The Konformist

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February 2002

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McHajj:

Part XI

by

Jaye C. Beldo

Netnous@Aol.Com

 

*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I will provide more information in the near future...if there is one. Thank you!

 

New Jersey Pine Barrens. The Marlboro Man carries Ronald McDonald in his arms across the wastes and places him in the center of a circle made of pure powdered graphite. Tears cascade down his weathered cheeks and mix with the powder, forming a small black, syrupy pool. He pulls out a bugle from his rawhide knapsack and starts playing Taps. Soon Delta Force soldiers emerge, rappelling from Black Helicopters, crawling out from the woods, emerging from fox holes, clandestinely gathering around the dead clown. They lower their heads in respect, pointing their flame throwers, grenade launchers and machine guns away from the circus performer. Soon Palmolive Madge emerges, leading a chain gang of credit card carrying Anarchists, Poets, Chaos Accountants, Biker Dykes and other misfits of the all but forgotten fringe. Madge is dressed like Eva Peron and forces her prisoners to join hands with the Delta Force mourners, making the circle around Ronald McDonald even bigger. She takes out a bottle of dish detergent and squirts a chartreuse, carbonated orbit around the mourners. The detergent mixes with the graphite and creates an instant vortex.

Taps is finished and the Marlboro Man kneels down. He takes out a Bowie Knife and cuts a ten inch slit in McDonald's gut. Out of the bloodless tissue emerges a giant, shimmering, Faberge egg which hovers above the circle, spinning in prograde fashion, generating a deceptive golden light which blinds the prisoners, causing them to collapse in the dust. They writh around in agony, propelling into a malign dimension, a virtual Hollywood which extends quaquaversally, to infinity, having its tenuous umbilical cord attached to a terminal Fort Dix placenta far beyond their tangible grasp.

The dirty aura around this vaporous Tinsel Town is hard to penetrate without any guiding lights. The prisoners start to walk around wondering if it is a benign parallel universe or yet another 4-D con job like so many others currently glutting the multi-dimensional market.

"God... if only I can break my contract with OTO. I'm tired of being their fraudulent multiple personality stooge. I mean...I know I'm a prisoner of the lower astral plane and imbibe in all sorts of amateur Chaos magic through the Internet.... but....that icky egg business was all mine to begin with. I own the rights to the thing. I'm just waiting for the right time to emerge back into the light and confront the truth." A prisoner steps forth and proclaims, assuming leadership of the wayward group so desperate for orientation. He pulls out a Gucci briefcase and has his ginghamed squadron gather around.

"Speaking of the truth, the egg came straight out of Tyson Foods's bio tech labs. Some illegal migrant workers were forced to make the thing to begin with, far below minimum wage....I might add. They mixed Prozac, Viagra and Ritalin with Radioactive Nostoc and fed it to a transexual, albino hen who then laid the thing on July 20th 1969. The hen backmask incubated the thing for the next eleven years in the region of Alnitak, forwardly speaking. I didn't want to say anything....hurt any feelings. You know...I mean...what I really didn't want to tell you is that free love would come at such a price as this." The prisoner confesses and sheds a few Kimodo Dragon tears. He pulls out a contract and attempts to show his followers that he has full legal rights to the egg. But a sudden wind blows the contract out of his hands and into a waiting fountain six yards away. The contract turns into a fascsimile of the Rosetta Stone and sinks to the bottom, resting on a bed of pennies cast by well wishers of bygone dimensions. From above the pennies can be seen to spell out: ORION.

The prisoners work their way to the fountain. A giant, gleaming white chicken egg, 40 feet high, emerges from the waters. Their ad hoc leader beams with pride.

The egg has the Tyson Foods logo on it.

"Well....the trans-dimensional consciousness the egg was supposed to allow us to access....that was only sales pitch to get you all to come along for the ride since I didn't have any money to help you finance your illusions back then. I can say these things....now that I'm all used up...and have nothing to lose really....except for....except for.....my real identity. Whatever that may be." The maverick chicken cowboy confesses and sheds a few more lizard tears for effect. He takes a judges mallet imported from the Supreme Court and resting on the plinth of the egg's stand and taps the shell three times. The egg chimes like Big Ben in London but does not crack open.

"Sturdy sucker isn't it?" The Prisoner admits. "Has stood the test of time..."

Meanwhile, back in New Jersey, the Delta Force study the dilemma of the Tinsel Town tourists as they try to think their way out of the trans-dimensional paper bag.

"Pretty impotent bunch of nobodies if you ask me." A soldier observes and turns on his flame thrower, heating up the golden egg hovering above the dead Ronald McDonald. "Don't mean to cook the data...but I'm getting ants in my pants."

"No wonder they're too scared to confront the light of day." Another soldier observes prosaically, watching the rag tag crew jumping into the fountain, trying to flee the heat in their world.

"Cut them some slack." Palmolive Madge says and squirts dish detergent on the base camp egg as if to extinguish the flames, only to watch her ambrosia bubble up and smoke in the heat. "At least they don't have to stand trial like those SLA bank robbers." She says and starts to to a Fox Trot with the Marlboro Man. "Or go on tour again like Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young."

"Not yet." The Commander of the Delta Force says. "Listen you has been hippies....if you can't stand the heat...get out of the kitchen." He yells at the ardent egg and laughs. "Now turn up that flamethower full bore ....soldier!"

"Yes sir!!"

As the flames engulf the egg back in the Pine Barrens, Ronald McDonald opens his eyes and watches the inferno above him. Shaking himself out of the dream, he asks, "Is it a boy or girl?" He tries to raise his arms, eager to embrace the prodigal Phoenix yet to be hatched in Hollywood, watching the shelled mystery spin around and around, just out of his reach.

 

to be continued

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