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February 2002

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McHajj:

Part XII

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!

 

"Cook it good! I'm hungry for an Omelet!" The Delta Force Commander yells. The soldier concentrates the flame-thrower on the bottom of the egg and turns it up to full. Ronald McDonald tries to resurrect himself but the heat radiating from the egg pushes him back down. He cannot help but think that the bottom of the egg looks like the heat shield of a space capsule upon reentry into the earth's atmosphere. He blinks to make sure that it is real and then grabs a handful of New Jersey Pine Barren soil, sprinkling it on the Caesarian wound in his stomach.

Mrs. Olsen comes out of the woods with a silver tray, filled with cups of steaming Folger's Coffee. She hands them out to the soldiers. She puts one next to the clown.

"Having any luck?" She asks the Marlboro Man, backing away from the heat and offering him some coffee. The Marlboro Man lights a cigarette and shakes his head, tears nearly emerging from his denim blue eyes.

"Why so morose? I didn't time travel from 1969 for this kind of treatment..I mean you were still on television back then with your pardners. Weren't you?" Mrs. Olsen says and kisses the cowboy. "Come on now...it's the richest kind! Enjoy!" She forces a cup upon the cowboy who reluctantly takes it and starts whistling the Marlboro theme song.

As the Delta Force takes five and savors their Java, she turns around and hurls her pot of Instant Colombian Coffee at the ominous egg. Thus christened, it shatters, calcinated shrapnel cutting through the soldiers like a land mine in Afghanistan. Only the ad icons survive the decimation, reconstituting instantly, genetically wired for instant rejuvenation.

Above Ronald McDonald, hovers an oblong mirror which spins around.

"Careful now...it is a hyper-dimensional portal..." Palmolive Madge warns her companions, looking away as if the mirror were Medusa. "It may lead to Brookhaven Lab. Or maybe to Los Alamos. Or directly into the Eye of Horus." She squirts some dish detergent on the rotating mirror and suddenly it stops. The green syrup runs down the quicksilver surface and starts to congeal into a map of some city. "On the other hand....maybe not. Maybe we are simply supposed to look at it...and admire ourselves."

"It could be a wormhole leading to Fort Dix. I don't trust it." Father Nature says, puffing on a Corona cigar. He is covered with tobacco leaves and sports a Roman Toga. He quickly disappears back into the short lived ad campaign that gave birth to him in the first place only to be replaced by the Trix Rabbit who throws a handful of cereal into the mirror.

Ronald manages to right himself and walks over to the others. He sweeps the dirt off his albumin encrusted stomach and looks at himself through the maze of dark green lines. One line of mirror baked dish detergent has the word 'Sunset Strip' in gold lettering upon it.

"I gave birth to a map mirror?" He asks, disoriented upon sight of his reflective progeny. "What kind of Phoenix is this? That's the last time I'll ever let some misfit anarchists do a group meditation and try to create paradise. Serves them right to be trapped in Hollywood now. Maybe they'll appear in the next Billy Crystal or Robin Williams movie. One with no ending." Ronald says with a bitterness he cannot hide. "Infinite Billy Crystal...imagine it if you can."

"You're the goose that laid the golden egg...you should be happy!" Mrs. Olsen says, beaming pride. She sloshes some coffee on the mirror, washing away the cartographic portent Ronald discovered. "Now let's go!" Mrs. Olsen runs towards the mirror, jumps and then absorbs herself into its ubiquitous reflection. As she enters, the mirror spins back into the silver egg craft it always was when a baker's dozen of pineal glands were put on the meditative grindstone.

"Might as well...ain't nothing here in this dismal place. Probably a toxic dump underneath all of this for all I know." Ronald says and disappears into the mirror's calculated whirlpool. Soon the others follow until none are left. Only a field of dismembered Delta Force soldiers strewn to the perimeters of the war theater vista. There are not even any starving, squat exiled anarchists from NYC to strip them of their wallets, gold fillings and weapons.

 

"Hey Sarge..." A haggard looking Chaos Magician says, unable to grasp the nonlinear dynamics of the Tyson Foods Corporation Egg spinning above the Tinsel Town fountain. " Something's happening." He picks at a stubborn nose hair, trying to distract himself from the portent.

"How am I supposed to know what's going on? My modem is my periscope and there's no place to plug it in. I'm sorry. I'm a virtual nobody with out it." The leader says and starts spinning around as if mocking the orbit of the egg, only to get dizzy, Eustachian tube clogged with silicon.

"Sarge...the egg...it's starting to crack. It could be an ensigilization technique. Delta Force may be breaking into this dimension and putting a spell on us."

The leader ignores the admonitions. "I know you didn't have slave labor in mind when you hired them, so I forgive you for that Mr. Tyson. But really....hostilely taking over our egg and using it as your billboard...that's a bit too much. At least you can siphon your vulture fund and give us a little perque so we can get out of here." The leader confronts the egg, hopping up on the edge of the fountain. "We did create this egg now...didn't we?" He asks his group. "We have exclusive rights....don't we?"

He receives no response from his pathetic platoon.

A Biker Dyke comes near. She has a smegmatic gematria, gleaned from Naomi Wolf, hidden in a purple silk pouch. She takes it out of her pocket and tosses it into the fountain. She closes her eyes and concentrates.

"An etheric shadow time pattern is emerging." She says. "Its probability of taking over is rather high at the moment. Last thing we need now...now that we're trapped here."

"Shadow time? Is it in 4/4? I need something simple to tap my foot to."

A teenage computer hacker nears the fountain. The leader of the group starts shaking. "Don't need a modem in the wireless age Roger...." He says and pulls out a laptop and attempts to hack into the egg.

"Retroactive enchantment coming in....." He says, peering at some binumeral scintillation scrolling down his razor thin monitor. The scintillation turns into serpentine demons of black rubber. The pixel reptiles start to belch and smoke. The hacker starts shaking, eyes roll back into his head. Obligatory froth comes out of the corner of his mouth as well.

Suddenly the egg shatters. Ronald McDonald, Palmolive Madge and their colleagues hover above the fountain for a moment, then fall. Ripping off their clothes they start dancing around. Suddenly colored lights are activated and the fountain jets start spraying water through the sleazy, virtual hypersphere.

"We're a Chaos Thunderbolt!" All the ad icons sing at once in the key of G Major. They hold hands and zigzag their way through the ripples, doing the Bunny Hop and Shuggy Shu.

"Come on in...Mr. Hyper-Dimensional Hero!! The water's not too cold." Palmolive Madge beckons. I mean look at the non-dissipation we are sustaining!"

"Listen you commercial cretins...I realize that my software is obsolete, but I'd rather stay high and dry." The leader blurts out, unable to move.

Captain Morgan, the Rum Pirate descends from a Deus Ex Machina created, sleight of mind, by some faceless Golden Dawn stooge, implicately removed from the consequences of the scene and prods the egghead leader with his sword.

"Walk the plank Matey!! Dive into this ocean of your own making." Captain Morgan shoves the leader down the plank and into the brink. He takes a swig of rum and spews it over the water. The shards of the exploded egg float around like Styrofoam kickboards. Off into the deep end, the leader grabs onto one, unable to swim.

"It is only stochastic reality...nothing to worry about." Ronald McDonald tells the man overboard. "All you have to do is slow Planck Time down enough to make the light trying to shine from your heart stand still. Still enough to create droplets of flavored light which you can make essential aromatherapy oils from. Am I understood?"

"Quicken Planck Time." A Sufi poet says. "Not slow it down. Breathe a little Baraka into it for Allah's sake."

Roger starts to sink into the murk below as Ronald McDonald and the Sufi poet argue. The Marlboro Man grabs him and brings him back to the surface. The Cowboy pulls a blow molded demon out of his heart chakra. The demon squirms but cannot free himself. With his Bowie knife the Marlboro Man slits the throat of the astral rodent and spills its aluminum colored blood into the water. It congeals like droplets of oil. The lights in the fountain project through the oil slick and reflect off something shiny above, creating a marbled pattern in somber greys and blacks.

All present become immersed in this aerial Rorschach movie. A purely objective image, seen by all present appears: the execution of Falun Gong members in Tienenmen Square.

 

To be continued

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