Dad: "You™ must be stupider than you look!"
Homer: "Stupider like a fox!"

Brent Forrester, Lemon of Troy

Gurgeh Blue was losing it and losing it fast. In the space of three months he had lost most of his clients. Power outages, unexplained malicious hacker attacks, computer breakages all left him just a little left of paranoid. He had seen this kinda stuff go on during corporate takeovers but he was just a nobody. The amount of money and effort required to sabatage his system an for what reason. Logic told him it was coincience and Blue was, if nothing else logical. But as calm and collected as he manged to remain, he was still losing it. He was about to lose his home and he needed a job fast.

He checked the screen, two programmers jobs, it would mean moving to the Capital. Anything else? Well there's a dishwashing job at a diner.

******************

Little Justin pulled on Royce's coat.

"Ma, you said we could go to McDonald's. Ma you promised. Ma I'm hungry!"

Exhausted, Royce attempted a smile. A weak attempt that did little to lessen Justin's insistence.

I know what I promised.

She was tired. The walk had felt longer than normal.

As they passed the White House, both Justin and Royce bowed there heads and watched their feet intently. Royce watched her son from the corner of her eye. He's such a good kid when it comes down to it.

The security agents in the rooftop sniper nest held the three of them in their gun sights. Royce as always, resisted the temptation to run. To do so would be suicide.

“Kids with guns” she thought. Though she couldn't see them from this distance even if she did raise her head and look in their direction, she imagined a couple of snotty white eighteen year olds itching to pull the trigger in the service of their king.

King Ronald III was pissed off. He hadn't been blown in several days. It was getting harder since his predecessor got the fucking thing plastered across every newspaper in the country. It had served him well at the time, got him into the oval office. But fucked if that was any good now.

Blow them all to hell he thought.

She angled the baby carriage to avoid the traffic light and the three of them headed up 17th street.

They crossed the road. A single car was stopped at the lights, the driver looked impatient, rosary beads hung from the rear view mirror. Taxation without Representation sticker draped his front bumper. Royce as always suppressed the fear that the taxicab would jump the lights at any moment and run her little family down. Slavery may have been abolished and killing blacks was a crime, but there were still many lunatics out there and when they got jobs it was usually driving a yellow cab. If they were gonna run somebody down, it might as well be a black chick.

The driver, Peter, was listening to some commentaries on a shooting that had taken place earlier, near this very spot.

“What are the reports so far?” asked the commentator to the reporter.

“Well, not much info has come in so far 'cept that he was a nut.”

“Well, obviously he was a nut. We'll be back right after this commercial break.”

"R U skinny? I was so skinny I couldn't menstruate. Till I discovered
Squeezing Some Fat On Your Twig Body. Now, in less than a year, I've put
on 4 stone and my shoulder blades don't poke through my skin anymore!"
: cue applause.

Peter looked North, South, East and West through the rear view mirror (he blessed himself) no sign of unusual activity. No reporters or police. Even the protesters across in Lafayette were quiet and subdued. Of course, with half a dozen anti-aircraft guns and what-have-you pointed in various directions from atop the White House and the grounds surrounding it, not too many people felt the need to stand out. He headed north towards the fancy hotels. They might not tip well but there was always good custom. Usually north was best late at night. That’s when the tippers came out, the ones that required that extra bit of anonymity. What gory secrets did these tippers wish to hide? Peter didn’t care. He wasn't a curious man.

They walked up to the window normally used by drivers. She didn't want to enter and deal with the pram or have the kids shouting. The drive-in suited her fine.

"A 1/4 pounder, please, and a veggie burger, no ketchup or mayonnaise on either."

“We don't do veggie burgers Ma'am.”

“Ok then just give me a burger without the meat.”

“Huh...Oh yeah. Ok. But I'll have to charge you full price.”

“Hmm. That’s fine.”

Young Ron McDee took the order and turned his back on the nigger and her kid. Ten million to run a governors campaign, over 100 million to run for President. How many more fucking burgers would that take? Fuck you Ma, he thought to himself as he threw two lumps of meat onto the grill. The blood slid off and bubbled under the heat. “Someday, you will be President”, she repeated in his head. “That's the beauty of this country”, his dad agreed.

Art Blakey's King of Rhythms finished up on the radio and vurt's Furstsoa took over. From the master of rhythm to the rhythmless. Ronald noticed the slight grimace on the black woman’s voice. He turned the burgers over, then turned the radio up.

OoooKay......Who really says they own a city. How arrogant is that?

He's gonna burn in hell.

The Vampire and the Wolfman sat in the gutter. The Vampire, drinking from a bottle inside a brown paper bag, found it difficult to hide the disgust on his face. They say pig’s blood is not very different from human blood, but he could tell the difference. He resisted the urge to vomit.

The Wolfman put his arm around his buddy. “I'm gonna give up the H. man and then you can suck on me as much as you please, just you wait and see. Everything is gonna be fine.”

He looked at his old friend sympathetically. The Vampire attempted a smile and avoided looking at the track marks along the Wolfman’s arm; his dirty fur (what was left of it) did little to hide the broken-down skin.

Earlier that day, Peter Six Pack sat in front of his therapist as he had done for the past six months - ever since he had run over the black chick in a fit of road rage. He was genuinely sorry for what he had done. He was not a racists, at least, not like some of his mates. She had crossed the road when the lights had given him right of way and he put the pedal to the metal. It wouldn't have made any difference had she been white or a man.

His therapist looked at him knowingly, silently and knowingly.

“So how do you feel today, Peter?”

“Well it's like this...” Peter drawled, sounding like Jack Nicholson, “every day since I started work I feel worse than the day before...Which means every time you meet me, you are meeting me on the worse day of my life.”

“Wow, that's messed up,” responded the therapist, taken off guard by Peter's overwhelming, genuine sincerity (and pathos). “I apologize” he quickly added.

Peter was pleased the therapist appreciated his predicament. “Is there anyway you can, say in a year or so, make me believe when I'm home from work that I was like, fishing or something?"

Also interestin, by pure chance (as always happens to me, and at risk of sounding like a flake, this happens a lot...), I met the most obviously, over-the-top, psychically gifted dude I have ever, ever, ever met (by a long shot) in DC. Buddy (total down and out 'homeless' guy, shaking hard for need of some substance...) literally walked up to me, told me the exact date of my birth, told me a buncha shit about my family and my upbringing, and told me why he had come to speak to me out of a bunch of random strangers, and asked me if I would buy him a drink.

I took the guy to the crazy fancy bar of my crazy posh hotel, had to fight off the doorman AND the bartender ("NO! He is MY GUEST! He is having a couple of drinks with me. YES I WANT TO DO THAT. EXCUSE ME, IS THERE A PROBLEM WITH ME AND MY GUEST? NO, I DIDN'T THINK SO.") and bought him a whole mess of drinks, and

Some of the homeless dudes in DC know a LOT of shit about a LOT of shit. For real.

Mr 23ilson thanked the stranger for the drinks and shook him by the hand. The stranger, obviously amused by the 23hole incident asked “23hy me?”

“Don't 23aste pearl on s23ine,” the hobo retorted.

The stranger smiled, thinking to himself that was the second-most interesting conversation that he'd ever had with a complete stranger. "Mr 23ilson where will you sleep tonight?"

"Don't 23orry about me," replied the hobo "you look after yourself. They are immantizing the eschaton”

Life unquestioned is life lived in a religious state.

“I asked for a burger without the meat and a Quarter Pounder™ without ketchup or mayonnaise. You've given me two Quarter Pounders™ both with mayonnaise and ketchup.” Royce dropped her shoulders dejected “I don't eat meat and my son is allergic to mayonnaise.”

“Eh no problem miss I'll just scrape it off.”

“No you won't son. Please just make me another burger.”

“I'm sorry m'am we're closed.” And don't call me son. In case you didn't notice, I'm white and you're black.

“You were not closed when I paid for my food, now please give me what I've ordered, it's been a long day and I want to go home.” And stop calling me ma'am. I'm not your ma'am in case you didn't notice. I'm black and you are white.

“I'm sorry ma'am. I can give you your money back but we're closed. I've turned off all the appliances. If you could please move on you are blocking a car trying to leave.”

Royce said nothing but stared at young Ronald.

"Ma'am if you don't move, I'll be forced to call the police.”

“I will not be moved.”

He takes out his mobile phone and begins dialling.

"All of our operators are currently unavailable.......
your call IS important to us.....
For emergencies please press the hash symbol..."

The what symbol? Hashish? WTF?

Ronald turns to one of the other staff who is busy mopping the floor. Scuzzphut is playing on the radio.

“What's the hash symbol?”

"The one that looks like a game of noughts and crosses...”

“Oh”. He presses the hash symbol.

"The number you have dialled is no longer..."

“Oh fuck it. Listen miss,” he pauses. “Look ma'am, that's a police car pulling in, you really best leave if you don't want trouble.”

I will not be moved.

A moment later Royce is staring into the eyes of one hardnosed cop. Shaken, she nonetheless puts on a brave face and stands her ground. One last stand.

“Officer I'm not trying to cause mischief. I payed for my food and he made the mistakes not me. Now he says he's closed.”

“Huh?”, Hardnose looked puzzled. “Closed?”

He stoops to peer inside. Two boys, one sweeping, one messing with his cell phone.

“Hey boy, come here.”

Ronald smiles triumphantly and moves over to the glass window. “Yes officer?”

“You gave this woman her money back?”

“Yessir, that's it there on the counter. She won't take it.”

“Boy, get her her food. Now.”

“But sir we're closed. All the machines are off.”

"Not now you're not. Now turn em machines back on, don't worry boy they'll still be hot.” He smiled at Royce while he hoisted his gunbelt and fixed his sagging pants.

“Yessir.”

“And boy, put on a couple of burgers for me while your at it.”

“Yessir.”

Royce smiled at Hardnose.