Monday, May 21, 2012

THE BEATEN GENERATION: The Dick Principle (Chapter 14)

Iker Casillas, Real Madrid, La Liga; with girl friend Sara Carbonero

By Dick & Poli Tico

NOTES:  We're entering a very interesting terrain. We'll start tackling Diversity. We'll introduce the first Inuit President of the United States. This novel isn't really against any country though we used the US-China rivalry to give texture to the plot. The novel is hurtling towards what was described in Chapter 2. If you noticed there, both countries helped each other in the end. There are other kinds of villain here- the real ones. The pretentious kinds which are actually more toxic. We'll show why as the novel revs up going forward.
We're also introducing two unlikely "heroes": both ex-gays (one is still in the process of conversion though). They had to defeat their own homosexuality first, now they have to defeat the villains. Let's see if they could arrest the fall of Western civilization.

Chapter 14: The Crime of the Reality

"The world is all crowd... the crowd is won over by appearances"
Niccolò Macchiaveli, "Il Principe"

"Il debito pubblico italiano a marzo e salito alla soglia record di 1.946,083 di euro"

"I think it is a bit of myth to believe that there are some people in Europe who are going to spend a lot more money and those of us who realize we have to deal with our debt and our deficit."
David Cameron, Prime Minister, UK

"Lasst die Griechen gehen, wenn sie wollen"
Thomas Straubhaar, Der Stern

January 22, 2012, Morning (GMT+8), Taipei, Taiwan

A country's brand was its power. Image was king.

The Pacific Ocean was virtually an American lake since the end of the Second World War. It was an unchallenged Pacific economic and military power. Circa 2012, the region was abuzz with talks about the declining economic potency of the Superpower. Surely, the Asians thought, America still had its powerful military. But what if one laid-back morning they wake up, sip their coffee contentedly, open their newspapers languidly then right there on the front page, the Commander of a destroyer guarding the sealanes around them was in drag, flirting with a handsome shirtless Russian and hugging him coquettishly? (Breaking News: Many throughout the Pacific Rim were reportedly burned by the coffee they were drinking when they instantly guffawed uncontrollably upon opening their morning newspapers).

A country's brand was its power. What if suddenly the image was queen?

The international pop singer Superslut was about to learn a lesson in delusionary politics first-hand. She was already stoned as her plane approached Taipei but she thought, even without her drugs, just being that near to China would make her high. Her records were banned in China so she relished having concerts in Taipei. It would be near enough to stick a finger at the dark clouds over the  mainland across the narrow strait as the plane circled over the prodigal city. She did it now, then again, and she almost jumped with glee. Up yours, China!

She prepared a really magnificent show for the Taiwanese. Pity the Chinese, she smirked. Serves them right, they don't know what they're missing.

Like most successful artists with insecure personalities, Superslut was easy prey to NGO's who were always on the hunt for "suggestible" celebrities who could be convinced to champion their causes and gain a "more respectable" reputation in the process. Believing she deserved more respect, Superslut was game. She had seen the rough childhood of  that dyke actress Margarita Beaumont and she really was amazed how "Marco" (that's how the actress was called by the bully boys that formed the Neo-Nazi gang of her childhood) had transformed herself to become not only the "most beautiful actress in the world" but a respectable "socially conscious" artists with the many causes she suddenly busied herself with. Superslut doubted if "Marco" even understood her prepared speeches. It boggled her mind how even tough dykes who were only forced to wear dresses would actually bloom like real ladies when respected.

Superslut was never a beauty. Her signature thick "kabuki" make-up was precisely meant to hide her real face. Contrary to rumors, she wasn't initially a dyke, though she had that reputation because she looked like an emaciated boy. And since only dykes would woo her, rather than be left out by her prettier friends who were always talking about "sex with their boyfriends", she let herself enter into relationships with dykes. She eventually developed an "acquired taste" for it (Better than nothing, she decided). What she enjoyed most, however, was the shock in the eyes of her friends when she recounted her embellished tales about "fantastic sex with her dyke boyfriends". Oh, how the sluts were really shocked!

That eagerness to shock was her greatest asset in her career. She was a good songwriter and she had several hits. But her shock tactics kept her in the limelight. She felt she was not taken seriously though. Her manager told her, it was not wise that people looked down too low at her. She needed to be more "respectable". The NGO's just came in time.

Superslut was recruited by Stella herself (prodded by the manager who envied the "new respect"  Stella gave Margarita Beaumont). But Superslut nearly balked at first upon seeing Stella. How could this gnome help her become respectable? She feared Stella might just pull her down. She wondered if a burrow was waiting for her in the hole where Stella came from.

"Being seen as helping other less fortunate men will instantly give you a larger-than-life aura. People are suckers, they see us with halo upon our heads." Stella started her salestalk.

The drugs she took had already taken effect but she was sure even if she was sober, no way would she associate a halo with Stella. A couple of cute horns, perhaps. She was almost sure Stella had a tail tucked somewhere.

Stella was a veteran in deodorizing celebrity garbage but Superslut was a special challenge. She saw Superslut as a putrefied human being. Ugly, dirty, uncouth, with no semblance of civilized fiber at all. Totally unlike her. Superslut had miles to go before she could even approached her refined stature. But she needed this garbage to fortify the LGBT front. Most artists balk in being sullied by the LGBT stigma. She understood them perfectly but she had to appear helping the "not normal like me" because she still needed them: desperate as they were, they were easy to mobilize for the other more worthwhile causes. Besides their money, of course.  And who was she not to exploit what she could exploit for the "greater good"?

She knew Superslut was desperate to be respected and she saw an opening there.

"You can only win here. There are rumors about you being lesbian. The LGBT may be a good cause for you. People are awed by celebrities. You'll be helping young people who are struggling like you..."

"I'm not a dyke," Superslut cut her off.

"Sssh, most people believe you are a dyke anyway."

"I'm not a dyke," Superslut insisted, almost with contempt.

Stella had to force herself not to laugh. But she was tired of dealing with this human sore and she wanted to leave the soonest. She had far easier time convincing a hardcore lesbian like the actress Margarita Beaumont.

Stella always dealt from strength. She looked Superslut straight into the eye. "I have a video of your last liaison with the dyke tatoo artist. Either fight for us so that you won't see that video being released over the internet or nobody is the wiser and you become respectable instead."

Even when stoned, Superslut could see reason. So she promptly had public appearances designed to show her "compassion" over a bunch of screaming dykes and fags who were prepared as cheering props by the LGBT contacts of Stella. Her manager promptly looked around for a beard boyfriend as "deodorant" just in case the LGBT stigma stuck more than they bargained for. Double purpose: that she was not actually a dyke ("just compassionate, therefore respectable") and that she was not really "that" ugly because she was able to hook a boyfriend. The drunkard manager was once overheard at a party as she went pass the limits of tactfree inebriation:"Oh, beards are needed now not only to cover up one's true sexuality. They are as just as needed to cover up the unmarketabilty of one's unfortunate face."

Unknown to Superslut, since that morning, the guffaws over the "Margaret Affair" have been taking over the Pacific Rim by storm and they have reached Taiwan many hours before her plane landed. The Taiwanese airwaves have been saturated by incessant guffaws since then.  And more than anyone, the Taiwanese needed a release. A mischievous Napoleonic complex is inevitably developed on those who had to learn to coexist under the shadow of a bigger neighbor which constantly imprinted menace into their collective consciousness. Despite the security given to them by the American military umbrella, the playful ones among the Taiwanese couldn't quite resist poking the eye of anybody bigger than them when the opportunity arose, even that of a perceived protector. The possibility of more guffaws was just too tempting.

The Taiwanese were well-aware why the songs of Superslut were banned in China. Alleged corruption of the minds of the youth. A radio announcer in Taipei was a lousy joker. He was actually trying to bait more guffaws when he said these: "If the American military has been harboring Margarets which made our security a laughing-stock, how sure are we that its culture that promoted an abnormal like Superslut will not corrupt our children and make us also a future laughing-stock?"

No guffaws elicited as intended, there was suddenly a palpable lull instead. Immediately, Taipei stood still and seemed to collect its thoughts.

Meanwhile, Superslut had landed in Taipei and was bursting with joy. She will give the people of Taipei the entertainment of their lives. She almost flew to the van that will take her to the hotel. She could see a big throng of her fans massed along the driveway. She could hear the raucous noise but she couldn't understand it. She guessed they must be so excited they were peeing into their pants just to see her.

She was jolted by the thuds on the roof of the van as they sped past the throng.

"Are those sh-tones?" she was so stoned she slurred her words.

Her manager, who was sitting beside her, snapped as she sipped again from her flask. "You're always sh-toned anyway, why should being sh-toned bother you now?" She too slurred her words.

"Not that kind of sh-toned, sh-illy. We are being sh-toned... with real STONES!"

January 21, 9 PM (GMT-8), Cedars-Sinai, Los Angeles


The room was dark when she woke up. Her eyes immediately searched through the darkness for the familiar figure. Her nose eagerly tried to capture his scent. She nearly screamed when the dark outlines of an ogre suddenly appeared on her field of vision.

It was Stella. She looked like a witch in the faint reflection of the light thrown by a couple of ceiling drop lights from a corner.

"You should get well fast. Things are heating up." The voice of Stella was measured, grave, low. A voiceover in a horror movie, thought Tina. "Another one was killed. The actress Margarita Beaumont."

Tina did not like the actress, but it still made her guilty to realize the news actually tickled her. She tried to act grave and serious too like Stella. "They killed her husband and his lover. What would they get from killing her?"

"Somebody wants to clean up before the campaign season starts. The impaled Navy commander threatened their plans."

Tina sensed it was big and knew right away it wasn't the place to get the details. She was silent for a while, waited for Stella to volunteer more information. None came.

"How is Tony?" Tina asked what was in the forefront of her mind.

Stella smirked. "You've set back feminism by a century, lady. You were nearly killed because of a man, you should be ashamed.  You've demeaned women by what you've done. I will never do that even to my darling."

Tina thought of the closet queen husband of Stella. She decided to just ignore her.

"Do you know who did it?"

"A bodyguard of the owner of the house. Helmut Schiller, the old playboy."

"You know why?"

"I only have theories. But..." Stella breathed in noisily as if making clear that what she was about to say was really... really important!

Tina remained silent. She knew what would come next. Stella loved to give a big performance. She gave her friend the floor.

"Except for Malcolm and me, nobody seemed to have been puzzled by what happened. They stopped the orgy but only because Frank told them the police would arrive anytime." Stella walked towards the window and the orangish glow thrown in from the outside compounded the sinister undertones of her profile. "I know you're a foreigner but you've been here long enough. Those people are some of the biggest personalities of the White liberal elite in California. Wealthy. Influential. And, as you have seen, not like you and me..."

"What do you mean?"

"You were not looking at them having sex..."

"It was not my business."

"In our job, we should not miss anything."

"What did I miss?"

"The pillars of normal California. All of them present themselves as heterosexual in public..." She paused and stared almost ominously for a few seconds at something outside the window. Then: "Even when we got out, I peeped in once. All were still having sex... this time, all with the same sex."

January 21, 10 PM (GMT-8), Malibu

He was the one doing the anal honors on Rod Thompson in the video still circulating in the internet. The original site was shut down but like a wild mushroom, it would pop out somewhere else. It didn't surprise him they pixelated his face. They were obviously not in a hurry to out him. They still needed something from him. More money? Well, let's just wait and see, he thought almost wistfully.

He produced most of the films starred and directed by Rod Thompson but Herman Schonberg had no intention of attending the dead actor's wake after learning of the suicide of the Chinese transexual in San Francisco. Almost immediately after the death of the latter, sex video clips of Rod and the transexual were plastered all over the internet, including one where the actor "pledged his love" to the tranny.

Herman Schonberg couldn't help shuddering. So he had made love to a closet homosexual after all. Rod Thompson had deceived him for 15 years, the latest one was just last year. It's turning out there was a loophole in his filtering methods. The only consolation was he was correct in not bothering anymore with Arthur Dandridge and Charles Murphy. His internal radar for homosexuals pinged on the two right away in the beginning. If not for the stupidity of women, these two would have vanished a long time ago. They were always elected as "Sexiest Man of the Year" or "Most Handsome" something. Their movies were not really making big money but their publicists kept them in circulation. He could make more money in films with lesser known actors but with just a bit higher outlay for promotions.

He was sure his discovery of Rod Thompson's true colors would make him nauseous the whole day. He had already taken two capsules of 500 miligrams of Plasil since he realized the truth an hour ago. To little effect. He felt as if fifteen years of toxins had accumulated in his system and  nothing short of total blood filtration would relieve him of his discomfort.

He lost some of his recent depression though. A small voice was suddenly persistent, he may not be outed after all.

Or was he now reduced to simplistic wishful thinking?

His cellphone vibrated in his pocket.

"Herman, they want one hundred million dollars." He didn't recognized the distressed voice. Kinda familiar but dark emotions distorted the tone.

He read the caller's ID. Instantly, he knew what that was for.

"Calm down, Peter. Keep your cool."

Peter Gardner was the star of the biggest hit film last year. An action film based on a popular cartoon character so all the kids hauled in their parents to pack cinemas throughout the world.

"How could I keep my cool, for Chrissakes? You were banging me indecently in that video, you bastard."

"You bang grandfathers for breakfast, Peter.  At least I made you a multi-millionaire, didn't I?"

"Not enough to pay for what they're asking. You have to pay the hundred million, Herman, or I'll bring hell..."

He immediately cut him off. "No need to threaten, Peter. Everybody'll just sink deeper into shit."

Peter became silent at the other end of the line. Herman could hear him breathing heavily.

"When is the deadline?" asked Herman warily.

"Tomorrow. Midnight."

"Don't do anything. I'll call you back."

"Don't expect I'll do a Rod Thompson, Herman. I'd rather kill you first."

January 22, 11 PM (GMT-8), Los Angeles

It was almost midnight when Tony finished recounting to Phillip what was in his mind. Events happened so fast since he entered Helmut Schiller's mansion that he forgot matters which caught his attention but which he just filed at the back of his mind for later retrieval. The conversation with Phillip suddenly focused everything into clarity.

By midnight, they have agreed on what to do.

Tony was convinced he could pull it off. True, he was feeling the nerves but he was sure he would rise up to the occassion. "It just occurred to me. Maybe we're fated to do this..."


"We've saved ourselves. Done the impossible by defeating the enemy within ourselves. At least you have already saved yourself. But I know I'll save myself soon."

Phillip remained silent. He just looked at Tony, but the latter felt Phillip must have guessed what he was about to say. He said it anyway.

"Now we just might save America."

January 22, Midnight (GMT-5), White House

He was not thinking of saving America, he was not sure where to save it from. He was thinking of saving himself.

That fag Navy Commander shitting in China just complicated things, he cursed.

It was easy the first time. Anybody could have beaten the unpopular last President. He knew their choosing him was a fluke. He had been an expert in "diversity-scheming", and he was in the right place when the Party bigwigs decided the time for a minority candidate had come.

It was a different game this time.

Who were those Wall Street wise guys to tell him he was incompetent? The nerve!

His campaign for reelection had to start soon but nobody was rushing to impress him with a check. The machinery should have been cranked up last week yet. Only the closet billionaires had contributed but that was just a drip. He was still wary of taking the offer of the fags because of the quid pro quo being asked. But it irritated him he might have no choice in time. He shuddered at the thought. He didn't want to relive his lean years when he had to exploit lonely fags for his rent money. He was already a president, dammit!

And not only a President. He was the first Inuit President.

Compassion and Diversity like before, hello?

Next: Chapter 15


Pablo Alboran -  Te He Echado de Menos

Pictures posted by Delilah
Gracias, Clara de Madrid!