I wrote the story below 10 years ago
and submitted it to a prominent music zine that had a fiction section. Some of
you undoubtedly know the one I'm talking about. It was never published, and
I've never shown it to anyone till now.
Having gone through the whole 9/11
experience in New York, it was impossible for all conversations there, even
those of the young art crowd, not to be shot through with details of the
aftermath: the memorial lights, the unannounced anthrax searches of the subway,
the seemingly permanent street closures downtown. One time on a bus, a guy I
knew — the singer for a popular band — handed me literature detailing how I
should build my case as a conscientious objector ahead of the re-institution
of the draft. "Prepare yourself, man," he told me while fixing his hair.
I was relieved to find the echoes of
all this very distant when I moved to Chicago. Nothing had happened here. There
were no soldiers with assault rifles walking around. No mailmen wearing rubber
gloves. And the young people were more relaxed. Their dance parties were
carefree, not underscored with the knowledge that a lot of people had very recently
died nearby.
Despite this, the local TV media seemed
to desperately want "something" to happen that it could heroically
cover. Throughout 2002 there were a lot of cut-ins during daytime programming
for fires in the Loop. Was it a bomb? A dirty bomb? I felt bad for the real
journalists and photographers I worked with who had to be sent on these wild
goose chases, just in case.
On the national scale, the infamous
color-coded terror level was raised ahead of all major holidays, and Tom Ridge
became a familiar face in most American homes. The fear — manipulated for a few
years by the Bush administration — was that the other shoe had not yet dropped
on a domestic attack.
And what was more frightening, we were
told, than the splinter cell? The deeply embedded terrorist group that would be
activated on some historically significant date to wreak havoc. The way
Homeland Security spun it, this fanatic cadre could be anywhere, even in a
place like Orland Park, where I lived in July 2002.
I had a hard time believing this.
Orland Park: home of Fox's Restaurant, Rainbow Cone and the under-21 dance
club, Energy. What could terrorists possibly be doing there — renting movies at
the Blockbuster on Wolf Road? And so went the inspiration for my story. For
such a long windup, I can't promise it'll be any good, but here it is anyway. ...
Support Your Local Cell
Dear Brother Maxime,
Hail to the glorious and perpetual
revolution of the common fellow! Death to all opponents of our most justifiable
cause: those chain-gang bosses of the hydra-headed corpora-jailhouses! And, a
special greeting to you, Brother, on this the second anniversary of Operation
Dustbuster, of which I am overjoyed to be a humble part.
In accordance with Directive 339r-87, I
have replaced the Chicago White Sox flag with the new Winnie the Pooh flag to
signal cell liaisons from the Committee on Persuasive Intelligence.
If I may be frank, Brother, my reason
for this communiqué goes beyond my immesurable zeal on this, the dawn of
another year of our most righteous penetration into the enemy’s flabby stomach
region. I am at a great impasse regarding my cell-comrade, Brother Willoughby.
I remained silent as long as I could on
the subject of Brother Willoughby, wishing to preserve the unity that kept us
operating during last month’s police sweeps.
Let me begin with Brother Willoughby’s
behavior during the above-mentioned police reprisals. I first overheard him
discussing his involvement in a “super-secret organization” with a female
non-operative civilian in a local pub. When I took him aside to remind him of the
delicate nature of our mission, he told me to “Relax. She’s just an exotic
dancer. Have another drink.”
The next incident occurred as I walked
back to my base of operations one evening after checking the cell’s P.O. box. A
white “stretch” Lincoln Navigator drove up with Brother Willoughby in the back.
He pulled me inside and introduced me to three of his female “friends” from McGee’s Sports Bar. Brother Willoughby and his guests then took turns
spitting tequila into each other’s mouths.
I cite Directive 484k-44 regarding the
management of “human longing.” Personally, I follow the Committee’s orders and
“relieve urges manually.” Sadly, I cannot say the same of Brother Willoughby.
The incident that finally prompted this
report happened last Tuesday. Brother Willoughby came to my base of operations
at 4 a.m. with two suitcases. He claimed his landlord evicted him for not
paying his rent. When I inquired about his Committee income disbursement, he
told me he had “lost it all at the dog track.” Brother Willoughby then asked if
he could “crash here for awhile.”
The next day, I returned from making my
anonymous morning bomb threats, and found Brother Willoughby in my living room
with three “old frat brothers,” one of whom was using my binoculars to watch a
step-aerobics class across the street at the YWCA.
My anger got the best of me. I called
Brother Willoughby a “fifth columnist boob.” He told me to “have a drag off
this reefer and cool out.”
I would’ve written sooner had not Brother
Willoughby thrown a party that evening. I came back after cutting the cords on
some pay phones to find my living room full of strangers. These included
Chicago police officers whom Brother Willoughby introduced as his “poker
buddies.” Someone had filled my VCR with vanilla pudding and used my computer
as a urinal.
Again, I called out Brother Willoughby
on his gross disregard for Committee-dictated operational policy. I told him to
take his uninvited guests and leave immediately. He replied that he was tired
of me “riding his ass” and “bumming everybody out.” I said he should stop
dragging our cause through the dirt. He told me to “stop being such a prick.” I
threatened to report him to the Disciplinary Council.
Brother Willoughby then physically
escorted me through a second-floor window to the rose bushes below. When I
returned from the hospital, he had changed all of my locks.
I am writing you now, most honorable
Brother, from the Orland Park public library. Brother Willoughby refuses to return
my calls. I have spent the last four nights in our glorious Aerostar. I
understand that we must sometimes suffer for our great cause, but I will not
believe that you promoted Brother Willoughby to Director of Regional
Operations.
Long live the glorious conspiracy
against the soulless drones of the death contraption! May my way down the
shining path be forever lined with the flowers of righteousness!
Yours in Struggle,
Brother Bill Kippy
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