by C.L. Bunnell
stimulated their senses, and why would it be any other way?
I mean—there were so many questions that needed to be answered. Questions like: “where are you going?” “How long will it take?” “What are the chances of survival?” “Why did you name the rocket: ‘Daisy Doughnut?’”
All were important for there are no stupid questions. And they waited patiently as Spaceman Dan tested the mic... Stacy was behind him, standing close and holding his hair.
The camera’s started flashing again—their bulbs lit up the stage, blinding those who stood upon it. Behind Spaceman, a massive plasma screen came on, showing those in the back a better view. “Document it all!” was the word-of-the-day, because most thought this the last they would see of the Spaceman.
Speaking of Spaceman, he looked good on this day. He looked professional, and he wore pants and a buttoned-up shirt. He wore shoes that covered his toes although he wore no socks. He stepped forward, closer to the microphone. Stacy—nervous—followed close behind.
“First Question!” Spaceman said, and what looked to be a million hands went up in the air. Then—they started shouting and the noise was defining: “ME!—ME!—ME! …
Spaceman took his time. Then he pointed to a man in the back of the crowd. “You—go ahead!”
The man cleared his throat, and the crowd turned silent. When he could be heard, when he was sure all would hear this first question, he asked: “Is it true—that you are not an American?”
Spaceman looked confused. “I’m American … yes!”
“Isn’t it true you were born in Libya?” Now the crowd started rumbling.
“I was yes—but my parents were there on vacation!”
“No one goes to Libya on vacation!” Someone shouted.
“Was that a question?” Spaceman asked, but the only one speaking now was the man he chose for the first question.
“Isn’t it true your name isn’t Spaceman Dan—but really ‘Baby Karri?’”
“My parents called me that when I was young. But only as a nickname!” Spaceman said, and he could feel the mood change now. The crowd looked to be frozen in time; their mouths open. But no more questions were asked. No one cared where he was going. How long it will take, or his chance of survival.
Now –the only thing that mattered was his facial expressions, and the cameras were there to catch it. Photographing a sequence that would be on the front page of every newspaper in America. Maybe even the world!
Spaceman tried to explain, but it was as though no one wanted to hear anything else. They had found a flaw and flaws are what make the news. They are what brings down the highest of giants, and deflates the biggest of heads. And they had it, to hear more could possibly take it away—and no one wanted to take that chance.
Spaceman—now desperate—turned to the right, Gerald Stagman was gone. He could see the back of those Asian ladies, their hair greased in place. They weren’t turning around, and they were close to running.
General William P. Colton, was still there, but his gun was drawn and pointing at Spaceman. He was crouched down, both hands held that pistol—he was ready to fire, and Spacemen was sure things couldn’t get any worse. But then—he felt his hair fall. First down his back, then around his shoulders, within a moment, his face was covered. He could hear Stacy, her hard soled shoes pounding as she stomped off the stage.
“Don’t you move—MAGGOT!” He heard and knew this was the General speaking. So he did as he was told. And lust like that—Spaceman Dan was done.
Newspapers were recollected, burned and new ones were printed: “SPACEMAN DAN IS A LESBIAN!” The front page read, “HER LOVER CALLS HER BABY KARRI!”
From there it got worse. They talked about her hair, how now they knew why it was so important. His American name, ‘Dan,’ was short for ‘Danita.’ His skin, face, height—it all made sense now.
Suddenly, there was talk of how she walked around with nothing covering her breasts. The children’s eyes had been violated. Politicians wanted to know if she voted; if so, did it count? Should they have a re-count?
A Senate committee was appointed—immediately—to seek out answers. Witnesses were called from all around the country, from Daytona Florida to Great Bear Lake Canada. The President wanted answers.
Laws needed to be passed, laws that made sure all breasts were covered. And long speeches were made, filibusters they were called as the Senate couldn’t understand the proposed changes. Why a bill that started out as three pages long was now well over three hundred pages. All those riders that were attached as the bill was passed around.
It seemed that as long as Zoltron could sell defective sheep membrane rubbers—then all breasts would be covered! And they were because the bill passed and why not, sex is a gamble, and there’s no warranty on condoms. And there’s a cure for cancer, but not any longer because the only way Senator Forrester would vote yes was if the F.D.A. would play ball and shelf that cure.
And why wouldn’t they? I mean, that’s all the government needs—more people living long enough to collect their social security. I mean, the President had already spent that money making sure the South didn’t win. And that cash was well spent because he damn sure didn’t want to be the one to tell the American people that slavery was legal again. I mean—with all the machinery that’s out there now, what would the plantation owners do with all those hands?
No, sir! That wasn’t going to happen on his watch!
Then there were the history books which were pulled from schools—burned. Pictures removed from walls—burned. Each and every long haired man ran to barbers to have it cut short. The woman talked to their children, men watched the news as the stock market plummeted. All was lost with the last pictures shown of Spaceman Dan were of him as he was escorted by armed guards onto a plane—deported!
The American people were feeling the strain as were the men who made sure Spaceman left the country. There was a loud scream from one of the guards—something about his son’s purity—and even though Spaceman was now thought to be a woman, she was a lesbian woman and so this guard pistol whipped Ole Spaceman right before the jet door closed.
It was all on television, and everyone cheered. The plane was scheduled to leave at six in the evening. This was to ensure everyone could watch live as Baby Karri left the country. And as soon as that plane took flight—a party broke out in the streets. Men were in bars watching, “drinks all around!” Was screamed out. This went on for two days, not slowing until the news wore it down to what it was.
Old news—yesterday’s news.
A new angle was needed, and they found it. Now—the news people were in Libya and reporting on the highly anticipated arrival of Baby Karri!
Now, they showed footage of the plane landing. They showed the Libyan people cheering. A beautiful young woman standing on the tarmac, waiting anxiously with her hands out for no other reason than to hold his hair.
Spaceman exited the plane, never looking at the camera. The people in America were stunned, he wasn’t a lesbian—he was from Libya. They wondered why the press hadn’t made that clear? They began to think it may have been a little drastic to burn all the school books. The mothers had to once again speak to their children, the stock market continued its descent. Men with short hair stood for hours in front of mirrors thinking of what was. There was no cure for cancer, breast had to be covered, and condoms weren’t safe anymore. The only way they would be was if those membranes were still in the sheep.
Perhaps that was what Zoltron should have put on the wrapper.
The Daisy Doughnut sat alone in the hanger. The President was lost in thought over whether there was a God. If not, would that mean all the holy men would be arrested for falsely leading the public? He wondered what would become of all the churches? What about the money that was collected and given to God –who would get it? Would the President get it? If so—would he return it?
“Hell-no!” He whispered, “They way the South conti
nues to show up ready for battle—we’ll always need it ….” He raised his fist to the ceiling. “Curse them Rebels! And curse you Lincoln for not finishing what you started!”
“He did—sir,” Lenny was sitting in the room. “And he would have done so much more if he hadn’t been shot down.”
“Wasn’t he a Republican?”
“He started the party, sir.”
“Serves him right then!”
“But you’re a Republican.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“Shoot … we’re so much alike these days, it’s hard to keep track.”
“I know sir. You told me that was why they had to assign seats. So they could remember what side they were on.”
“And it’s been awhile since I sat in the Senate with them.”
“I know sir …. I know …. No one will look down on you for forgetting.”
“I'm not worried, I mean, I got all the breasts covered—didn’t I.”
“You did, sir.”
“You think that’ll be enough to get me reelected?”
“Others been elected for doing less.”
“Yeah, the peasants are moron’s,” he said, as he walked to the window. He took a long draw off his cigarette, he inhaled deeply and he could because Presidents don’t die from Cancer. And they don’t get aids, and there is no such thing as Herpes sores. The truth is, there’s few mysteries when it comes to the human body or how to cure it. And Ex-Presidents seem to