THE INFORMATION #997
JUNE 15, 2018
Copyright 2018 FRANCIS DIMENNO
I was moved above all not by the thought that my death would ‘count,’ but that it would not count in the least.” –Christopher Hitchens
WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER TWELVE: PART FOURTEEN: THE EASTERN GATE OF PARADISE
I had a gun on me. And so my situation was desperate. All the more so because I knew I couldn’t call out for help. There was no man in that small town who could help me. I couldn’t call for the police. The sheriff’s deputy WAS the law, south of Mason and Dixon.
Now, if I had been a full-blooded Senegambian or even an Octoroon or an Italian or if I even had so much as a lick of the ol’ Tar Brush, I’d of been a dead man right then and there, and I wouldn’t be here talking to you about it today.
Who knows? Maybe I’m not talking to you. Maybe it’s all just one great big crazy dream.
But for sure, if I had looked like a Nigra, that would of been the end of me–of that I had no doubt. But I had one unexpected advantage–I was a Floyd, and my being a Floyd must of counted for something in them parts–plus me being unmistakably a white man. Though at the time I thought that I had enjoyed my last drink, my last twitchet, and had laid down my final bet on the turn of a card and the whims of a bob-tailed nag.
The Sheriff’s Deputy kept me covered. His horse pistol was pointed straight at my heart, and his hand was steady and didn’t tremble at all, even though it must of been ninety degrees in the shade, and there warn’t no shade. I knew–don’t ask me how–but I just knew that he probably couldn’t even read or write–but I also just knew that he was a dead shot.
“Holt out your hands,” he said, and I hesitated, thinking that maybe he was fixing to break my thumbs. It’s funny, the thoughts that go swimming through your head during your last extremity–when you know for sure you’re going to be shot down like an ornery government mule. And then, for some damn reason, the Sheriff’s Deputy smiled. The goddamned bastard smiled! I didn’t know what was so funny. To this day I still don’t know!
His teeth were brown and stained with tobacco juice, and the two top teeth in the middle were missing. Likely, he had gotten them knocked out in a bar fight. But that wasn’t my concern.
“I said to be holtin’ out your hands, Mister. And be Goddamn quick about it.”
So I slowly lowered my hands; my arms were aching from keeping them over my head for so long. Try it sometime, and you’ll see. Not even a Yogi or an Indian Rubber Man can keep them clutching the sky for much more than a minute or two.
So I held my hands out to him, palms up. The palms were calloused from me having to pound in tent stakes and dig trenches. “I see you are a working man,” said the Sheriff’s Deputy, whose name, incidentally, was Hoxie. Jackson Hoxie. He handed me his hat. “Blow into the hat,” he said. I had no idea what he was about, but I did as I was told. He then took the hat back and gave it a little sniff, and it was then I realized that he was trying to determine if I was drunk. It was a dry county, and a charge of drunk would of landed me in the hoosegow for thirty days, unless I wanted to fork over two hundred frog skins, which I most assuredly did not.
When the Deputy Sheriff told me that his name was Jackson Hoxie and asked me what my name was, I told him that it was Sam Floyd. And, as I said it, from the look on his face, I knew that in them parts, a Floyd was better than a Hoxie any day of the week. Though I didn’t venture to express that particular opinion.
Hoxie then grew very serious. I could tell, because he inserted a slow pause between his every word, like stupid people, or very smart people do when they’re trying to get a point across. Hoxie was stupid, I was sure. Bone stupid. And that made him all the more dangerous. If I riled him up in any way, shape, or form, he could squeeze that trigger in a half second and blow my brains out, without even pausing to consider the consequences. I decided that if I was going to somehow escape this deadly situation, I would have to use all my circumspection, and then some.
“Floyd,” Hoxie said, “Whut. The Hail. Was you doin’ thar. At thet thar Water Tarr?”
I started to speak and he held the gun a little closer to me and he said, “Shut. Yer. face. Yew. Ain’t. Got. No. BIDness. Thar. Now. Do yuh?” I wanted to laugh. The way he squeezed out every word, it almost sounded like he was straining on the toilet.
But I dasn’t. I said, “Nosir.”
Hoxie said, “Shut yer stinkin’ pie hole.”
I stood utterly silent. The wind came up just then and it blew through the leaves in an overhead canopy of trees and made a sound like WSSSSH. At that moment, I would have given most anything I had to be back in my warm bed.
“Now,” said Hoxie, though he pronounced it more like “Naow.” “Now. Tell me…whut were yew…doin thar?”
I knew that any answer that I gave him would be the wrong one.
I said to him, “Sir–I don’t know.”
Hoxie looked at me in mock wonderment. “Yew…don’t know. Yuh…don’t know. Yuh don’t know a whole lot, now, do yuh?”
I said, “No, Sir.”
Remember–he still had the gun pointed straight at my heart.
Then Hoxie said, “Take off your clo’s.”
I said, “What?”
Hoxie said “I won’t tell yuh again. Take off your clo’s. I’m fixin’ to have some fun with yew.”
So I peeled my clothing off. I had two hundred dollars sewn into the lining of my jacket, and I had hidden my buck knife deep down in my boot, so I kept both my boots on. Hoxie gave me a withering look. “Did I say yew could keep your boots on? What yew got hid in there? Some whiskey? A Yankee dollar?
I said, slowly and meticulously so there could be no mistaking my meaning, “No Sir. Can I tell you, Sir?”
He nodded. “G’wan.”
I said, “I got me a knife in there, Sir. A little knife.”
He gazed at me with vast contempt. So vast that a man who didn’t know what he was about could have gotten swallowed up in it.
“Did I hear you right, Boy? You say you have a ‘little’ knife? Well, you just take that ‘little’ knife of your’n out of that ‘ar boot and lemme have a look. No tricks now, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off. Humm. Hold ‘er up to the light. A ‘little’ knife, huh? Well, now, you just take that ‘little’ knife of yourn and yew turn around and yew throw it into them there woods thar just as far as you can.”
I did as he said.
“Now–turn to face me. Whut did you say your name was?”
“‘Zat your real name?”
“What church do you go to?”
“Sir,” I babbled, “I am a hard-shell Baptist through and through born and raised–and…and…I know my redeemer liveth.”
“Are yew a prayin’ man?” said Hoxie.
I said, “Yes, Sir.”
And he said, “Well…then…Floyd…yew had better get down on your prayer dukes riot naow.” He meant “right now,” but he pronounced it “riot naow.”
I looked at him and said, “Sir?”
And Hoxie replied, in a slow voice, “Ah SAID…tuh get down…on your knees…RIOT NAOW. En start prayin’.”
I thought this request was odd, and I almost laughed, in spite of the deadly danger I was in. Who would have thought that a Deputy Sheriff in a one-horse tank town would be so keen on the power of prayer. But then it occurred to me that he was giving me a chance to make my peace with my God just before he blew my head off, and at that moment I started farting in fear like a new-born calf, and it was only through a supreme effort of will that I managed not to soil myself.
I knelt, and then I closed my eyes, and when I did…and when I did, I could swear that what I was looking at–was at the flames…the flames of hell.
SAIL AWAY LADY
VAN DYKE PARKS AND THE MONDRIAN STRING ORCHESTRA
OLD DOG BLUE
DAVID THOMAS [PERE UBU]
WAY DOWN THE OLD PLANK ROAD
THE GREAT AMERICAN READ
Incidentally, at least half of those selections are junk.
Wait–did I say junk? I meant “abysmal junk”.
For every 100 people who claim they read Moby Dick, only about 3 actually did.
Hence, the worthlessness of such polls.
They are fine for gauging audience preferences, I suppose.
Who was it–Saul Bellow? who spoke of s destructive game played in a certain Department of English at a certain University? Where young professors tried to impress each other by naming books they’ve never actually read and admitting that they never read them?
Hurston is underrated. Angelou is way overrated. And so is Morrison, though her third book was pretty good. I’m talking about Song of Solomon.
HOW MEL BROOKS GOT HIS BIG BREAK IN SHOWBIZ
Hello hello hello
I’ve come to start the show
I’ll sing a little dance a little
I’ll do this and that
And though I’m not much on looks
Please love Mel Brooks
The latest singing sensation. You heard it here first.
One source states that “the illuminati” has already got to him.
5*AVATAR OF THE ZEITGEIST
BELOVED CHILDREN’S CLASSIC WRITTEN BY PROFESSED RACIST
The Education of Little Tree.
6* DAILY UTILITY
ROSEANNE’S HITLER PHOTO SHOOT
Roseanne’s courageous attempt to publicize both the Muslim Brotherhood and the underrated Planet of the Apes franchise has been completely misunderstood by the humorless puritans who drive the outrage factory of the east coast snowflake elites, and, furthermore, if only I had my gun.
By the way, did you know: Roseanne was the child of Holocaust survivors who told her she had to have five children, to make up for the 3/5ths of Jews who were killed by Hitler.
CARTOONIST VS. MEME
Sentimental slop gets remixed. That’s news?
Ricotta Pudding (Budino di Ricotta)
I added chocolate, pistachios, and dried berries to the mix. Worth the effort to make.
9* RUMOR PATROL
SULLIVAN VS. SINATRA
This version of the wonderful Sinatra-Sullivan imbroglio is from Nachman’s book:
Here we come, we’re coming fast
All the others are in the past
Jump to your feet, let us get you high
We’re the green fuz
We’re not too fast, we’re not too slow
Come along baby to see where we go
Jump to your feet, let us catch your eye
We’re the green fuz
We’re coming fast and I’ll tell you why
Jump to your feet, let us catch your eye
Here we come baby and you’d better run
We’re the green fuz
11*DEVIATIONS FROM THE PREPARED TEXT: A REVIEW OF OTHER MEDIA
INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF PANCAKES TO BECOME INTERNATIONAL HOUSE OF BREAKFAST
The biggest news in IHOP history since Pat Buchanan said, in 1992, that the only foreign policy experience that Bill Clinton had was eating at IHOP. As he put it:
Bill Clinton’s foreign policy experience is pretty much confined to having had breakfast once at the Intl. House of Pancakes.
Actually, they should call it IHOD.
International House of Drunks.
12* CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE
Q: What criteria do bouncers use to select people at the front door?
A: Christopher Aeneadas, Veteran at I Observe My Environment. (2003-present)
At a packed club with a long line? When we literally can’t get all the people’s cover charge for fear of the fire marshal?
(This is bad to say, but true…)
Club owners like money
Old *men have money.
Attractive women dancing causes old men to spend money.
Attractive young men cause attractive women to dance.
Did I mention that club owners really like money?
First we screen for **whales. The (generally but not exclusively) older guys dressed well, but not trendy. They get in first. Many will self identify by offering a $100 handshake. A $50 handshake will often suffice. A bouncer who discovers he was subtly slipped a $5 bill to cut the line is going to find a reason to eject you.
Improper technique. The bill should be hidden from view. Particularly if you are using Mr. Washington as your co-negotiator.
Next we ensure about 55–60% of the club is females, dressed appropriately for the venue. Mix your races, body types, and ages… but admittedly not fairly. We are effectively swiping left or right on Tinder on behalf of men in general.
Why more women than men? Men aged 20–30 have a superpower. They can detect a gender imbalance that is not in their favor. If you have exactly 10,000 men and exactly 10,000 women at a massive rave there is no problem. The moment one woman leaves the premises? 2000 of those guys have a SAUSAGE FEST ALERT go off in their heads. Instantly. Then they get grumpy, start fighting, and stop spending money.
Now we fill the rest of the club with guys we think the women would swipe right on, and don’t look like they will make problems.
Single guys are disfavored. They will stay alone all night and bring down the energy. No one likes a mope. Brooding adds ambiance only to goth clubs.
Single women are favored. They will quickly be absorbed into another group. This makes everyone happy.
Groups larger than 5 are disfavored. Y’all came in multiple vehicles. That means you feel “Strength In Numbers.” The group is too big to be easily ejected as a unit.
If Insane Clown Posse is not on your DJ playlist these folks will need to be ejected sooner or later.
Groups larger than 8 are strongly disfavored. There is always a story. Bachelorette party? Gang initiation? IPO celebration when everyone’s stock now has real value? We don’t have time to sort it out. It’s suspicious. You’re not getting in.
Bouncers do not like to be outnumbered. Thanks.
Sports apparel and anything gang-ish (colors and flags) are strongly disfavored.
Anyone who is already drunk or obviously drugged is not getting in.
…and again, a cash-filled handshake will usually make a bouncer let you in first.
Just do it quietly. Approach a side-door guard or roaming guard rather than doing it in front of everyone waiting in line.
*While I used “men” here, there are very occasionally female whales. They get treated even better than their male counterparts. On one occasion in Los Angeles one of my guys got $100 from a mid-40’s lady who bluntly told him “I have 2 hours and I like both men and women.”
In that 2 hours she was all but mobbed by young gentlemen looking for a “Sugar Momma”. We didn’t even need to send guys her way. We deliberately pushed more guys into the club since she was buying lots of top shelf drinks for lots of people. I even sent a couple of D-list male celebrities I knew to visit her.
Once we sent a couple of “plant” girls over to be seen flirting with her, she had no shortage of young ladies attention either.
She dropped about $2500 on the bar tab. I’m not sure how much she spread around in tips. That single night surely netted her a year’s worth of kids to play with.
**”Whale” is a term for a big spender. At any given time one may or may not be present, but when they appear their whims come third after public safety/code compliance and maintaining ambiance. While I have never seen a nightclub’s accounting ledger, I would guess that they account for 20–30% of revenue.