Elmer's Last Stand
1. Elmer
"Anyone who steals from you is a piece of shit and should be locked up without question", I've always said. My name is Elmer K. Dodd. I am a staunch conservative. My parents raised 2.78 children in an efficiently constructed 2.5 storey house in beautiful suburban Mississauga. Everyone who lived there was upper-middle class, and those who weren't we didn't know anything about. All our friends and neighbours were superficially content in their secure white-collar careers that provided benefits aplenty.
For their holidays, each of our friends and neighbours spent some time in Florida, theirs and our favourite place to flaunt our contemporary urban Canadian lifestyles.
As a matter of fact, some of my fondest childhood memories are of Florida: prancing in the Everglades with my Mickey Mouse billfold waving in the wind, and riding Disneyland's larger rollercoasters, barraging the crowd below with coins that spilled from my pockets.
My family spent their time in Florida in the company of boorish, fat bastards and their families from back home. Most were lifelong friends; conservative compatriots. Others we used for their status value, because of the people my father said they could put us in cahoots with.
We tried to meet new people, but the time was around the mid-sixties, when a huge influx of liberal-democratic wingnuts made Florida smell like a breeding ground for welfare cases. Hell, we had to pack up our Perry Como records and head straight for the foothills of Texas, where our traditional values were appreciated.
People had the gall to tell us that our culturally elite mores were outdated and intolerable. To hell with them I say as I sit and reflect on my youth, demanding for my beautiful wife to bring me another Coors Lite, the beer of choice for assholes like me.
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I raise my family, in the year 1994, in a three-storey luxury house in lovely Rosedale, where all I smell from my front porch is the exhilarating aroma of upper-class ostentatiousness. I have three children, two sons and a daughter, because every self-respecting father in Canada has at least that many, upholding the current birthrate of our country.
I have a fancy French dog that my wife takes to fancy dog shows because my position affords her ample discretionary income to squander in her ample discretionary time.
I work hard; I love my work. I'm told that I'm supposed to love my family, so I do. Even when they don't treat me like the saint of a husband and father that I am.
Furthermore, I eat well and I wear nice clothes. I drive a great car. Mercedes, top of the line. I take relaxing vacations three times a year. I'd have to say that I'm quite satisfied with my life, even though I am a colossal dickhead. Yeah, I can laugh about it.
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Had I any introspection, I'd loath myself for the frighteningly shallow life I've chosen to live. I'd realize that my status-laden executive vice president "in charge of all things corrupt and unethical" position is devoid of depth and meaning, and that my company -Suburban Insurance Associates- is embezzling money from Central American subsidiaries who can barely afford to pay their employees meagre wages. I realize what is going on of course, but I keep my mouth shut and thank the Robin Hoods of corporate North America -the chronic do-gooders of big business-to keep the hell out of my company's affairs.
Would I reflect on my life and how disdainfully I live it, I'd have to come to grips with my bitter self-hatred. And about my deep physical longings for my burly, outdoorsy, liberal-democratic, bearded neighbour Floyd. Fuck that, I only like women, I'd castigate myself. I only notice women, and I'll only ever have buoyant sexual adventures with women, because if I didn't I'd be a disgrace to insufferable studs everywhere. Geez, I'd have to kill myself.
2. My problem
Even rich pricks like me have problems.
Right now, I have a really big one. Two mornings ago, while I carried my trash to the treeless, manicured boulevard, a van whizzed around the corner and onto my street. To my greatest consternation, I noticed that it was full of multi-racial hoodlums who seemed to be screaming "Die rich bastards", while waving heavy artillery in the morning air. Hey, that's me, I thought, and quickly dropped my trash and ran for the cover of my suburban landscape.
From that point on, all I remember is rolling on my lawn in twisted agony, trying in vain to save my freshly transplanted lawn from my bloodshed. Then I guess I stopped moving.
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As I awoke, Floyd was standing over me in my hospital bed.
"Man, they got you good, didn't they?", he said.
"Mmmm", I mumbled.
"Hey, don't try to talk. Just listen. Doc says they got five of the six bullets out. Says you'll be okay. You'll be walking like normal. But you're really lucky just to be alive."
"Mm hmmm."
"Anyway, I know you can't hear me very well, but I have to tell ya, you were the prime targets of the hoods who shot you."
"H-Who were they?"
"They're a left-wing liberation group, calling themselves the 'International Freedom Fighters'."
"Whaa?..."
"Yeah, they've been scouring the 'burbs for who they call "those sadistic conservative pinheads who rob the peasant workers in Central America of the right to earn a decent living.""
I heard enough of Floyd's voice to lapse into a dream about his 18 and 7/8 inch biceps.
I woke suddenly and found myself screaming: "Aaaaggghhhh!" Apparently, I'd just ingested what Floyd told me, and I was screaming out of deathly fear for my petty life. I realized that the hoodlums would have heard by now that they hadn't completed their mission to assassinate me, and they'd come after me again. Of course they will, I thought. And I know a guy like me is easy enough to find, because everyone knows you can smell a dirty asshole a mile away.
I thought about their name -International Freedom Fighters- and figured it sounded like some clique with a sizable following. I made a personal note to do some research about them.
Right now, though, I was quaking in my hospital robe and I had other things on my mind.
I asked the amply-breasted young nurse who came into the room to comfort me for a pen and paper which I would use to rewrite my last will and testament. What I wouldn't do to secure my reputation as a devout heterosexual, I reckoned, as I asked her name.
3. Life After Near Death
Eight days later I was out of the hospital and on crutches. I would be walking independently, after two months of rehabilitation, the doctors informed me. I have designated my eldest son Charles -my longest-haired and most liberal-looking offspring- to take out the family's trash on all future occasions. I bribed him into doing most of our shopping and errand-running. (If he doesn't open his mouth, no one will know he's related to us.)
The rest of the family are tight-wads like me, and are to remain in seclusion, under the cover of our impeccably-decorated suburban home, with near round the clock police supervision courtesy of Metro Toronto's finest.
I have hired a private investigator to search out the lunatics who shot me; and a personal bodyguard -Chester- to accompany me to and from work, and to and from Monday night meetings with the Conservative Brotherhood of North America, of which I am the president of the regional chapter. Chester accompanies my wife to and from her bridge games with the wives of the members of the Conservative Brotherhood of North America, henceforth to be known as the C.B.N.A.
Chester also accompanies little Arthur, all his nine jaded years, to and from his elementary school, where he's been receiving respondent criticism, apparently aimed at me, from a certain left-wing liberal educator adversary of mine who shall soon be out of a job.
My worst problem is that I can go nowhere alone. I am afraid for my peach-coloured skin. My colleagues and friends, every one a staunch conservative dickhead, share in a similar predicament. Any of them have yet to be shot at. Only a matter of opportunity I say.
4. The Man who follows me around
Chester is my personal bodyguard. He is, essentially, an ox with a rattlesnake's brain. Really, he does have an ox tattooed on his chest. A verification of his credentials for the job as he explains it. Get this: he's 6'6" and 305 lbs., and he sports a gleaming goatee, which is the only hair on his otherwise bald head. Says he'll eat a bullet for a free meal. Also says he has no beliefs that can't be overcome for the right price, if you know what he means. My kinda guy.
The way Chester is contributing to this whole shenanigan is simply through sheer intimidation. How's he going to stop a gunshot from coming my way? Well, he says he can smell trouble a mile away, and that means ammunition of any sort.
He says he's not afraid of "any bunch o' damn pinkos".
5. The International Freedom Fighters
The damn pinkos.
No doubt, this is a group that sounds like it means business, so I had an associate of mine run a check on them. It seems they are, as the name suggests, a group primarily concerned with fighting for the rights of the labour class of second- and third-world countries around the world. Their membership, as of December 31st, 1993, was 313,000 internationally, with about 1/5 of those operating on a military basis. In the U.S., current numbers have them at some 78,000 strong, with over 25,000 militarily involved. Apparently, they are led by several U.S. ex-military personnel, who found their niche operating independently from formal military procedures. Some of those ex-military were supposedly high-ranking army rats. Others are ex-navy seals. They are all well-trained and should be considered dangerous if they have a personal vendetta against you. They are also apparently in cahoots with some ex-military in Canada, long-time members of the International Freedom Fighters.
I concluded that Metro Toronto's finest would be no match against them.
Neither is Chester or any P.I. I contemplated suicide...Naaahh, my ego couldn't handle it.
6. The C.B.N.A.
The C.B.N.A. is an organization consisting of only the finest, most upstanding citizens of Canada and the United States of America.
Our credo runs like this: We, the proud members of the C.B.N.A., seek to employ no violent measures, but only to spread a peaceful friendly message of egalitarian brotherhood.
Sound like bigots? The administration of the C.B.N.A. regrets any perception of our organization as racist, misogynous, homophobic, anti-environmental, blindly pro-capitalistic, cult-like in structure, or otherwise exclusionary or elite. Truth is, we're all of these things, but if we admit that to the general public, some people just wouldn't understand. Fuck 'em.
Essentially, we meet weekly to discuss, to paraphrase, our plans for restructuring the Canadian pattern of corporate elitism.
Mostly, we poke fun at natives, penniless Quebecois separatists, and "feminazis". Bored with that, we pay tribute to everything that's right with the world: Ronny Reagan, our pal Rush, Monday Night football, and unrated Swedish films.
7. The Hoodlums May have a Point
They're still out there, and they've made it known, through the media and by word-of-mouth on the streets, they're "not scared of me or of any of my butthead conservative cronies". They're the ones who shot me full of bullets once already, and they're horny to do it again.
A phone call I just received warned me 'not to try anything stupid anytime soon'. "Fuck you", I screamed, as I slammed down the phone and poured myself a shot of scotch.
They said they're not interested in my dealings with the C.B.N.A., but specifically with my deliberate participation in extorting funds from various Central American countries, from companies with which I committed to exchange money for promises of technical assistance for restructuring.
Sounds feasible I guess, I think to myself, as I lapse momentarily into that lost part of my memory that can recall all the times I signed invoices and affidavits that I will hereafter deny ever having had knowledge of. I also vow to forget having had an associate of mine sent to Nicaragua to seek and destroy all legal documents that could have led the poor schmucks to believe that I'd fulfil a promise to help them.
I am connected enough, with my various associates from the C.B.N.A. and from Suburban Insurance Associates, to secure technical assistance for second-world countries. And I have the sufficient gumption to put such operations into effect.
What does all this mean? Means that I'm guilty of course. Guilty of extorting a shit-load of cash that should have been sent from the Central American countries from which it came to the North American companies that could provide technical assistance to them. Somehow the money got lost in the shuffle, its whereabouts hereafter unknown to me or to any of my associates.
However, somebody made a slip-up and opened their trap, and the wrong people got word of the misplaced funds. I guess my name came up, and that's how I got shot.
So the hoodlums had a case. Had they been more erudite in their actions, they might have caught me and my associates red-handed. But they shot me. Now they're screwed. They'll have a charge of attempted murder on their hands. That's how I may get out of this whole mess. There'll be so much attention put on my attempted murder and the litigation that will ensue that everyone will magically forget about my secret dealings.
8. My Paranoia
By public proclamation, my brothers at the C.B.N.A. have made it known that the violent acts against me, the Metro Toronto regional chapter president, shall not go unpunished. They went much further than Suburban Insurance Associates, who simply reprimanded the thugs verbally and wrote me a get well card. Seems that loyalty doesn't go as far as it used to.
As it was, Chester was by my side 24 hours a day, even to the point of busting through my bedroom door to see if I was alright when my wife screamed ravenously at the apex of our lovemaking. Jesus Q. Christ knows there's nothing more mortifying than being shot down at the completion of intercourse.
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It was my daughter Lesley, 16 years old and a cork firmly jammed up her young Conservative ass, who answered the door when the pizza delivery guy rang. I was sitting in the parlour, located beside the front hall, as I heard Lesley say, "But I don't think anybody here ordered pizza." Well, that was all my ears needed to hear. "Shut the damn door", I screamed at Lesley, "NOW". So she did. Right on the pizza guy's face. Chester heard me scream, and he ran from the toilet, to the door, with has pants half done up. He tore open the door and picked up a stunned-looking delivery boy over his head. He twirled the boy around a few times and dropped him on the grass, where the boy lay dazed and winded. Ten seconds later, a van tore around the corner and screeched to a halt right in front of our door. As we stood there stunned, presumably waiting for someone to shoot us, we heard uproarious laughter abounding from the van. I realized the pizza boy scheme was theirs, and that these hoodlums had us by the seat of our pants, paranoid beyond all reason.
The next day, word out on the street was that the hoodlums are massive in number. Should one or two of them be charged and put through a trial, there would be many more to take their place in a torrential effort to terrorize me and my associates.
The police, I knew, could stop some of the terror on me, but the assaults would continue, endlessly, I knew.
9. My Tirade and the Aftermath
My plan now was to appear on television and publicly denounce the International Freedom Fighters and their "very badly misdirected vendetta against me, an upstanding member of the Metro community..." I would proceed to run down a list of accomplishments of mine in the Toronto business community that are mostly white lies and half-baked truths. Maybe enough suckers would sympathize with me that my reputation could be elevated to a level where any more attacks on me would puncture the bleeding hearts of Toronto. As it is, people are more worried about their financial situations than about my impending death. I can understand that.
I have a date booked to go on television. It's October 18th, a good three weeks away. Bastards at CFTO don't know what good publicity they're missing by not putting me on today. But I have to wait, because none of the other stations even considered putting me on the air. They must be run by left-wing pinko martyrs.
Every morning I can count on that same van peeling around the corner onto my street, stopping just long enough to make sure someone has seen it. Sometimes there are police on guard outside my house, and the van makes a quick pass. The police have stopped the van on more than one occasion, but each time the story was the same: They aren't looking for trouble.
I even obtained a restraining order against the Freedom Fighters, but the response I got about a week later was that it would be most difficult to enforce, seeing as how the Freedom Fighters have been most cooperative in all procedures involving Metro Police.
I called an associate -from my 'secret dealings'- and had him put out the word to temporarily suspend all interactions with Central America. I didn't do this to appease the International Freedom Fighters. Merely to save my white ass.
Meanwhile, I know that money from previous deals is still rolling in. I thank the good lord for that.
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Chester and I have become famous patrons of the local pub, where we put away a good twenty brews between us every night, as we try to figure a way out of this damn mess. Chester seems more interested in setting personal records for chugging. He's more stupid than I thought.
"Hey Elmer", the barkeep calls out.
"Yeah Norm, what's up?"
"You really stealing money from the 'spics?"
"Yeah Normy, I am, and why don't you allow me to admit it to everybody in the room?"
"Word's out buddy. Probably doesn't matter if you're guilty or not any more."
"Yeah, well at least I know you're on my side."
"I'm on the side o' the livin'."
"Don't you worry about me. They'll get theirs, you'll see. I got pull."
I don't feel like I have anything. I've been drunk every night for the last two weeks. When I'm sober, I'm busy thinking about what to say on t.v., my appearance being only a week away. The only ideas that have been running through my head resemble jingles from beer advertisements. Beer seems to be the only thing I'm really interested in any more. Ahhhh, beer.
I can't even make love to my wife, and word has it that she's been screwing a few guys from the C.B.N.A. Bastards, whoever they are. It's like I said, loyalty doesn't go as far as it used to.
And my wife doesn't even seem to care that my life is a quarter way down the toilet. Why should she? I thought. She's getting laid by the heart and soul, the good boys of the C.B.N.A.
I try to remember how much she'll be getting from that trusty insurance policy I signed a couple years back. Maybe that's the reason she's so fucking happy. She figures I'm toast any day now, and she's on the receiving end of the big cash-in when it happens.
"Yvette, where the hell are you?"
"In the kitchen honey, baking cookies."
She hasn't baked any damn cookies since our first years together. Tramp!
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I've missed three consecutive C.B.N.A. meetings and they've appointed a deputy president in my absence. Old Ed Pinkney. Bastard's probably bucking my old lady.
I haven't been at work in a week. That should be the real tipper as to my going off the deep end, but I can't even see the deep end from the reflection in my bottle of beer.
Floyd tells me that I should be takin' better care of myself. Why? So he can take me to bed? I wish. I mean, NO, I hope not.
Arthur and Lesley seem worried about me, as far as I can tell. They always seem to be wanting my opinion about one major investment or another. "Daddy", they say, "can you advise us on a lucrative investment or two, one that one that projects well in the immediate future? You know, in case anything happens to the family?" Smart kids, investing at such a young age.
Charles has joined some hippy band that plays long-haired scrunchy music. Someday, Arthur and Lesley will bail him out.
I've discovered that I like to watch late night television, where deeply-disturbed people talk openly about their inner-most thoughts to an audience of sceptics who'll castigate their every word. Losers.
Here I am, reviewing everything that's important to me in my wanton life. I'm as corrupt as they come, and have been that way for as long as I can remember. But I used to be happy with it. Satisfied, with a stupid grin on my face. Now I'm questioning the degenerate laurels on which I've built my life. I haven't been so depressed since when I was eight and I found out that Santa Claus gives gifts to all kids, not just to little money-hungry behemoths like me.
Now I figure, what's there left to live for?
"Honey, bring me another beer. (Slut!)"
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They had me feeling pretty comfortable on the set of the local news before we went on air. The two on-air personalities with whom I spoke were congenial toward me, and introduced me as "a respected Toronto businessman who has recently experienced some very trying times". Provincials!
I started by talking about my position as vice-president of Suburban Insurance Associates and my affiliation with several relief agencies and volunteer associations in the Metro area. Truth is, they asked for my support, and I told them to 'stick it where the sun don't shine'.
I had five beers only an hour before, and they suddenly made me feel quite relaxed. The camera was mine.
"So my predicament is such that I've been shot at four times in the last two months by a gang calling themselves International Freedom Fighters, and I'm none too pleased about it. (Creative embellishment can't hurt.) “Truth is", (cough, cough), "I'm an honest business man who's trying to do well by his family... and I'm just trying to do my fair share to contribute to decency and democracy in the Toronto area. I don't wish to hurt (burp) anybody, or to have anybody hurt me, or my family. I just want to make it clear...to the Freedom Fighters, that they will be reprimanded for any further actions against me and my family..."
I was on the verge of major stuttering, and the beer was just beginning to fuel my conservative fire.
"...And If those bastards think they can get away with what they've done, they're out of their damn minds. And I don't wish to give them the wrong impression when I say they'll be put through the ringer and hung out to dry. I have connections that will make them wish they'd never heard of me. They'll pay dearly for messing with me. What's more, if they think..."
"Mr. Dodd...Mr. Dodd", someone was shouting my name, but I continued to run at the mouth. As drunk as I was, I didn't give a shit. Finally someone grabbed me and shook me, telling me that the camera was off, and I should go outside to let off some steam. I staggered outside, where I fell down and passed out.
About half an hour later, I felt water being splashed on me. I opened my eyes to see Floyd standing over me. I thought I was in heaven.
Floyd drove me home, explaining to me all the while that he figured I had said too much on t.v. He advised me to throw myself on the mercy of a court, to save my own neck.
I asked him if Yvette was screwing around on me, to which he only shut up. I started bawling, telling him about how my life was ruined, and about how I felt the liberal democrats had cooked up this terrific scheme against me that was going to culminate in my own self-destruction. He listened, and even began to cry for me. Wuss.
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When I woke up the next morning, I realized how badly I had shot off my mouth, and that I'd played right into the hands the hoodlums. I felt so paranoid of them now that I'd lost all perspective. My job, that I used to cling to like a safety blanket, was no longer significant to me. Hiding behind the false sense of protection that the C.B.N.A. gave me wouldn't help me now. If the Freedom Fighters wanted me to self-destruct, they were doing an enviable job of helping me along.
There were five calls from work, each one from the president of the company. He was livid and then some. I was to be in his office immediately to discuss my future with the company. I jumped to my own conclusion.
The last message informed me that Ed Pinkney would remain president of the C.B.N.A., at least until I get back on my feet. Fuck them, I thought. I don't give a flying shit.
My wife gave me an obligatory kiss on my way out of the house. She seemed way too happy. I hadn't dressed properly, nor had I combed my hair or brushed my teeth. Under usual circumstances, that would have sent her into hysterics.
I didn't bother waking Chester. I didn't care if I was killed today. I'd be better off.
I was just about to get into my car when the van peeled around the corner onto my street. Without thinking, I ran straight toward it screaming, "Go ahead you bastards, shoot me, SHOOT ME!" The van had stopped and I ran out into the street trying to get to the driver's side.
An impatient stranger hit me, accelerating like he was late for a job interview. As I lost consciousness, I heard:
11. Two Guys In the Van
"Did you see that?"
"Yeah, man. He's squashed like a pancake."
"Is he dead?"
"I dunno."
"He looks dead. Think we should get out and console that guy who hit him?"
"Are you nuts? Let's get outta here."
The van roars off.
"He really was an asshole, taking all that money from our Central American friends."
"Yeah, no scruples."
"Guess he got his due."
"Guess so."
"Anyone who steals from you is a piece of shit and should be locked up without question", I've always said. My name is Elmer K. Dodd. I am a staunch conservative. My parents raised 2.78 children in an efficiently constructed 2.5 storey house in beautiful suburban Mississauga. Everyone who lived there was upper-middle class, and those who weren't we didn't know anything about. All our friends and neighbours were superficially content in their secure white-collar careers that provided benefits aplenty.
For their holidays, each of our friends and neighbours spent some time in Florida, theirs and our favourite place to flaunt our contemporary urban Canadian lifestyles.
As a matter of fact, some of my fondest childhood memories are of Florida: prancing in the Everglades with my Mickey Mouse billfold waving in the wind, and riding Disneyland's larger rollercoasters, barraging the crowd below with coins that spilled from my pockets.
My family spent their time in Florida in the company of boorish, fat bastards and their families from back home. Most were lifelong friends; conservative compatriots. Others we used for their status value, because of the people my father said they could put us in cahoots with.
We tried to meet new people, but the time was around the mid-sixties, when a huge influx of liberal-democratic wingnuts made Florida smell like a breeding ground for welfare cases. Hell, we had to pack up our Perry Como records and head straight for the foothills of Texas, where our traditional values were appreciated.
People had the gall to tell us that our culturally elite mores were outdated and intolerable. To hell with them I say as I sit and reflect on my youth, demanding for my beautiful wife to bring me another Coors Lite, the beer of choice for assholes like me.
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I raise my family, in the year 1994, in a three-storey luxury house in lovely Rosedale, where all I smell from my front porch is the exhilarating aroma of upper-class ostentatiousness. I have three children, two sons and a daughter, because every self-respecting father in Canada has at least that many, upholding the current birthrate of our country.
I have a fancy French dog that my wife takes to fancy dog shows because my position affords her ample discretionary income to squander in her ample discretionary time.
I work hard; I love my work. I'm told that I'm supposed to love my family, so I do. Even when they don't treat me like the saint of a husband and father that I am.
Furthermore, I eat well and I wear nice clothes. I drive a great car. Mercedes, top of the line. I take relaxing vacations three times a year. I'd have to say that I'm quite satisfied with my life, even though I am a colossal dickhead. Yeah, I can laugh about it.
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Had I any introspection, I'd loath myself for the frighteningly shallow life I've chosen to live. I'd realize that my status-laden executive vice president "in charge of all things corrupt and unethical" position is devoid of depth and meaning, and that my company -Suburban Insurance Associates- is embezzling money from Central American subsidiaries who can barely afford to pay their employees meagre wages. I realize what is going on of course, but I keep my mouth shut and thank the Robin Hoods of corporate North America -the chronic do-gooders of big business-to keep the hell out of my company's affairs.
Would I reflect on my life and how disdainfully I live it, I'd have to come to grips with my bitter self-hatred. And about my deep physical longings for my burly, outdoorsy, liberal-democratic, bearded neighbour Floyd. Fuck that, I only like women, I'd castigate myself. I only notice women, and I'll only ever have buoyant sexual adventures with women, because if I didn't I'd be a disgrace to insufferable studs everywhere. Geez, I'd have to kill myself.
2. My problem
Even rich pricks like me have problems.
Right now, I have a really big one. Two mornings ago, while I carried my trash to the treeless, manicured boulevard, a van whizzed around the corner and onto my street. To my greatest consternation, I noticed that it was full of multi-racial hoodlums who seemed to be screaming "Die rich bastards", while waving heavy artillery in the morning air. Hey, that's me, I thought, and quickly dropped my trash and ran for the cover of my suburban landscape.
From that point on, all I remember is rolling on my lawn in twisted agony, trying in vain to save my freshly transplanted lawn from my bloodshed. Then I guess I stopped moving.
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As I awoke, Floyd was standing over me in my hospital bed.
"Man, they got you good, didn't they?", he said.
"Mmmm", I mumbled.
"Hey, don't try to talk. Just listen. Doc says they got five of the six bullets out. Says you'll be okay. You'll be walking like normal. But you're really lucky just to be alive."
"Mm hmmm."
"Anyway, I know you can't hear me very well, but I have to tell ya, you were the prime targets of the hoods who shot you."
"H-Who were they?"
"They're a left-wing liberation group, calling themselves the 'International Freedom Fighters'."
"Whaa?..."
"Yeah, they've been scouring the 'burbs for who they call "those sadistic conservative pinheads who rob the peasant workers in Central America of the right to earn a decent living.""
I heard enough of Floyd's voice to lapse into a dream about his 18 and 7/8 inch biceps.
I woke suddenly and found myself screaming: "Aaaaggghhhh!" Apparently, I'd just ingested what Floyd told me, and I was screaming out of deathly fear for my petty life. I realized that the hoodlums would have heard by now that they hadn't completed their mission to assassinate me, and they'd come after me again. Of course they will, I thought. And I know a guy like me is easy enough to find, because everyone knows you can smell a dirty asshole a mile away.
I thought about their name -International Freedom Fighters- and figured it sounded like some clique with a sizable following. I made a personal note to do some research about them.
Right now, though, I was quaking in my hospital robe and I had other things on my mind.
I asked the amply-breasted young nurse who came into the room to comfort me for a pen and paper which I would use to rewrite my last will and testament. What I wouldn't do to secure my reputation as a devout heterosexual, I reckoned, as I asked her name.
3. Life After Near Death
Eight days later I was out of the hospital and on crutches. I would be walking independently, after two months of rehabilitation, the doctors informed me. I have designated my eldest son Charles -my longest-haired and most liberal-looking offspring- to take out the family's trash on all future occasions. I bribed him into doing most of our shopping and errand-running. (If he doesn't open his mouth, no one will know he's related to us.)
The rest of the family are tight-wads like me, and are to remain in seclusion, under the cover of our impeccably-decorated suburban home, with near round the clock police supervision courtesy of Metro Toronto's finest.
I have hired a private investigator to search out the lunatics who shot me; and a personal bodyguard -Chester- to accompany me to and from work, and to and from Monday night meetings with the Conservative Brotherhood of North America, of which I am the president of the regional chapter. Chester accompanies my wife to and from her bridge games with the wives of the members of the Conservative Brotherhood of North America, henceforth to be known as the C.B.N.A.
Chester also accompanies little Arthur, all his nine jaded years, to and from his elementary school, where he's been receiving respondent criticism, apparently aimed at me, from a certain left-wing liberal educator adversary of mine who shall soon be out of a job.
My worst problem is that I can go nowhere alone. I am afraid for my peach-coloured skin. My colleagues and friends, every one a staunch conservative dickhead, share in a similar predicament. Any of them have yet to be shot at. Only a matter of opportunity I say.
4. The Man who follows me around
Chester is my personal bodyguard. He is, essentially, an ox with a rattlesnake's brain. Really, he does have an ox tattooed on his chest. A verification of his credentials for the job as he explains it. Get this: he's 6'6" and 305 lbs., and he sports a gleaming goatee, which is the only hair on his otherwise bald head. Says he'll eat a bullet for a free meal. Also says he has no beliefs that can't be overcome for the right price, if you know what he means. My kinda guy.
The way Chester is contributing to this whole shenanigan is simply through sheer intimidation. How's he going to stop a gunshot from coming my way? Well, he says he can smell trouble a mile away, and that means ammunition of any sort.
He says he's not afraid of "any bunch o' damn pinkos".
5. The International Freedom Fighters
The damn pinkos.
No doubt, this is a group that sounds like it means business, so I had an associate of mine run a check on them. It seems they are, as the name suggests, a group primarily concerned with fighting for the rights of the labour class of second- and third-world countries around the world. Their membership, as of December 31st, 1993, was 313,000 internationally, with about 1/5 of those operating on a military basis. In the U.S., current numbers have them at some 78,000 strong, with over 25,000 militarily involved. Apparently, they are led by several U.S. ex-military personnel, who found their niche operating independently from formal military procedures. Some of those ex-military were supposedly high-ranking army rats. Others are ex-navy seals. They are all well-trained and should be considered dangerous if they have a personal vendetta against you. They are also apparently in cahoots with some ex-military in Canada, long-time members of the International Freedom Fighters.
I concluded that Metro Toronto's finest would be no match against them.
Neither is Chester or any P.I. I contemplated suicide...Naaahh, my ego couldn't handle it.
6. The C.B.N.A.
The C.B.N.A. is an organization consisting of only the finest, most upstanding citizens of Canada and the United States of America.
Our credo runs like this: We, the proud members of the C.B.N.A., seek to employ no violent measures, but only to spread a peaceful friendly message of egalitarian brotherhood.
Sound like bigots? The administration of the C.B.N.A. regrets any perception of our organization as racist, misogynous, homophobic, anti-environmental, blindly pro-capitalistic, cult-like in structure, or otherwise exclusionary or elite. Truth is, we're all of these things, but if we admit that to the general public, some people just wouldn't understand. Fuck 'em.
Essentially, we meet weekly to discuss, to paraphrase, our plans for restructuring the Canadian pattern of corporate elitism.
Mostly, we poke fun at natives, penniless Quebecois separatists, and "feminazis". Bored with that, we pay tribute to everything that's right with the world: Ronny Reagan, our pal Rush, Monday Night football, and unrated Swedish films.
7. The Hoodlums May have a Point
They're still out there, and they've made it known, through the media and by word-of-mouth on the streets, they're "not scared of me or of any of my butthead conservative cronies". They're the ones who shot me full of bullets once already, and they're horny to do it again.
A phone call I just received warned me 'not to try anything stupid anytime soon'. "Fuck you", I screamed, as I slammed down the phone and poured myself a shot of scotch.
They said they're not interested in my dealings with the C.B.N.A., but specifically with my deliberate participation in extorting funds from various Central American countries, from companies with which I committed to exchange money for promises of technical assistance for restructuring.
Sounds feasible I guess, I think to myself, as I lapse momentarily into that lost part of my memory that can recall all the times I signed invoices and affidavits that I will hereafter deny ever having had knowledge of. I also vow to forget having had an associate of mine sent to Nicaragua to seek and destroy all legal documents that could have led the poor schmucks to believe that I'd fulfil a promise to help them.
I am connected enough, with my various associates from the C.B.N.A. and from Suburban Insurance Associates, to secure technical assistance for second-world countries. And I have the sufficient gumption to put such operations into effect.
What does all this mean? Means that I'm guilty of course. Guilty of extorting a shit-load of cash that should have been sent from the Central American countries from which it came to the North American companies that could provide technical assistance to them. Somehow the money got lost in the shuffle, its whereabouts hereafter unknown to me or to any of my associates.
However, somebody made a slip-up and opened their trap, and the wrong people got word of the misplaced funds. I guess my name came up, and that's how I got shot.
So the hoodlums had a case. Had they been more erudite in their actions, they might have caught me and my associates red-handed. But they shot me. Now they're screwed. They'll have a charge of attempted murder on their hands. That's how I may get out of this whole mess. There'll be so much attention put on my attempted murder and the litigation that will ensue that everyone will magically forget about my secret dealings.
8. My Paranoia
By public proclamation, my brothers at the C.B.N.A. have made it known that the violent acts against me, the Metro Toronto regional chapter president, shall not go unpunished. They went much further than Suburban Insurance Associates, who simply reprimanded the thugs verbally and wrote me a get well card. Seems that loyalty doesn't go as far as it used to.
As it was, Chester was by my side 24 hours a day, even to the point of busting through my bedroom door to see if I was alright when my wife screamed ravenously at the apex of our lovemaking. Jesus Q. Christ knows there's nothing more mortifying than being shot down at the completion of intercourse.
$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
It was my daughter Lesley, 16 years old and a cork firmly jammed up her young Conservative ass, who answered the door when the pizza delivery guy rang. I was sitting in the parlour, located beside the front hall, as I heard Lesley say, "But I don't think anybody here ordered pizza." Well, that was all my ears needed to hear. "Shut the damn door", I screamed at Lesley, "NOW". So she did. Right on the pizza guy's face. Chester heard me scream, and he ran from the toilet, to the door, with has pants half done up. He tore open the door and picked up a stunned-looking delivery boy over his head. He twirled the boy around a few times and dropped him on the grass, where the boy lay dazed and winded. Ten seconds later, a van tore around the corner and screeched to a halt right in front of our door. As we stood there stunned, presumably waiting for someone to shoot us, we heard uproarious laughter abounding from the van. I realized the pizza boy scheme was theirs, and that these hoodlums had us by the seat of our pants, paranoid beyond all reason.
The next day, word out on the street was that the hoodlums are massive in number. Should one or two of them be charged and put through a trial, there would be many more to take their place in a torrential effort to terrorize me and my associates.
The police, I knew, could stop some of the terror on me, but the assaults would continue, endlessly, I knew.
9. My Tirade and the Aftermath
My plan now was to appear on television and publicly denounce the International Freedom Fighters and their "very badly misdirected vendetta against me, an upstanding member of the Metro community..." I would proceed to run down a list of accomplishments of mine in the Toronto business community that are mostly white lies and half-baked truths. Maybe enough suckers would sympathize with me that my reputation could be elevated to a level where any more attacks on me would puncture the bleeding hearts of Toronto. As it is, people are more worried about their financial situations than about my impending death. I can understand that.
I have a date booked to go on television. It's October 18th, a good three weeks away. Bastards at CFTO don't know what good publicity they're missing by not putting me on today. But I have to wait, because none of the other stations even considered putting me on the air. They must be run by left-wing pinko martyrs.
Every morning I can count on that same van peeling around the corner onto my street, stopping just long enough to make sure someone has seen it. Sometimes there are police on guard outside my house, and the van makes a quick pass. The police have stopped the van on more than one occasion, but each time the story was the same: They aren't looking for trouble.
I even obtained a restraining order against the Freedom Fighters, but the response I got about a week later was that it would be most difficult to enforce, seeing as how the Freedom Fighters have been most cooperative in all procedures involving Metro Police.
I called an associate -from my 'secret dealings'- and had him put out the word to temporarily suspend all interactions with Central America. I didn't do this to appease the International Freedom Fighters. Merely to save my white ass.
Meanwhile, I know that money from previous deals is still rolling in. I thank the good lord for that.
$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
Chester and I have become famous patrons of the local pub, where we put away a good twenty brews between us every night, as we try to figure a way out of this damn mess. Chester seems more interested in setting personal records for chugging. He's more stupid than I thought.
"Hey Elmer", the barkeep calls out.
"Yeah Norm, what's up?"
"You really stealing money from the 'spics?"
"Yeah Normy, I am, and why don't you allow me to admit it to everybody in the room?"
"Word's out buddy. Probably doesn't matter if you're guilty or not any more."
"Yeah, well at least I know you're on my side."
"I'm on the side o' the livin'."
"Don't you worry about me. They'll get theirs, you'll see. I got pull."
I don't feel like I have anything. I've been drunk every night for the last two weeks. When I'm sober, I'm busy thinking about what to say on t.v., my appearance being only a week away. The only ideas that have been running through my head resemble jingles from beer advertisements. Beer seems to be the only thing I'm really interested in any more. Ahhhh, beer.
I can't even make love to my wife, and word has it that she's been screwing a few guys from the C.B.N.A. Bastards, whoever they are. It's like I said, loyalty doesn't go as far as it used to.
And my wife doesn't even seem to care that my life is a quarter way down the toilet. Why should she? I thought. She's getting laid by the heart and soul, the good boys of the C.B.N.A.
I try to remember how much she'll be getting from that trusty insurance policy I signed a couple years back. Maybe that's the reason she's so fucking happy. She figures I'm toast any day now, and she's on the receiving end of the big cash-in when it happens.
"Yvette, where the hell are you?"
"In the kitchen honey, baking cookies."
She hasn't baked any damn cookies since our first years together. Tramp!
$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
I've missed three consecutive C.B.N.A. meetings and they've appointed a deputy president in my absence. Old Ed Pinkney. Bastard's probably bucking my old lady.
I haven't been at work in a week. That should be the real tipper as to my going off the deep end, but I can't even see the deep end from the reflection in my bottle of beer.
Floyd tells me that I should be takin' better care of myself. Why? So he can take me to bed? I wish. I mean, NO, I hope not.
Arthur and Lesley seem worried about me, as far as I can tell. They always seem to be wanting my opinion about one major investment or another. "Daddy", they say, "can you advise us on a lucrative investment or two, one that one that projects well in the immediate future? You know, in case anything happens to the family?" Smart kids, investing at such a young age.
Charles has joined some hippy band that plays long-haired scrunchy music. Someday, Arthur and Lesley will bail him out.
I've discovered that I like to watch late night television, where deeply-disturbed people talk openly about their inner-most thoughts to an audience of sceptics who'll castigate their every word. Losers.
Here I am, reviewing everything that's important to me in my wanton life. I'm as corrupt as they come, and have been that way for as long as I can remember. But I used to be happy with it. Satisfied, with a stupid grin on my face. Now I'm questioning the degenerate laurels on which I've built my life. I haven't been so depressed since when I was eight and I found out that Santa Claus gives gifts to all kids, not just to little money-hungry behemoths like me.
Now I figure, what's there left to live for?
"Honey, bring me another beer. (Slut!)"
$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
They had me feeling pretty comfortable on the set of the local news before we went on air. The two on-air personalities with whom I spoke were congenial toward me, and introduced me as "a respected Toronto businessman who has recently experienced some very trying times". Provincials!
I started by talking about my position as vice-president of Suburban Insurance Associates and my affiliation with several relief agencies and volunteer associations in the Metro area. Truth is, they asked for my support, and I told them to 'stick it where the sun don't shine'.
I had five beers only an hour before, and they suddenly made me feel quite relaxed. The camera was mine.
"So my predicament is such that I've been shot at four times in the last two months by a gang calling themselves International Freedom Fighters, and I'm none too pleased about it. (Creative embellishment can't hurt.) “Truth is", (cough, cough), "I'm an honest business man who's trying to do well by his family... and I'm just trying to do my fair share to contribute to decency and democracy in the Toronto area. I don't wish to hurt (burp) anybody, or to have anybody hurt me, or my family. I just want to make it clear...to the Freedom Fighters, that they will be reprimanded for any further actions against me and my family..."
I was on the verge of major stuttering, and the beer was just beginning to fuel my conservative fire.
"...And If those bastards think they can get away with what they've done, they're out of their damn minds. And I don't wish to give them the wrong impression when I say they'll be put through the ringer and hung out to dry. I have connections that will make them wish they'd never heard of me. They'll pay dearly for messing with me. What's more, if they think..."
"Mr. Dodd...Mr. Dodd", someone was shouting my name, but I continued to run at the mouth. As drunk as I was, I didn't give a shit. Finally someone grabbed me and shook me, telling me that the camera was off, and I should go outside to let off some steam. I staggered outside, where I fell down and passed out.
About half an hour later, I felt water being splashed on me. I opened my eyes to see Floyd standing over me. I thought I was in heaven.
Floyd drove me home, explaining to me all the while that he figured I had said too much on t.v. He advised me to throw myself on the mercy of a court, to save my own neck.
I asked him if Yvette was screwing around on me, to which he only shut up. I started bawling, telling him about how my life was ruined, and about how I felt the liberal democrats had cooked up this terrific scheme against me that was going to culminate in my own self-destruction. He listened, and even began to cry for me. Wuss.
$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $
When I woke up the next morning, I realized how badly I had shot off my mouth, and that I'd played right into the hands the hoodlums. I felt so paranoid of them now that I'd lost all perspective. My job, that I used to cling to like a safety blanket, was no longer significant to me. Hiding behind the false sense of protection that the C.B.N.A. gave me wouldn't help me now. If the Freedom Fighters wanted me to self-destruct, they were doing an enviable job of helping me along.
There were five calls from work, each one from the president of the company. He was livid and then some. I was to be in his office immediately to discuss my future with the company. I jumped to my own conclusion.
The last message informed me that Ed Pinkney would remain president of the C.B.N.A., at least until I get back on my feet. Fuck them, I thought. I don't give a flying shit.
My wife gave me an obligatory kiss on my way out of the house. She seemed way too happy. I hadn't dressed properly, nor had I combed my hair or brushed my teeth. Under usual circumstances, that would have sent her into hysterics.
I didn't bother waking Chester. I didn't care if I was killed today. I'd be better off.
I was just about to get into my car when the van peeled around the corner onto my street. Without thinking, I ran straight toward it screaming, "Go ahead you bastards, shoot me, SHOOT ME!" The van had stopped and I ran out into the street trying to get to the driver's side.
An impatient stranger hit me, accelerating like he was late for a job interview. As I lost consciousness, I heard:
11. Two Guys In the Van
"Did you see that?"
"Yeah, man. He's squashed like a pancake."
"Is he dead?"
"I dunno."
"He looks dead. Think we should get out and console that guy who hit him?"
"Are you nuts? Let's get outta here."
The van roars off.
"He really was an asshole, taking all that money from our Central American friends."
"Yeah, no scruples."
"Guess he got his due."
"Guess so."
posted by Erich Schmidt | 3:45 PM
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