Made in China Chapter 22

According to the blaring radio, Harry Rosenbloom was assassinated by a troupe of clowns from Slappy Evers Happy Clown Company—the pride of Portsmouth, Ohio. Slappy Evers was dead and thus, uninvolved, though the company continued using his name because he was immensely popular in the past few decades. He was famous for being kicked in the groin on TV (a gag borrowed by the game show Tattooed), and for being rented out and beaten up by whatever means by angry kids at birthday parties. He encouraged the abuse, and kids got a real kick—no pun intended—out of him. The clowns were in the White House to perform for Rosenbloom’s fortieth birthday, with big goofy shoes, balloons, flowers that squirt and red rubber noses. Rosenbloom had a weird love of clowns that no one ever understood. There wasn't such a thing as biographers to give a damn, at least not for posterity’s sake, so his life remains a mystery. Truthfully, the clowns were cleverly sent by Mesa-Musa Ali and they, too, were convinced there was a Heaven of easy virgins waiting for them up in the clouds. They knew they wouldn't get out alive. The Secret Service cut them down and the thirteen of them lied around the courtyard of The White House (which was a smoker’s patio when it was a HoJo), with big red smiles painted on their faces as though their souls were having a celestial orgy. Maybe they were. But Rosenbloom had already been sprayed in the face with enough liquid ricin to kill a hundred thousand Harry Rosenblooms.

Ho hum.

....In the words of Mickey Mouse, a degenerate pimp from Tuscaloosa, “There ain’t no such a thing as virgins nowheres, baby.” It sometimes feels that way.

It is a rather strange coincidence that the man who outlawed flowers was killed by a flower. But flowers were no longer being used to fight the rats so that legacy died with Rosenbloom, and a collusion of angry florists refused to send flowers to his funeral. Scientists developed a potent poison that was safe to everything besides rats, according to research, which effectively wiped out the rat population and which gave General Ontario Whatley the pleasure of again killing something. But despite the breakthrough of Rat-B-Gone, as they called it, the religious continued attempting to teach immoral rats the importance of abstinence while dad and others like him still slayed an occasional rat here and there the old-fashioned way. Regardless, the rats were pretty much handled. Unfortunately, Operation Kitten Lips was already in place and so the world was cursed with giant pussies that roamed the country spraying everything, eating small children, tearing up upholstery, and viciously killing dogs. No sandbox was safe. And if you think it is annoying to hear normal cats fuck in an alley by an open window as you try to sleep, you should thank your lucky stars if you have never heard cats the size of school busses doing it.

....

Following the death of Rosenbloom, Floyd the Chimpanzee, Governor of Rhode Island, quickly announced that he is running for president. He is the only politician in Merica that wears a suit instead of clothes from Walmart. He promises to restore dignity, the name, the flag, and the national anthem. “Zombie Betsy Ross would shit her bloomers if she came back,” his spokesman says he says. Governor Floyd speaks sign language. I wonder what the sign is for “shit.”

....

Frances Fury saved my life. The chorus of machine guns I heard while I was indisposed was her army of women. The Scum of the Earth were strewn all over the dirt like a gruesome art mural. I stopped saying “Fucking” only because it is a mouthful. She is standing beside of her mean black van holding that smoking M60 across her stunning body as the Priest helps me dress by Ruby’s open door. Someone is looking under the hood—a mechanic that works for Frances, which makes me think of my dear Chloe, memories for whom they hadn’t beat out of me. Ruby is thankfully unharmed, with a few dings and scratches that add character.  

“Thank you,” I called to her with what strength I had left.

“Payback,” she grunted. The beauty of the girl is much more than her black vinyl and all her ample curves—everything practically bursting from the seams. There isn’t enough that can be said for the effect of her attitude. She feigns indifference and has absolutely no sense of humor and her surliness adds to her allure. “I pay my debts,” she says. I believe she smiled but I cannot be sure for my eyes are blurry and it was slight, if at all.

“Blatz, you can’t drive,” the Priest said.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I can. Zula depends on me.” Saying her name felt strange. I truthfully hadn’t thought much of her since the race began. I lowered myself into my car. My body felt like a bruised skin sack of broken glass. I had to open my right eye with my fingers to see through it. It was like fingering a fat woman’s clitoris. I thought of that road trip to Indiana and the woman who rode like a 76 Buick. I thought of Captain Jumping Jack Flash. I finally caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview. I looked like an unfinished Picasso gone wrong.  

The Priest shuts the door behind me. Then through the open window he hands me my knives and my Colt Dragoons one at a time, which I put in my side holsters over racks of broken or bruised ribs. I press play on the CD player—Buddy Holly and the Crickets. “Crying, Waiting, Hoping.” I knew I had to forget Chloe and focus on Zula. Zula is much more beautiful, after all—much more sought-after. She is the prize that Heathcliff Bernard has dangled in front of us. She is the dog track rabbit. I remember watching a dog race with my father when the dog was so fast he caught the fake rabbit that swung on the long arm. He said it was the worst thing the dog could ever have done.

It wasn’t long until I was back in sixth gear and tearing across New Mexico and soon, Arizona. The Priest went with Frances to exorcise demons from some of the women she rescued, and ones she would rescue. I had no idea that she was a devout Roman Catholic—another Joan of Arc. The Southwest was as close to a literal Hell as there was on Earth. The excessive heat and fires have kept most people out of the area, even road gangs, since around 2032 when they say the Devil cranked up the heat or crawled from the pits of Hell to retire in Tucson. According to the Priest, this is exactly what happened. But some people believe it was due to years of forsaking the environment and excessive pollution, others blame illegals. There is no such thing as snowfall, anywhere, and there are extreme droughts in most of the world which have caused wars that have killed billions and continue to do so as I think.

Ho hum.

Somewhere on a sign representing Earth along the highway of the Universe it says in vibrant flashing neon, “Vacancy!”

The heat doesn’t bother me. The woozy feeling in my head doesn’t bother me. Neither does the pain. Slowly, over the miles I felt that I was gradually recovering. According to the radio, I was still a legitimate contender because a few hundred of the top racers were taken out by The Dead Babies and other gangs in a slaughter through Kansas, shortly before I passed through which I hadn't seen. At one point, apparently, I even led the race. Heathcliff Bernard was on the radio laughing erratically and going bananas. “Hell,” he says, “this is surely turning out to be one hell of a race! Ain’t it folks?!” According to Dole McMillian, I was developing a cult following. Leagues of dedicated fans turned out to watch me drive. Ratings peaked when they thought I was about to die but sadly they didn't have any of it on camera. Shirts with Ruby on them and me clutching her wheel were being printed up by entrepreneurial silk-screeners and sold in bars and on the streets of major cities and small town flea markets. “The American!” or “Blatz!” they screamed. I am ranked number 156 of the dogs chasing the rabbit.

....

On the radio, Zombie Bela Lugosi endorses California bug food—chocolate covered ants; caramel caterpillars; grilled scorpion, roasted spiders, sugar fried worms; and baked crickets. Bugs, catfish, carp and rats are staples in most modern diets. Following Mr. Lugosi, more news catches my attention. An enlightened Charles Darwin returned from the grave and sought again to publish his theories of evolution, finally figuring out what he had previously left out. He sent his book to the same publisher I zealously once did and probably got the same "in short go fuck yourself" rejection letter from Carlos Tequila. Zombie Charles Darwin was reportedly dejected by how stupid the world had become—the regression of evolution. No one was interested in reading his book because it didn’t have pictures or pornography. Darwin tried to dumb down his work for the masses and even tried to explain the de-evolution. But due to a lack of publisher interest he was forced to self-publish his great work, which he grudgingly called, Monkey Business...

 ....

 On President Harry Rosenbloom's gravemarker it reads, "Here lies President Harry Rosenbloom, aka Kitten Lips, beloved son, going to sleep one last time." Apparently, when he was tucked in he too was "kitten lips" to his mother. I sincerely hope my mother doesn't embarrass me that way.