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January 2002

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McHajj:

Part VI

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!

 

The fallen angel Ronald McDonald eyed Mickey Mouse suspectly but only for a moment. The affable rodent rictus molded so life like into the black fiberglass visage reassured him.. The Mouse screwed his head off to reveal the teenager within. He offered the head to Ronald as if it were a hunting trophy.

"You're gonna need this disguise when you cross the border." The defrocked Mickey squeaked.

Ronald sniffed the hollow of the head and winced.

"Well o.k. but what about the rest of me?" He gestured to his candy striped buffoon garb. "Won't this give me away?"

The teenager modulated back into baritone then smoothed his sweaty hair. "It's just Mexico...you don't need a real Passport." He said. He then began fingering a pimple on his chin. "Is there a Splurge machine around here? Third shift always make me thirsty. I need something X-Treme"

The Clown chuckled and put the head on. "Sure is dark in here....how do you put up with this day in and day out?" His voice echoed as if he were in a garbage can.

"In Mexico it's fifty cents an hour if they're lucky...I make at least eight times that much." The youth proudly stated.

The Marlboro Man demonstrated his finesse by jumping through a lasso, eventually working his way towards Mickey McDonald as a part of his rodeo routine. He even laughed a bit, but then caught himself and jammed a smoke in his lips. "You'd make a good lawyer for R.J. Reynolds. You just need yourself some pinstriped duds!" He suggested.

"Well that's a great idea Mr. Cowboy...then I really will be camouflaged! Viva La Virginia! Aaayeeee!" Ronald engaged in a Flamenco maneuver. The California Raisins mimicked the clown with a few prunish pirouettes and then climbed up on his shoes when he finally stopped and did a little tap dance routine.

"I didn't ask for a coronation ceremony." Ronald pleaded, but the festivities had already begun. Soon the other icons materialized from the airwaves.

Through the dust kicked up by all the feet at hand, emerged the Pillsbury Dough Boy. He climbed up on Ronald's shoulder, then perched himself on the ample mouse ear. "Soon a whole country will rise." He giggled as the Marlboro Man came over and pushed his navel in.

A third generation Gotti , nose clean, arrived and sacrificed his Bill Blass suit to the Clown. He then drove off naked in his black Lamborgini, throwing a briefcase out of the window. Ronald Mouse donned the suit and peered through the pinhole eyes of the costume head and discerned a procession in the distance, coming from the north. But it wasn't the Sudan he was scanning nor the Gobi. Only the outskirts of a Texas border town. Through the thermo-undulations of the distant mirage, on a makeshift palanquin, lay a dead Camel, it's head lolling obscenely with each advancement of the pallbearers. It's cartoon tongue was covered with flies. On top of him was some statutory harlot smoking a Camel. Her mascara tended to cake into the crevices of her eyes. Would having her be against the law or not? Only her digital cosmetician back in the editing room knew for sure.

When the procession neared, she dismounted, blew some smoke into the rodent's face, posed and walked around the mercenary buffoon. "Cute..very retro...I think it will do, but the shoes have to totally go." She summonsed one of the pallbearers to take off his Roccaboni's. They fit perfectly as if meant just for the Clown.

"I'm sad..." Ronald Mouse said, eyeing his footwear. "...now I'm obliged to take myself seriously."

"I'm outta here." The Teenager said, shedding the rest of his costume. He ran towards the edge of town on the outskirts. The Marlboro Man then pulled up the abandoned uniform around him and adjusted his cowboy Hat. He mounted his steed and started bullwhipping the Pallbearers: anorexic, morphinated fashion models, the Peg boys and Girls of the Calvin Klien Pirate State. The Floozie ran up to the tobacco yokel and pulled him off his mount just as his sadistic frenzy peaked. She started kissing him. Cowboys in mouse costumes turned her on. It was a perfect television moment. Regrettably, there were no cameras around.

Amidst the conflagration, a pick up truck arrived and out popped a couple of meat packers from a nearby factory farm. They had shotguns and pointed them at the Pallbearers. "Give us the goddamned Camel." Facing no resistance from the models, they threw ol' Joe in the back of their truck and headed back to the ranch. "We're gonna force feed this to Oprah Winfrey!!" They yee hawed away with their booty.

"I thought America was a democratic country." Ronald said, managing to ooze a tear out of the mouse eye where it absorbed into the hot velvet on the cheek. In spite of his sorrow, he looked rather dapper in his three piece suit and Mickey Mouse helmet.

"Don't forget this!" The California Raisins chorused. The dear little souls, all of them, managed to carry the Gotti briefcase over fifty yards of scorching mud flats, in a feat of synchronized strength and cooperation unmatched by any breed of ant. Ronald picked it up and clicked it open. Inside were high tech weapons: grenade launchers and other gleaming toys of destruction.

"They're just squirt guns." The Raisins reassured him and resumed their Rhumba back to California.

Enough of the decorum. It was high time to negotiate with the Mexican Government. There simply wasn't sufficient capital intensiveness in the Maquiladoras. The glory of NAFTA and GATT had already waned long ago. A pep talk for the chili pepper proletarians was in order. Ronald grew a bit paranoid. Was he being duped by his employers? Was he walking into a mouse trap? The feelings waned however as he realized that his mercy mission would be an inspiration to the Burger Faithful world wide. Maybe the Zapatista's would wise up and welcome him. Giant Mice were considered good omens to those folksy, museum piece people. So he was told. He fancied smoking some cigars with the guerrillas in the sultry jungles beyond the tourist conclaves and eating freshly caught fish smothered in fried bananas, all the while listening to the ocean waves and strums of the revolutionary guitar. Maybe Captain Morgan would arrive with a cache of Puerto Rican Rum. Maybe they'd sympathize and give him a red scarve and make him an honorary member of their tribe. He could then return to the Corporate lounge triumphant, where he could impress the fiscal lizards with his agile diplomacy.

It was the heat from the plastic mouse head that caused him to revery in such an unlilkely fashion. It took him less time to acclimatize to the small shoes and the restrictive clothing than it did to the head. But he quickly assumed a convincing gate, like a lobbyist working his way to the Capitol and waved goodbye to all his friends.

The Marlboro Man wrapped his arm around the heroin harlot and beckoned Ronald to come to them. Flooze X daubed some Obsession cologne on the Mouse's cheekbone and kissed him. She and the Cowboy turned and then walked into a sunset even though the time on the shooting script indicated high noon.

The Doughboy worked his way back towards headquarters. A trail of tears basted the would be croissant who browned up a bit in the sun. It was up to him alone to spread the Good News to the Yankees of Ronald's mission. He lost himself in a cumulus train of thought that floated above and saw something signaling to him in a kind of phosphorescent Morse code. From within the fluffy confines emerged an apparition.

The Doughboy sat down and giggled. His blue eyes brightened for a moment but then were cast in shadows as a revolutionary did indeed descend to the earth plane to greet him.

"All for the want of a dinner roll I suppose." The doughy homunculus quipped and bowed his head. "I see you don't have any hands either..."

"My friend...you don't understand...you shouldn't have let boss clown go. He will be in trouble. The cowboy would stand a better chance than any of you."

"Why don't you climb into the oven with me ...the cold war is over amigo."

"You do indeed warm my soul Doughboy. Thanks for reminding me. But I must tell you that his disguise won't work. He should have studied my dossiers concerning my Bolivia days. I could only hide out for so long dressed like a stiff."

"I beg your pardon Mr.Che..our clown knows what he is doing. I have confidence that his mission will succeed."

"But he doesn't know the ways of the south. He'll trip over some roots. The head may crack. A scorpion may sting him or a bat may bite him."

"Well what do you want me to do?"

"Ave Maria.....you're the expert in rising."

"No..no...not me..I am forever...uncooked....I'm unbakeable. My animators would be very angry if I turned up crusted for a shoot."

"Yes, I see...that is a problem. You couldn't articulate very well now could you? Maybe you need a disguise too. I could offer you my assistance. We could make a little suit for you too."

"Well I don't exactly trust you. Cuba is still Red after all these years and all that. Even if you are a ghost. No telling where El Nino will take you next."

"My country has many needs. We could use some instant dinner rolls...I will admit."

The Doughboy puffed up a bit and tipped his chef hat. "Does that mean we can lift the trade sanctions?"

"Well I suppose so...I'll run it by Monsieur Castro and see the next time I drift over his realm."

"Why do you care about Mexico anyway?'

"We are a global economy aren't we? Imagine if all your friends were Pinatas. You'd want your neighbors to help now and then wouldn't you? No telling what would spill out of the Charmin Toilet Paper Bear if he was wacked good. What if the Tidy Bowl man spilled his beans? You know what I mean? You wouldn't want your children eating his candy."

"O.K. I think you've convinced me. But it's already too late. Our clown has insinuated himself into the power structure....so you go and remember the Alamo and all that and say hello to Fidel for me.... I'll run it by the Board if I get a chance." The Doughboy sniffed.

 

to be continued

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