Fake News

by G L Rockey

  Zack studied Joe, “And?”

  “Let’s just say, algo está pasando.”

  “So, what’s happening?”

  “Si.”

  “Yes is happening?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Who?”

  “Pi.”

  “You, ah, run with those Pi guys a lot?”

  Toothy smile: “Let’s just say Kim does.”

  “Come on, Joe, what is the something that’s up?”

  “I think Benny is making a move.”

  “Move?”

  He puffed his cigar. “Article One, Section Nine, Paragraph Two of the U.S. Constitution mean anything to you?”

  Zack studied him for a second. “I’m not up on my Constitutional arroz con camarones.”

  “The privilege of the writ of habeas corpus shall not be suspended, unless when in cases of rebellion or invasion the public safety may require it.”

  “So?”

  “That’s a big ‘so,’ my friend. Then there’s Article Four, Section Four.”

  Zack looked at him, “Like I said”

  “Article Four, Section Four: ‘The United States government shall protect each State against invasion and/or domestic violence’” Joe raised a finger. “‘on application of the Legislature’” He puffed then blew smoke in the air. “‘or, when the Legislative cannot be convened, the Executive branch can act unilaterally.’” He smiled. “Get it?”

  “Benny is the Executive.”

  “Yep. Ben can lock up your mother, call up the military, declare martial law, control transportation, communication, restrict travel—you name it.”

  “What about that or-when stuff, when the legislature can’t be convened?”

  “Those guys are out of town, gone fishing twenty six weeks a year, that’s not a problem, Benny can unilateral till the cows come home, pretty much any time he chooses.”

  “No, he can’t.”

  “On top of all of the above–emergency powers statutes, Patriot Act revisions, additions, whereas and where fores–yes he can.”

  “You’re up on this stuff.” Zack paused. “What move, you said before, is Ben up to?”

  “A recording.”

  “May I hear?”

  “It’s patchy, got fudged up, we’re piecing it together.”

  “May I help?”

  “Not now.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t knownot sure yetlike I said, recording got fouled up.”

  Kim called over the bar, “Case, customer at booth two wants to see the owner.”

  Joe puffed his cigar. “Be right back.”

  “Be nice.”

  In a minute, Joe returned. “Guy wanted to impress his date, said he knew me.”

  “Was she?”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway, where were we?”

  “You know Benny’s Phoenix buddy, Lem Beaulieu?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Bananas, hamburger joints, fried chicken, exercise machines, diet patches, banks; Lem owns all over the place.” He studied Zack, knew of the Jesuit line in his resume, scratched his chin, said, “I’m confused.”

  “What?”

  “Parable of the talents, them that have shall get more, them that have not shall get less.”

  “You referring to Matthew twenty-five?” Zack said.

  “Verse twenty-nine.”

  A little surprised: “You do know it.”

  “That surprise you?”

  Zack said, “That ‘more’ thing–to everyone who has will be given more–isn’t about money, it’s about using your talents, time, gifts, you know.”

  Joe shook his head. “Doesn’t jive.”

  “I didn’t write it.” Zack chewed. “What about the recording?”

  Ignoring him, “And there’s another Benny pal, Linda Roy, can move fifty billion on the stock exchanges at the snap of her fingers. She, along with six others, can have that exchange hopping like a grasshopper.”

  “Maybe the catechism gals and guys got it wrong, maybe Matthew twenty-five, twenty nine is about money”

  “You think?”

  “I don’t honestly know,” Zack said.

  “I think you do.” Joe noticed another couple standing to leave. “Be right back.”

  When Joe returned he continued like he had never left.

  “And despite all the jawing about alternate fuel, shale, electric gadgets, there’s the problem of developing countries, world demand, trade deficits, a lot of U.S. dinero is ending up in the hands of countries that don’t like us two cents worthLem and Linda, some of their friendsBenny included, they don’t like that so much.

  “And many of those guys we been cagando en, they have extra-long memorieshate our guts down to here.” He pointed to the floor.

  “Some would say, with reason.”

  “We need to talk to our brothers. Instead, we bomb them, starve them, kill them–for what? To sell them hamburgers? TV sitcoms? High heel shoes?” He put his hand under his chin, “skirts up to hereI’m telling you, it’s coming home to roost.”

  “I see you feel strongly about this.”

  “Hypocrisysupporting monarchies around the world, toppling governments the U.S. doesn’t like. The CIA puts so called dissidents into a foreign country to stir up the pot, say they want to create an independent, free democratic societyit’s mierda del torothe so called dissidents are funded and controlled by our government. The cost is nuts, not only in money, but in human livesand for what? To further the interests of capitalists?”

  Case studied Zack’s eyes, said, “A honcho in your former organization had it right.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Pope Francis.”

  Zack, a little surprised, asked, “And what did Francis have right?”

  “He said, when banks fail it’s a disaster, when people die of hunger, have no place to sleep it’s, oh well.” Case shook his head, “Men kill, women weep, children die.”

  “One thing about this that’s puzzling me.”

  “What?”

  Zack looked around The Bimini Road, indicating the interior with his fork. “Are not you a capitalist?”

  “If I’m a capitalist, Kim is Miss Singapore.”

  “You better be careful, you’ll end up in your black bean soup.”

  “What about you?”

  “What?”

  “Capitalist.”

  “You mean The Bocait buys gas for Veracity, a little left over for Bohemia, shrimp, rice, fishing bait.” Zack ate his last shrimp.

  Joe fixated: “Who made America capo de capo tutti of the worldbecause we shower three times a day?”

  “Some of us don’t.” Zack smiled.

  “Kill from afar. Bombing from the sky is like the Fourth of July; bombing from a bus is different stuff.”

  “Hey, Joe, that’s not bad.”

  “Drone, cruise missile well placed—good for ten stars and a Hail-to-the-Chief.”

  “You’re on a roll.”

  “Billion-dollar weight-loss industry while millions starve. It’s insane. Greedy master with sharp teeth, obscene appetite. Profit has no home.”

  “Case, you sound like a Marxist.”

  “Marx had it wrong.” He pointed up. “There’s a better way.”

  Zack chewing on a shrimp and Joe’s meaning, said, “You mean religion?”

  “Hardly. Too many fingers in that pie.”

  “What, then?”

  “Love, hate. Order, chaos. Blackness, light. Give, take. Mostly take.” His eyes narrowed. “How many steaks can you eat a week? We live, on this Eden, a tiny speck of dust in vast universe, to date only life discovered, all of us even smaller specks, three races–Negroid, Mongoloid, Caucasoid–all basically the same, killing each other over lines on a map, religion, whose god is god.” He paused for a moment. “You do realize that at any given moment, in the hands of these ego idiot fat cats living in glass
mansions a mile in the sky, big as a mountain, protecting their turf, bank accounts, all life—you, me, Kim, all of us—are ten minutes from extinction, the whole kit and caboodle.”

  He studied Zack’s face, said, “And who will say the eulogy at that funeral?”

  “I sense you feel deeply about this.”

  “And all for what, buck-a-gallon gas.” He hit the table. “My black bean soup can give you that!”

  Laughing, he hit the table again. “Just kidding. But something hedores en el woodpile.”

  “Who’s woodpile?”

  “Armstrong’s.”

  “What’s it smell like?”

  “Road kill.”

  About to take a last bite of rice, Zack said, “Sorry I asked.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “What recording?”

  Joe put a finger to his chest. “Who, me?”

  Zack indexed humor, fact, rumor and what he knew of Case’s Pi clientele. “This have anything to do with your Pi pals?”

  “Let’s just say, U.S. military superioritytwo, maybe three years we’re top dogthen” Joe pursed his lips, “Then it’s over.”

  New customers arriving, Case stood. “Want another Bohemia?”

  “Sure, but tell me about this other up-thing, stink in the woodpile, you were talking about. Something is up. The recording?”

  Joe grinned, “You’ll be the first to know when the up is down. One Bohemia coming up,” and left.

  Finished with dinner, longing for a cigarette but instead popping a stick of Juicy Fruit, Zack eased out of the booth and stood.

  Leaving his New York Times companion scattered about the table, passing the bar he spoke to Kim. “You taking good care of Case?”

  “Always.”

  “Thank you.”

  At the cash register Zack extended compliments. “Case, I don’t know how you do it. Cook, wait tables, lecture and twenty-five dollars for all of it.” Zack threw the guest-check along with a twenty-dollar bill, a five and a single on the counter.

  Case, familiar with Zackary’s tipping habits, wiped his fingers on his T-shirt and drilled his gaze into Zack. “Mary O’Brien, just a second ago, called again. I told her you wasn’t here.”

  “Answer the phone, too. You are amazing.”

  Case grinned. “On the house.”

  “What did Ms. O’Briennever mind.”

  Case rang up the sale.

  Zack thought for a moment then said, “Anyway, I’m going to the office, work to do, study the President’s footwork.” He paused. “What you said earliersomething’s up. When you get more, let me know.”

  “I hear you, Father.” He winked. “And watch out for O’Brien’s left hook.”

  Zack thought about correcting the Father connotation but didn’t want to upset Case’s illusion, his image or the arroz con camarones. O’Brien was another matter.

  Chapter Five

  Savoring the exotic outside air, Zack popped a stick of Juicy Fruit and Joe Case’s dinner topics–a recording, something’s up, stink in Armstrong’s woodpile, capitalism, talking to our brothers, masters of the world, profit has no home–bounced in, out and around images of O’Brien–young, alive, quarrelsome, brilliant (actually, genius), eyes like the blue of a-a-a what? How about just blue. Cropped hair, blond hair the color of beach sand, always disheveled, almost too big fleshy nose but not too, high cheekbones, unpainted lips the shape of–

  Joe stuck his head out the front door. “Hey champ, phone.”

  “Who?”

  “Three guesses, first two don’t count.”

  “Tell hertell her I’m not here.”

  “Later.” Joe disappeared inside.

  “O’Brien.” Zack shook his head. It’s insane, never work, fantasy.

  He went back to the comments Joe had been talking about, especially the “something’s up,” a “stink” in Armstrong’s woodpile.

  Maybe Joe is talking with Pi people too much, he thought and glanced at his marine wristwatch. In less than an hour, the much-ballyhooed Armstrong speech might offer some clues.

  “Day becomes night, night becomes day, fish fly, birds swim, Tweedledee, Tweedledum, virtual reality,” he said as he squeezed into his Subaru, coaxed it to life, cranked the air to max, punched into traffic and headed to North Miami, The Boca, and what had become a Sunday night ritual–getting a jump-start on the upcoming week. The routine also assuaged an emptiness left from his previous life’s Sunday night cloistered rituals. But tonight, beyond the personal void, a nutty insanity romped round the longitudes and latitudes of Planet Earth, he thought. He recalled again Joe Case’s comments—love/hate, order/chaos, blackness/light, give/take, how many steaks can you eat a week?

  He glanced up. “What do You think?”

  Paused, no response coming, he said, “That’s what I figured.”

  His thoughts went to a Variety article he had read some time ago about President Armstrong:

  Star of ABC’s sit-com Meat Loaf, Benjamin Armstrong, after ABC splitsvilled his TV show, has had what he called “an on-the-road-to-Damascus” jolt.

  More a nervous breakdown, Zack thought and remembered other highlights of the Variety article:

  After his sit-com went bust, Armstrong returned to Spartanburg and, feeling that Damascus jolt more intensely, turned TV evangelist/faith healer. His ministry boasting a million followers, he claimed another “blinding light’s voice” called him to run for President of the United States.

  Zack wiped his mouth with his hand, muttered, “And now the snake handler is Commander-in-Chief of the largest military machine in the history of Adam and Eve’s vegetable patch.”

  He glanced up, “Anybody listening?”

  His phone rang. He didn’t answer.

  Dodging around traffic, Zack mulled Armstrong’s resume, partially gleaned from his autobiography, God’s Way, My Way, The Only Way–son of Piedmont Media owner George Barnes Armstrong...mother, daughter of the American Revolution, Ida Shaffer...great-great-grandfather Luke, cousin to some English duke...Ben a backyard barbecue king, famous pecan pie maker, married to Gertrude McCartney, daughter of a fast-food king...no children...

  Zack stopped at a red light and said to his car, “Benjamin Armstrong, saved by a blinding lights, short time after which he began a television ministry, The Miracle Touched...sweeping victory in 2020...now president, Commander-in-Chief of the United States of America.”

  He filed the book stuff and came to mind what he had found about Armstrong when nosing around the internet—Benjamin Paul Armstrong, only son of media mogul George Barnes Armstrong who owned, last count, two hundred and ten radio and TV properties in the Southeast...as George plowed broadcasting gold, Benny earned a B.A. from the University of South Carolina, theater major, emphasis acting...first job a weatherman at Daddy’s Spartanburg TV station...short time later he popped up at L.A.’s hottest production studio, became the star of the hit ABC sit-com Meat Loaf, which ran for nine years until Benny’s character, Meat Loaf, had a sex change operation...TV ratings gone south, ABC canceled the show, Ben found the Lord and, with the help of Daddy’s broadcasting empire, became TV evangelist/faith healer extraordinaire...regular visits to Phoenix’s billionaires Linda Roy and Lem Beaulieu...inherited, when Daddy died, billions...a Jack Daniels connoisseur...past community activities include President of the National Association of Religious Broadcasters, Past President of the National Association of Broadcasters, Chairperson of the South Carolina’s Tallyho Beagle and Rifle Club...list went on and on...

  The light changed, Zack pulled away, and his mind went to another story he had dug up in a thirty-year-old issue of the Spartanburg Herald Journal that had Benny serving for a brief stint as a Grand Duke of the Spartanburg County Gaggle of the KKK White Knights.

  The KKK connection denied by Ben with reported threats of bodily harm to those reporting it, Zack said to his car, “No wonder in South Carolina politics Ben’s name is associated with Vaseline, cod
liver oil and rails.”

  Zack went over a summary of all the above and concluded–red-white-and-blue, absolutely qualified, blue-ribbon cut and dried, TV star turned preacher with his finger on the button, and where we go from here is anybody’s guess—only in America.”

  He wiped his face with his palm, thought, And all that blinding light smoothness, coupled with a promise to deliver peace to an American people weary of terrorist alerts, drive-by shootings, Uzi-toting terrorists and the flashy, gold-loving, lying sonofamother, with a few billion bucks spread around television commercials, bagged him, with thirty percent of the vote, the three-way 2020 Presidential election!

  Zack sucked his front teeth, thought, Like Joe said, you get what you pray for. He paused. Or is it you get what you pay for? In any case, Benny had U-hauled his fat saddlebag chops into the White House and the fabric of world history on a TV sit-com and a prayer. He looked up. “And Thy wonder has been wrought.”

  Driving easy in lighter traffic, Zack put his thoughts to a draft editorial for Wednesday’s The Boca.

  Many things about President Benny bother us. Two are what Ben might call golly-wumpers. First wumper is his subtle reference to “innate racial behavioral patterns” and what he calls,” their relation to the spreading terrorists’ gangland violence that is hemorrhaging America to death.” The other wumper, most troubling, is his reference to divine guidance, “a hallowed voice” that he alone is privy to.

  Zack pondered aloud. “But then, what do I know? Maybe he does talk to God. Maybe God talks to him. And maybe the Second Coming came.”

  His phone rang. He ignored it.

  Chapter Six

  Formally Oscar’s Health Studio, Zack had converted the two-story end unit of the San Luis shopping strip into a home for his The Boca. The strip resembled a south-of-the-border movie set—beige stucco walls, exposed wood beams and, stuck front center, a pink flamingo fountain set in a Bermuda grass oval with hibiscus and struggling palms. Anchoring the mini-mall, the San Luis Cafe offered free nachos with an order of two burritos. Just outside, next to the café entrance, a pay phone advertised international calling to Mexico.

  Zack parked in a slot near the front door and repeated the incentive he invoked when recruiting minimum wage help.