One could, I suppose, if apologies for Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder, were valid, be forgiven for expecting that Oldschool Johnson, self-appointed music moderator of the expedition, would have plugged some classic hip hop into our audio-feed. Such a respectful nod to tradition and the upholding of the greatest Change Based musical tradition in human his/herstory, was, sorrowfully, not to be as we wended our way up Red Rock Canyon to serve the longest standing Geographic Privilege Warrant in Justice Service his/herstory…
Instead, amazingly, and seemingly in honor of the hate-filled fiend we sought, the playlist was nothing but David Allan Coe, some extinct racist redneck, assaulting the ears of this officer with such melodies as Cum on My Pillow, Finger Fucking Sally in the Alley and I’m a Good Ol Rebel—shamelessly glorifying the misdeeds of the most hate-filled race of humans ever to crush the Universal Spirit. Suffice it to say that I have been emotionally disabled by the audio feed and have taken off my headset and given over command to Oldschool, for he knows the way, up this one lonely, red-cliffed road into the outer reaches of some reclusive altar of hate…
Video Feed
Wellness walk courses, Tibetan bowl audio cemeteries, meadow mouse bridges over man-made streams, defying nature by flowing downhill according to that savage will-to-power of European sub-humanity with His thirst for geo-engineering, and Joshua Tree Group Suicide Love scaffolds are bathed in the reddish dust kicked up by the Ghost Catcher, as Oldschool Johnson, rumbles from his gun turret , “Dare I wuz, finga’ fuckin’ Sally in dat Alley!” which, for some disturbing reason, Crankshaft Witherspoon had routed into the video record as subtitles…
Onward and upward, snaking up the canyon, below Horsetooth Ridge, National Memorial for the Mountain Lion Rights Federation—where, so the story goes, a jogger once strangled a mountain lion who had supposedly attacked him, eventually leading to the outlawing of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu in Justice Service Territories—the crew of the black machine wending with its two hulls and ten wheels among Earth’s sacred creases, sought its savage quarry, holed up in these here fastnesses for lo these forty years….
Finally, the vehicle pulled to a halt before a small man in sandals, rainbow yoga pants and a purple polo shirt, a pink sun visor shielding his eyes against the pitiless late summer sun, ice and snow streaking the grassy reaches of mountainside just above and behind his tiny form.
Principle Warrant Officer Dessalines vaulted athletically from his port and signaled for Crankshaft Witherspoon to quiet the engine, even as Acetylene Jackson emerged from his driver port to pull ground security, promptly shoved the Community Contact down in the road and snarled, “Niggar, is you stuppit—ged da fuck out ma road!”
The little man in pink visor leaped to his feet aghast pointing his finger up into the pitiless face of Jackson and blurted, “Fella, you know who I am—you know your fucking life just ended—that you’ll be changing snow treads on ice breaker trucks in upstate New York, before—”
“Ayyye!” the man sang as he was held by the shoulders and shaken like a rat, “Get it off! Get it off—Warrant Officer!”
Mainline Watson leapt to the rescue and restrained Jackson from killing the local Community Standards Executive, giving Warrant Officer Dessalines a chance to interceded, “Mister G…”
To finish reading Ghost Snatcher in its original form, contact James at jameslafond dot-com at gmail dot-com for a pdf in return for a couch spot, a hot meal or just a cup of coffee, or wait until 2020 when it is released as a paperback.
Ghost Snatcher is complete at 14,597 words and 117 pages, a first draft being sent off for proof reading and editing on 12/31/10.
