Made in China Chapter 6

            At one time in my life, following my return from fighting the Wild Turks in Belgium, then in Afghanistan following redeployment, I wanted to be a writer. I had at least thirty stories planned out in my head but nothing to write down my ideas. You couldn’t get a pen, pencil or crayon to save your life in war but you can have all the guns, lasers or gas grenades you want. Writing is a dying craft like blacksmithing a hundred and some years ago, but I wanted to be a writer I was sure. Mark Twain is my favorite and there hasn’t been a Mark Twain-kind-of-fellow since Kurt Vonnegut died around the turn of the century. Regardless of not being able to find the proper writing utensils, I often kept my fellow soldiers amused with the stories I would conceive about animals with magical powers though they always made me come up with dirty ones about virgins and mermaids. I once told a story of a bear who was more less a man in a bear’s body. His inevitable downfall was his love for human women, strip clubs, and his revulsion of female bears. There was another story about a cat with the ability to tell the future, but without the ability to communicate it to anyone. The cat predicted everything down to the date but it was no good because it hadn’t the ability to communicate his knowledge. So at least the stories I had were told at some point. Guys came up to me all the time smiling and saying, “Hey, remember that story you told me about the…”

            “No,” I would reply sadly. Unfortunately, I have a very poor memory so it appeared that I would never be another Twain or Vonnegut, who are probably up in Heaven right now laughing at me. But no one wanted another Mark Twain… 

            When I came home for the final time after close to four years of shit, thinking I had seen every miserable thing there was to see, we landed in The Boston Harbor, which was remarkably untouched by any natural or unnatural disasters. Religious people said that is because God smiles on the Revolution and American independence so, being the birthplace of independence clear back in 1776, it was protected by a condom of divinity. What about Philadelphia? I thought. Or Washington D.C.? That is a good question to ask those kooks who still come door to door once in a while bragging that they “have ringed doorbells since there were doorbells to ring.” Philadelphia is now an asphalt prairie of annihilation, one of the first places destroyed by the tornadoes. The only thing that has survived there is South Philly and Gino’s, where if passing through you can get a great Philly cheese steak, and the Rocky Balboa statue who some proud Philadelphians put in its rightful place on top of the destroyed art museum steps instead of down below because there are no pretentious artsy jerk-offs left to protest its merit and even if there were they would be clubbed to death if they voiced their objection of Rocky Balboa’s proper placement. He is a symbol proud Philadelphians still adore. Washington D.C. was torched by some crack-addicts.

Those religious people who still go door to door with literature are called Jehovah’s Witnesses, though I am not sure what they witnessed because I have no fucking idea what Jehovah is, or who. They still say there is no Hell which isn’t very practical because all the people doing evil things have nothing at all to fear. I like to believe there is a Hell, in fact, I have to believe there is a Hell or I might go completely insane. Some other Christian denominations that morphed their faith to be more cohesive and appealing in the times took a page from the old Muslim book and now promise all the sex-crazed, sex-deprived men in the world forty virgins when they die. They don’t say what they look like but no one cares. Unfortunately, as should have been expected, suicide went through the roof so in an effort to preserve the human species on this putrefying planet a while longer they added an asterisk and on the the bottom of those fliers it says:

*Offer invalid if you commit suicide.

            When I came home there were even fewer women than there was when I left. They were dropping like flies and the healthy ones that were not successfully living in hiding were being kidnapped and raped and cut into pieces or stashed somewhere by The Casanovas. One completely loony Casanova cut his victims’ vaginas out and pickled them in a jar and jerked off to a room full of kosher dill pickle jarred pussies that appeared to be staring at him. He kept them as mementos. Well, he died somehow or other, maybe of over ejaculation, and when a government reclamation officer (the person that collects a dead person’s shit to sell when there is no next of kin, the people the pickers have to beat to the punch, and usually do) went into his house to see what there was for the government to sell, lo and behold, there were all those jarred pussies. Not knowing what they were at first having never seen one since he was born, the poor sap counted 126 of them, wrote them down in his auditing notebook simply as “pickled specimens.” When he finally discovered what they were he never lived it down back at the office. His coworkers pushed him to quit with one line: “You wouldn’t know a pussy if it stared you dead in the face!” I read about that on the plane ride home in Life magazine, which rose like Lazarus from the dead, using the works of a modern day Normal Rockwell named Artie Rachmaninoff on their covers. Artie painted just like Rockwell but instead of inspiring homespun images of simple American life, Artie reflects the devastating and often cruel indifference of today’s world. The article entitled “The Casanova Pickler” didn’t really shock anyone and wasn’t written to disgust the reader. It was published under “human interest,” an insight simply to how things are; serving the same purpose Artie’s Rockwellian paintings serve.

            Being that people typically choose their own names is a good thing. It helps you tell when someone is a complete dipshit without having to waste much time talking to them. Example: Private Spider Bean, who served for only four months before he was sent home due to the war ending. He smiled eerily next to me as we had coffee in a Boston coffee shop near the bus station. Not as in we, together, but it just so happened that he followed me in like a lost pup, dirty and goofy. I don’t know why he insisted in sitting next to me but there he was like a goiter affixed to me and not letting go. He was staring at my Blue Eagle, obviously envious even though he had a Purple Heart for being shot in the posterior and wore it proudly on his left breast pocket, above where his heart is supposed to be. He is one of those guys that will milk it. They will get the Purple Heart license plates and search for parades and wear it to the VFW and to the grocery store. He would have worn it on his forehead, if he could. He was one of those attention seekers, those people who need an incessant pat on the back and endless congratulations and thank yous. Spider was nineteen and had a blonde toe head and big bulging green eyeballs like a frog. I didn’t care for him much. He looked at me and pointed up to the TV which was a news channel, an attractive woman anchor, who was saying that the WHO estimated the non-Chinese woman count to be around to 1700 and falling fast. There were fewer women than panda bears in the world. They couldn’t possibly know how many women there really were but they always said that they knew. Censuses of women kept peoples’ interest and made for good TV ratings.

            The news anchor, Sarah Slip, served up the news in a thick shatter-proof glass booth that protected her from any intruders. She had a security team of naturally gay men that took her everywhere she went. They had to be tested to ensure they were gay at birth before they could be trusted. She was married to the producer and the news program was the highest rated program in the world. The station didn’t keep their motives secret. Instead of News at 10, they called it Tits at 10 because Sarah Slip had the greatest set of tits the world has ever known. Not that there was anything to compare them to that were real anyway but the fact couldn’t be argued. The Dole McMillan News Hour immediately preceded it at 9. Dole was an old gray-haired curmudgeon with a big nose and hairy nostrils who was typically hopped-up on Adderall and caffeine. God forbid that Ms. Slip had a night off and old Dole sat in for her. That occurrence would likely cause a riot. Eventually, they gave up on poor-old Dole, who was a fine newsman, and Tits at 10 became Tits Tonight, and when she was off they just ran the news from the last day she had given it. No one was the wiser.

            Spider jabbed me and said, “Bet you wished you had one of those fortune cookies from the war?” I drank my coffee and thought of Betty, though I didn’t know if she was alive or dead at the moment. I tried to see if one of those vaginas in those pickle jars looked like hers, but I couldn’t tell from the magazine photograph. It happened near enough to us to be concerned—Pittsburgh, I think. I thought I knew her better than I did. She had a little mole a little off to the left of her clitoris but I couldn’t see the detail of a single mole.

            “No,” I said to him. “I’m okay.”

            “You fag or sumpin?” He said leaning over to me so no one could hear him. He wasn’t being mean; he didn’t know any better. Stupid is a defense. If you expect someone named Spider Bean to know civility you are probably not much better off than he. My dad taught me that you couldn’t fault someone for not knowing better, but you could always shoot them. Shooting an ignorant asshole on the basis that you can prove their ignorance in a court of law has been perfectly legal since 2022, when the world realized that degenerates were breeding like rabbits to ensure government baby dollars. Now the bubble burst and there are no government dollars so all the tax babies are now scratching out an existence without the benefit of culture, education or morals.

            “No,” I said. “Women are bad luck.” I rubbed my eagle and he looked at it again with envy.

            “Man, wish I could’ve stayed long ’nough to git me one dem.”

            “You wouldn’t have,” I smiled. “You should feel lucky that the war ended when it did and you only got it in the ass.”

            “Hey, wachit! I don’t take any’ting in da ass! People might git ya wrong.”

            “Settle down, Spider. No one is getting anything wrong. No one cares. Tits at 10 is on. They’re all in a trance.”

            “Whacha mean bout pussy bein’ bad luck?”

            “Look what it’s doing to the world, kid. I mean, people have gone mad. The Casanovas, the Chinese…” I shook my head. “Come on. People have lost their fucking minds! I think the world is going to shit and the disasters are all because we deserve it. It’s what we deserve!” I sounded religious I realized so I stopped. I took a drink of my coffee and didn’t care what he thought or how he replied. We had an hour to kill before our bus home. He lived somewhere in southern Illinois which was obliterated by tornadoes. Finishing my coffee I realized I do believe in God. And I believe that God was doing this all on purpose, maybe to see how we would react.  

            Spider didn’t seem too interested or to understand what I was saying. He chewed a wad of gum as he drank coffee. It was like talking to a rat. He looked like the rat I had killed in the dumpster behind Naughty or Nice. “You gotcha a bitch stashed somewheres?” His white face was filthy. His teeth were avocado green.

            “No,” I lied. “I don’t need one, as I said.” I could tell he wanted to tell me about his. He had someone somewhere waiting for him, he thought, anyway. There was a rumor around the platoon that he had paid someone to shoot him in the ass to go home. Then the war ended and he went home anyway. He broke down and told me, excited, about ready to burst as though in telling me he was bringing her to life with words body part by body part.

            “Hell, gots me one. Her name’s Daisy an she’s sweet as suga!”

            “Where do you have her hidden?” I asked with my empty coffee mug In hand. I didn’t care but I knew that is what he wanted me to ask so I did to amuse him.

            “Wouldn’t you like to know!” He smiled like an asshole. I could have done the world a favor and beat him to death there in the coffee shop. One quick strike with the coffee mug and then the sugar glass, then the napkin dispenser, beating him to a pulp on the black-and-white tiled floor. He hesitated for a moment keeping the same goofy smile, his face turning bright red. Jaws chomping gum. “I gots her wit’ my pa. He’s takin’ care for her and her ma. They live in our basement. My ma died a long time ago, now, hell, before I could fuckin’ member. Nows Daisy and her ma, Julie, theys with me and pa. Only thing is pa can’t fuck Julie without a rubber bein’ dat she’s already done Daisy’s pa, ya know,  ‘cept in da asshole an’ blo’in’ an’ stuff but... but I’s Daisy’s firs’. Firs’ an’er las’.” He wiped the froth from his mouth. “Pa says he’ll do ol’ Julie wit’out the skin one day whens he’s t’rough wit’ her.” He laughed goofier than even he looked. I wasn’t very proud to be in uniform next to him. “Den we’ll turn’r loose an’ she’ll goes somewheres an’ die like a goddamn dog,” he laughed sadistically. I wanted to ask him what were the chances that while he was away that his pa hadn’t fucked his girl and she is dead somewhere but I didn’t care enough to get into it. I would bet on it.

Ho hum.

            “Ya don’t wish ya least gotchas a hummer from one of dem chinks?” He asked still smiling. I hated when he smiled. It was an abhorrent expression. I wanted to punch him but I didn’t. I wanted to kill him but I didn’t. I suddenly had the passiveness of Gandhi. Fortunately for me we parted ways shortly thereafter and we didn’t have to ride on the same fucking bus.

There are no TV shows, or much in the way of TV at all. Hollywood had been obliterated by a half dozen tsunamis and most of the actors and actresses, producers and directors are dead. So in place, in an effort to maintain a sense of normalcy, the U.S. Government, which was barely anything more than an advertisement agency, aired what they had left in the archives. The four most popular shows on TV are The Andy Griffith Show; Leave it to Beaver; Green Acres; and Flipper—the aquatic Lassie. Lassie itself has never aired due to the problem with roaming packs of rabid dogs across the country feeding off of corpses (a scene painted ever-so well by Artie Rachmaninoff for the resurgent, Lazarus of magazines, Life). The government did not want to give the public a favorable impression of dogs, thus, establishing a false sense of confidence in the amiable nature of a dog they may encounter. Sadly, they were no longer man’s best friend and were replaced by fucking goldfish.

Shortly after, Betty died, which seems to be my compass for everything in life, I tried my hand at writing a story before I took up delivering the mail. I kept the hatchet that was in Bill’s back by the way—recompense for him killing my wife with his vile penis. I mailed the story out to a publishing company in Poughkeepsie that said they were looking for new voices in hopes of reinventing literature in a new age—all that noble horseshit publishers say instead of admitting they are profit-driven. I had great expectations that my voice would be heard and my story would be published. I thought it was a good idea to write a war memoir so I did. I hadn’t seen any published works on the Wild Turk War so I started it from where I went to the VFW and Rusty the WWI statue spoke to me. I included a lot of interesting personal memories from the war. There was a lot of death and mutilation. There were a lot of orgies and decadence. I even talked about the time I was captured by Turkish troops and how I saw Alexi Olavstrauss in his human leather bomber jacket, faux fur hat, and caramel corn beard, walking through inspecting the prison camp. He looked concerned for the well-being of the prisoners and stopped along the way to have some conversations with the inmates offering Turkish cigarettes and chocolate. Since Olavstrauss was a vegetarian, we weren’t fed any pork, beef or chicken. We were fed what vegetables they could spare and the meat of our dead comrades. They didn’t taste all that bad but they were best as jerky. I didn’t understand much Turkish, only a little, but waking up in the prison camp one morning I remember hearing brakes squealing on a vehicle, a door slamming, and someone yelling, “Hey Joe, what do you want me to do with this truck full of wieners?”

            In about six weeks I got a reply from the publisher in Poughkeepsie:

Dear Author,

Thank you for your sending us your submission. Unfortunately, due to the high volume of shit we receive, we do not accept unsolicited manuscripts. In short, go fuck yourself. But best of luck. It only takes on yes!

Regards,

                                                                                    Carlos A. Tequila, Esq.

                                                                            

No one gave a damn about the Wild Turk War, or Alexi Olavstrauss, or me, or the fact that we had eaten our own penises and fellow soldiers’ penises. They were looking for sex and adventure. Interesting enough, the same company sent my dad a large advance on expected royalties for his book, The Adventures of Bobby Bubonic. Dad became a bestseller and was bigger than Mark Twain.