Chapter 21: Protest 7

Go get 'em Tigers!


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CHAPTER 21
The Mayor smiled. “Why don’t you tell me a little bedtime story about America--you know, some lie about how good this empire is, or used to be like when our grandmothers baked pies in the suburbs and said they were sweatin’ like niggers.”
Covington didn’t take this well. His grandmother regularly used to say the offending simile, as did the Mayor’s, as did Gilbert’s, as did Samantha’s, as did Peggy’s, although in Spanish. “Pull his arms out,” Covington said. The Mayor’s arms burned, twin audible pops signified the dislocation of his shoulders, but his mantra kept his mind even, Aum Mani Padme Hum. “Workin’ pretty hard, Agent,” the Mayor said. “Whose the nigger now?”
“Your name?” Covington said.
Samantha’s voice. “I don’t think I’m in danger, Phil, I--Hey, what the--I’m a reporter.” Sounds of smashed equipment. Helicopter blades. Women screaming. Women sobbing. Children calling for their mothers. The dull thuds of punches finding their targets. The Mayor stilled his mind and spoke.
“Brandon William Pickle, usher.”
“Thankyou, Mr. Pickle.” Covington pressed a finger to his ear piece. “I’ve been instructed by my superiors--”
“You mean lizards,” the Mayor said.
The cops yanked again at his limbs. “Don’t use that word again, Mr. Pickle.”
“So they are lizards?”
Covington’s eyes darted about for a few moments. “I have been instructed to bring you in for questioning. Your degree of cooperation will determine the length of custody.” The wind gusted from the east, cold and wet. The Mayor’s frazzled locks
whipped over his face, blinding him. I’ve got to find a way to separate from my body. Then aloud:
“Ok, fine. Just tell me what offended the lizards. Anti-TV? Anti-work? Anti-consumerism? Anti-voting? What?”
The gusts strengthened. Ancient branches shook wildly. Green and yellowing leaves cascaded groundward. Rain battered everything. Agent Covington signaled to the four cops holding the Mayor’s limbs and to the fifth one who had stood by the whole time jotting down notes and observing. As one they moved toward the black trucks. “You’re not in a position to ask questions, Mr. Pickle. That’s what we do, that’s what we’re for. I find you to be personally offensive. You hate all that makes America great. And such hate makes you a threat.”
“Do what you wish to me,” the Mayor said. “Others will come. You can’t kill ideas. Listen.” The Mayor cocks an ear. “You and your kind are whistling in the graveyard.”
“Whistling is soon to be outlawed, Mr. Pickle, and soon all the graveyards will be full.”
The Mayor’s body swayed as they carried him. To his right he saw the huddled forms of Gilbert and Peggy. Good luck, Spaz. We’ll taunt each other in hell. He visualized a little Gilbert doll, and he held it by a little Michigan jersey. Addressing the Devil, he said, “Father?”
“Yes, son.”
“Can I pull the arms and legs off my Spaz doll?”
The Devil beams a smile of immense and eternal joy. “Yes, son.”
The Mayor chuckled, ignoring the helplessness of his own body, and the burning of his limbs which felt like they too could be yanked off like a doll’s at any moment. Gilbert raised a hand feebly, and mouthed goodbye. Peggy’s head was pressed into Gilbert’s shoulder. “It burns,” she said. “It’ll pass,” Gilbert answered, scanning for safe passage through the mist’s slow dissipation.
Tilting his head back the Mayor saw tear-faced Samantha, handcuffed and being escorted by three cops in the opposite direction. “No freedom of the press,” the Mayor said. “No America worth wiping my ass with.” Undeterred the Mayor’s captors trudged onward. Then, the Mayor addressed Covington, cloaking contempt in his normal speaking voice. “Beneath all the layers of indoctrination you feel the emptiness of it all, don’t you, Agent?
“God bless the United States,” Covington said. As the Mayor passed the multitudes cheered and raised fists in camaraderie.
“Shut this toilet down! Give ‘em hell! I wanna have your baby! Shut this toilet down! . . .”
The cheers ascended as the downpour flooded the park, providing balm to the agony of the Mayor’s passion. Stomping feet splashed water high. With face wet and red with rapture the Mayor exhorted his supporters. “Smash your TVs and quit your jobs! Don’t trust the pigeons or the dolphins--they’re spies for the lizards--thus speaks the Mayor--shut this toilet down!”
Starting with those throats within earshod, then spreading throughout the crowd rose the rant that would provide the headline of the Portland Mercury the next day. “Long live the Mayor! Shut this toilet down!” Protestors openly defied the cops with swinging fists. Those who made it to the streets kicked over police motorcycles and attempted to overturn cop cars. The rat-a-tat-tat of rubber bullets could barely be heard amid the din of the frenzied celebrants. The Mayor could see the end of the line. The black vans loomed larger and closer.
“Dolphins and pigeons and lizards, oh my!” the Mayor said.
Covington spun around so fast he nearly lost his balance on the slick grass. “If he mentions one of those species again you duct tape his mouth--so help me God I’ll have your jobs.”
“Lizards,” shouted the Mayor.
Fitzgerald handed the duct tape to Jones, who ripped a long swath. “Any last words, scumbag?”
“Yeah,” the Mayor said. “How many dicks did you have to suck to pass your police exams, and weren’t those your mothers I saw prowling Burnside last night and dropping their panties as I waved a quarter and--mmm . . .hmm . . .” Viciously, officer Jones wrapped layer upon layer of duct tape over the Mayor’s mouth, behind his head, and over his mouth again, tighter and tighter. The Mayor kicked his shackled feet and cursed through his gag. They had reached the van now, and Zimsky fumbled for the keys.
“Open the goddamn door,” Covington said. “Mr. Pickle, let us do our jobs or your muscles will be disabled.” The Mayor offered twin slits of hatred and kept kicking. “As you wish, Mr. Pickle.” The agent produced a baton-shaped object, touched it to the Mayor’s chest, after which his limp body was placed into the bed of the van. “Good job, gentlemen,” Covington said from the driver’s seat. “Once we reach Salem, our day’s work is done.”