The Mayor

Who threatened to sue me if I used his real name (Dave Oster) in this rediculous novel, so I'm calling him Brandon Pickle (his suggestion because we're all in a pickle now). PS: sorry about the jagged line breaks in the novel-posts. It's due to double spacing and copying and pasting from my word processing program, and my shitty computer (which can be destroyed by kanji) is too slow for me to systematically fix it at this time. You're to be lauded if you even attempt to read this novel.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
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CHAPTER 4--THE MAYOR

The goal of mankind is not to be seen in the realization of
some terminal state of perfection, but is present in its noblest
exemplars. . . . And if you are not yourself a great exception,
well then be a small one at least! and so you will foster on
earth that holy fire from which genius may arise.
--Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Brandon Pickle stood before room twenty-three of the Beverly Alder apartments
with two Pabst Blue Ribbons cupped in one arthritic hand, a tattered library book in the
other, and an unlit hand-rolled cigarette pinched between his meaty lips. His dark-stubbled
jowls were framed by frazzled black drapes of witch-hair. He kicked the door and bel-
lowed the best he could without dropping the smoke. “Open up, Spastic! Mayor’s got
new information!” Brandon peered into the eye-hole then pressed his ear against the
wood. Nothing. He shoved the book beneath his crotch, clamped his legs closed and beat

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on the door with his fist. “Takin’ another nap, Spaz! Christ, it’s only seven. The sun is
cold! Stop beatin’ off! This book is better than any orgasm you’ll ever have.”
Brandon shuffled down the hall to room twenty-five. His long equine face grew
longer. His door was open a crack. He kicked himself in, kicked the door closed, tossed
his book on his desk, plopped his butt in his lounge chair and popped open one of the
beers while setting the other beside him on the stained olive carpet. Fuckin’ Gilbert, he
thought while chucking back a swig. Never around on the rare occasions I’m excited.
Whatever. Brandon took a whiff. Pepperoni and sausage smells. Sizzling heaven. He
leaped out of his chair to the kitchen. Why am I so mind-controlled by shitty frozen pizza.
He pulled it out with difficulty, cursing as the little demons in his left hand played tug-of-
war with every tendon. Goddamn job, he thought. That hand’s for tabla. You can’t have
it. Typin’ all day’s become a hazard to my hobby time. I’ll workman’s comp yer asses--
that’s what I’ll do! The smells snapped him back, and his bitter chocolate eyes melted at
the steaming cuisine on the stovetop. Ah, Brandon drooled, a masterpiece!
After wolfing down the last piece, and dabbing his forefinger with saliva to cap-
ture every last crumb, Brandon closed his eyes and belched. Bile soured with tomato
sauce rushed up his throat. This has to be the last pizza, he thought. He balled the plastic
wrappings in his fist along with the paper display photo of a pizza too perfect for reality,
and punched to the bottom of the garbage bag before releasing the contents. I’m stronger
than his. Last goddamn pizza. And bad hand be damned, I’m gonna play tabla.
Brandon touched a flame to a white votive candle and cut the lights; then, after
talcum-powdering his hands and settling into the lotus position, he started caressing the

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larger right drum with his palm, then tapped out a simple alternating rhythm with index
and middle fingers. The subtle thrum and drone of this ancient percussive instrument
soothed him. He quickened the pace. If I could just retire to India and hook up with a
teacher I could master you in twenty years. But no one knows you in the West. “Tabla,”
he whispered to the dripping wax. “Origin unknown.” Satisfied, he considered the left
drum, half as large and cocked at an angle as it rested on a felt-covered donut ring. He
meditated on his left hand. Aum Shanti. Be filled with peace and healing. Thank you O
universe for this gift of music. Brandon curled his fingers back and struck the drum head
true and strong.
“Ah, goddamn it!” Brandon kicked his instruments for the first time ever and his
violent foot-stomping stirred the dolphin-shaped wind chimes above his bedroom door to
mocking melody. I’m gonna kill my fag boss for this. My fuckin’ hand’s ruined. The
only activity that gives me meaning--making music!--ruined. Brandon packed the tabla
drums deep in his walk-in closet, and threw a black tarp over them. Back to the shitty
Merlot. What’s on kook radio. He belched again and re-tasted the pig-meat potpourri.
He clicked the radio on. Anything Goes 1270 FM. A baritone voice, suckled at the breast
of commercial success, sweet-talked the evening.
“This is Joe Snory. Welcome to Anything Goes. Tonight we have a guest who has
investigated for the last twenty-three years the UFO phenomenon and the possibility that
extraterrestrials not only have visited our planet in the distant past, but indeed, live now
deep within our good green earth, hidden in secret caves, watching our civilization un-
fold, and waiting, ever so patiently, for the moment to strike. Tonight I welcome in-

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vestigative UFO-ologist, David Spite. David, welcome to Anything Goes--”
Brandon packed his pipe with the latest marijuana he scored from Champ. That’s
why I’m the Mayor of the Coffee Dugout, he beamed. I get the weed I need, and now and
then, the Mushroom. David Spite joked in a strong British accent about becoming a father
and the travails of diaper changing. Brandon toked hard and exhaled. His heart and
brain buzzed. Bet my balls this mother fucker brings up the shape-shifting Reptilians.
Bet my dick as well, and all the seed I’ve wasted. Brandon counted to three, and listened.
“Now David, regular Anything Goes’ listeners follow your work carefully. I get
thousands of email requests to put you on the show every month. You have quite an
underground following. In fact, I’m a little jealous.” He snorted with laughter
before continuing. “Now David, please tell me the secret to your success.”
“Ain’t afraid of the truth, mate. The shape-shifting Reptilian truth.”
“Bingo,” said Brandon to the fork-tongued shadows. “More evidence of Mayoral
prescience.” He hit the pipe again, sipped the wine, and smirked at the abrupt change in
Snory’s tone. The man was flabbergasted.
“You mean to say David that your popularity is a result of talking and writing
about reptiles? Are you--”
“Reptilians, mate! The difference between the two is as far as a pauper from a
king. Reptiles, Joe, are indigenous, cold-blooded creatures of limited--”
“I know what reptiles are, David. But what--”
“Let’s cut the bullshit, mate. You know what my position is--”
“Please don’t use profanity on the air, David.” Joe Snory huffed a sigh. “Now,

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for any listeners who may be new to the program could you say--”
“Sure, mate. Here it goes. World leaders, be they politicians, bankers, religious
figures, media talking heads, military strategists or educators, belong to an insidious
alien race that I and many other researches call Reptilians. What we see is the cloak, the
human mask, but those with discerning eyes and childlike hearts have seen them shape-
shift in moments of stress back to their natural bodies. Moreover, Joe--”
“We’re running over, David. I need to break for commer--”
“Wait, mate. Our Reptilian leaders manufactured the 9-1-1 attacks. They--”
A new voice, slick and male, recounted the day’s headlines, starting with the War
on Terror. This is Clearchannel News. “Yes!” Brandon pumped his fist. “Couldn’t shut
the kook up in time, could ya, Snory! A hundred thousand listeners were just exposed to
the leaders-are-lizards theory--leaders culpable for killing thousands of Americans. Fuck
yeah!” Four dingy walls swallowed the words. Brandon picked up the bottle of Merlot,
and held it up to the candlelight. Just a swig left. He savored it, then sucked the life from
the pipe. That was amusing. What now. Hollywood Video? I’ve seen every shitty movie
in their happy shiny vaults. Maybe the Mom and Pop for a six pack and Doritos. Same
bullshit night after night. The universe has taken my ability to create music, and all I’m
left with is a legacy of four shitty low-fidelity CDs. Brandon lit a cigarette and seized the
book with his good hand. Far off, the news man blathered about the latest beheading.
Reading crazy books is the only consolation now, but for how much longer?
He opened the book and smiled. The Sun is Cold by Gustave Boorsh. Published
in 1898. Subtitle: An Investigation into the Heat-Generating Interplay of Light and

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Atmosphere. First sentence: The idea that stellar bodies produce and radiate heat is
a universally held assumption. This assumption has no basis in fact. It is light, bouncing
about in the atmospheres of worlds, not stars, that influence temperature. In these pages
I expose the shoddy scientific methods employed by charlatans of the trade who espouse--
Shouts from the street. Brandon rushed to the window and flung it open. Grip-
ping the sill he thrust his entire head and torso out to see. A homeless hag barking her
cart along. Pedestrians parted on either side, giving her distance befitting a communicable
disease. “Outta my way, damn gorillas! Fuckin’ monkeys! Ain‘t ya‘ll ever seen a fuckin‘
bag lady before.”
“Go be miserable someplace else!” Brandon slammed the window shut. God
damn it. Civilization is an ongoing catastrophe. Gotta give Gilbert props for realizing
that. Too bad the only thing he gets is the shit we’re all in. Brandon walked over to his
stereo intent on turning it off, but instead, a new voice, shrill and feminine, stilled him.
This is Jackie Dupree with breaking local news. Portland police have finally
apprehended a man who was staging an armed sit-in in Pioneer Square. The man, who
was holding a hand-written sign saying, we live like zoo animals, waved a pistol about,
and chanted “Kill me, kill me” repeatedly before a packed house of terrified onlookers.
After twenty minutes of touch and go negotiation, Portland’s finest. Brandon clicked off
the power button, trembling with excitement.
He vanished inside his walk-in closet and emerged after a minute with green
construction paper and a pack of colored markers. Nice idea you poor sonofabitch,
Brandon mused. But I’ve got a better one.