Conversations With the Crow

by Gregory Douglas

  RTC: Anyone killed?

  GD: No, no one killed but a great deal of damage. Some of my classmates who were present called me the next morning and, being a curious person, I drove over to the school. Of course a janitor told me the main hall was a mess and I couldn’t go down it but I convinced him I had a family Bible in my locker and I needed to get it. I’m a pretty good con man and he let me through and off I went. Merciful Jesus, Robert, what a mess I saw that day. The high school orchestra had been playing, endlessly and always out of tune, Elgar’s Pimp and Circumcision march while respectful students trekked up the aisles past adoring parents to get their diplomas. My, and just then, there was a great flash and a roar somewhere off to the left followed by the rapid descent of many Spanish roof tiles into the outdoor auditorium. Window glass burst out upon them and there was a rain of tile upon their heads. Panic. Screaming parents running around. Toppled metal chairs. Fleeing school officials, the local Methodist minister who was blessing people, the school choir and orchestra. By the way, high school orchestras ought to be banned on principle. They are a standing affront to music lovers. So Pompeii with Vesuvius erupting is what it was. I was establishing my alibi at the time and enjoying the idea of good French food when the disaster came upon them but from the havoc and wreckage I was able to observe, coupled with the hysterical and disjointed reports of my peers, I pieced the whole thing together. Tipped over metal chairs, abandoned mortar boards, sheet music fluttering in the wind, blood stains, shattered tiles, and on the stage, a tipped-over lectern, the school flag hanging by one corner, more scattered chairs and, I have always remembered this poignant touch, a base viola lying abandoned where its terrified wielder had abandoned it. Oh, the sacred patio? Oh my, what a shambles. The statue was blasted into dust and all that remained was a corroded copper pipe squirting water into an empty basin that had been breached almost totally. Sacred, dated sections were scattered all over the patio along with the ruptured remains of the carp, bamboo, roof tiles and a broken bench once occupied by the elite. The fires had been caused when the wall of the chemistry lab had blown in, knocking all the chemicals onto the floor. Some combination of their contents had started a raging fire that had burnt up into the attic and roared through it like crap through a goose. My, my, what a finale to my distress and grief- laden school years. No one was seriously injured but there were plenty of scalp cuts that tended to bleed a bit, trampled musical instruments and, of course, major damage to the school in general and the sacred precincts of the elite in specific. Dead carp, smashed altar and ruined bushes all laid out for me to view with awe and great joy. Now there is my explosive adventure, Robert. Have you anything to say?

  RTC: Lucky no one was killed.

  GD: That’s a matter of opinion, Robert. I can quickly think of at least two or three dozen people I could have wished visiting the sacred carp for the last time and wondering what all those little road flares were doing strapped around the fat-assed cupid. Just before the cap went off. I wasn’t planning on such an occurrence but sometimes life gives you little bonuses.

  RTC: (Laughter) And all of this so soon before Christmas, Gregory. And you got away with it, I assume?

  GD: I did indeed. One could say that I went out with a bang. A very large one, Robert, very large. Another precious memory to treasure in moments of distress and grief. Haven’t you any such moments?

  RTC: No, thank God.

  GD: Just revolutions, assassinations and exploding airliners instead. Well, whatever pleases you, Robert.

  (Concluded 1:38 PM CST)

  To His Coy Mistress

  Andrew Marvell. 1621–1678

  HAD we but world enough, and time

  This coyness, Lady, were no crime

  We would sit down and think which way

  To walk and pass our long love's day.

  Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

  Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide

  Of Humber would complain. I would

  Love you ten years before the Flood,

  And you should, if you please, refuse

  Till the conversion of the Jews.

  My vegetable love should grow

  Vaster than empires, and more slow;

  An hundred years should go to praise

  Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;

  Two hundred to adore each breast,

  But thirty thousand to the rest;

  An age at least to every part,

  And the last age should show your heart

  For, Lady, you deserve this state,

  Nor would I love at lower rate.

  But at my back I always hear

  Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;

  And yonder all before us lie

  Deserts of vast eternity.

  Thy beauty shall no more be found,

  Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

  My echoing song: then worms shall try

  That long preserved virginity,

  And your quaint honour turn to dust,

  And into ashes all my lust:

  The grave 's a fine and private place,

  But none, I think, do there embrace.

  Now therefore, while the youthful hue

  Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

  And while thy willing soul transpires

  At every pore with instant fires,

  Now let us sport us while we may,

  And now, like amorous birds of prey,

  Rather at once our time devour

  Than languish in his slow-chapt power

  Let us roll all our strength and all

  Our sweetness up into one ball,

  And tear our pleasures with rough strife

  Thorough the iron gates of life:

  Thus, though we cannot make our sun

  Stand still, yet we will make him run

  Conversation No. 113

  Date: Wednesday, December 1,1997

  Commenced: 11:22 AM CST

  Concluded: 11:55 AM PST

  RTC: Good morning to you, Gregory. I wanted to have a little talk with you about your books and other matters. Do you have some time now?

  GD: Oh, certainly.

  RTC: Some people I know of are getting very unhappy with you and your books. The books about Mueller and us. I don’t tell you about some of this but over the past six-eight months I have been contacted, both in person and on the phone, concerning you and your activities. First of all, your detractors have advised me that you are a criminal, a crook, a convict, a dope addict, a mental case, a spy for some foreign country and many other sins of commission. Naturally, I have taken notes and, even more important, I have taken down names and such other information as telephone numbers and, when I can find them, home addresses. And poor Emily has been spoken to about my contacts with you. She has no idea what we talk about and, as is usual with CIA wives, she knows very little about my activities when I was with the Company. Oh yes, a female FBI agent, so sympathetic, came and talked with her about what a thoroughly evil and crazy person you were and warning her to try and keep me away from you. Of course Emily told me all about it and gave me the woman’s card. And two days ago, another wonderful person got in touch with my son, Greg, and told him the same things. The new theme is that old Crowley is getting nuts and perhaps he might be institutionalized for his own good. Greg was horrified because he has mailed boxes of sensitive documents to you in Wisconsin and Greg tends to be somewhat conventional. I think they want to find some nice, discreet way to shut me up. They have given up on you, of course. Kimmel told Bill that you were arrogant, self-important and very dangerous and has warned him to keep away from you.

  GD: Yes, well Bill told me my son could get a job with the CIA as you know….

  RTC: Of course. And that would be to have him fill in a ten page questionnaire that would let them all know more about you. According to Kimmel, you have used more aliases than the Manhattan phone book. You have at least a dozen passports and have lived in Europe where, they da
rkly hint, you have somehow fallen into the clutches of the KGB…

  GD: Actually, the SVR. Same organization but a different name. A rose by any other name Robert.

  RTC: Yes. A thoroughly sinister person. They are so concerned about me that they constantly warn my son and my wife about your evil ways and beg both of them to not only report anything they hear to the really sympathetic agents or former co workers or their wives. And if that fails, perhaps I will fall down the back stairs or on my rare appearances outside this place, be run over by a drunken cab driver while walking in a large shopping mall.

  GD: (Laughter) Or how about a dead elephant falling on your head after accidentally being chucked out of an Air America cargo plane on its way to deliver three tons of raw opium to Manhattan drug refiners? That might happen. I would keep away from doctors, Robert, unless you are really sick and then try to get them to make house calls.

  RTC: Yes, I am aware of all of that. Used to do it.

  GD: I think something ought to be done about all of this. What about doing the book on Kennedy?

  RTC: I’ve thought about that, Gregory, and I ought to warn you about some of the pitfalls. I’ve told you before that we have a wonderful and very effective disinformation branch and they are even now gearing up to try to convince people not to listen to you or read your books. Of course they have to be careful because you have the reputation for savage personal attacks on people who get in your way so right now, they are after the Mueller material but if you get into Kennedy, then you will have a hornet’s nest come down around your ears. Why? Because in order to keep the sheep from getting curious about the wrong things, we set up a wonderful disinformation machine, complete with retired local policemen, librarians of all kinds, professors of philosophy from jerkwater community colleges and former Marine Corps Master Sergeants who were in the quartermaster section and never heard a shot fired in anger.

  GD: And don’t forget Wolfe

  RTC: Do spare me, Gregory. I just had lunch and reptiles so soon after feeding make me ill. Yes, Wolfe. Typical. A nobody in a nothing position but he can say he is an employee of the National Archives. Sounds impressive but he has nothing to say and can’t access any records you couldn’t get by just going there. He and hundreds of his kind are right in our pocket. That one gets a pat on the head and a pen set but a few others, key information peddlers, get a check on some unknown charity from time to time and perhaps a job for their airhead daughter or son. That’s how it works. We really don’t have to lay out much money on these fools because they come, panting, to us, begging for that pat on the pointy head and the nice pen set. The CIA buys them by the gross and I think they’re made in China in a slave-labor factory.

  GD: (Laughter) Napoleon once said, concerning the Legion of Honor, ‘With such baubles, men are led.’

  RTC: It seems to work. Believe me, we have armies of these people on tap and most of them are pathetic creeps, desperate to be recognized for the brilliant thinkers they are not and never could be. But anyway, Gregory, they are now after you and your writing but I have the feeling I ought to have pity on them. As I said, if and when you get into the Kennedy business, you will kick over a hornet’s nest of vicious, stupid and fanatical idiots. And while some of them are ours and part of our disinformation program, the rest are crazies, entirely on their own. But if you, or anyone else, dare to express opinions different from their very own precious ones, they will screech like banshees and gang up on you. One fat old crazy up in Minnesota who teaches philosophy has decided that some powerful organization used sabot shells on Kennedy. They had real used bullets, put them into a case and shot Jack in the melon and the case fell off.

  GD: The Germans had sabot artillery shells but I doubt if anyone used these on a 6.5 piece. Did you put him up to such shit?

  RTC: No. His uncle is a retired Company man and he is looking for instant fame and fortune.

  GD: The uncle? I thought you people were supposed to keep quiet.

  RTC: Sorry, the nephew. Whatever. At any rate, beware the questioned cultist and believe me, the Kennedy business has turned into a cult. My God, reading over their psychotic trash gives me acid stomach. Still, they serve a purpose. They sprouted so much underbrush that the real facts will probably never come out. And if you publish even a portion of what I sent you, the howling will begin.

  GD: I know how to deal with them, Robert. Make fun of them. Most of them are laughable, pathetic creeps and if you take them seriously, you empower them so the best course is to hold them up to public ridicule. You know, I have a really neat method of dealing with the official creeps and the unofficial ones.

  RTC: And…?

  GD: Oh yes. And you publish something really awful and then, in the foreword, you praise the slob for all his help with your work. Or, even better, publish something deadly and say they wrote it. I’ll bet this does real wonders for their careers, not to mention their small but vicious circle of friends or family. Imagine some assistant AG writing a piece for some gay newspaper claiming he has come out of the closet and is so proud of it. Or something in defense of pedophilia. Or one fellow I dealt a deadly blow to was supposed to have some awful pictures of Lyndon LaRouche in a nut house and was writing a book about it. I got his letterhead, copied it on the notice of the new book and also printed up an envelope. Looked so real, Robert, And when I wrote up the advert, I personally addressed it to about a thousand people, including major newspapers and so on and actually flew to his hometown and mailed the things. For the correct postmark of course.

  RTC: (Laughter) And what happened?

  GD: Actually? His car was set on fire. Someone broke all the big windows in his store. Someone sent him boxes of decaying and smelly animal insides. His business collapsed, his wife left him and he eventually checked into a cheap motel and offed himself with a bottle of sleeping pills. Now the shit is up with Jesus, playing gin rummy with the angels.

  RTC: Do you really believe that?

  GD: Oh, I know he’s dead but about the angels, no, I don’t believe there are such entities. Once the lights go out, I don’t think there is an upwards path you take, bathed in glorious light and at the top stand your entire long-dead family, waving and smiling at you. I wonder how they might look, Robert. Clothed in shining glory? Rotting flesh dripping from grinning skulls? Looking like they never did alive with bigger tits, a smaller nose, really clear skin instead of looking like someone put out a fire on their face with an icepick, and not walking on their hands and knees?

  RTC: Have you ever discussed such negative sentiments with a priest?

  GD: Robert, of course not. I’m hedging my bets. No, I know about the congregation of Kennedy nuts and it might be fun to plant my number ten shoe in their number one size scrotum. But the women are worse than the men…that is if there is much of a gender difference. You people have so many nutless wonders working for you. The women have hairy bowed legs, bad teeth, sagging breasts and hate everyone but their pet Budgie, Mr. Tweety. They get rabid over the stupidest things and shriek with rage if you make fun of their sacred and supportive icons. And the men are mostly prissy busybodies who are laboring under the total misapprehension that are really somebody in particular. Which, of course, they aren’t. Probably a lot of vegetarians represented there with a few dozen Scientologists, Christian Scientists and Jesus freaks thrown in the mix to offset the thick of neck and tiny of brain. And in the men, the brain isn’t the only tiny thing. Jesus, if it weren’t for the common turkey baster, half these shrimp dicks could never father pinhead children. And don’t knock pinhead children, either. You can give them haircuts in a pencil sharpener and save so much money. And when they get older and housebroken, why your people can recruit them. Put them in charge of the Havana office. Or was that the Sterling Chemical people? I think so.

  RTC: Now, it isn’t that bad, Gregory. You know that.

  GD: I don’t. Actually, it’s worse. I started out in life, Robert, trusting people and believing everyone was a gentleman or a
lady. Of course I had the opportunity of growing up in the second richest community in the country. The children of senators, heads of business empires and the like were my school friends. I was taught manners as a child and always used them. But then, as I got out into the world, I discovered, to my horror, that Jonathan Swift was right and the Yahoos ruled. Oh yes, read ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ and discover the world. You take care of the weak and persecuted and destroy the vicious and predatory. Physically or by other means. I detest pedophiles because they ruin the lives of relatively innocent little children and creeps who do that should be publicly castrated with those dull scissors we got in kindergarten and then burned alive. No, you would have never recognized me as a child. I was a very well-behaved, educated person and nice to know, at least reading over my childhood school reports. Ah, but now, I am known as Lord Satan by the boobery, the idiots and the syphilitic cretins that infest this otherwise pleasant planet. And mark this, Robert. Too many people, too little food. And the water will run out and the ice of the world will melt, the oceans will rise and Boston will be nothing but a wet dream. I really do hope, Robert, that these catastrophes happen in my life so I can have something to enjoy besides my books and music. There are intelligent, decent people here but they are lost in the jungle of knuckle-draggers.