MIRE OF CONSCIOUSNESS 1

      I’m writing now. That’s a new thing for me. I’m not good with new things. I’m not good with much, to tell you the truth. To tell you the truth, I kicked a child into the river yesterday. Two days ago I waited around my apartment for the cable guy to show up. Never happened. Never got asked to the prom either. Yeah, I’m a guy. So what? I consider myself a feminist. You know who else I consider a feminist? Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Some say she actually was one. I disagree. But I consider her. I’m actually very considerate. I hold doors open for people who aren’t even there. Maybe someone else is coming. I don’t know. I’m not omniscient. I’m not omnipotent either, but I did once leg press my best friend in high school. I asked him to jump on the machine, he said no, so I blackmailed him. My mother once blackmailed my father into taking us to the zoo. Why it was such a chore is beyond me. My dad liked the reptile house. I didn’t. He made me look anyway. He said it would make me a man, put hair on my chest. Today I’m as smooth as the day I was born. You know what else happened on the day I was born? The Challenger blew up. It wasn’t my fault. I had just gotten here. I was the third child, the house was small, so the crib went in the laundry room. So did the dog when we went out. He pooped in there every time, and I had to clean it up. How does a six-month old clean up after a dog? I don’t know, and I was there. I wasn’t there for the English Protectorate, and I’ve since developed an unhealthy fixation. What do you want from me? Fairfax turns me on. I lived just off Fairfax Avenue for two years. I ate at Canter’s five nights a week. The pastrami does something to me that I can’t put into words. I did once put a small bag of oyster crackers into words. Actually it was just one word: obstreperous. It means noisy, rowdy. You might call a Western omelet obstreperous. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why someone would wear a tuxedo to a bowling alley. When I go bowling, I wear corduroy pants and a t-shirt that says, “Morrissey is a twat.” But of course the t-shirt doesn’t say that. A t-shirt can’t talk. I made that mistake in school and the teacher corrected me. “It reads,” she said. I said, “What do you know? You teach math.” I don’t like math. Too many numbers. When I can, I stick to Roman numerals. When I was eight, I got stuck to a tree covered in sap. My parents never thought to look for me, so I spent the night there. I made friends with the tree and gave it a name. I named it Mattress.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF HILLFIELD (Pt. 7)

7 - Vote for Goat

  In 1860 the United States teetered on the precipice of civil war. The states were sharpening their long knives in preparation for the inevitably violent dissolution of the country. The only hope for peace seemed to lie in the approaching presidential election in the form of Democratic nominee Senator Stephen Douglas, the rhetorical colossus in the body of a dwarf. Douglas championed the philosophy of “popular sovereignty” -- that each state and territory should have the right to decide the fate of slavery within its own borders. 
  Enter H. Grubbly Arrears. Born in Hillfield in 1818, Arrears began working at Linus Braggart’s Crippled Bear Farms at the age of nine. By seventeen he had saved his money -- and allegedly pilfered more from the increasingly prone-to-drink Braggart -- and used it to purchase his own small plot of farm land. By the age of twenty-one he had successfully ostracized Braggart’s children and convinced their now-alcoholically catatonic father to will his farm to the only young man with the old buzzard’s best interests at heart. Coincidentally, Braggart was dead within the year. Like Hugh Giggley before, Arrears began investing in extra-agrarian enterprises and gradually built an imposing fortune. Over time he gained a controlling interest in two manufacturers through means too byzantine and potentially homicidal to detail here: Broomward Clothiers in Newark and Cawley Canneries in the nearby metropolis-in-the-making Madsen. Arrears was a steely-eyed barrel of a man who, as Hillfieldologist Mark Krasker has awkwardly written, “sought to crush his enemies with his icy stare like a snail under hoof.” 
  By 1860 Arrears had vertically integrated his farming and canning, but Broomward Clothiers was by far his most profitable and highest-earning business. Broomward sold staggering volumes of its wares to the Southern plantation lords who clothed their slaves in cheap, practical scraps of cloth. Arrears was all too aware of the hit  his income would take with the outbreak of civil war -- no Southern slave owner was going to outfit his slaves with Yankee apparel! -- and resolved that the diminutive fire-breather Douglas must become President, not the popular Republican lawyer from Bumfuck, Illinois, Abraham Lincoln.
  Arrears was not the only industrialist indirectly profiting from slavery who conspired to undermine Lincoln. He was, however, the only one who, for whatever reason, did not resort to outright bribery. He could not have had an ethical objection to the practice -- it was, after all, instrumental, in his own rise to power -- and he may simply have deemed it more expensive than necessary. Instead, he poured his money into assassinating Lincoln’s character. His modus operandi was to paint Lincoln as a harbinger of doom, as the instrument of the nation’s destruction. Arrears commissioned numerous political cartoons and attack ads that literally painted Lincoln as the Antichrist stabbing at the American flag or the Mason-Dixon line with a pitchfork, replete with hooves and goat’s horns. Arrears then began verbally attacking Lincoln as, “a goat,” simultaneously scapegoating him for the impending civil strife and implying a lecherous and villainous personality masquerading behind the Honest Abe-persona. 
  New Jersey’s Republicans, however, fought back, accusing the state’s manufacturing interests of fear-mongering, corrupting the electoral process, and making fun of them. In July of 1860 several dozen Republicans (or, at least, several dozen roughnecks hired by them) gathered outside the Broomward factory in Newark and confronted H. Grubbly Arrears as he emerged from the factory. During the confrontation Arrears is reported to have barked, “Do you want an animal for President? He looks like a goat!” This off-the-cuff insult is believed to have inspired Arrears’ following salvo: a series of ads featuring a realistic portrait of the Republican candidate juxtaposed against a picture of a goat, highlighting Lincoln’s caprine resemblance. The state’s Republicans, not to be outdone, embraced the accusation and turned it on its ear, adopting the call “Vote for Goat,” and sporting hand-held signs and sandwich boards trumpeting the absurd battle cry. It is unclear if this tactic originated within Lincoln’s campaign, the only circumstantial evidence supporting the claim being Lincoln’s sardonic goat’s bleat in answer to a question regarding Arrears’ attack ads. 
  Ultimately H. Grubbly Arrears won the battle for the New Jersey electorate but lost the war. The state was one of only two to vote for Douglas, and Lincoln’s subsequent election led to the secession of the Southern states. Arrears doubled down on the election of 1864, backing General George McClellan as the Democratic candidate. McClellan, however, openly repudiated the party’s official platform of negotiating a peaceful settlement with the Confederacy. His campaign never gained traction, and Arrears’ attacks were now seen for the desperate and transparent sops that they were, specifically his insinuation that Lincoln enjoyed the remote woods of Illinois because he liked having sex with trees. McClellan was trounced and Arrears never again enjoyed such material wealth or political influence. 

Next:

The Jughandle From Hell

A BRIEF HISTORY OF HILLFIELD (Pt. 2)

2 – The Indigenous in Dutch

            The great powers of Europe began to colonize the New World. The Dutch founded New Netherland in the land that became the states of New York and New Jersey. New Sweden was founded in the area now known as the Delaware Valley. The Dutch then seized New Sweden, and the English followed suit in their seizure of New Netherland. The Duke of York quickly divested himself of New Jersey in 1665, selling the eastern half to Sir George Cartaret and the western half to Lord John Berkeley. After several unprofitable years’ attempt to promote settlement and collect tribute from the few who loped after the Lords Proprietors’ carrots and sticks, Berkeley sold his half to the Quakers in 1674.

            Throughout these lean, strife-riven years the Hillfield Lenape remained isolated on their hunched patch of land nestled amongst the pines and bogs that swamped the southern half of the colony. In 1675, however, the Quakers first set eyes upon them. As the settlers migrated east from Philadelphia to the Atlantic Ocean, they came upon the Lenape, now numbering no more than two hundred, on their large open field blanketing a hill of almost negligible elevation. The Quakers had always gone to great lengths to live peaceably with the indigenous populations. But these natives – stunted, deformed, and mumbling gibberish unintelligible even by the standards of the other Algonquin tribes – frightened the Quakers. Of no mind to slaughter other human beings, the Quakers proceeded to ignore them and settle the surrounding environs. The area thus became a series of small farms and cabins inhabited by white Quakers surrounding a field full of disfigured and slow-witted American Indians. The Hillfield Lenape remained inviolate.

But in 1695 their isolation came to a swift and violent end when three concurrent events conspired to change the course of Hillfield forever.

            As the Quakers had originally fled England in search of religious freedom, one wealthy Quaker named Faulk Madrigal sought to establish a settlement in New Jersey that welcomed those who believed in his particular iteration of the Quaker faith. Most of the details of Madrigal’s beliefs have been lost, but the specifics with which we are familiar – Jesus’ ministry in the New World, the corruption of Christian doctrine by Greco-Roman culture, undergarments imbued with supernatural powers – bare an uncanny resemblance to Joseph Smith’s Church of Mormon (pre-dating Smith’s religion by one-hundred twenty years, some, such as Hillfieldologist Mark Krasker, speculate as to the influence Madrigal’s beliefs may have had on Smith). Faulk Madrigal believed that the land occupied by the Hillfield Lenape would be perfect if he could convince the Lenape to leave on their own accord.

            Around this time a strange Dutchman began roaming the area and terrorizing the people. He claimed to be not only the last survivor of the drowned city of Saeftinghe, but also the bastard offspring of the mermaid who warned of Saeftinghe’s impending doom and the fisherman who caught her in his net. Initially the Quakers considered this aspect of Saeftinghe’s destruction to be mere folklore and the Dutchman to be a harmless kook. Soon, however, he began avowing himself to be an agent of divine retribution and proceeded to frighten crops, curse livestock, and scream incomprehensibly at children.

            Madrigal recognized the superstitious nature of the Hillfield Lenape and concocted a plan that would net him both the land he coveted and the respect of the Quaker community at large. He convinced the Saeftinghe Dutchman that a local mother of twelve known to us only as “the Woman Leeds” was to be the mother of the Anti-Christ unless he, the Dutchman, seeded her first. The Dutchman reportedly bound her to her bed, stripped her, and flung his ejaculations at her for several hours. The Woman Leeds’ screams and bloodcurdling prayers were eventually heeded when her neighbors found themselves unable to sleep through the caterwauling. The Saeftinghe Dutchman was dragged from the house and presumably killed somewhere in the nearby woods.

            The Woman Leeds soon found herself pregnant with her thirteenth child, but was traumatized by her experience with the Dutchman. Under the guise of comforting her, Madrigal preyed upon her piety, expressing fear as to what a baby conceived in such sin would be. Prayer services were conducted almost continuously, but the Woman Leeds repeatedly proclaimed, “Let it be the devil!” Meanwhile, Madrigal, feigning neighborly relations with the Lenape, stoked fear throughout the tribe with each new appraisal of the developing situation. On the night of the baby’s birth, Madrigal ran to the Lenape and told them that the Woman Leeds had indeed given birth to a monstrous demon with the head of a goat and wings like a bat. The Lenape were so terrified they immediately evacuated their land and disappeared toward the Atlantic.

            Madrigal promptly swooped in and bought the land. His plan had been a complete success, but his fortune would be short-lived. Soon after, a riot erupted at a meeting of the new settlement’s residents. Everyone agreed on the name of the new settlement – Hillfield – but they could not come to an accord as to whether it should be so named because it comprised a hill located in a field or a field located on a hill. Tempers flared and Madrigal was killed in the ensuing brouhaha.

            Hillfield was born.

Next:

The Redcoats Are Coming!

SHOW & TELL

Romilda Ur-Sinus placed her fingertips against her temples and rubbed deeply. She recognized her students to be, by and large, a good group of children. They all quietly sat at their desks, rocking back and forth on the balls of their feet, fidgeting with whatever was in their hands, waiting for their turn to show-and-tell. But seven-year olds, she felt, shouldn’t be so entranced by the morbid and tawdry. Why were these kids so enamored with the seedy underbelly of it all, and why were they inured to it? Hannah, her wide eyes bluer than the sky, had brought in an old copper teapot. It had been a wedding gift to her great-grandmother before the woman’s husband used it to murder an Irishman who had been stepping out with his wife. Sweet, angelically voiced Preston had displayed the shrapnel that had lodged itself into his grandfather’s armpit in Hue. Even Cody, shy but with the heart of a poet, had decided to show and tell about a video his elder step-sister had produced for P.E.T.A.

            Ms. Ur-Sinus raised her head as little freckle-faced Tela finished her presentation. “Thank you, Tela,” she said, and the ginger girl returned to her seat with her father’s World War Two-era lampshade. Ur-Sinus didn’t have the fortitude to right then instill in the girl an appreciation for the gross inhumanity of the object. Instead she turned back to the class. “Argossy?” she called. “How about you?”

            The boy, all cowlicks and coke-bottle lenses, made his way to the head of the classroom. In his hand he held the loop at the end of a red leash. Waddling behind Argossy on the other end of the leash was a shockingly tiny bald man.

            The boy and the diminutive man stood side-by-side before the files of desks. “For Show & Tell,” said Argossy, “I brought my pet midget. His name is Uncle Pappy. Uncle Pappy is not a dwarf because dwarves’ limbs are not in normal… pro… propur –” Uncle Pappy whispered into Argossy’s ear, and the boy continued, “– proportion to their bodies. He is three-feet five-inches tall, but he can become nine feet when the moon is full. Uncle Pappy is allergic to cats. His favorite color is green, but he prefers black girls. He speaks four languages and has wrought-iron kidneys. He killed a man with his… ret… retret –” Uncle Pappy again provided a helpful whisper, “– retractable pincers that shoot out of his wrists like Spider-man’s webs, but his favorite comic book is Doom Patrol. He can run twenty-five miles per hour and pass Doug Benson through his colon. He can play The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway on a comb and split an atom with his eyelids. On his home planet, midgets rule and ride hawktopuses into battle. I like Uncle Pappy because he is good and tells funny jokes. I think midgets are better pets than Muslims.”

            Ms Ur-Sinus suddenly found her fortitude. She didn’t even bother to underline her shock with a protracted stare. “Argossy, I don’t know where to begin! First, Uncle Pappy, if that’s even his real name, is a human being. You can’t keep a human being for a pet! And Uncle Pappy is not a ‘midget.’ That’s a hurtful word. He’s a ‘little person.’ Now, should I give you an itemized list of all the lies you just told? Because other than your extremely offensive last sentence, everything else you just is physically impossible!”

            Romilda Ur-Sinus’ head popped off her neck with the sudden snip of pincers.

            Uncle Pappy whipped the pincers back into his forearm like a lariat. He regarded the stunned ranks of children for a moment. He then about-faced, dropped his pants, leaned over, and pushed.

            Doug Benson’s head emerged with an audible pop. “Who’s up for a pizza party!?!”

WEEK THREE OF THE PRE-SEASON (LitBits #8)

            “Hello, everyone.! Welcome to week three of pre-season football. I’m Stu Isore, with me is Pigg Vittles. Today’s game is sure to be a good one as Philadelphia takes on New England. Both franchises made some bold, exciting moves in the off-season and expectations are sky high for both teams.

            “But before we get to the on-field action, it’s come to our attention that nobody really cares about the pre-season. The games have no impact on the standings and, if you remember from last week’s slew of pre-season games, Washington actually beat Indianapolis. So, clearly these games don’t tell us anything. Therefore, in the interest of entertainment, we’re now to going to switch over to footage of a crackhead taunting a polar bear. For Pigg Vittles and everyone here, I’m Stu Isore. See you next time!”