James Domine: News

Conspiracies

 

The house inherited by Hal in which he and C.J. reside is on a nondescript residential street like any you would find in the suburbs of metropolitan Los Angeles. I know where it is, and I could tell you the address, but I am afraid Hal might sue me, so I’ll refrain from giving too accurate an accounting of its precise location, but I’ll give you a hint, it’s in the valley. Suffice it to say, it is not unlike the other houses on the street, the entire subdivision having been constructed in the late 1950s to house employees and families of the local defense contractors, which in those days proliferated locally.

The façade of the house is partially obscured by a row of cypress trees lining the sidewalk, and is flanked by a driveway that leads straight to the garage, separated from the house by a breezeway. Nobody parks in the garage, because as I have already described, it has been appropriated for rock band use. Hal parks his car in the driveway, and C.J. has to park in the street. Occasionally C.J. parks in the driveway when he thinks Hal isn’t home, but then there is almost always trouble. There is a fence with a gate that opens into the breezeway where two old bicycles, one having only one wheel, lean against the wall. All the tires are flat. An ancient weight-lifting bench serves the primary purpose of holding up some old cans of paint whose residues have hardened solid long ago by oxidation. The metal weights stacked alongside are rusty and the concrete beneath them is stained brownish red, a testament to the ravages of erosion as the runoff from many a winter’s rain washes over them in abject abandonment. The air in the breezeway hangs in a kind of stagnant hush, perfumed by the dank smell of exhaust from the laundry room. The back door of the kitchen empties onto a step where there is a bone-dry mop stuck down in a pail. This, along with some other discarded materials, completes the picture.

On the other side of the house there is a thin cement pathway that leads to the backyard. A chain-link fence runs along the property line, overgrown with ivy vines that provide a kind of wildlife sanctuary for rodents, the occasional lizard and certain birds that haunt the entanglement. Cats from all around the neighborhood can be seen running in and out of the bushes at all hours, and on full moon nights give a spectacular accounting of themselves by a really fantastic display of howling, hissing, yowling and fighting. The pathway leads to a backyard patio where there is a creaky old circular wooden table equipped with an umbrella fixture in the center, which when opened is intended to provide shade from the summer heat. However, this particular umbrella has been exposed to the elements so long that it is doubtful that it could open at all, and if it did, would shred the already tattered remains of its plastic cover. A sliding glass door opens onto the patio from Hal’s room. It is his private entrance and exit. A large Chinese elm extends its branches over the backyard. The fence beyond, also overgrown with vines, forms the outer perimeter of the property.

C.J. has been in residence at Hal’s house for an undetermined period of time, and might be over 30 years old, but is in an arrested state of development, not uncommon these days, having the mentality and maturity of an 18 year old. C.J. is on the tall side, with longish brown hair and constantly wears a baseball cap turned around backwards like a catcher. He has a rough physical charm to which certain kinds of girls are attracted, at first. Back in high school, he was a halfway decent athlete, but not as good as his older brother Zigg, who got a football scholarship to Hawaii, from whence once having gone, he never returned. C.J. is employed part-time as a weight trainer in a local gym, and is a member of the fitness community. His true ambition, if you can call it that, is to get an online betting service going. He understands the full potential of such an endeavor first-hand, being an overly zealous patron of such enterprises.

C.J.’s good buddy Dogue is not very athletic by contrast, and is comparatively small of stature. His dark frizzy hair is cropped short, and with his glasses perched at an off-kilter angle, Dogue carries himself with a demeanor reminiscent of a nervous penguin. He always looks kind of preppy, like he just came off the golf course. No denim or Levis for him. I don’t want to say that his facial features are somewhat rodent-like, with small, darting eyes, a prematurely receding hairline that accents his high forehead and one continuous brow, with a longish pointy nose, but they are. At least he generally has a clean shirt on, one that has buttons and a collar, and long pants that fit him, not like C.J. whose wardrobe extends from t-shirts to athletic jerseys accompanied by baggy short pants or jogging sweats, depending on the weather, all of which are emblazoned with diverse logos of sports teams or beer companies, and many of which are imprinted with a large number 69.

Dogue has been degraded into the ignominious circumstance of having finished college, and having no job prospects had nowhere to go but back home to his mother’s house, where her husband Marty is always pestering him to get busy and do something with his life. Marty, or Mott, with his red hair and ancient freckles, is originally from Boston and for that reason has a speech impediment that eternally prevents him from pronouncing “r” properly, causing him to say Motty instead of Marty, among other things, and for which indiscretion he is imitatively mocked. Dogue is content to seek refuge at Hal’s house where he hangs out in the company of C.J.

The living room in Hal’s house is littered haphazardly with dirty dishes, drug paraphernalia and empty beer cans. Some magazines of questionable literary value are strewn about.  Amid the refuse is an old beat-up couch with a worn and tattered brown tweed upholstery, frayed and torn through years of abuse, a blue and white beanbag chair made of some kind of plastic or polyester material, and a wooden coffee table whose surface seems to have been cut from the center slab of a large tree, and which is perpetually in an unkempt state of disarray. Everything of a concave shape has apparently been appropriated for use as an ashtray, and all are overflowing with cigarette butts. Old concert posters and beer advertisements featuring scantily clad girls adorn the walls in a picturesque manner. There are matching portraits done on black velvet with fluorescent paint, one depicting Elvis in a Viva Las Vegas mode, the other of a young Mexican girl with long hair and perfectly shaped naked breasts. A television set is eternally grinding through meaningless scenes of mundane banality, although it is only vaguely audible. A lava lamp of unknown vintage completes the scene. It is in here in this idyllic place on any given winter’s night that we might find C.J. and Dogue engaged in a heated discussion.

“They’re here, I’m telling you.”

“No they’re not. You’re crazy.”

“That’s what everyone says, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“C.J., you’re one crazed moronic imbecile, and this flying saucer stuff is just one more absurd manifestation of your idiocy,” is Dogue’s pronouncement on the subject of UFOs: “Only an ignorant moron would believe in something as preposterous as flying saucers,” he adds.

“I don’t care what you say, dude. They are here.” C.J. pauses long enough to load up a bong. “Only an ignorant bastard would pretend that they aren’t here after all the evidence.”

“Evidence?” asks Dogue. “What evidence?”

“That’s what I mean. You don’t even know. You wouldn’t know.” C.J. lights up the pipe and imbibes the draught. He gags a bit at the end of his exhalation, having inhaled too much too deeply, and covers his mouth with his hand as his cough fills the room with smoke.

Dogue folds his arms across his chest and lies back in the beanbag chair, his eyes closed in an attitude of weary resignation. “Okay let’s hear it smart guy. What evidence?”

From his seat on the couch, within easy reach of his cigarettes, C.J. launches his discourse. “I’m telling you, they are here. And, the government knows it.”

“If the government knows it, why don’t they do something about it?” Dogue doesn’t trouble to open his eyes as he asks the question, having heard it all before.

“They are doing something about it, what do you think? If you’re the government, you can’t just come out and say ‘Listen up folks, aliens have landed.’ There’d be complete chaos. People would be running each other over trying to flee. They’d be jumping out of windows, and off of bridges, mothers would kill their own children, stuff like that, not to mention what religious people might do.” Through his description of this chaotic scene, C.J. provides an adequate supply of gesticulations to illustrate his point. “There’d be dudes running everywhere, harum-scarum, willy-nilly, like ants scrambled in confusion after the ant-hill has been kicked. The whole place’d be turned upside down, topsy-turvy. Everyone would be tearing around helter-skelter trying to escape.”

“You forgot higglety-pigglety,” Dogue says as he sits up, affecting a semblance of reasonability. “If there really were an alien invasion, don’t you think any attempt to flee would be futile? So why would the government try to avert a general panic? They couldn’t if they tried. They’d be jumping off of buildings like everybody else.”

“No,” retorts C.J., “they wouldn’t because they’re working with the aliens.”

Dogue collapses back into the chair. “You’ve been watching too many science fiction movies.”

Undaunted, C.J. continues.  “And just where do you think those movies come from?”

“They come from Hollywood, where else?” Dogue’s eyes are closed.

“Wrong!” comes C.J.’s monosyllabic response.

Dogue opens his beady eyes. “Wrong? What do you mean wrong? Where do you think they come from?”

Having elicited this small response, C.J. continues. “They come from Hollywood all right. That’s not what’s wrong. Why do you suppose they make all those space alien movies in the first place?”

Dogue replies, “To make a buck on morons like us, why else? They know we’ll watch whatever crap they dish out.”

“No. They make them to condition the public for the time when they have to admit that they’re here!” C.J. nods his head emphatically.

Dogue now sits up, raising one eyebrow skeptically. “So you’re saying that all the flying saucer-space alien movies ever made are all part of an orchestrated governmental campaign to prepare the public for the advent of space aliens?”

“Dude, there’s a whole secret branch of the government who that’s all they do is handle the aliens. It’s all a part of their plan. They only tell you what they want you to know.”

In spite of his best efforts, Dogue is now engaged. “It’s preposterous to think that you could get all those grasping, self-inflated Hollywood-producer types to conspire together that way. They all hate each other. It would be like herding cats.”

“Why wouldn’t they? They’d have to. The government makes them do it.” C.J. takes a drink from a beer can, only to find it already played.

“Why would the government make them do it, even if it could?”

“I already told you, because they’re working with the aliens.”

“All right, this is really a new level of idiocy, even for you.” Dogue falls back into the chair, assuming an air of irritated boredom. He closes his eyes as if that by ignoring the subject it would disappear.

“If you weren’t so ignorant, you’d know. Anyway, how would you know anything?”

Hearing this, Dogue opens his beady eyes but does not sit up. “Me? At least I finished school. At least I read the newspaper. You never read anything at all. All you ever do is watch TV. How would you know anything?”

“I don’t have to read anything to know. Say what you want, but the flying saucers have landed and they’re working with secret government agencies to help us develop new technology.”

“New technology?” Dogue asks quizzically. “Like what? What have they helped us to develop?”

“Lots of stuff that you take for granted. Things you wouldn’t even know, like Velcro.”

Dogue can’t suppress his laughter. “Velcro? Why would the aliens want to bestow the technological advantages of Velcro upon us unworthy Earthlings? Wouldn’t we be easier to control and subdue without a powerful tool like that? We might rebel and use it against them, then where would they be?”

C.J. grabs the pack of cigarettes, only to find it empty. For a guy who is kind of a health nut, being an ex-jock and a personal trainer body-builder member of the fitness community, C.J. smokes a lot. “Go ahead, make fun of it if you want, wallow in sarcasm. Only a moron wouldn’t believe in flying saucers. All the evidence supports it. I won’t tell you if you don’t want to know.”

“Go ahead and talk. Nobody’s stopping you, only nobody’s believing you, that’s all. I’m getting another beer...”

C.J. continues his expostulation without pause as Dogue goes into the kitchen. “Listen. How many planets are there in the solar system?”

Dogue calls out as he takes a beer from the refrigerator. “I don’t know. Nine or ten, maybe, give or take a few hundred asteroids.”

“And every star like the sun has a solar system, right? How many stars like the sun do you think are in the galaxy?”

Dogue reenters the room with a fresh beer. “I don’t know. A lot, probably.”

“Billions, that’s how many, incalculable billions. Billions of stars times nine or ten is nine or ten billions of planets. And how many galaxies are there in the universe?”

Dogue quaffs deeply, and wipes the froth from his upper lip before responding. “How should I know? A lot I suppose, a gazillion-bazillion, probably.”

“Right, and of all those galaxies and all those stars with all their planets, are you telling me that there aren’t any that would support intelligent life? Answer me that!” C.J. slaps his hat on the couch for emphasis, causing a cloud of dust and lint to fly up, permeating the atmosphere.

“Listen, smart guy,” Dogue says, fanning his face with a wave of his hand and wrinkling his nose in response to the dust cloud. “The more planets they find out there, the less likely it is that they’ll find life.”

“How do you figure that?” C.J. is flummoxed as this rationale flies in the face of common knowledge. He selects a relatively substantial cigarette butt that is languishing in the ashtray.

Dogue explains his theory. “How many grains of sand are there on the beach?”

“I don’t know. A lot,” C.J. says, lighting up.

“Billions, that’s how many, untold billions. And when you walk along the beach, and go around the bend, what do you find?”

“I don’t know. What?” C.J. takes a long drag, and noticing something kind of gross and slimy on his hand, probably a remnant of expectoration from his gagging after the bong load, wipes it off onto the faded beer company logo emblazoned on his T-shirt.

“More sand, that’s what, a gazillion-quadrillion more grains of sand. That’s what you’d find.” Dogue sat back in the chair and folded his hands together with the air of having delivered the final word on the subject.

C.J. gives a pained expression as he exhales, filling the room again with second-hand smoke. “So what’s the point?”

“The point is the more grains of sand you find, the more likely, not less, that each grain will be like the others, just a grain of sand. What’s the likelihood of one, just one anomalous grain of sand being different, really uniquely different from the others?”

“I don’t know. What?” C.J. sets the cigarette to rest in one of many ashtrays, folds his hands behind his head and leans back on the couch.

“The chance of just one grain of sand being uniquely and anomalously different from all the others is about a billion-gazillion-quadrillion to one, that’s what.”

“So the point you’re trying to make is?”

“The more planets you find without life on them, which is all of them so far, the less likely it is that you’ll find one with intelligent life. That’s the law of averages.” Having concluded his thesis, Dogue takes another draught of beer.

C.J. sits up with new intensity. He points his finger for emphasis as he talks. “Listen, they’re here. I’m telling you.”

Dogue sinks back into the beanbag chair and covers his face with his hands. “Here we go again!” He closes his eyes as though that would shut out any additional idiocy he might have to endure. Like universal background radiation of three degrees, created at the beginning of time, the television spews forth an inexorable, unending stream of ubiquitous noise that goes entirely unheeded.

C.J. finally extinguishes what is left of the cigarette and pauses reflectively as he inspects a glop of crud caked on his shirt that he has only just now noticed. “Didn’t you ever hear about the Roswell incident?” he asks.

Dogue responds without opening his eyes or making any discernable motion. “Yeah, I saw it on TV,” he says in an exasperated, bored tone. “Everybody did, so what?”

C.J. attacks the subject with renewed vigor. “So, yeah, that’s where it all started. This rancher guy is sleeping when he hears a major explosion out in the night. Next day he goes out and finds all kinds of metal crap strewn all over the desert, only this stuff is not like regular metal. It’s some kind of lightweight tin foil kind of thing that nobody has ever seen before.”

Dogue remains motionless. “Maybe it was Velcro.”

“No. This stuff, you can crumple it up in your hand, but then it springs right back, and you can’t cut it with a knife or even make a scratch on it. Anyway this rancher guy sees this stuff strewn all over the place, and figures that some kind of aircraft from the air force base must’ve blown up. But then he sees some bodies, some little dudes only a few feet tall all dressed in some kind of silvery metallic uniform. And one of them is still alive! So he goes into town to tell the sheriff, who calls the air force base. Next thing you know, a truck full of military guys rolls up, quarantines the area, commandeers all the vehicles, and throws everyone who knows about it in jail.”

“That’s not quite the way it was on TV, but okay.”

“Anyway, the main part is, they got all those little alien dudes, and one of them was still alive. They brought them back to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Ever since then there’s been a cover-up.”

Dogue finally sits up. “So what happened to the one that was alive?”

“At first he refused to talk, but then later he spilled his guts.”

Dogue drains off what remains in the beer can. “I don’t remember that part from the TV show. It’s interesting that this alien guy somehow knows how to speak English. I do remember them cutting up that one alien dude in the autopsy, though. That was bogus, and you know it.”

C.J. is unfazed by the fakeness of it. “What, do you expect them to show the real thing on TV? It was a reenactment. But the story isn’t bogus, it’s true.”

“How can fake photos of a fake reenactment be true?”

“The real photos are classified top secret, you idiot. Do you think they’re just going to release the real photos of real aliens? That’s what the cover-up is all about. It would cause widespread panic if they did that.”

“Yeah, like War of the Worlds.”

“They can’t just come out and say, ‘here’s alien Bob, he’s come to Earth from a distant planet where they have all this gnarly technological shit that just blows ours away. We’re keeping him until he tells us how to reverse-engineer their flying saucers and stuff.’ They can’t just say that publicly, but that’s what they’re doing.”

“They are? How do you know that?” Dogue discards his empty beer can among the others on the coffee table.

“They have this place out in the Nevada desert called Area 51. It’s a top secret location where they keep all their flying saucers and alien technology stuff.”

“Yeah, I saw that show, too. If it’s so secret, how come everyone in the country has seen it on TV? Besides, how would you know what they’re doing in there?”

 “The government denies the place even exists at all. But some suspicious dudes found out about it by watching through binoculars way up on the hills surrounding the joint. They had to backpack in there because it’s like, way off the road. Now, you can’t even do that, those hills are off limits. They’ll shoot your ass off if you come on in too close.”

Dogue becomes blasé. “Yeah, okay I saw all this on TV also. So what? All that means is some producer guy said ‘Hey I bet we can scalp some cash off an ignorant public if we show them a bit about alien spacecraft and Area 51.’ He was right. All stupid bastards like you go for it hook, line and sinker.”

 “No, they only show what the government wants you to see. It’s all a part of their plan. They’re trying to get us ready for the truth.”

“The truth?” Dogue wonders. “What does the truth have to do with this whole fabled mythology?”

C.J. now reveals the central thrust of his discourse. “The general public needs to get used to the concept of space aliens before the truth can be fully exposed.” C.J. gives a self-satisfied look as if he’d just made a slam dunk or hit a walk-off homer.

At this, Dogue feigns enlightenment. “Ah, now I see how it is. We’ll panic. We’ll riot in the streets. It will be just like after a championship basketball game, or something.” Dogue makes a pensive look as he conjectures. “But why should the government lie? Wait a minute, maybe they are telling the truth. Maybe there aren’t any flying saucers, or aliens. Maybe that’s the real plan. Ever think of that?”

C.J. is undaunted. “I’m telling you, they’re here. They’re with us. I need another beer…”

Dogue continues as C.J. gets up and goes to the refrigerator. “But I don’t see them. If they’re here, where are they? They must be invisible.”

C.J. answers from the kitchen, “Not just anybody can see them. They can only be seen by people who are receptive to their wavelength.” As Dogue shakes his head in the bewilderment of disbelief, C.J. reenters the room. “Just because they’re invisible doesn’t mean they’re not real. They’re here if they want to be. If they want to be seen, they are. If they want to be somewhere, they can.”

Dogue thinks this over while C.J. changes the channel with the remote. Seeing nothing in particular on the tube, he sits back down. Dogue begins to postulate.

“I think you’ve got it all wrong, dude. They’re in space, but they’re not from space.

“So what do you mean to infer by that?” C.J. takes a drink from his beer.

Dogue lowers his voice to a hushed tone, as though he were about to let C.J. in on some dark secret. “You want to know who they are? Not who everyone thinks. The fact that they travel through space makes everyone think that they’re from other planets. But they’re not. They’ve always been here.”

“Wait a minute. I thought you just said that space aliens weren’t real. Now you’re saying they are. So which is it? It’s either the truth or it’s a lie. It can’t be both.”

“Actually, it’s true that they’re real but it’s a lie that they’re from outer space. The duality of that concept is probably too complicated for someone of your limited mental capacity.”

“Quit wasting my time. Seems I’m going to hear it anyway, like it or not, so just tell me who you think they are, where they came from and why they’re here.”

Dogue arises from the beanbag chair, like a pitcher in his wind up about to deliver the fastball. “Once they were people like us but they became inter-dimensional creatures traveling at will through time and space,” he sagely explains. “Over the centuries they have appeared in many physical forms, but they always reveal who they are by betraying certain unmistakable behavioral traits.” He pauses to let C.J. drink in the picturesque implications of this scenario.

“Like what for instance?”

“They revel in secrecy and magic, and while they have no love amongst themselves, they are drawn to it like a moth to flame. They always search for and harvest live human and animal body parts. They need DNA material for their own survival.”

C.J. nods, seemingly in agreement. “That would explain the reason for those alien abductions that you see on TV.”

“Right, they can drain the blood from a whole cow without even making a noticeable mark. How they do it, they just fly down in a saucer, or sometimes a black helicopter, drain the blood out of the cow and make the boogie, quick. The way they do it, it only takes about two seconds to drain the blood off a whole damn cow. You can’t even find the incision. All that happens is next day the farmer, or maybe his dog, finds the cow, dead, with all his blood completely sucked out.” Dogue opens his beady eyes wide for emphasis.

“That’s right, except for just one thing. Why use black helicopters, when they have some perfectly good flying saucers?”

“That’s the other thing about them, they always play these games. They revel in mystery. They like to throw people off the track, so they use disguises. Those black helicopters make everyone think that some secret organization like the United Nations is behind it, or maybe the federal government, but they’re not.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re saying that aliens aren’t alien at all, they’ve always been here on Earth, they are inter-dimensional creatures who can travel through time and space, and they use disguises to conceal what they’re up to, which is to harvest human and animal body parts.”

“That’s right. They need that DNA material and body parts because they’ve evolved past the natural reproductive cycle.”

“You mean they don’t have sex?” C.J. snuffs out the remains of his cigarette disapprovingly in the ashtray.

“More like, they can’t have it, because their physical bodies don’t have sexual organs. I’m surprised you didn’t know that part of it.”

C.J. is somewhat alarmed. “What good is evolution without sex?”

“That’s the interesting part. Their technology got ahead of natural evolution. They developed this machine called the Infidebulum that gave them all these special powers, but to access it they had to start grafting stuff like electrodes and microchips onto their bodies, so that they virtually became parts of the machine that did the work for them. Procreation, and therefore sex, became unnecessary. However, in order to survive they have to transplant human and animal tissues to keep from corroding.”

“The Infidebulum machine?” wonders C.J. “What in the Hell is that?” He is genuinely interested although skeptical.

As Dogue explains, his voice lowers in volume and pitch, as if to impart some deep, dark secret. “It’s kind of a combination time machine and mortuary,” he confides in a hushed tone, almost whispering. “The Infidebulum allows them to recreate themselves. It enables them to live indefinitely, and transform themselves at will into any physical shape they choose using three-dimensional projections.”

C.J. furrows his brow with a growing sense of disbelief. “If they’ve always been here, how come history doesn’t mention them?”

“That’s where you’re wrong. History mentions them on every page. They love to masquerade as all sorts of mixed-up things. Who do you think were the prototype Gods and Goddesses of the ancient world? Who were the three witches upon the heath whose cauldron called forth the minions of fairy folk dancing in the moonlight while the moon waxes?”

“Not space aliens!”

“No, they’re not from space.” Dogue shakes off the idea with a wave of his hand. “They’re humans from the future and also from the past. They can be anywhere in space and time. They’ve always been here. They are our ancestors and our descendents. They are the ancient Gods and Goddesses of mythology, the fairies and spirits of folklore, the deified source and inspiration of all the magical mysterious creatures that dwell in the subconscious memories of childhood.”

Realizing by now that this is all pure bullshit, C.J. drags an ashtray into proximity. “Fine,” he says, humoring Dogue. “But that doesn’t explain why they have to fly around in flying saucers or black helicopters.”

“That’s only a more recent manifestation. In the past they’ve been everything from leprechauns to ghosts.

C.J. grins bemusedly at Dogue. “I hope you don’t expect me to believe all this crap.”

“Believe it or not, as you will,” says Dogue, bringing his discourse to a cadence. “The greater mystery to me is why, with all your conspiracy theories, you didn’t know all this already.”

C.J. responds, still grinning. “No one would ever believe this weird crap about time machines and shit.”

“The truth is always stranger than lies could ever conspire to be.” Having uttered this reciprocal profundity, Dogue prepares to fire up a bong load.

Just then the phone rings, but C.J. doesn’t answer it. It rings a number of times before the answering machine kicks in. We can hear a girl’s angry voice, “C.J.! C.J.! I know you’re there! Pick it up you, you …” She then changes her tone to a whiny sarcasm, a sort of sugar-coated bitchiness. “Is it too much for you to answer my calls?” Suddenly she gets really angry. “I know you’re there you dirty…” and at this point, the machine times out.

“Whoa! Who was that?” Dogue asks, taken slightly aback. “She sounded really pissed.”

“Never mind, it’s Ashley. She’s always pissed off about something.”

“So I guess she’s that new actress bitch you been hanging with? What was her name?”

“Her name’s Ashley, like I said. Maybe she thinks she’s an actress, if you get my driff.”

Dogue pauses to refresh the bong with another load. “If she’s an actress, what does she do, theater, TV, porn movies? I mean like, has she played any roles, or what?”

“She hasn’t done any porno, at least not that I know of, but I shouldn’t be surprised if she did.” C.J. lazily stretches his arms upright in a slow, sleepy motion. “Actresses like her don’t do anything much, they just stand around and decorate the scene. I guess she’s what they call an extra.”

Dogue returns to the subject at hand. “Now that I’m thinking of it, the government probably couldn’t lie if they wanted to. Every time they try to lie, somebody leaks. Look at who you’re dealing with: bureaucrats, civil service types, postal workers, enlisted men, all not-so-smart of guys with surly attitudes. For two cents any one of them would spill their guts. No, those dudes can’t keep a blowjob secret in the Oval Office, for Christ sake. Nothing is sacred to them. How are they supposed to keep a lid on something as amazing as space aliens?”

C.J. takes the bait. “It may surprise you to know that there are people in the government who are more important than the president and whose job it is to keep the world safe from these aliens.”

“Oh Christ, here we go! How does a moron like you come to know that, especially since it would be top secret as you have already observed.”

“Never mind how I know, I just know that’s all.”

Dogue shakes off this explanation. “You just made it up, you mean, a blatant fabrication plagiarizing some stupid TV show.”

“No, I know. My uncle used to work for the National Institutes of Health. You probably never heard of it. It’s in Bethesda, Maryland.”

“So what is that supposed to mean? Is he a bureaucrat, or a civil service guy, or what? How does this translate into you knowing everything secret about the government?”

 “The NIH is where all the secret stuff goes on. Like those Pentagon labs that gave LSD to the soldiers and prisoners back in the ’60s, just to see what it would do to them. They were in charge of that.”

 “Listen C.J., you’re not just a liar, you’re a mediocre liar. You can’t even make up your own lies. You have to plagiarize TV shows.”

“Fine, don’t believe it. What do I care? Who do you think handled the JFK autopsy? Who do you think handled the body bags coming in from Jonestown after the so-called mass suicide? The NIH, that’s who! Who do you think designed all those diseases like AIDS?”

“Your uncle told you all this?” asks Dogue, rolling his beady eyes, firing up the bong and taking a hit.

“I didn’t say so. But you have to be able to put two plus two together to make four. He did tell me that.”

Dogue exhales as the room once again fills with smoke. He gags back a cough before he recovers enough to ask a question. “So you mean to imply that through your uncle and his top secret clearance you were made aware of all these vast governmental conspiracies?”

“I didn’t say so, but draw your own conclusions.”

“You lying sack of turd, you always lie about shit like this.”

C.J. seems pleased that his story has caused Dogue to become somewhat irate. “Fine, don’t believe it. What do I care?”

“Fine I don’t. Nobody would. Hey, I know, why don’t we ask your uncle? I’m willing to wager that he probably doesn’t know that he told you all this stuff. That is if you even have an uncle who worked for the NIH. You always lie about shit like this.”

“Yeah sure, as if he’s just going to say ‘Yeah, I told him about all that top secret stuff’. He would have to lie. He’s sworn to secrecy for Christ sake. His phone is probably tapped. You wouldn’t think of that, would you? Be real.”

“Be real? Me? Why don’t you be real? You’re the most boasting, most absurd liar I’ve ever seen. Besides, if your uncle is sworn to secrecy, why is he spilling his guts to you, of all people?”

“I didn’t say he was. I didn’t say he said anything. You did.”

“Oh, I see. You only meant to imply that you had access to government secrets, not that you really do.”

“No, I didn’t say that either. I only meant to imply that the truth has a way of coming out eventually.”

Dogue shakes his head in disbelief. “Okay, cut all this conspiracy crap right now. If your uncle really is who you say he is, and he told you all this stuff, and if it were true, you’d both be dead.”

“Not necessarily.” C.J. calmly reaches for the bong and begins to administer another load.

“What about those dudes more important than the president whose job it is to keep this world safe for democracy? Do you think that if all this crap were true, which of course it isn’t, that they would let you and your uncle go around talking about it with impunity? No they wouldn’t. They’d have to put a stop to you bastards, wouldn’t they? Yes, they would. Maybe you forgot about that part of it once you had started to lie.”

“Dogue-man, just what do you think the government would say when someone leaks information? They would just deny it, like they always do. It’s easy for them. It’s actually good for them. They leak false information all the time just to put people off the track. The waters of the truth are already murky, so they just muddy them up a little more just to make sure that no one can see it clear.”

“Okay, so you’re saying that even though the government lies all the time to conceal the truth, and that they are running cover-ups for every conceivable type of conspiracy from space aliens to political assassinations, that amid all the deception and dissembling, you, yourself and your uncle have access to the real truth behind it all?”

C.J. assumes an air of finality, as though he were patiently explaining something to a child. “Two plus two equals four dude. Nobody had to tell me anything. With the right information, you can figure it all out.”

“So you mean to imply then, that you alone know the truth?”

“Two plus two equals four, dude. Like it or not, the whole world is all fucked up.”

“What’s fuckter than that is there are people like you believing and purveying the theory that everything is all fucked up.”

“The fucktest thing of all is that there are fucked up people out there whose job it is to make sure that everything stays all fucked up.”

With a last disapproving shake of his head, Dogue dismisses C.J.’s argument. He is obviously unconvinced of anything that has been said, but recognizes the futility of pursuing the dialogue any further. C.J. takes the remote in hand and spins through a series of channels. He lets it come to rest first on a replay of the mysterious crop circle phenomena, but feeling this might exacerbate the situation, switches quickly to a rehash of highlights from last weeks’ college football games, while directing his immediate attention to swilling down more beer.

Suddenly, just as C.J. is preparing to take another bong load, screeching tires are heard out in the street followed by a loud crash. The room shakes violently as C.J. and Dogue are jolted out of their seats by the impact of something smashing into the side of the house. Shocked and alarmed, amid the sounds of shattering glass, they leap to their feet and immediately rush out to see what has happened.

 

The Last Call, or “Why Don’t God Stop It?”

 

Seasons change almost imperceptibly in LA, one resembling another as we find ourselves once again in the dank, familiar surroundings of Sneaky’s Tavern. Inside Sneaky’s time is frozen into a perpetual state of happy hour. There is however one noticeable difference, if you were paying attention, that the seat formerly occupied by Mama Cass is conspicuously vacant. Even on busy nights there is general reluctance to sit upon or near her stool, both as a kind of deference to the abhorrent manner of her demise, untimely or not as it may have been, and a superstitious feeling that her ghost might come back unexpectedly and be perturbed that someone has taken her seat. Given the level of maintenance and sanitation as evidenced in the condition of the lavatory facilities, there is also a fear of infection due to contamination. After all, Mama Cass had bled all over the place when gunned down by Officer Presley. The stains on the floor, although not restricted to the area around her stool, may have been beer, but they may also have been blood. Like a memorial shrine marking the scene of battle, her whiskey bottle is incongruously preserved in readiness and with some reverence in its accustomed place.

 Dogue and C.J. are arguing at a table by the back exit near the pool table as the bartender reads a newspaper spread out on the bar.  The TV is tuned in to some kind of Wrestle-a-Thon, with voluptuous women decked out in fantastic costumes tossing each other about the ring in a slow-paced display of mean-spirited faux-violence. Of course, no one is paying attention. The jukebox is playing Have Faith by the Screaming Clams as the patrons filter into their habitual roles, shooting pool, throwing darts, drinking and carousing.

“I’m telling you, the world looks different to the dudes up on top,” C.J. attests. “They call the shots, and everyone else starts running. The government, they know who runs things, and it ain’t them.”

“If the government knows it, why don’t they do something about it?” asks Dogue, breathing on his glasses and wiping out a spot with a corner of his shirt while giving a pained look as if to say, “Here we go again.” He grasps his beer from its place on the coaster and says, “So tell me something I don’t know. We all know the rich bastards control everything. That doesn’t mean everyone in the government, elected officials and everyone is all totally corrupt. No politician wakes up in the morning and says ‘How can I screw the country up even more today than I did yesterday?’ They’d be removed from office. They’d be recalled. You call it raping and pillaging. They call it helping their constituents.”

“There are people who are more important than the president who secretly run the government. It is their job to keep the world safe from politicians. If things get too far out of control, they stop them. They have to preserve the status quo so the rich guys can stay on top.” C.J. backs up his assertion knocking back a deep draught of beer.

Dogue looks pensive as he stares down his weasely nose through his glasses at C.J. “This whole morally bankrupt philosophy of yours is fascinating. I wonder what it must be like to live like you do, under layers and layers of a mythology of your own devising, made up of space aliens, governmental conspiracies and an oligarchy of tyrants who control everything.”

“Dude, they’re out there, I’m telling you. They’re here, now. They’re with you.”

“I don’t see them. If they’re here, where are they? They must be invisible.”

“Just because they’re invisible doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

“I’d hate to be you,” Dogue decides, trying again to wipe out a really obstinate spot on his glasses that is obstructing his view. “That’s not what life is about, dude. You seem to have an almost religious fanaticism about this secret government crap. It’s the theosophy of a bar-room drunkard.”

“Fine, don’t believe it,” says C.J., blowing smoke. “You don’t believe in anything. But they’re here. They’re with you. They run everything.”

“I don’t believe in anything? Me?” Dogue looks querulously at C.J. “Look at this society you describe. No faith, no morals, nothing, just corruption, cynicism and a mysterious veil of mythology that explains everything in terms of some nefarious conspiracy.”

“So what?” asks C.J., taking another toke, “That’s the way it is. Do you have anything better to offer?”

“You’re all turned around,” Dogue explains. He pauses to watch Yuli throw a dart with an unsubtle regard before continuing. “You have an infinitely gullible faith in aliens and conspiracies having no credible basis in reality, juxtaposed against a complete distrust of orthodox scientific, religious and social thinking which are the true foundations of civilized society. You live in an absurd Orwellian, Kafkaesque world where truth is lies and lies are true. It is perfectly ludicrous.”

“I don’t know what you said, but you’ve got it all wrong.” C.J. shakes his head as the smoke wafts about.

“How can someone professing to be so cynically realistic be so ridiculously gullible?” Dogue knows he holds the upper hand as he leans away, trying not to inhale the second hand smoke as he looks accusatively at C.J.

“Gullible? I’m not gullible. You’re the one who’s gullible.” C.J., provoked, now embellishes his diatribe with a flourish of hand gestures. “You probably believe whatever they tell you. You probably believe in organized religion, too. You may have gone to college, but you’re not very smart if you can’t see through all the layers of shit they put on you.”

“So now you want to attack organized religion, too. I suppose you know God personally, right? Just like all the other crap you claim to know.”

“There’s no God,” C.J. proclaims. “Any idiot can see that. Is he here now? If he is, where is he?” C.J. looks around the bar, as if searching for someone. 

“Just because He’s invisible doesn’t mean He’s not real. He’s here if He wants to be. If He wants to be somewhere, He can,” says Dogue, parodying C.J.’s usual line of reasoning.

“Alright, don’t be a repetitive bastard. If God is here, how come you can’t see him?” asks C.J. with a self-satisfied flip of his hand, rising out of his seat to avoid a pesky fly buzzing around his head.

“He only appears to those who believe in Him, only those who have faith, only those of moral rectitude,” says Dogue satirically.

“Moral rectitude, for Christ sake. That sounds like something that homos do. You’re a moron if you believe in that religious crap.” C.J. sits back down on his stool, still wary of the fly that has now suddenly disappeared and weary with annoyance. He removes his hat and holds it in readiness should the combative buzzing resume.

“Is it less moronic to believe in space aliens, and paranoid secret governmental conspiracies?” Dogue isn’t going to let C.J. off the philosophical hook.

“At least flying saucers are real, for Christ sake. That religious crap is for weak-minded morons who can’t take the truth.”

“What is the truth?”

C.J. reflects on this for a moment. “Religious people don’t care about the truth. They’re just looking for affirmation of what they already believe by banding together in a herd.”

“Where did you get that?” asks Dogue. “You couldn’t have made that up yourself. You must have heard it somewhere. You don’t even know what the word affirmation means.”

“Yes I do.”

“No you don’t. Then what does it mean? Spell it.”

“I don’t have to spell it to know what it means,” C.J. disclaims, rejecting the challenge. “It means like when people back each other up, like what they say when they agree on stuff.”

“Okay,” Dogue allows, “but that’s exactly what all you flying saucer morons do. You back each other’s idiocy up with more idiocy. One moron says he saw a flying saucer up in the night sky, the next idiot says he saw one land, and space aliens came out, and another one says he was abducted, taken on board and flown all over the galaxy. They all have to affirm each other’s story because if they don’t, the whole ridiculous house of cards falls apart, and they’re all exposed for the morons that they are. Affirming each other’s tales confers a sort of status within the group. It’s the same with those ludicrous conspiracies of yours.”

“At least,” says C.J., “it’s not like religion, where people pray to God and nothing happens. At least flying saucers are real, for God’s sake.” An irritating buzz flashes past his head and C.J. stands up hat in hand, ready to strike at the fly that has now reappeared. He takes an ineffectual swat at the empty air as the fly becomes invisible again.

“Who says nothing happens when religious people pray?” asks Dogue, challenging C.J., taking no notice of the insectine incursion. “Just ask them. When they pray, most often God answers their prayers. If He didn’t, why would they do it?” Dogue is in good form, having imbibed an adequate supply of beer to remain in front of C.J. in the debate. He folds his hands behind his pointy rodent-like head and awaits the next volley.

“He doesn’t really answer their prayers, they just say he does.” C.J. doesn’t forge ahead, he just tries not to retreat as he picks up his cigarette smoldering in the ashtray and manages to drag a final puff before extinguishing it. With the fly content to remain in concealment, C.J. replaces his cap backwards on his head.

“Well, they believe it, and it amounts to the same thing. That’s called faith. They have faith in God, that’s why He answers their prayers. You have faith in aliens, that’s why you can see flying saucers.”

C.J. sits up and leans forward in disgust. “They’re with you, dude,” he says wagging his finger at Dogue. “You just want to argue. You know they’re real.” He then waves his hand dismissively.

“Come on. Listen to what you’re saying. People who have faith generally work to see their faith affirmed, whether it’s religion, flying saucers, politics, or any other thing. That’s the truth about the truth,” says Dogue, checking out Yuli’s fake tits as she bends over to pick up an errant dart that has fallen to the floor. “And when they band together to affirm their faith, what do they do?”

“They pray, but don’t try to tell me God really answers them,” C.J. disavows. “I tried praying once. Nothing happened. It never does. It never will. It’s like talking to the wall.”

“Well of course He wouldn’t answer your prayer. He knows you aren’t a sincere member of the fellowship. When some self-serving solipsistic person of low morals like you tries to pray, you’re on your own, that’s all. He knows you’re just trying to get something out of it for yourself.”

“Yeah, well isn’t that what everyone wants? We’re all trying to get something out of it. Seems to me that the more religious you are, and the more you pray, the more you expect to get something out of it.” Feeling confident in this assessment, C.J picks up the cigarette again, forgetting that he has already snuffed it out.

“That’s the difference between moral rectitude, which is people seeking spiritual guidance, and moral turpitude.” Dogue puts special emphasis on the first syllable of “turpitude.” Moral turpitude is when people look for divine intervention to solve all their troubles, kind of like a cosmic A-bomb to wipe out their enemies.”

“That’s a good idea if it would work,” observes C.J. “If people could get God to do what they want by praying, then everyone would be doing it, and they would all cancel each other out.”

“History is full of people calling on God to vanquish their enemies. Even the God-forsaken Nazis thought God was on their side.”

“Little good it did them.” Never one to be idle for long, C.J. takes a Lotto card and sets it on fire in the ashtray.

 “Look at all those Arab terrorists. All they ever do is to conjure up the name of Allah to kill everyone they hate, which is the whole rest of the world,” says Dogue, gesticulating wildly.

“Yeah, but they’re some crazy bastards.” C.J. watches the flame subside into a pile of ash.

“Yeah but no one can say they don’t believe in God,” says Dogue, airing out his theory. “No one can say they don’t pray all the time. It’s the same with those radical religious Israeli Jews. They pray to God all the time. That’s what they’re doing out there by the Western Wall.”

“You mean those dudes with the black hats and coats?”

“Right, you know who I mean, those curly sideburn-looking dudes with beards.” The point is they’re out there at that wall praying all the time.”

“Whatever, dude. You should know. Isn’t your dad Jewish?” C.J. knows the answer to that perfectly well.

“You mean Mott? He’s not my dad. He’s my mom’s husband. He’s not really Jewish, anyway. That’s not what I mean and you know it.” If you want to annoy Dogue, you can usually do it by mentioning Mott, who is always on his ass to “do something with his life.”

“Right, so what?” asks C.J. “Praying is just like talking to the wall.”

“So the point is,” continues Dogue in his expostulation, “the Arabs and the Israelis are both out there all the time praying. No one can say they don’t believe in God, right?”

“I’d have to agree with that.”

“And what are they praying for? They’re praying that He will lead them to do His will, right?”

“Seems natural,” says C.J., lighting another Lotto card on fire. He is easily amused. Apparently the fly has found the fumes emanating from the burning ashtray not to his liking, as he intrudes no further upon the scene.

“And because these are people invested with moral rectitude and righteousness, fervently and assiduously seeking God’s divine guidance, He answers them by manifesting His will, thereby instructing them as to how they ought to proceed, right?” Dogue seems to be closing in on the bottom line.

“Absolutely, once God tells them what to do, the rest would be easy.” C.J. pours a tiny amount of beer into the ashtray to watch the remaining embers sizzle out.

“So they go out, get some bombs and blow each other up!”

“Wait a minute,” protests C.J. “God wouldn’t tell them to blow each other up, you’re crazy. Religious people are all about peace and love, sweetness and light, forgiveness and stuff like that.”

“Well, wait a minute. If they’re righteous God-fearing people, and He tells them what to do after they pray, that must mean that God wants them to go out and blow each other up, since that’s what they do.”

“No, that’s bullshit. God wouldn’t do that. I mean, that’s something he just wouldn’t do. It’s out of character.”

“In an historical sense, that is exactly what God would do,” Dogue says. “It goes all the way back to the walls of Jericho. Old Joshua brought out the Ark of the Covenant to the front lines, sounded the trumpets and the walls came tumbling down.”

“Jericho? You mean Noah’s Ark?”

“No, that’s a different ark. The Ark of the Covenant is a golden box where Moses stashed the stone tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments. They say it had magical powers, and God talked to Moses through the Ark whenever He had something to say.”

“Wait a minute, I saw this on TV.” C.J. isn’t buying Dogue’s version of biblical archaeology as he taps his fingers on the table in disbelief. “I’ll bet God has better things to do than ride around inside a golden box. What does He care about gold? He can have all the gold in the world if He wants. Besides, He doesn’t take sides in wars, that wouldn’t be fair.”

Dogue shakes his head like a weary teacher trying to explain an elusive concept to a wayward pupil. “God is always a battle flag for one tribe fighting another. Just look at all those Old Testament stories, those ancient scriptural references like David and Goliath. The Philistines had this deity named Dagon, and the Israelis had Yahweh. So the whole conflict is reduced to the concept of, ‘Our god is stronger than yours, and we’re gonna prove it by kicking your ass.’ Besides, how would you know what God would do? You don’t even believe in Him.”

“Wait a minute,” says C.J., unsatisfied with Dogue’s reasoning. “What’s this Yahweh? I thought the Jews had God, like us.”

“Yahweh is an ancient name for God they used in the Old Testament days. Of course you’re too illiterate to know that.”

“You got this all turned around. What you’re saying is that God wants people to blow each other up, and that He used to ride around in a golden box. That’s ridiculous.” C.J. shakes his head at the absurdity of it.

“The fact that they blow each other up must be a manifestation of His divine will, or else He’s just letting them have their way, for now. In either case, they’re getting exactly what they prayed for.”

“Right, sure. Pray for death and destruction. You’re crazy. That’s not what God would do,” says C.J., scoffing at the preposterousness of the notion.

“It’s all part of His plan, dude. Besides, how do we know what God would do? We can’t be like God anymore than an ant can be like us.”

C.J.’s face stretches into a pained grimace, then smiles in derision. “So what you’re saying is that God wants people to destroy themselves. That can’t be the truth.”

“The truth is relative to what people need to believe and limited by what they are capable of understanding. But the actual truth, the underpinning of reality, if it exists at all, is ever changing, ineffable and unknowable. It is reflected in various colors like the facets of a diamond, like the changing aspects of the moon, but never can be seen in its entirety.”

C.J. reaches for another cigarette, and puts it in his mouth without lighting it.  “The trouble with you,” he says, cigarette dangling, “is that you don’t believe any of the crap you just said. In fact, you don’t believe in anything at all.”

Dogue responds to this sage observation by removing his spectacles in a professorial manner calculated to browbeat his opponent, and with a rhetorical flourish lets the silence linger.

While Dogue and C.J. prognosticate over the nature of God and the universe, the jukebox in Sneaky’s begins to intone a verse or two of Drunk Ag’in by the Screaming Clams, as one of the bikers playing pool at the back table starts to sing along:

 

“Well ah’m drunk ag’in, empty bottle’s mah only fren’.

When ah’m away from you, you know Ah feels so blue!”

“People have no morals whatsoever,” Dogue comments, hearing the sound of voices lifted in song.

“Morals are like, some rules that some judge somewhere imposes on lower class people to preserve the safety, comfort and convenience of those rich dudes up on top,” says C.J. “But of course, those rules don’t apply to them.”

“Well, yeah, they sort of do, sometimes, but only when it’s convenient, and they have the dough to back it up.”

“The truth is bound to come out eventually,” says C.J.

“I’m surprised to hear you of all people say so, because the truth to you is whatever you say at the time, trouble is you can’t remember what you said last.” Dogue shifts on his stool. “The truth is more often repressed than revealed.”

“The truth is like God in a golden box. I guess it all depends who gets to talk to the box, ’cause they get to say what the truth is. Who’s there to contradict them? You get what you pay for.” C.J. is pleased with this analogy as he pulls his arms back in a long stretch, bending his elbows and swiveling his shoulders right and left in alternation.

“The truth is like the naked man, both repressed and revealed at the same time.” Dogue makes this addition to the theosophy of bar room buffoonery.

“Are you saying the naked man is like God-in-a-box?”

They both laugh as they drink their beers. The jukebox finishes off the song with one more verse and refrain:

 

“When those guns and ammo o’ fortune blasts a hole raht through my heart,

Well ah’ll be a’thinkin’ o’ you the whole tahm…”

 

C.J. pauses to fish out a cigarette, and does not notice a black spider quietly marching in a diagonal line up the wall behind his head. There is a moment of quasi-reflective silence as C.J. lights up.

Dogue reminisces, pushing a coaster around on the table with his empty bottle. “Sometimes I wonder about the naked man. He’s still out there somewhere.”

“I think Hal is the naked man,” C.J. imparts. “That would explain why the naked man hasn’t been sighted since Hal went to jail.”

“Hmm…that we know of, you mean. Maybe he is, maybe not…but that’s not the worst, what about that Officer Presley? She gets off with a reprimand, and some anger-management counseling. I guess that means it was okay to kill that old bag.” Dogue casts a glance over at Mama Cass’s empty place at the bar. &ldquo