Ch. 10: Kook Talk 2

Gotta do it! Gotta be like Mike! Swoosh!


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

CHAPTER 10: KOOK TALK 2

An hour passed at the Coffee tavern, during which Gilbert urinated five times, the
Mayor digested two chapters of his book, Showtime scribbled in and erased crossword an-
swers, and Champ grew too drunk to serve customers that weren’t already scared away by
the cigarette smoke. Bruce called to check in, and to say that he was taking the rest
of the morning off. When Gilbert was not rushing to the restroom, he wrote in his note-
book or daydreamed while gazing out the window. Gilbert respected the Mayor’s do-not-
disturb frown, but twice their eyes met, and twice the two burst out laughing. Finally, the
Mayor set his book down and opened a beer, his sixth.
“Might as well get fucked up,” he said.
“I‘m done with beer, man” Gilbert said. “It’s a New-World-Order kind of
day, and we should be alert. And besides, you also have to work tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll come down with something. In fact.” He forced a cough.
“Wouldn’t blame ya,” Gilbert said. “I’d quit if I didn’t have to pay the food- and
toilet-keepers. I wouldn’t last long livin’ off the land.”
“We’re farm animals,” the Mayor said.
“Hey,” Showtime said, panting. “Got a six-letter word for medieval clown?”
“Jester!” the Mayor shouted.

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“Bingo!” Showtime said, scribbling the letters fervently as snot oozed from his
nose and clotted at the upper lip.
Gilbert removed his hat and scratched at the flaking stubble. “Food’s still locked
up. Gotta make money or die.”
“You should try to be ok with that,” the Mayor said. “You’re a farm animal.”
“Why don’t they just kill us. Bring on the die-off. What do the elites want with us
when they can have this shit-hole all to themselves?”
“Maybe our souls,” the Mayor said. “Maybe our toenails.”
“Hey,” Showtime wheezed, pop-eyed, rubbing his hands furiously. “Got a nine-
letter word for stupid?”
“Imbecilic,” the Mayor said. “Jesus Showtime!”
“Yes! Kickin’ ass at a record pace.” Showtime bent over the next clue with
eyes darting, his black curls glistening from the overhead light.
The Mayor put his book on his lap, and placed his tobacco pouch and rolling
papers on it. “As I was saying, Spaz.”
“Please don’t call me that anymore,” Gilbert sighed. “I’m too depressed for that
nickname.” He paused. “Brandon Pickle.”
“Touche Gilbert,” the Mayor said, rolling the smoke. “As I was saying, it’s not
for us to know anything with certainty. Even the fringe authors with their paradigm
studies, their conspiracy shit, their alien agenda shit, their all is illusion, all you need is love
shit--all the goddamn books I’ve read! At day’s end all we’re left with are the opinions of
men and women as ignorant as we are.” The Mayor lit up. “I’m gonna fly to the Isle of

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Wight and kill David Spite for destroying my life.”
“And goddamn you for making me read Manufacturing Consent,” Gilbert said,
looking through the window at a passing group of business women. “I could still be
watching TV. I could have a normal job. I could even have a girlfriend.”
“Hey! Got a seven-letter word for fool?”
Together, in one voice, Gilbert and the Mayor bellowed: “Buffoon!”
“Bingo,” Showtime said. “Gettin’ close guys.”
The Mayor shielded his lips and whispered to Gilbert, “He’s retarded.”
“He’s a CPA,” Gilbert grunted out of the side of his mouth. “He makes more than
twice our combined wages.”
“Yeah,” Showtime mumbled. “So close. Come to daddy.”
“It’s not a meritocracy,” the Mayor said. “The system rewards those who manage
rich people’s cash. Bean counters get the pussy.”
“Pussy,” Showtime said dreamily.
Gilbert laughed. “You can’t cram a square peg into a round hole. Looks like I
don’t have what it takes to either make money or get laid.”
“No but I do.”
Gilbert and the Mayor both jerked in their seats. “Derek, what a surprise,” the
Mayor said. “I christen thee, No-But.”
“Whatever boys.” He brushed a hand across his slick blond hair and pulled up a
chair in between Showtime and Gilbert. He set his textbooks on the table, along with a
large manila folder. “This is my acceptance packet to Harvard Medical School. Looks

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like I’m set for life.”
“You, a doctor?” the Mayor said, looking glum. “You’re no healer of men.”
“Who gives a shit. I’m set for life.”
“This, Gilbert,” the Mayor said, wagging a finger at No-But, “is a perfect tool.
This tool has traded his soul for temporary perks. By providing you with an alternative
reading program I’ve saved you from that. Still bitter about Manufacturing Consent?”
“No but,” chimed No-But.
“He’s talking to me, you sellout,” Gilbert said.
No-But fanned the air in front of his face. “You guys can’t smoke in here.”
“Shut the fuck up, No-But!” the Mayor shouted.
No-But raised his arms. “Alright, alright, alright--can’t we be civil for once?”
“Sure, No-But” the Mayor said. “I’ll tell you a nice little civil story. One that ties
the dolphins, pigeons and Reptilians together like strands of pretty ribbon. You’ll have to
suspend your disbelief. Can you? If so, I’ll proceed.”
“Hey,” Showtime said. “Got a ten-letter word with q as the eighth for something
marked by surreal distortion and impending danger?”
Gilbert turned slowly from the Mayor to No-But to Showtime. “Kafkaesque?”
“Bingo! Yes! I did it! It’s mother fuckin’ show time!” Showtime rolled up the
newspaper and beat it over and over on his knee before dropping it to leap out of his chair
and dance around the table, arms splayed like airplane wings. “Zoom! Zoom!” Showtime
cried. “I am smart! Hooray! I am smart! Hooray!”
The Mayor leaned toward Gilbert, careful to avoid Showtime’s careless circling.

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“There’s your spastic messiah for the last days, Gilbert. Consider the torch passed. Hey!”
Showtime’s flapping arm smacked the Mayor’s hand and sent his cigarette flying. “This
ends here--that was my good hand,” the Mayor said, rubbing his index finger. The next
time Showtime danced by, the Mayor kicked him firmly in the butt, sending him staggering
toward the exit. “Take your spasticity to the street!” Showtime smacked into the door,
cackled to himself and left. The three men watched in awed silence as Showtime
zoomed down the sidewalk, hair and arms fluttering like a moth made crazy by sunlight.
Calmly the Mayor retrieved his cigarette. “Now that the lunatic accountant is gone
I’ll have your full attention, No-But. Consider this tale a peace offering. I’ll give you the
short version.” The Mayor smiled and leaned back on the couch. “Gilbert’s heard it
before, and has even contributed a few details.” The Mayor paused to parrot No-But’s
smarmy grin.
No-But shrugged his shoulders. “What?”
“Can you keep your mind open?”
“Don’t insult me.”
“I’ll try.” The Mayor winked at Gilbert who was scanning the front section of the
Oregonian. “Very well,” the Mayor continued. “I know, No-But, that a devout naturalist
like yourself is well versed in the authorized version of the theory of evolution, and.”
“It’s not a religion,” No-But said flatly.
“Seems like a faith to me,” the Mayor said. “One idea out of many concerning the
problem of origins, but I’m not here to argue. I’m just offering an alternative view.”
“Get on with it,” No-But said.

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“Good,” the Mayor said. “Let’s assume for the sake of my tale that evolution’s
process of natural selection and random mutation did in fact drive speciation, more or less
as we’ve been told by the scientific establishment.”
Gilbert yawned. No-But folded his hands.
“Now let me cut to the chase, No-But. Let’s go back to seventy million years ago
according to the standard chronology. You know what happened seventy million years
ago?” The Mayor sucked from the cigarette and waited.
“Australopithecus became Homo, uh?”
“Oh, I’ll be getting to the problem of human origins momentarily, and after that,
to the uncanniness of the pigeons, birds that live in cities, but first things first, and every-
thing in correct sequence as you rationalists like to say.”
Jesus, Gilbert thought. He loses people with his damned long-windedness.
He’s in love with his own voice. When’s he gonna get around to.
“The advent of the dolphins,” The Mayor said. “That’s where I begin.”
Gilbert stood up. “I’m gonna check on Champ.”
“Seventy million years of uninterrupted evolution,” the Mayor said. “How much
can we really know about them, No-But? And what they’ve been up to.”