Cards of Satan: Captain’s Log (An Action in Burma)

Shit man, it was hot. It was a summer of heat, on the streets of New England. Waves of it were coming off the cracks, like Ted Kennedy had just taken a dump in the Sacco River up in New Hampshire. We couldn’t believe that it was the Summer of Love, the summer after freshman year of college. The War of Terror was on, and already, the MI-6 drafts were out. Lesbian women were showing off thongs and tits and bras, and the jeans were tight.

But not ours. We had dumpy pants. For packs of ammo and frag grenades, in a European country, safe from the action. We let Marines handle that. They were in the weight room, with the cops watching, jogging laps in the gym between extra lunch hours, to skip calculus.

Cops don’t need accounting. They run the roads.

Hopkinton was behind the author, and he was in Attleboro. It was a nice place, and he had already bounced a brick down on MI-6, refusing the draft. He was CIA, because he said he was. Sure, the CIA made you grow up in a gated community, and read the same book, a slim journal on your future deployment nexus of region, over and over again. There were two pictures in the book, one on your door backwards, and one in your mother’s hand.

No matter which you picked, as the marked picture in the book, you had to read it again.

Nixon invented that. Nixon invented everything. Prison, orphans, racism, drinking, cursing, pig detention runs inside your own house, cops with huge noses that claimed to be Jewish because they pushed grass.

But Nixon didn’t invent me. He shat me right out his sphincter, when I punched that old lady from Church, for giving me a little learning book with a picture of Jesus as being brunette.

He had blond hair, he was a Nazarene, a Scythian. How else did he eat shrimp with the Romans, to take that badge. He was an O’Neill, a Pharaoh.

So there I am, cruising down Southbound, on the highway. The wrestling team wanted me to get jacked up, to be in some movie in their minds they saw. They weren’t even cops, they thought a film about James Bond was real. Japanese Osaka Yakuza owns the James Bond 007 license, asshole. What the fuck are they, terrorists? The Mossad?

That guy came later. He got beaten to death for being a pedophile in Detroit. Apparently he wanted to fuck me on pot, and he claimed he was heterosexual. I may have given his mother the wrong impression. But apparently not, he’s dead.

So what are the Freemasons? They’re the property value and tax lease association of American farms, hamlets, towns, counties, cities, capitals, states, and federal lending, for banks and politics and legislatures and courts and executives, for our wills from our parents, to ensure we aren’t sperm stolen to take our parents in a lawsuit.

Everybody needs to jack off. Even a tar slick like me. White and musky and hemped up.

So there he is, the kid they call “B-Rock”. B Rock and the Bizz, that’s my baby daddy, who dat is. Look it up, T-Bird made the song, about his kid. It’s a rap song from the 1990s, this kid loved it, funkin’ up and funkin’ out. He popped a groove, and he worked for Nixon.

And he’s on the road, in heavy fog, with a big bag of drugs and money on the highway.

And I ran it out over, and I still don’t care. That was 2004. This is 2021.

He’s still out there, somewhere, eating DiGiornio’s pizza with big oven mits and an apron, and he loves Nixon, Saddam, and Jesus. But all three of them are dead.

And so am I.

Published by cheater120

Consider me an expert in information munitions. I practice Zazen meditation, Yakuza Trappist form (a Yakuza, games cheat, and Trappist, a counter-agent), as a Bonafuda, a mercantile salesmen of information through philosophy, literature, fiction, and academics, distributed as munitions technique deployed for the purpose apparent to you, unless of course you have violated the ethics of my piece, in which case you will be trapped inside a theft of the piece and an action within the boundaries of the violation you have committed in Benedictine culture, the Jewish affiliate within Catholic culture. Buyer beware, and these poems, are free.

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