one long ridiculous list
the short list - and a wide range
how
much a part of old or modern civilization is an infinite repetition of inefficiency?
why do people need to be told not park in front of fire hydrants or
have unsanitary public kitchens? does food have more nutritional value
after it’s been sold through ten people? do we need two zillion
parking meters? will we die without signs everywhere? why employ people
to pick up litter? do we need more studies and policy decisions on
issues that are as old as humanity? why do people jog next to
heavy traffic and pump carbon monoxide into their brains? while
UGLINESS is the dominant unspoken principle, despite all other
thoughts. for people who enjoy their dislikes, it engraves
itself in their faces and bodies and verbal expressions, whether of
hate or dissimulation, and their and arrogancetotal disregard for
are apparent. this is the underside of
simple minds.
property values
in parts of
california you can be fined for using the free energy of wind and sun
on a clothes line to dry your clothes instead of using a very expensive
electric dryer. this has something to do with property values and public image?
why is every
conceivable thing shipped across oceans?
some resources, yes. but
there’s a world of gew-gaws and simple “products”
where there’s no need. paper thin disposable house paint
containers from israel? porta-johns from france? childrens' crayons all the way from china? childrens' construction paper from india? tasteless canned food from poland? a baseball
cap made in
batteries
why do people still use lead-acid batteries when rechargable ones will last at almost full capacity for five to ten years?
cars
car just plane don't work - they are one big pain. manufacturers conspire with oil providers to keep milage low. why
aren’t car insulated? why is there no standard system to prevent the entrance
of rain and snow, with ventilation or when going in/out, or to prevent a
soaked floor, musty and filthy, vents and shields to prevent terrible
heat in summer and harsh climates. vents should be at roof height to prevent
intake of deadly fumes from traffic. even now there are few heat
vents in the back seats – you have a choice of freezing in
back or boiling in front.
houses
are amazingly
poorly insulated
and surely are not worth the money they cost. this is all reinforced by
literally mountains of "safety codes" whose only benefactors are
builders and politicians.
why
is the intake of a furnace inside the house, taking already hot
air away and removing oxygen, even in wood stoves? air is
completely dead in homes, there is no circulation with the outside. this is one
of only a few factors that over long periods accumulate to make “civilized”
people so deathly unhealthy. stove pipe and bathroom vents are un-regulated,
create super dry air that destroys your lungs and fine furniture. the “stove
pipe effect” of pressure differential sucks heated air out of the house.
there is no standard provision to control humidity, often ingeniously
treated in “primitive” homes. in arid climates houses can have a “wind funnel”
combined with a wet curtains, possibly
in underground homes where the temperature is naturally lower.
and would someone please explain why oven doors in the kitchen, the most social room in a house and the one most likely to have children, are uninsulated or fenced?
why don’t refrigerators access the outside during winter, instead of doing double work? duh.
washers/dryers
why
are washing/drying machines so poorly made that some states have passed “lemon laws”
similar to those for cars, so that people have some recourse, especially
important with those for whom this is a major investment. THIS ISN’T ROCKET SCIENCE.
chairs
chairs
are designed totally incorrectly. many, and all those in cars,
are not shaped like people’s backsides, forcing an unnatural curve to the spine. back problems are the largest medical complaint of
civilized people. chairs with deep cushions also bend the
spine.
light bulbs
exist on the market that last for a decade, yet standard bulbs can blow out three in a row when you get them home and are by law exempt from from guarantees. talk about a cash cow!!
pompous mission
u.s.a.
automakers flew a jumbo jet - idiom for very large - with less than
thirty people on it to japan in an effort to impress the japanese into
buying u.s.a. cars. they were told to fly on home.
flying homes
would you build
a home on the biggest earthquake fault line on the entire continent?
that's what people do at the st. andreas fault and every year the
extent and density of homes
increases as quickly as in any urban center. in many parts of
the west fragile mud covered slopes
are clear cut of all vegetation that would stabilize the earth, then
more and more homes are built, even after repeated disasters.
look at the picture above and ask yourself if these people deserve
sympathy.
no jews wanted
the u.s.a. sees
itself as the hero of world war two, but just before the war started a whole
ship of starving refugee jews with horror stories was turned away
from its shores.
and no darkies
when
australians decided to colonize tasmania they formed a line from coast to
coast with rifles and walked the length of the island killing all
the natives. the last survivor, an elderly woman who hid under a
bolder, just passed away.
four
from the reagan years
(1) when ronald
reagan was governor of california he suggested that the redwoods - does
anyone not know that these are huge extremely old trees - be cut down
and a plastic replica on a truck tour the state, as a valid
expression of “national heritage.” james watt, his
secretary of the interior, a “born again” christian, openly
declared it was acceptable to use up the state’s
resources because christ was returning soon. his secretary of
agriculture was quoted as saying that “mexicans are short so that
it’s easier for them to pick lettuce.”
(2)the reagan presidency fought for years to deny statistics that showed an incredible percentage of BABIES BORN WITH CANCER at Love Canal, a city built on top of a chemical waste dump.
(3) president reagan threw mental patients on the street, cut job training programs, preventive programs for at-risk youth, and funds for education, then when the crime rate goes up says, "you see? we need more police and jails and stronger laws."
(4) this is facing reality? -his legacy of brutal labor intervention. when air traffic controllers, who have the highest rates of ulcers and alcoholism because of their immense responsibilities, go on strike pleading that the whole industry is overtaxed to the point of massive endangerment of human life, he says "the industry is too central to the economy" and fires all strikers and in addition makes all future strikes illegal.
this colored paste id good food
one
federal senator suggested that ketchup be designated as a vegetable in
federally funded school lunches, when decades before congress had
investigated the “breakfast cereal” industry when it was
found that many brands were 60 and 70 percent pure sugar.
we're professionals - we safeguard the country
how did the entire intelligence apparatus of
the u.s.a., including the c.i.a., miss the impending collapse of the
“evil empire” of the soviet union, or manufacture its
amazing economic surge of the 70s?
we proudly don't serve
in
the draft laws residents of d.c., politician’s children,
are
exempt.
diplomatic rape
because of diplomatic
immunity diplomats' children can rape in
high school and laugh in their victims' faces. believe it.
everything is under control
all over the
country because of the brittle economy caused by the greed of
politicians and corporations funds for
education, health and public services are being cut. is this a real
“hard times”, or just a manufactured one?
no genocide here
pol pot in cambosia was not the first in history to
make
mountains of skulls. now even he, one of the most monstrous figures of
modern history, is being removed from the history booksin his own country.
pleasure
in their world
review of issues Amnesty International said TORTURE is not for
political goals, but the PLEASURE of, not only giving pain, but
of PERMANENTLY BREAKING A PERSONALITY.
mother's day - texas style
in texas until very recently there were no laws
against elder abuse. an elderly woman was found with her body
riddled with maggots, who died soon after. she “lived”
with her son, who was never prosecuted.
look at all this oil - and deformed children
the
soviet union used ATOM BOMBS to prospect for oil, then totally denied
the existence of WHOLE NURSURIES of deformed babies near processing
plants.
gnothing is wrong
when
the chernobyl nuclear plant melted down the soviet union GAVE NO
WARNING TO EUROPE about the HUGE RADIOACTIVE CLOUD floating
toward them.
russians
have dumped TONS of radioactive waste, including old nuclear
submarine reactor cores, in the ARCTIC OCEAN FOR TWENTY YEARS.
really - nothing is wrong
the
cancer rate in the former soviet union is DOUBLE or even TRIPLE
that of other parts of the world, a result exclusively of widespread
pollution in the name of the economic race with the west. most of the
residents of these regions remain ignorant of the difference in
incidence rates.
government contracts
at
seabrook nuclear plant in new england a contract was given for cleaning
workers uniforms, the idea being that radioactive lint should be
disposed of properly, yet it was disposed of in the public dump and NO
CHARGES WERE BROUGHT.
out of the way - forever
there
is an endless string of gentle local families protesting the decimation
of rainforest in south america who have been brutally murdered.
even the nazis
didn’t do this
the
most revolting revelation from the fall of the soviet union was a short
film from the reign of ceausescu in romania, showing an
“orphanage” where fat babushkas ladled food into the mouths
of a crowd of shaved headed tots while they sat on wooden toilets. all
exhibited the classic “rocking” motion of emotional
deprivation. it was an open secret that this was a slave breeding camp,
in a country where most people lived in mud huts.
but we're better
florida’s
Department of Social Services “lost track of” 5,000
children, after removing them from abusive homes. the solution? privatize the agency, with
“oversight,” of course.
burn
phosphorous as
an anti-personnel weapon sticks to the body and burns without air. the
nazis made this popular against civilians but it is very well hidden
that
the allies did the same thing against cities.
phosphorous evolved to napalm, jellied gasoline, the staple of the vietnam war.
BILLIONS of dollars
have just been
allocated for a “star wars” defense program despite massive
opposition,
spokesmen for the president said,
“WE’LL IMPROVE THE TECHNOLOGY AS WE BUILD IT.”
that's like saying, “WE’RE GOING TO BUILD THIS CAR
FOR YOU, EVEN THOUGH WE KNOW IT DOESN’T WORK.”
the political cartoon of the day showed a
barn floating in space and a missile miles off course. - american idiom:
“he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
power grid and big grins
just recently a large portion of the northeast
u.s.a. suffered an electricity black out. the cause is never determined
and the whole infra-structure is labeled "third world" in
quality. earlier, after the west coast is subjected to incredible
price gouging by utilities using an oil shortage as an excuse,
this fact is proved in court yet
the court rules the companies involved do not have to return the money
they made illegally.
"light 'em up!!!"
for generations the iraqi people are terrorized by a tyrant, who they
are at least familiar with. then from nowhere, with only the flimsiest
of excuses, the most powerful nation on earth rains unimaginable
destruction on their nation. these people have no way to
know about the minds of the invaders, only the propaganda they have
been shown, and they expect
even more horrors. endless streams of civilian refugees flow from the
capital. american soldiers, told by their superiors
that every iraqi is a suicide bomber, so kill everyone who doesn't halt on command. when this
becomes the norm after days of occupation it turns into a game, with
it's own soulless military idiom. when one more car of families doesn't
stop , the soldiers open fire, yelling, "light 'em up!!" if your country was overrun by
invaders would you
stop for a man with a
pile
of bodies next to him?
this story is from a long term veteran officer who
resigned after seeing hundreds of civilians die at just one check point around
the surrounded capital. he was threatened with a court martial for resigning.
he characterizes the invasion as
genocide.
for the
complete interview on democracynow.org entitled,
"i killed civilians in iraq",
click:
http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=04/05/24/148212&mode=thread&tid=25
"a suspected terrorist" and no home
is inviolate
just like in vietnam, as we have seen above, the ordinary populace
looks just like the enemy, with no distinguishing uniform, something
that the american forces do not seem to be able to handle so everyone is just one more
"gook." the above story never made it to the american public but
this one did, from the post invasion occupation:
once again a person does not stop
and instead of just wounding the person or calling re-enforcements the
soldier simply kills the person,
which
is an unofficial slogan of the u.s. marines. at the inquiry following
this the soldier simply says, "well, he didn't stop" and that's the end
of it. the report of an autopsy says, " the man was dead before the
sixty bullets were fired." how the heck could they tell that? and does
it justify an act of atrocious
it seems to be totally acceptable to the american
public, not just to support a war that was begun on a total lie, but to
countenance the complete subjugation
of the people. once again just like in vietnam,
all buildings and homes are
subject to search
and if you don't open the door they just knock
it down, or perhaps destroy the whole thing. these are necessary
measures, right? after all, this is war and we're trying to help these
people.
another note. as
was said, these people were terrorized by their own ruler and lived in
something little better than chaos. no one, no one, who wants to
continue living goes out unarmed, yet even carrying a handgun is cause
to be labeled "suspect." each family is alloed one weapon, so your choice is dying on the way to work or leaving your family unprotected.
"operation iraqi freedom"
a reporter from europe escapes the strictures of a "safe zone" and goes
exploring near the american controlled areas. he approaches what seems
from a distance to be buildings, but finds instead "what looks like the
loading dock of a major world port, standardized shipping
containers stacked five and six high, in rows as far as the eye can see."
approaching, he sees a stomach wrenching goo dripping from the
containers. there is only one person in uniform nearby , yet when he
approaches this person
he
asks
the person what is in the containers. the man replies with one word:
"bodies."
while back home - "animal
obstetrics"
Susan was an unmarried fifteen-year-old who had
managed her labor
admirably. Her boyfriend had deserted her but she very much wanted this
baby, who would be her own to love and care for. She talked about the
clothes she had made for the baby, and the little bathtub she had
bought. The baby would sleep in her room so that she could hear any
cries, and she would breastfeed her child. Susan's mother was there,
too, but she appeared relieved when I was introduced by the nurse as
somebody who was studying birth and would they mind . . .? Of course
they wouldn't. The mother went out into the hall to have a cigarette,
call friends, take a nap. It was the middle of the night. It seemed
that she was glad to have somebody else there. The nurse left us pretty
much alone, and in a short time Susan and I established a close
relationship, exchanging stories about our very different lives and
then, with increasing seriousness, monitoring her experience. The nurse
came in from time to time to check Susan's progress, but she too seemed
quite happy that I was occupying the interactional slot that she might
have had to fill. As time went on, Susan's contractions became somewhat
painful, but she lasted them out with her deep, joyful conviction that
this was going to bring her baby out, really, so she could see it, and
touch it, and love it. She looked into my eyes during those
contractions and, when they were over, told me she was glad I was
there. I knew, without doubt, that my presence was good for her. The
little cubicle was darkened; we could hear her mother snoring on the
chair just outside of it, and we laughed. Finally, she was completely
dilated. The nurse rolled in a gurney and transferred her onto it with
my help. Susan was going to the delivery room, down a quiet corridor,
the wheels clanging across metal barriers. A bunch of people in white
coats and green outfits appeared out of nowhere. I trooped along,
notebook in hand. The delivery room. Bright lights. Gleaming metal.
They transferred her to a narrow table, flat on her back, her legs
grotesquely spread apart, her feet in stirrups. And then I noticed, to
my horror, that they were tying down her hands with leather straps. I
had flashes of medieval torture chambers. Attendants with whips and
iron instruments. I felt sick. I didn't remember that sort of thing
from my own births. Had they done this to me too? I couldn't remember.
I was trying to make sense out of this. They must have good reasons.
Surely they wouldn't do this without good reasons. But what awful thing
was going to happen to make this necessary? All of a sudden the
situation had changed from the intimate, exciting atmosphere of the
labor" room, where we had worked together to help this wonderful baby
be born — a straightforward proposition, easily understandable to
us two neophytes — to a situation that was out of our hands,
foreboding, and fraught with danger. They told her to push. Susan, who
had been so courageous during the long hours of labor, made an effort.
Her body strained and fell back in discouragement. "My God, I can't
push like this. How can I push like this?" she wailed. She was already
transformed —by the ties, by her position, by the green-clad
bodies surrounding her, into an object strapped onto a table. Years
later I watched an anatomy class doing cardiovascular surgery. On dogs.
What I recognized only in retrospect was that of all the people there,
I was the only naive bystander, the only one who didn't know what was
in store for these dogs. That they were, for all practical purposes,
already dead. What looked alive to me was for those other people X
minutes from death. Similarly, the physicians standing there, scrubbed
and prepared, already saw Susan, my friend, as minutes away from a body
to be delivered. I still saw her as Susan, the child-woman, wanting to
give birth to her child. They told her to push again. Her eyes were
searching for me. I stepped close to her head, knowing that I was
violating a nurse's territory. She looked at me imploringly. "Gitti,
please untie my hands." I don't think I have very often in my life felt
as miserable as then. I knew that I couldn't muster the courage to
untie her hands, which was the only thing I could do if I wanted to
honor the unspoken contract between us, if I wasn't going to
retrospectively redefine everything that had happened between us during
the long hours in the labor room. I remembered when, as a child, I had
stood watching a gang of boys torturing a monkey through the bars of
its cage, feeling powerless to do anything about it, and knowing that I
would remember my cowardice for the rest of my life. And here was
Susan, who had courageously faced the unknown, who had trusted me to
chronicle her every contraction, and what was I to do? I took her hand,
strangely disjointed from the rest of her, cold and sweaty against the
leather strap. "I can't, Susan. It'll be all right. ..." Well, it
wasn't all right. She gave up. Her contractions stopped. The green team
stood, gloved, sterile hands in the air. Waiting. I felt an impotent
rage. I thought I would get sick. Throw up right there. Burst into
tears. Scream ... Susan was lying with closed eyes. Her body
refused to work. The green team began to feel awkward in the silence.
They tried some jokes. They wondered what I was doing there. They asked
me how the Indians did it. They ended up stimulating her labor and
pulling the baby out with forceps. I hope she still loves her baby. I
wasn't able to face her after that. I went home and looked at my own
children and swore my daughters would not have to go through
that.
social alternatives?
But in 1987, Withrow found the love of a good woman, and under his
girlfriend's influence he rejected his racist ways and went on
television to denounce the racist movement. He announced plans to write
an expose. At that, Withrow's former colleagues broke into his
apartment and beat him with baseball bats, stealing a copy of his
manuscript as they departed. Later that summer, as Withrow was leaving
his apartment to go for an evening walk, a blue pickup truck screeched
to a halt alongside him and six members of the neo-Nazi group he had
founded jumped out. They started beating and kicking Withrow. Dragging
him into an empty lot, they tied his arms to a board. "They told me I
was a traitor," he recalled, and they held a gun to my head. Then they began
to hammer nails in my hands. It seemed like they hammered forever, real
slow. They told me they were doing it so I wouldn't write
anymore." Then one of his former colleagues pulled out a razor blade
and cut a foot-long gash in Withrow's chest just below his neck. "That
was so I wouldn't talk anymore," Withrow said. Withrow passed out. On
regaining consciousness some hours later, he managed to hobble down the
street with the board still tied across his back, blood dripping from
the nails in his palms. A white woman
turned away when he appealed for help, as did a white
couple he met a few steps further down the street. But a black
couple emerging from a nightclub untied the gags in his mouth and
called the police. "Ironic isn't it?" Withrow said later. "It was a
black couple who finally rescued me." His experience only reinforced
his determination to speak out against racism. "I want people to see
that this is what I get because this is what I created. What goes
around comes around."
"
WE ARE RESPONSIBLE MEN, PROPERTY OWNERS. "
Fashionably dressed women stood up in their cars screaming: "We want
that anarchist murderess." Towards
evening
a bedlam of auto horns and whistles filled the street! ” The
Vigilantes!" Ben cried. There was a knock at the door and Mr. Holmes
came in accompanied by two other men. I was wanted downstairs by the
city authorities, they informed me. Ben sensed danger and
insisted that I ask them to send the visitors up. It seemed timid to
me. It was early evening and we were in the principal hotel of the
city. What could happen to us? I went with Mr. Holmes, Ben accompanying
us. Downstairs we were ushered into a room where we found seven men
standing in a semicircle. We were asked to sit down and wait for the
Chief of Police, who arrived before long. "Please come with me," he
addressed me; "the Mayor and other officials are awaiting you next
door." We got up to follow, but, turning to Ben, the Chief said: "You
are not wanted, doctor. Better wait here."
I entered a room filled with men. The window-blinds were partly drawn,
but the large electric street light in front disclosed an agitated mass
below. The Mayor approached me. "You hear that mob," he said,
indicating the street; "they mean business. They want to get you and
Reitman out of the hotel, even if they have to take you by force. We
cannot guarantee anything. If you consent to leave, we will give you
protection and get you safely out of town."
"That's very nice of you," I replied, "but why don't you disperse the
crowd? Why don't you use the same measures against these people that
you have against the free-speech fighters? Your ordinance makes it a
crime to gather in the business districts. Hundreds of I.W.W.'s,
anarchists, socialists, and trade-union men have been clubbed and
arrested, and some even killed, for this offence. Yet you allow the
Vigilante mob to congregate in the busiest part of the town and
obstruct traffic. All you have to do is to disperse these law-breakers."
"We can't do it," he said abruptly; "these people are in a dangerous
mood, and your presence makes things worse."
" Very well, then, let me speak to the crowd," I suggested. " I could
do it from a window here. I have faced infuriated men before and I have
always been able to pacify them."
The Mayor refused.
i nave never accepted protection from the police," I then said, "and I
do not intend to do so now. I charge all of you men here with being in
league with the Vigilantes."
Thereupon the officials declared that matters would have to take their
course, and that I should have only myself to blame if anything
happened.
The interview at an end, I went to call Ben. The room I had left him in
was locked. I became alarmed and pounded on the door… I ran back
to the other room and met the Chief, who was just coming out.
“Where is Reitman?”, I demanded. "How should I know? " he
replied gruffly.
Waiting at the station was more excruciating still. At last the train
pulled in. Ben lay in a rear car, all huddled up. He was in blue
overalls, his face deathly pale, a terrified look in his eyes. His hat
was gone, and his hair was sticky with tar. At the sight of me he
cried: " Oh, Mommy, I'm with you at last! Take me away, take me home! "
The newspaper men besieged him with questions, but he was too exhausted
to speak. I begged them to leave him-alone and to call later at my
apartment.
While helping him to undress, I was horrified to see that his body was
a mass of bruises covered with blotches of tar. The letters I.W.W. were
burned into his flesh. Ben could not speak; only his eyes tried to
convey what he had passed through. After partaking of some nourishment
and sleeping several hours, he regained a little strength. In the
presence of a number of friends and reporters he told us what had
happened to him.
" When Emma and the hotel manager left the office to go into another
room," Ben related, " I remained alone with seven men. As soon as the
door was closed, they drew out revolvers."If you utter a sound or make
a move, we'll kill you," they threatened. Then they gathered around me.
One man grabbed my right arm, another the left; a third took hold of
the front of my coat, another of the back, and I was led out into the
corridor, down the elevator to the ground floor of the hotel, and out
into the street past a uniformed policeman, and then thrown into an
automobile. When the mob saw me, they set up a howl. The auto went
slowly down the main street and was joined by another one containing
several persons who looked like business men. This was about half past
ten in the evening. The twenty-mile ride was frightful. As soon as we
got out of town, they began kicking and beating me. They took turns at
pulling my long hair and they stuck their fingers into my eyes and
nose. 'We could tear your guts out,' they said,' but we promised the
Chief of Police not to kill you. We are responsible men,
property-owners, and the police are on our side.' When we reached the
county line, the auto stopped at a deserted spot. The men formed a ring
and told me to undress. They tore my clothes off. They knocked me down,
and when I lay naked on the ground, they kicked and beat me until I was
almost insensible. With a lighted cigar they burned the letters I.W.W.
on my buttocks; then they poured a can of tar over my head and, in the
absence of feathers rubbed sage-brush on my body. One of them attempted
to push a cane up my rectum. Another
twisted my testicles. They forced
me to kiss the flag and sing The Star Spangled Banner. When they
tired
of the fun, they gave me my underwear for fear we should meet any
women. They also gave me back my vest, in order that I might carry my
money, railroad ticket, and watch. The rest of my clothes they kept.I
was ordered to make a speech, and then they commanded me to run the
gauntlet. The Vigilantes lined up, and as I ran past them, each one
gave me a blow or a kick. Then they let me go."
- above
two from
living my
life
emma goldma - see reading list.
turn of the century anarchist,
speaker, and all around good gal.
a tale of friends of the c.i.a. below the border.
my eyes scanned the jungle. i saw a woman,
stripped naked, tied to one of two adjoining trees with safety wire,
her throat slit from ear to ear, with her eyes plucked out and stuffed
in her mouth. a man tied to the base of the other tree was skinned from
his nipples to the top of his forehead. his skin was tacked to the tree
behind him. in his lap was a baby – dead – having been
stabbed through the chest. i sat down on the log in front of them,
twisted inside. then i heard the sound that had drawn me here. i knew
what it was but i didn’t want to believe it. “no. oh,
please, god, no,” i pleaded.***when we came to a stop on
the lakeshore, Fabito leaped from the vehicle and waved to a man on the
hill. the man promptly ran down the slope with his loose fitting
clothes sailing in the wind. Fabito conferred with the man for a bit
and sent him off. the man returned with a tiny lamb. Fabito carefully
took hold of the lamb, cradling it in his arms. he caressed its head
gently, demonstrating an authentic compassion for the cuddly creature.
he then lobbed it into the water. i gasped and then watched the lamb
struggle to keep its head above the water. Lourdes and i both knew what
was about to happen. Lourdes kicked of her shoes and headed for the
water, hoping to deliver the helpless lamb from the vicious piranha.
she lashed her arms violently as the water began to churn and boil
around the pitiful lamb. Fabrito never broke eye contact with us, nor
did he demonstrate any emotion. i felt he was studying us, learning.***”holy
cow!” mack said. “come look at this!” i didn’t
need to. the man in front of me told the whole story as he scurried
desperately away from us, futilely attempting to escape the soldiers
who had decimated his men. it was colonel Borda and his army. as the
man fled, i couldn’t help but feel empathy toward him. three
pickup trucks pulled up, corralling him like indians circling a wagon
train. he knew that his life was over, it was just a question of how
tormenting it would be. “joey,” i said in a normal tone of
voice, “can you hit him from here?” he craned his neck to
the right and said, “pick your anatomy.” colonel Borda
stood beside me, assuming that i was enjoying the entertainment as much
as he. “it’s good?” he asked in english. by now, his
men had tied separate ropes from a jeep to each of the man feet. Borda
said, “make a wish.” “now,” i said, never
blinking. joey fired two shots. the man fell backwards. the trucks
churned mud high into the air, like molten lava spewing from a volcano.
they pulled in opposite directions, shredding the body irregularly.
even from our distant vantage point, i could see the shower of blood
that was released. the vehicles spun toward us, dragging the torn
carcass, smearing blood across the thick grass. “did you hit
him?” i asked joey. “twice between the shoulder blades. he
didn’t feel a thing.” then, “god, i hope not.”
“you’re no fun!” Borda exclaimed.
from operation pseudo miranda
kenneth bucchi