So, this has all been a hysterical week. There is so much going on in the circus that passes for our public life that it is quite enough to give one the vapors. Major topics among my little circle of associates included matters foreign and domestic. For record, I feel bad about the lion, but I am curious at the amount of ink on that, compared with the other huge issue no one wants to talk about.
One was local: what is going to happen in the Charm City when the charges against the six cops indicted in the Freddie Gray matter fall apart. The general consensus was “stay out of Baltimore.”
Then there is the hundreds- if not thousands- of classified emails that a prominent politician had on her private server. Dave Petreaus got his wrist slapped pretty hard for something much smaller in scale- no jail time, but two years probation and a hundred grand fine- but that was still censure for such a lofty public figure. I only know if I had pulled a stunt like that on active duty, I would be asking for the guard to light my Luckies at Leavenworth Barracks.
Seems like the higher you go the less the rules apply to you. It will be interesting to see how it plays out, won’t it?
Then there is the usual noise about the economy and the climate, and something that really concerned all of us. That is the question of what Israel is going to do about the Iranians. The “how” and the “when” were the issues, since the consensus was that something would happen sooner, rather than later, and likely before all those billions land in Tehran’s coffers now that the UN has lifted the sanctions.
Which of course brings me right back around to those Iranians. They have been screwing with us for a long time- and before you go on about the Shah and the coup we engineered, I will be the last person to claim that this story only has one side. But the rise of militant Shia Islam is something I am opposed to, and they would cheerfully kill me and everyone I know. I like the Persian people, their culture, art and cuisine. The Islam part not so much, amd I won’t pussyfoot around on that.
I think we are a long way past where we should have thought about our immigration policies. I don’t think much of The Donald, but it shows you he has put a sausage-like thumb on an issue that bugs a lot of people.
Anyway, thirty-six years ago I was worried about the rise of a virulent theocracy and here this morning I am concerned about exactly the same thing. The lines haven’t even changed. “Death to America!”
What goes around and all that. Along time ago, I tried to keep everyone’s mind off of that on Ma Midway, and this is what happened in episode 8 of the stupid detective story that changed my life:
“THE ADVENTURES OF NICK DANGER, PRIVATE DICK”
TODAY: “OUT TO LAUNCH”
I HAD BEEN KNOCKED OUT MORE TIMES THAN A FAT PITCH TO THE BAMBINO, It was getting old in a hurry. This time I came around and discovered I could not move. I raised my arms and found they were shackled behind me with chains. I was gagged with some kind of cotton wadding. My feet were tied together with thick manila cordage. A heavy link collar ran from my neck over to the wall.
I had a feeling the situation was starting to get serious.
I was in another one of a series of small grey rooms. I never did like gray. I liked it even less now. I desperately wanted a smoke, but the chains kept me from getting to my lighter. I would have had to smoke it through my nose, anyway. I was pondering the ramifications of that when the door began to swing open.
I was out to lunch and I hadn’t even had breakfast.
The Quack came in first. He was still wearing that crazy white robe with the hood. His dark eyes seemed to twinkle behind his spectacles. “I hope the accommodations have not been too discomforting, Socotra,” he wheezed. “I assure you any inconvenience will be fleeting.” He giggled after the last part, as though he had said something exceedingly witty.
“Mmmmnghgh,” I replied cleverly.
“Ah, I’m so glad you still have that famous indomitable spirit. The Fat Man will be most pleased. In fact, he told me he might be stopping by to see you personally.”
I struggled at my bonds. If I could only free my hands from the shackles, I could tear the gag out of my mouth, untie my feet, and rip the chain out of the wall and rearrange the little doctor’s grillwork.
I was still working on the first part when the door opened and a huge hand reached in and turned off the light. I had only a fleeting impression of a paw as big as a grizzly bear and an arm that resembled an obscene kielbasa. The fingers were like little knockwursts. God, I was hungry!
I had a sinking feeling in my gut, and it wasn’t all because I could have used a rasher of bacon, a five-egg combination omelet, some hashed browns, a side of sautéed mushrooms, a steaming pot of coffee, and a stiff bloody Mary. Not all of it.
In the light from the passageway, I just got a glimpse of a huge form. The door swung shut, and I was covered by complete darkness, black as ink and impenetrable as anthracite coal. But I could feel the presence. And a soft muffled breathing like a steam leak.
The giant loudspeaker I had been hearing for days sputtered to life: “The starboard sponson aft is now open for the dumping of ‘trash and garbage,” said the booming metallic voice.
An oddly-pitched squeaky voice spoke from the blackest part of the room. “That sounds like an exit line, Danger.”
TOMORROW: “THE FAT MAN SPEAKS
Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303