The Last Trump

[M Holmes]

The hallucinations have finally stopped thank God.  There's nothing
quite like the adrenaline rush of having your entire life racing through
the brainpan at maximum speed in the microsecond it has left to beat the
buckshot before it rends the gray matter into mincemeat.  It feels like
Dennis Hopper at the end of Apocalypse Now, only The Horror lasts a
lifetime as The Edge is finally illuminated, and clearly Behind.

Those were fast weird days and we worked in fast weird ways. This
reporter is proud to have stood in the ranks of the desperate and the
doomed clawing the eyeballs of the enemy from their sockets even as
their hellish minions rolled over us and left us for dead.

Perhaps potent psychedelics and ballistic weaponry don't mix, but we are
after all professionals, and this final trip must not go unreported.
Judgement beckons at the Big Guy's house, though surely being forced to
relive the Age of Nixon in one's dying second is cruel and unusual
punishment enough.  There is of course the hope that feeding five sheets
of high-powered blotter acid to Pat Buchanan at the Superbowl, and
having him pray for our salvation right there on the 49 yard line, will
occasion some degree of leniency, but perhaps this was, in the end, not
enough.  If I'm to spend eternity in Hell, then I'll head for the
deepmost pit where not even the lawyers and the pols have to serve their
time.  There I'll find Richard Nixon undergoing countless kinds of
unholy torture.  I'm going to find him and I'm going to gnaw on his
bones...

Climbing the celestial stairs to discover whether one's name appears on
God's Own Enemies List, it behooves us to consider Things Left Undone,
and whether the realms of the not entirely dead will let us watch them
on TV.

First there's Kenny Lay and his fellow greedheads who the nation's
business schools conspired to release upon America like a horde of
rampaging Visigoths.  As the best and the brightest lie bankrupt and
bleeding, it's sobering to consider that not one of these ratfaced
vultures has been sent down to share a cell with Bubba.  Perhaps the
Last Trump will sound and they'll be dragged gibbering and screaming by
wild dogs to their place of execution, with Dick Cheyney carrying the
cross.  Faced with crimes of this magnitude, only a return to this older
and atavistic tradition will suffice to cleanse us of our sins.

Then there's the bastard son of George Herbert Walker Bush.  Just what
did Iraq ever do to that family? Did Saddam torture and defenestrate the
family dog, finally drinking its blood? Even the kuru-infected cannibals
on the Republican National Committee should have seen that some ancient
Biblical curse hangs over the zombified corpses of the Bush sons.  When
I said I didn't advocate violence, drugs and insanity, I had them
specifically in mind.  Some people are just not ready for that sort of
enlightenment and there's some lizard place way down in the cerebellum,
which once awoken, will not rest easily without repeated blood
sacrifice.  How else to explain their savage and unwanton glee at
splattering the pictures of Saddam's own dead sons on the front pages of
a cowed and craven fourth estate.

But the Daisycutters for Democracy Movement is as nothing compared to
the rending of the Constitution and the visitation of wrath upon the
American people.  The Committee To Reelect The President itself must be
in awe of the sheer bravuda of shills like Ashcroft and Gonzales.  The
People Must Be Safe, and where safer than hauling them off to jail without
even the token effort required to trump up a charge.

Speaking of which, there's a guy with wings and a clipboard coming over.
"Hi Pete!" Now where's that ugly Samoan sumbitch who masquerades as my
Lawyer?

This is Thomas.S.Hunterson, signing off.