THE INFORMATION #780 APRIL 18, 2014

THE INFORMATION
#780 APRIL 18, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL

It was early spring and a man and a boy were seated in a basement dive. “Note the customer over in the corner,” said Doc Ketman to Cadger Tandy, as the two of them sat in the Seven Stars saloon. Ketman crossed himself three times and muttered: “Matrix, patrix, lay thyself right and safe. Seven arts. Jesu bless us. Savers sent. O! Savers nest. Plus! Naves tress. Perge! Naves rest. Aio! Raven Set. Hui! Snare vest. Hem! Save rent. Jesu bless edgy Narc Tad. Jesus bless Cadet Monk. Or thou or I shall on the third day fill the grave.”

“Note that fat yellof well. It’s Ninny Mick. Or Mick Ninny. Or Nick Minny. Maybe even Minny Nick. Who can be troubled–to figure out his real name? Maybe he wants no man to know it. Everyone hereabouts calls him Musky Dan. He’s also a Dusky Man. He’s got that dusky old man smell about him. And his ear is full of potatoes. Joy of watchfulness. “
 
“He’s never done a day’s work in his life, I’d wager. They say as a youngster he met The Evil One at the crossroads and cut him a deal. He never had to move a muscle and The Black Man could use him as a cat’s paw. I done already told you about the monkey and the chestnuts. If this be true, we need a powerful charm to protect US from Musky Dan. Snaky Mud am dun sky. Without going out my door.” 
 
At this point, Doc Ketman let loose with an incantation which went approximately as follows:
 
“Satan resolve son. Satan sever loom. Satan verses nolo. Satan noel verso. Satan slovens sore. Satan’s novel rose. Satan’s lesson over.”

“Ye cannae be too careful, using that name. It can come back to bite ye. The Lord of the Flies does not like to be called forth from His domain. It is a place of celestial froth and fallen tomfoolery. Why do I dare call upon Him today? Every April first His portal opens to the earth. So he’s less inclined to snap back at ye. Still–powerful stuff, Yob. Don’t you be fooling with that name. By the power of Malkin Tower, by the power of Manlike wort, by the power of terminal worm, by the power of mark towline. I call forth Kilter Woman, I call forth Wrinkle Tom, I call forth Tinkle worm. O Rim Town Lake! This mantle I work. Ink worm tale. Wake Milton! Wreck Milton! Water on Milk. We trail monk. Air knew molt. Air melt know. Walk rime not. Walk no miter. Mark night owl. Nark low time. Maker wilt on. Maker win lot. Maker nil wot!”

“The trouble with April first,” said Ketman, “Is that it’s a day of havoc. Trickster time. And that’s when Musky Dan is at his strongest. The Lord of Misrule makes powerful his thralls.’For God is not the author of confusion, but of peace, as in all churches of the saints.’ Look at him, just setting there. laziest man in the world. Note how now he gets up from the table and walks over with a low rumble. He senses we be talking about him, but will he dare to say me nay? I’d like to hear what he has to tell. In the name of the father. Make me an island for my soul which many waters cannot overflow!
Musky Dan indeed came stumbling and shuffling and skulking over to the table–or call it the tabernacle–where Doc Ketman held court. Tipsy Smith was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he sensed a storm brewing and he sensibly decided to go and see what the boys in the back room would have.  

Musky Dan plumped down hard on a sturdy oaken chair, which strained beneath his weight as though it were about to break, but, through some internal strength managed to stay whole.

“Think you’ve got to gen on old Musky Dan,” says he. “Think you’re right smart. A big shot. Me, I’m just an absent-minded beggar…crazy as a bedbug to the likes of you. A dyed in the wool luna-kick. But don’t be so fast to judge, me fine broth of a boy. You can go over my entire life with a fine-toothed comb and you will find that I never did a single thing to harm no one.”
“The Devil you say,” muttered Ketman. 
Musky Dan pretended not to hear. “Long time no see, Doc. How’s tricks? Listen: Ketman: There’s far more to me than meets the eye. You might say that I was like Topsy–I just growed. And I didn’t grow up; I grew out. The way I was raised, it was a dastardly crime, I tells yuh. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. I notice, young man, that you’re squirming in your seat. Keep your shirt on! Little pitchers have big ears, and chillun should be seen and not heard. Let me tell you about my own childhood. We fought Injuns on the savage plains. I was kidnapped by ’em and spent eighteen months among them, learning their lore. Pagan savages as never knew a God, but who had plenty of dark rituals to amuse themselves on cold nights. The women was farmers but the braves would spend all their spare time either hunting of play-actin’ at the hunt. I’ll tell yuh what else we did. We killed many Mexicans. Who knows how many? Who cares? Many of the braves couldn’t count past twenty; I’m sure we killed more than that. I escaped the Indians–don’t ask me how, and when I got home I discovered that everyone shunned me as being a savage, wild. It did take me some time to get accustomed to civilized ways. The local dogs weren’t safe when I was around, at least until I got my bearings back. My folks was fit to be tied. I decided to join the Army. What we did to the Injuns there I wouldn’t care to tell ye, but it turned even my stomach, and I bore them savages no great love. Me, I never was no pie-in-the-sky kind of fellow, but I got religion after I left the army. Settled down with a nice woman and we was all set to raise a family only she died of the scarlet fever, and the baby too. I was all tore up. What’s more, I didn’t have a pot to piss in. So you see me now. A broke-down old man, dependent on the charity of louts and layabouts. Don’t think it can’t happen to you, little laddie. It can happen to anyone. I was a dead shot with a rifle. I still ain’t too shabby with a sidearm. I guess I still could, if I would. But life just lost all meaning once I lost my angel and the bairn. Sure, I turned my back on religion. Who wouldn’t. But don’t you be repeatin’ no rot about me and the Devil. I got shut of Him a long time ago. Maybe there was a time where I might have fallen for his wiles, but no more. If I did sell him my soul, what of it? I got nothing in fact. I’m just a wore-out old man. Ain’t got a leg to stand on. Just as you’d espect. The whole world is spect to me. I don’t care nought for your new inventies. I seen the savage country; this ain’t nothin’ very much new, only it’s the bad country. In Noxtown there’s a gin mill on every corner, seems like; I’d almost rather take my place with the savages on the plains. I can see you looking suspectable. I’ll say it again. I mean no man harm. Is everybody happy? But still you sneer, Ketman. Let me lay it on the line. Get off my back! That’s all there is, there ain’t no more. Sure, I’m bitter. I blame the bloody British. Sure and I would have been a happy bairn back in my ane home country if the changerously threated meddlars hadn’t pushed my kin away afar across the seas. There’s nothing about me that means harm to any man; only I got caught in the middle. Do you think I would sell my immortal soul to anyone, for any reason save one? To bring back my angel and my angel pup. So you can call me anything you want. A lazy bummer. A ninny. A mooch. A common cheat. But I never rolled no man for his coin and I never stole so much as a fish head from an alley cat since I was old enough to wear long-johns. Ye say I have the gift of Blarney–but look at me, Yellof, and say you begrudge me that one talent. For me, the old days was the best days. these days is hardly like I’m living in them at all. All I’m good for is to listen to the people talk. And oh, they WILL talk. Things was FAR better in the olden days. Slaves, they didn’t have it so bad. Try bein’ a captive of the Redskins, then get back to me. All the furriners here-abouts, with their gibble-gabble–they ought to be grateful that we suffer them to live.”
Just then Tipsy Smith came out and told Ketman and “his brat” to “clear out o’ here and stop disturbin’ the payin’ customers.” For his part, as he hustled Cadger Tandy out the door, Ketman turned on Tipsy Smith and spake the following invocation:
“My spit hits Pity Smith. Misty Pith. Shitty Imp. Hide-bound, be off my back and ribs, since Christ, our Lord, spoke truth with his lips!”
And he bustled sidewise through the swinging door of the saloon just a second ahead of an angry spittoon which Smith had hurled at his departing form.
Ketman told Cadger Tandy that what he saw and heard at the Seven Stars that day was a deep dark secret which he was to tell no man, on a promise. A promise which he kept –until nearly his dying day.

1*SALUTATION

THE GRAINS OF SAND
THAT’S WHEN HAPPINESS BEGAN
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79kvml6M6Is
ALSO SEE:
2*REFERENCE
3*HUMOR

DRINK SCHLITZ OR I’LL KILL YOU
Burnett Agency’s ill-considered ad campaign enabled, perhaps ensured, Schlitz’s slide to oblivion.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_baloTGt5M&feature=share

4*NOVELTY
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
Whole Foods: America’s Temple of Pseudoscience
http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/02/23/whole-foods-america-s-temple-of-pseudoscience.html
6* DAILY UTILITY
CAN A COMEDIAN SUE IF SOMEONE STEALS HIS MATERIAL?
http://slate.me/1iacY5x
ALSO SEE:
HENNY YOUNGMAN ROASTS DON RICKLES
http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=mTk1yAg-Jus
7*CARTOON
ALSO SEE:
8*PRESCRIPTION
9*RUMOR PATROL
10* LAGNIAPPE

MILTON BROWN & HIS BROWNIES

11* DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA

LOST CLASSICS NOW AVAILABLE ON YOUTUBE

LUXURY CONDOS COMING TO YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD SOON
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JH8yo4M2zx0

BACH’S BOTTOM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpBJNGzeYTk

CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

738. VINYL???!
Vinyl? Pooh! I still miss Shellac. Christ, that Bojangles could tap-dance! Did you take my drink? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! TWENTY DOLLARS for a HAIRCUT! That used to be half a week’s wages! The old days was the best days. Lemme tell you something–kids today–they don’t know how good they have it. What with their floppy discs and their newfangled cordless phones–they don’t know what it’s like to suffer, and I hope they never will.

The Beatles were Communists, you know. All the hippies were. Hippies, Yippies, Zippies, Bippies, Mippies–who needs em? Give me the good old days when gum-snapping cuties with husky whiskey voices pitched woo at fresh-faced soldier boys who gave you a smart salute and barked “Rajah!”

Me, crazy? I guess I am. It’s a crazy world. Nobody understands me anymore. Listen: Talk about Crazy! Back in the olden days there was Crazy Mitch. Back in Kindergarten he used to do an award winning impression of Frank Fontaine. I later hear that Johnny Carson had some problems with his marriage. Who in the devil is this whippersnapper, this Don Rickles character? Somebody ought to poke that bullet-headed rascal right in the old snoot.

Gol dang it, I remember when Eisenhower was president AND THERE WARN’T NO PUSSYFOOTING IN THE WHITE HOUSE AND THE MARGINAL RATE WAS 90%–me fine bucko! WHAT, AM I SPEAKING CHINESE? You may think I’m a senile codger, but don’t sell me short–I’m human too! Just because my shoes are floppy and I walk with a hitch and a shuffle, don’t mean I’m ready for the boneyard yet!

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