THE INFORMATION #808
OCTOBER 31, 2014
Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
https://dimenno.wordpress.comWHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART THIRTY-FOUR: THE MAYOR OF HELL
Just as soon as Black Ike was hauled away from the Black Maria, another speaker arouse to take his place. He called himself Red Mike, and was as fine a figure of an Irishman as you’d expect to see, even though he spoke a lingo that was somewhere between the King’s English and a college perfesser. You knew straight off he was slightly loony. You ought to have heerd this speaker as he really began to lay into the Captains of Industry. For all we knew, he was speaking in tongues because he used a lot of words which most of of couldn’t even understand but you can tell from the tone of his voice that he wasn’t pitching no valentines at the movers and shakers.He spoke in one continuous breath, or so it seemed; as though if he were to stop jawing his banty-legged ginger-haired body would suddenly deflate and pucker up like a leaky balloon.
“I call down my curse upon you, you jelly-bloated monoglots sitting in your wood-paneled offices; you bleeding swine, with your golf games and your knickers and your shoes with the tassels that are enough to make an honest working man say ‘Scrooch’; you sniggering swells with your bellies full of champagne and your heads just one big lump of completely unfrozen ice; you whickering savages who look upon the hungry with a full belly and dispense a copper penny with a contented chuckle, you dickering cheapskates, with your hamfisted way of making a dollar stretch a mile; you soul-murdered and soul-murdering top-hatted diplomats who are barely elevated above the level of the protozoons, in that you encompass and devour all that is within your slimy path.
“For what you have said to defame the innumerable innocents who have no megaphone in which to shout and jabber tinhorn filth into the ears of cretins, I call down my curse. You are truly a gang of looters, plunderers, loiterers, perjurers, and grasping degenerates with the sweated money of the poor befouling your sweaty fists.
“You are a low race of belly-crawling, palsied degenerates whose sole motivation seems to be to be to pour hot oil upon inoffensive passerby like some fiendish Satyr. Arrogant vultures; greedy grizzly-guts, devilish spite-filled carcasses of men; addicted to sinful pleasures; willful in what you believe to be your God-given right to bloviate upon every passing exigency; God made all things–but God made the Devil, and the devil made you. A pox upon you all!
“May your faces swell up like a monument to the plague; may a small monkey with a big bomb set all your fields on fire and blow you all to hell; you and your Scandinavian farm machinery companies and your filthy meat packing plants and your rancid tool and die companies and your pig farms and your paper mills and your cotton mills and your banks and brokerage offices.
“May the Good God Almighty rain down his terrible vengeance on those of you who hath done to the least of his children, for so you have done unto him. You cannot run, for your are too big; you cannot hide, because you are too fat.
“May you pay with the blood of your children and your children’s children and nigh unto the seventh generation for every servant you have whipped or seduced; for every patriot and veteran to whom you have paid lip-service to and concomitantly scorned; for every compatriot you have bled dry; for every one of your fellow men you have cheated and consigned to oblivion with the lash of the lawyer’s pen.
“May the devil himself gnaw at your rotten corrupt old bones like they were a dog’s dinner, and for all eternity. May you all go to hell and not have so much as a drop of fizzy water to wet your tongue. May you be tied to the mast and lashed by the chief of demons until you roar for mercy.
“Shadow man, where are your sneers and snorts now–now that you are condemned to do the same thing over and over like the hapless wretches you once employed for starvation wages in your satanic mills? You will surely scratch a workingman’s back one day. May you live. in your miserable dotage, in a flea-infested tenement . May you find yourself alone and forgotten like so many of those you consigned to the dungheap!
“Just as you have used the staves and swords of sworn authority, so may they be used against you when you try to yelp for surcease! Contented meaty beefy butcher-men; may you drown in the forsworn blood of innocents! May your first born be numbered among the dead! May all the crows peck, the bats bite, the owls scratch and the bumblebees sting you, for you are an abomination upon the face of the earth and every low and loathsome creature that crawls upon it is superior by far, as an angel is to an ape, to you!
“May all your gardens turn into valleys of despair; may your home become a hovel; may your fine rainment crumble into dust! I curse you, fuckers. God damn you, swine. Blast you all to hell. Curse of God on you. Earth upend you; devil mend you. May you be unmanned before the eyes of the world; may your wives and other chattels be driven from you; may that very Moloch to whom you have so assiduously sacrificed pay you generously in kind. May your name melt away from the earth like piss in a snow ditch. May ants and spiders infest your uneasy grave.
“I have said all that I have meant to say and will say no more!”
We later agreed that it was the most impressively delivered speech we had ever heard, even if we couldn’t understand more than a stray word or two. Even the policeman on the beat who was posted there to see that things didn’t get out of hand didn’t budge an inch from his post near the park gate–though he stirred a bit uneasily toward the end of the peroration.
WHY BATMAN IS STUPID
GOP’S TEN MOST CLOWNISH CANDIDATES FOR 2016
19 UNSOLD TV PILOTS OF THE 1960S
IDENTIFYING THE WORST COLLEGES IN AMERICA
HOW WE PUNISH PEOPLE FOR BEING POOR
20TH CENTURY SPANISH PULP COVERS
A PITIFUL CLOWN SINGING “HALLELUJAH”
WHY THESE FIVE BOOKS ARE CENSORED FROM YOUR HISTORY CLASS
CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.
766. MODERN HAIR STYLING IS A PROFESSIONAL ART
The guy with the Butch cut looks like a slack-jawed imbecile. Just sayin’. Like Forrest Gump on an ether binge.
The guy with The Crew is a mindless zombie who probably cooks and eats roadkill. From compulsion–not from necessity.
Flattop Boogie has tiny facial features and a suspiciously non-prognathous jaw. He is destined to be a pump-jockey in an Arizona ghost town.
Forward-Combed Boogie is an introspective sort who likes nothing better than reciting Spinoza aphorisms to his bored dates in a dreary monotone.
Don’t try to hide your face, Executive Contour! We all know it was you who palmed off the wood alcohol as the genuine stuff, and blinded all those Shriners!
Flattop is a healthy animal. I despise these hearty types. With their pointy ears and their pathetic attempts to look distinguished, they are little more than monkeys at the watering hole pounding their barrel-chests in simian fury.
Professional Contour rents jukeboxes for a living, and there’s scarcely a barkeep between here and Teaneck New Jersey who hasn’t been pistol-whipped into submission by this notorious police character. The best you can say for Prof Cont is that he’s a haberdasher who likes to prance around his hotel room in mascara and panties. The telltale lipstick residue around his fixed smile is a dead giveaway.
Just a minute, “Hollywood”. Don’t think you’re pulling a fast one! We’ve seen your type before, on blind dates, at Dizzy’s Lounge, with someone’s unattractive spinster cousin, making your well-timed departure from the smoky groggery seconds before she spots you and loudly hails you to come over to her table.
The bare spot on College Contour’s scalp bothers me immeasurably–as though he’s already been measured as cannon fodder worthy of a metal plate which he will sport for the next 48 years. Otherwise, he looks as if there is no dire crime the committing of which he is incapable.