An Assful of Secrets (a noir in several interstices)
I debarked the plane at Bush Airport in Wingnutopolis, in the great state of Wingnuttia.
At 6AM on a hot, off-season morning, the terminal had only a few travelers on the move: middle-aged men cracker-walking in short-sleeved polyester dress shirts; younger men galumphing around in backwards baseball caps and Toby Keith concert T’s, or in Jr. Attorney suits; frumpy women… And of course the occasional leather-clad hot-cha girlie with a crazy look in her eye.
The terminal was well-swept but seedy — the windows were blurry with dirt, and it smelled like old resentment and boiled carpet. The book shop was pure Regnery, the restaurants deregulated and poorly-run. Wingnutopolis, my old family demesne. I was back.
But this time, I was on a secret mission.
***
I’m not sure where this is going, but I’m gonna guess it involves anal rape (and if it doesn’t, it should- you can never get enough of stuff like that).
huzzah for anal rape!
Bully, anal rape, bully!
I, for one, am on the edge of my seat. This has everything a hot-summer-spy-mystery-thriller needs: protagonist in a new, but bad, place … nudity (yes, I know it’s only word ‘naked’ on a guys shirt, but there’s promise) … the frumpy women bring us right back to reality with a jolt, though! We have all lived this! If I was an editor, I would ask that the opening scene take place in the departing airport, if only for the suspense of whether the leather-clad hot-cha girlie had the seat next to G, but we know that NEVER happens, so this works.
—and it smelled like old resentment and boiled carpet—
Jeebus, I’m wishing Bogart was alive to play the lead in the film.
May the vicious and blood-thirsty G-D of the fundies take pity on any fool who lands in Houston after the Ides of March, for no one else will.
Drown yourself in Buffalo Bayou, my friend, before the traders ingest your immortal soul.
The best thing about Bush AyarPor’ is the fucking rad statue of Bush p?re, stuck in some long corridor between gate thingies. He’s about seven feet tall, and the best part is that he’s holding his coat over his shoulder, and the hot Texas wind (of opportunity) is blowing it straight back like a cape. Looks like Superman. Meant to depict the Connecticut Yankee gazing out over the wasteland (it remains) and seeing flipping great wodges of cash. It’s awesome.
I had to Google “demesne”. If this is going to be an ongoing trend, will Sadly, No be available in Coles Notes?
..and is this going to on the final?
“I sidled up to the airport bar and ordered a whiskey sour, stopping once to readjust my package.
“This drew the attention of a smoking South Pacific dame with lips like hot adobo, legs that could topple a log cabin, and a yen for internment. “But the poor broad had caught me after my hangover had already flipped to a drunk. ‘Let me get this straight,’ I slurred, ‘if the dune coons are today what the Japs were in the ’40s, does that make your people the Greeks or the Irish?’
“It was nonsense — it meant less than nothing. But not quite as much as the sucker punch she landed on my kisser…”
coed naked volleyball shirts? Is this one of those throwback stories to the early 90’s? Or do people in wingnuttia still wear those things?
Yosef’s got the spoiler for episode 2!:
“Sir, can I borrow a white cross? Well, I forgot mine. Oh, I see what you mean. I usually strap one around my head to keep from being searched at the airport…like that 80 year old white lady with the “I Love Allah” t-shirt. Thanks. Can I have another one to plant in the floor? What? Well, I intend to point it toward the sky, kneel down, and say a quick prayer to God. I told you, I don’t want to get searched. I’m running late because of that guy at the counter.
(snip)
Hi son, what is your name? You sure are fast. I’ve never seen a kid run so fast from one end of the airport to the other. Too bad your yuppie white parents aren’t nearby to see this. I have an idea. See that sign that says “security check point: Do NOT enter”? If you run about ten yards past it, that makes 100 yards. I’ll time you with my stop watch. Ready? Set? GO!
(snip)
How old are you, ma’am? I mean, you just look so young to have five children and six Bibles. What are their names? No, I mean the children. Oh, I thought his name was Jesus Christ. Never mind. How old is the one who keeps banging his head on the window? Do you think that might cause stupidity? or is it the stupidity that causes him to be born to a wingnut like you in the first place? Yes, it really is a lot like the chicken and the egg, isn’t it? Genes aren’t important, are they, in fact they don’t even exist because God would have had to have created them and let them evole? Oh nothing, never mind.”
Thank you Dr. Professor Mike! (For those who don’t know, see WoC from 6/6)
Wait a minute, this isn’t fiction or a joke. I just looked at the time of the post and it’s 1:10 am eastern. I live in eastern and right now it’s 11:50 pm. Methinks something’s afoot…
“This drew the attention of a smoking South Pacific dame with lips like hot adobo, legs that could topple a log cabin, and a yen for internment.
[laughing to the point of wheezing]
Her lips were like longanisa, but her brain was more like balut.
And for blood, she had bacoong.
A conspiracy is afoot.