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EXCERPT #2 FROM "CHEROKEE SALT" - In progress

 

You must understand that something less than half the people in the US believed every word – even the misspelled ones – this guy puked out onto their newsfeeds. And while that half loved and trusted him, most of the rest of us saw a reddish yellow schoolyard bully with a dead squirrel on his head and a black swastika armband, doing everything he could possibly do, relentlessly, to divide the country into two opposite camps. Nothing we could do or say would convince his people they were wrong; and certainly nothing they could do would convince us they were right. But there was a small percentage of clueless airheads in the middle who just couldn’t make up their minds on the subject. I don’t know if there will be a historical term for them – perhaps “fence sitters.” I simply refer to them as “dumb people.” And everybody was fighting tooth & nail to drag them over to their side of the line.

So, in addition to shoring up his base, Twitler’s idiocy was directed to them: the Lost People in the Lost Year of our Lost Lord, 2020.

EXCERPT #1 FROM "CHEROKEE SALT" - in progress

 Over half a century later, I still have vivid memories, even dreams, of being a kid, taking my dad’s 35 cents and running down to the corner station to buy him a pack of Viceroys. Did it many times, way back before snowflakes passed the silly laws forbidding children from making such purchases. There was always a covey of old men sitting around on Coke crates, chewing tobacco and swapping pocket knives and talking about all the world’s problems: Kennedy and “that nigger,” Martin Luther King, and queers, and women who didn’t know their place. They weren’t afraid to say what they thought out loud, because there was nobody around who disagreed with them. And they made no pretense of muting their conversations in the presence of me, a young, impressionable child. If anything, they’d get louder when I showed up. And they were fond of saying things to me like “What are you doin’ here, little girl? You lost?”

Then, over the course of that decade, things started to appear to change. I thought they were changing. Liberals, like Kennedy and King, had started talking back, and implanting crazy ideas, like equality, into the minds of people who didn’t look like those old men at the gas station. Over time, they didn’t raise their voices when a stranger walked onto the scene. And I got big enough to steal some of those Viceroys from my ol’ man, climb the oak tree beside my grandma’s house, sit on the roof and smoke while I listened to the discussions of the older folk through the open kitchen window. There were many of them who, thinking I was nowhere around, still talked like those gas station dudes.

See, the problem with “liberals” is that we’re just too goddamned gullible. We live in a make-believe world, pretending that because things appear to be right and just, righteousness and justice actually exist. They don’t. They’re a myth. Fake news. No matter how many quarters you have from putting those teeth under your pillow as a kid, fact is somebody who wanted you to believe in the Tooth Fairy – for whatever reason – kept placing the coins there, reinforcing that belief, all the while knowing that you’d have to be let down sooner or later. You’d either grow up and figure it out for yourself, or you’d run out of teeth. America has run out of teeth. All that marching and protesting in the 60s accomplished was getting some of the ugliness moved to another room, where you can’t see it, and they don’t have to listen to you complain. Racism and bigotry and cruelty and all those other nasty things didn’t leave the house. They were as strong as they’ve ever been, pretending to be contained until somebody could step up and champion them again. Somebody who has what it takes to tell the kids to quit looking under their pillows; because it’s not the fake magical fairy they need to thank for the pocket change, but the real monster that has always been under the bed.

It was clear to me that person had arrived. And they had made him President; and they worshipped him like a god. He had appeared like a miracle – the physical manifestation of their collective inner-selves. What else could he be if not the Second Coming?

Luke's Great Escape from Facebook Shawshank

 

This changes a man. Whether it’s for the better, or for the worse, remains to be seen. But there’s a change. I can feel it.

The darkness. That’s the worst part. Rats. Snakes. Some other things that I haven’t quite identified. Maybe some of them are imaginary – my tortured mind, playing tricks. It’s gotten to the point that when something crawls across my wet bare feet I don’t even bother to light up my phone to see what it is. Nothing good, I’m sure. And I have to preserve my battery – if for nothing than the clock. The hour will come, eventually, when I can get out of this hole and feel the sunlight on my face. Eventually.  But, until then, I can only do what they intend for me to do: sit here, alone, and reflect upon my transgression. My sin. And for all the reflection; all the introspection… I still can’t figure out what I did to deserve this. So I must continue to think about it. It’s for my own good.

All around, etched into the damp walls, are faint remnants of the agony of those poor souls who were here before me. Silent, desperate pleadings for mercy that were never heard by the outside world. Fingernails, ripped from those foolish enough to think they could scratch their way to the surface; tally marks, counting the days, hours, minutes; names and initials. The horror. The horror! Last time I looked, I saw the initials of my own cousin, “M.A.P.” And, to think that I never gave a second thought about his misery when he was last here – there have been many times for him – brings me a feeling of overwhelming guilt and shame.  Seems we never think about things like this until they happen to us. It’s just too painful.

So, at least they let me bring my ball and glove. I sit with my back against the wall and bounce the ball off the opposite one; and even in near-total darkness, I manage to catch it most of the time, just using the force.  And I count the seconds. And I plan vengeance upon those responsible for sending me here. Is that wrong?

Then, instead of the dull thump, the ball makes a sharp snapping sound, like hitting a snare drum, and it doesn’t come back. “Wilson!” I shout, “Where did you go?” But there is no answer. This, in itself, isn’t so unusual, because Wilson is a baseball, and they don’t talk – but he had always come back before.

I light up my phone and scoot across to the other side of the dungeon. There, I find a tattered poster of Stormy Daniels with a baseball-sized hole through the paper at the most interesting location. I rip the paper off the wall to find a hidden tunnel to the unknown – barely large enough for a man of my size, but I had to try! Without giving it a second thought, I lunge into Stormy’s shaft and begin to crawl, picking up Wilson along the way. Ahead, I see a faint glow, and that empowers me to crawl faster and faster.

It seems like an eternity until I lift off the grate to emerge, and the warm sunlight envelopes me like the arms of a loving mother. In the distance, I hear the shouting of an un-masked crowd chanting “Four more years! Four more years” and see brightly colored flags waving in the gentle Autumn breeze under the orange-tinted sky.

Just to my right … well, way to my right … is a heavily-adorned Indian motorcycle with its own stars & bars flags and some little bears, wearing red MAGA hats, tied to the rear fender. The key is in the ignition!  I jump astride the bike and crank it up – and at that moment it all comes back to me.

My crime; that horrible thing that had put me in the hole: posting “Girls shouldn’t be allowed to talk mean to the President!” Exactly that, and nothing else, on a popular social media site which shall remain nameless.

It was a satirical remark regarding a televised CBS interview with the grotesque, titian leader of this gaggle of clowns, in which he couldn’t handle the pressure so he just up and walked out, and left the lady sitting there in her chair, bewildered. And for my tongue-in-cheek witticism it had to be one of these dimwitted romancers of goats who finked me out; turned state’s evidence to get me thrown into the bastille. But which one? There are so many!

I place the motorcycle into gear and spin out toward the slobbering mob, and they scatter like a houseful of witless turkeys when lightning strikes. Grown men, full of pride, with AR-15s strapped to their backs, slinging women and children aside to remove themselves from harm’s way by any means necessary. And there is pandemonium, and the spreading of the ‘rona via their screams.

Black suits surround the Mango Messiah on the stage and whisk him away to Eggbeater and it flees into the wild blue yonder … which is, as already stated, orange. So, OK, the wild orange yonder.  Then, they turn their focus to me, and the chase is on.

For miles over the rolling fields, through amber waves of grain, they maintain pursuit, dodging the fuzzy little bears and swastika material flying in my wake. There are the sounds of the engines, and sirens and gunfire, but all I hear is Mick Jagger singing “Sympathy for the Devil.”

I fly over a rise and realize that I am boxed in by five-strand barbwire fences. There is nowhere to go! I circle back toward the advancing gestapo briefly; then turn again, full-speed toward the fence. I jump that one, but there is an even bigger fence on the other side. The Nazis close in from all directions. In a hail of bullets, I crash into the gigantic fence and become entangled in the wire. And they have me again.

The officer in charge appears at the front as I’m removed from the fetters. The nametag on his uniform said, simply, “Zuck.” And he addresses me:

“What we have here … is failure to communicate.”

And I’m thinking “That’s exactly what we have.”

They put me back into the dungeon with nothing but my ball and glove. Stormy’s hole has been filled with pumpkins and sweet potatoes, so there is no way out, aside from getting that orange stench all over myself - and I refuse to do that.

So I toss the ball and count: “One November…Two November…”

The Book of Trump - Chapter One

Amidst all the madness and confusion in the past 3 ½ years it’s difficult to recall and focus on any one thing that stands out – that singular historical event our grandchildren will be asked about by their own progeny to which they can answer “Yes. I was alive then; but, honey, I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

The Book of Trump, Chapter One

For many years, there had been in our country a considerable number of people, who called themselves “Patriots,” whose stated mission was to defend and preserve the principles of liberty and justice, at all costs, even their very lives.  In their quest to do so, they determined it necessary to arm themselves to the extent that made other Americans uncomfortable – afraid of potential misuse of their weapons.

“Why do you need so many guns?” the Patriots were asked, “Our country has police to protect us from criminals, and military forces to protect us from invaders.”

“Yes!” cried the Patriots, “But what if tyranny is coming from your own government? Who will defend you then? It is we, your militia! Thank God we are here for you, and fear not!”

And, God was surely with them. They carried His Book, and they spoke His Words, and they gathered in His House, and they proclaimed to do all things in His Name, and in the name of the country they swore to defend to their dying breaths. And they proudly displayed their weapons, and their flags; and donned the wardrobes of the fearless and mighty, even in places where such displays didn’t appear to be necessary.

And they waited for tyranny to dare to raise its ugly head.

Then, in the early days of June, in the Year of Our Lord 2020, a handful of peaceful Americans sat on the front porch of their dwelling, watching a black-clad parade of heavily armed forces march down their street, whose perceived purpose was to protect the citizenry from danger. Disharmony had occurred throughout the country over abuse committed by police, which had brought about calamity and unrest; and these forces had been sent out to keep the peace.

“Get inside your house!” commanded voices from the marchers.

Bewildered, the handful of Americans, thinking surely the government would not order them what to do on their own property, continued to watch, from what they considered the safety of their own porch.

“Get inside!” the marchers repeated.

Before the watchers had the time to realize it was, indeed, them who were being ordered, the forces opened fire upon them with non-lethal, albeit punishing weaponry. And they had no choice but to comply with the unlawful demands.

Meanwhile, many miles away in the Nation’s capital, hundreds of citizens had gathered in peaceful protest over the abuse committed by the police – a right, granted by God, and recognized in the founding documents of their country.

And, suddenly, the skies opened, and terror rained down upon them in the form of noxious gasses and pain-inflicting projectiles which sent them scattering and fleeing from the grounds of the House of God where they had been granted refuge and given comfort. And the comforters and granters of refuge were among them, driven from the House of God.

Then, through the smoke and screams of the terrified marched a man, flanked by his entourage of supporters and enablers, onto the steps of the House of God. And he stood before the cameras and he proclaimed the House to be his; and he held up the Book and he proclaimed It to be his. And the world watched.

“Now! Now is the time for the Patriots!” screamed the people, “For this, surely, is their prophesy come to pass!”

But as the people dried from their eyes the tears of the gasses and disillusionment, they began to see the self-proclaimed Patriots – standing beside the man.

“He is there! He is there!” they screamed at the Patriots.

“Not this man,” answered the Patriots, “For he is one of us.”

© Rick Baber, 2020