After the Twin Towers fell, the media flagged the attack, 9/11, a forever label that is historically significant for yet another attack, an inside job premeditated by Dr Kissangel and his oxymorons to depose Senor Yen Day, a dreamer, who wished for his people, at the very least, a ruka to sleep in, a lunch of cazuela and pan amasado, a good education, plus vision hearing and dental.
“I’m a socialist, not a utopian,” Senor Yen Day said in his homeland shaped like an extra-long red chili hugging the Pacific. He sincerely believed his dream had a hot chance.
Dr Kissangel didn’t want the wasps buzzing in their manicured lawns from sea to sullied sea to learn that the dream dreamed by Senor Yen Day would work much better in the long run than the grind the wasps had been told was the most productive of all grinds in the world’s most powerful demoncrazy.
Dr. Kissangel gathered his most trusted oxzines, nine men and two women, in a dimly lit war room at a building shaped like a pentagon near the Potomac River. He stood on a pulpit in front of a backlit bright map of the world. Many oxzines lit their cigars, swiveling behind a serpentine-shaped veneered countertop that snaked from one end of the room to the other.
“Ve are gathered here in this building vhich had its groundbreaking ceremony many decades ago on 9/11. It’s a significant date,” Dr Kissangel said in his high Prussian-accented English. “How dare Yen Day disrupt the blessed manifest destiny of vasps. Let’s schtick it to him on 9/11, nixon him in the outgrovth. Ve vant to tell our people the truth as ve see the truth,” he said, adding, “Don’t vorry about the news media’s reaction vhich is as predictable as a sunny day in Hollyvood. They vant viewers to perceive the media as telling truth to power, but power already knows the truth.”
Dr. Kissangel paused for any reaction whatsoever from his oxzines but heard only coughing, a harrumph. He saw only cigar smoke twirling and he couldn’t read the smoke signals.
“Anyvay,” he said, “at prime news hour at 7 post meridians, many vasps have rouge on their cheeks induced by drink, vhich, as ve all know seeds a united state of amnesia.”
Cough Cough Cough . . . Harrump Harrump Harrump . . . Thump Thump Thump . . .
So, on 9/11 the oxzines and their goons deposed Senor Yen Day and installed Caesar Augusto who hurriedly ordered his junta to shove as many dreamers as possible into a soccer stadium like lambs to the abattoir. With rows of bright ribbons pinned to his starched khaki jacket, his chest puffed-up, a red sash across his shoulders, with one click of his bejeweled stubby fingers, Caesar Augusto made 8,000 dreamers disappear. ¡El soplo!
The oxzines had run guns to Caesar Augusto’s junta; the oxzines and their ancestors and theirs had a notorious history of running guns going all the way back when wild buffalo roamed a pristine prairie. Fortuitously, the oxzines soon realized that Caesar Augusto’s fore brain was full of junta jargon, his mid brain was populated with pride, envy, greed and all the other vices that flesh is heir to, but his hind brain was empty. ¡Vacio!
Dr Kissangel seized the opportunity to lay a foundation in Caesar Augusto’s hind brain upon which to build a heritage. His oxzines at Military Intelligence (an oxymoron!), tasked a seemingly mad professor who taught in a windy city to find the most reliable synapses to wire Caesar Augusto’s hind brain. Soon enough, the mad professor gathered the best minds of Senor Yen Day’s generation, and he taught them how to install preprogrammed synapses in Caesar Augusto’s hind brain. The mad professor nicknamed those best minds, the Windy City Snaps.
And those Wind City Snaps pre-programmed the synapses in the hind brain of Caesar Augusto to implement policies deliberately intended to serve the interests of military oil agro pharma insurance security banking industrial complexes of the world’s most powerful demoncrazy at the expense of the native populations of Senor Yen Day’s godforsaken strip of land even though God was present there, but He didn’t know it.
Nearly a month after 9/11, a Dynamite Committee of a land where the sun rises at midnight awarded Dr. Kissangel the coveted Dynamite Peace Prize presumably for raining orange toxins on the verdant paddy fields of a strip of land hugged by gulfs of water in the far farther farthest east. The sad irony was not lost on Dr. Kissangel, “Peace vith honor,” he said, wryly, holding up his prize for the media.
Dark times followed. The preprogrammed synapses aided and abetted Caesar Augusto in jailing 80,000, exiling 200,000, and killing 3,000 — as many as were incinerated decades later in the collapse of the Twin Towers.
Many lucky dreamers who had escaped Caesar Augusto’s clicks, had sought safety underground where they scribbled their notes and poems. Those lucky dreamers in dark times started singing and dancing about the dark times. “¡El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido!” they sang, and they wrote, “They have the guns. We have the poems. Therefore, we will win.”
Surprise! Surprise! Yet another land, where the sun also rises at midnight and which invented nicotine replacement gum, few years later awarded the Dynamite Prize for Preprogrammed Synapses to the seemingly mad professor of the windy city. His name was Milton. Not John, but Freedman.
Fast forward, Caesar Augusto, white haired, $28 million embezzled in his prosperous belly, flew from his home in the strip of land shaped like a red chili to an island where a waning queen was and still is the head of state and the island itself is classified as a strategic aircraft carrier for the world’s most powerful oligarchy.
Caesar Augusto was convalescing after a minor back surgery in a hospital where the oxzines of her waning majesty arrested him on a Global Red Alert warrant. ‘It marked the first-time judges of another nation had applied the principle of universal jurisdiction, declaring themselves competent to judge crimes committed in a country by former heads of state, despite the existence of local amnesty laws,’ establishing a universal moral imperative. Caesar Augusto, General Chief of Staff, Commander in Chief, Supreme Head of the Nation reclining on a hospital bed, quickly declined and fell like Rome.
Postscript: Dr Kissangel is alive — he’s been around so much that, reportedly, his original organs have been replaced bionically, except his heart —and lives in the Silk-Stocking district on the Isle of Manna-hatta where he preaches, in his high Prussian-accented English, on Sunday Morning Sound Bite Shows, about the foreign policy of the world’s most powerful demoncrazy . . . err . . . oligarchy, which — mad heart be brave — has no foreign policy, only foreign interests that it defends with nearly 800 military bases strewn around a ruined world.
For Vijay Prasad