of which we've found God's plenty. I'd even risk her in battle with Leviathan himself, though I'm just as pleased that we've only seen him.
That fish-if fish it be-that is to your whale what your whale is to your meanest guppy. Don't ask me what Leviathan is-I haven't even gotten close enough to tell you his shape. There's only one of him, her, or it in all that world that's water. I don't know how it reproduces-maybe it doesn't have to reproduce-maybe it's immortal.
It may be neither plant nor. Oh, we've seen monsters, George. I'm talking about seeing things and being with people that will really liberate your mind-not just replacing liberalism with Marxism so you can shock your parents. I'm talking about getting altogether off the grubby plane you live on and taking a trip with Hagbard to a transcendental universe.
Did you know that on sunken Atlantis there is a. The fact is I simply don't believe Atlantis ever existed. This is pure bullshit. Do you trust the evidence of your senses? I hope so, because you'll see Atlantis and the pyramid, just as I said. Those bastards, the Illuminati, are trying to get gold to further their conspiracies by looting an Atlantean temple.
And Hagbard is going to foil them by robbing it first. Because I fight the Illuminati every chance I get. And because I'm an. Will you join us? You're free to leave right now, if you wish. I'll put you. I write magazine articles for a living. And even if ninety percent of what you say is bullshit, moonshine, and the most elaborate put-on since Richard Nixon, this is the best story I've ever come across.
A nut with a gigantic golden submarine whose followers include beautiful guerrilla women who blow up southern jails and take out the prisoners. No, I'm not leaving. You're too big a fish to let get away. Hagbard Celine slapped me on the shoulder. You've got courage and initiative. You trust only the evidence of your eyes and believe what no man tells you.
I was right about you. Come on down to my stateroom. Celine pressed a button and the elevator door and the gate outside both slid back. We stepped out into a carpeted room with a lovely black woman sitting at one end under an elaborate emblem concocted of anchors, seashells, Viking figureheads, lions, ropes, octopi, lightning bolts, and, occupying the central position, a golden apple.
Celine led me down a long corridor, saying, "You'll find this submarine is opulently furnished. I have no need to live in monklike surroundings like those masochists who become naval officers. No Spartan simplicity for me. This is more like an ocean liner or a grand European hotel of the.
Edwardian era. Wait till you see my suite. You'll like your stateroom, too. To please myself, I built this thing on the grand scale. No finicky naval architects or parsimonious accountants in my business. I believe you've got to spend money to make money and spend the money you make to enjoy money. Besides, I have to live in the damned thing. No bullshit authority titles for me.
I'm Freeman Hagbard Celine, but the. If I don't like it, I'll punch you in the nose. If there were more bloody noses, there'd be fewer wars. I'm in smuggling mostly. With a spot of piracy, just to keep ourselves on our toes. But that only against the Illuminati and their communist dupes. We aim to prove that no state has the right to regulate commerce in any way.
Nor can it, when it is up against free men. My crew are all volunteers. We have among us liberated sailors who were indentured to the navies of America, Russia, and China. Excellent fellows. After being kidnapped and tortured, a woman has to defend herself in the most gruesome ways possible, with the inspiration from Arnold Schwarzenegger films.
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