chapter 2.02 pre-victorious

pre-victorious

Like a three-legged camel crossing the vast emptiness of the Gobi Desert, the National SomethingSomething Radio reportage of the pre-victory pre-acceptance victory acceptance speech lurched onwards towards nothing at all.

"Hello, this is Jack Werthless in Washington. Anonymous Intern, can you tell us what is happening?"

The intern reported what she was seeing. That way, every listener would have a rough idea of what  talking looks like. She spoke with hushed excitement. "Jack, I can tell you that Queen Bintonian is now opening her mourh. Air is appearing to move into her lungs, yes, air is somehow being displaced by a pressure gradient into her lungs. Oh, now the pressure gradient has been reversed. Air is being forced out of her lungs. Repeat! Air is being forced out of her lungs! Hark! She speaks!"



"My name is Eevellary Bintonian." A roar of thunderous applause was heard.

"She has created speech! She has created speech by passing air through her vocal mechanism, stimulating the vibration of the vocal cords themselves! Amazing! And what a profound statement. She has told us her name!"

"Because my name is Eevellary Bintonian." More thunderous applause.

The intern continued. "It appears that her plan is to continue the cycle of alternating pressure gradients to force air into and out of her lungs! This will allow her to speak many words!"

"Amazing," said Jack Werthless in D.C.

"Excitingly amazing!" replied Anonymous Intern.

"And..."

"Ah! She's about to create another amazingly exciting sentence!", said Intern.

"And furthermore, unlike my opponent, Burning Sandman, my name is Eevellary Bintonian!"

The crowd roared again. "Braiiiiiiiiiins!" they cried in unison.

"What was that, Anony?", asked Jack Werthless in D.C.

"It appears," replied Anonymous Intern, "that many of the those present are the zombie-like undead creatures. Which should have been obvious from their blood-soaked clothing, the bits of brain and intestines clinging to their mouths, their slow, clumsy movements, and the fact that none of them seem to be able to clap their hands. They keep swinging and missing, hitting the zombie next to them, and then they begin eating one another. However, their enthusiasm for Ms. Bintonian is very evident, very amazing, and very exciting!"

"And as my mama used to tell me..."

"Oh, she's winding them up with a 'my mama' anecdote, the cheering and excitement is unbelievable."

"Ahem, as my mama used to tell me, the best meal is meal of human brains!"

The crowd roared. "Brainsssssssssss!"

Anonymous Intern had to shout over the noise of the crowd. "Jack in D.C., the crowd is eating this up!"

"Wow! Tell me, are there any, you know, people who are still alive in the audience?"

"It does appear that there is one--oh wait, she panicked and they got her. They got her."

"What happened, Anony?"

"Well Jack in D.C., they ripped her apart and are now feasting upon her flesh and guts. Oh wait, now one has cracked open her skull cavity. Yes, the creatures are going in for the gooey mess that is the human nervous system. They are very excited!"

"Are there any  other--"

"Wait Jack, she is about to make another word. Perhaps another sentence. Oh Jeebus this is exciting and amazing and stuff!"

"That's right, there you go, feast upon those delicious nutritious brains. Vote for me and you will never want for brains!" 

"Sounds like she's really pandering there to the undead voters," said Jack in D.C.

"Well Jack in D.C., that's politics. Oops, buckle up kids, here comes the big finish!"

"Yesterday, my name was Eevellary Bintonian! Today, my name is Eeveellary Bintonian. And tomorrow my name will still be Eevellary Bintonian! Unless I legally alter my name or get a divorce, my name will always be Eevellary Bintonian! And this year I'm going to go to Washington  D.C. and people will call me Eevellary Bintonian!" 

"A powerful message," said Jack in D.C., "but will her promise of more human brains resonate with the supporters of Burning Sandman?"

"If they have half the love for human brains that this crowd does, no doubt about--oh hell, they spotted me. Gotta' go."

"Good luck, hope you don't get eaten, heh heh. Next up: Why won't the Sandman just do us all a favor and drop dead?"

chapter 2.01 - pre-acceptance acceptance of the pre-victory victory

the pre-acceptance acceptance of the pre-victory victory

From the speakers came more annoying, pointless speech. One voice was somewhat human, but at the same time sounded completely spineless--invertebrael, one might say. "Hello, this is National SomethingSomething Radio with Ari A. Lapdog. And this is another overpaid lapdog."

"I'm just an intern," came the voice of a young women. 

"Oh boo hoo. You're here because you're a girl. So what do you think about this momentous occasion of a corrupt, war-mongering narcissist who is about to accept her pre-acceptance with victory speech for a victory she has yet to win? You must be very excited about this momentousness. I mean, you're both girls!" 

"Let me check the script. Okay, it's um, where's my line, oh screw it--this is the best toothpaste ever!"

"We're selling a candidate here, not toothpaste. Yet. This is journalism, remember: So just read the script."

 "Oh, right right, it's a public service. We only sell brands. Like the best brand of all, Brand Bintonian!"

"I think you're getting it!"

"I'm so excited about this motherfucking toothpaste dammit! Keeps your teeth white as fuck!"

"Bintonian, Brand Bintonian."

"The candidate?"

"Yes, the candidate!"

"She will keep your teeth white! Also: Send us your money, don't be a free-loading cunt!", exclaimed the intern.

"Now you've got it!"

"But if you want my honest opinion, as a woman, I believe that I really cannot support Eevellary Bintonian for president because--"

Ari A. Lapdog cut her off with a line usually only heard in pornograpic videos: "Shut up you stupid bitch here she comes here she come oh she's coming!" he squealed. He began stomping his feet, Unable to contain himself, he stomped his feet in anticipation. 

A curtain parted, revealing a golden throne upon a dais. And on the throne sat the prematurely victorious not-yet-a-queen queen, Eevellary Bintonian herself. 

"A thunderous applause is going through  the crowd of vetted Bintonian supporters! The people who loved her five minutes ago still love her!", cried Lapdog. "Okay, the throne is levitating forward to the microphone. And her mouth is opening--she's about to speak--and oh godddddddddddddddddddddddd!" Ari Lapdog then passed out cold. As his body slumped to the ground, the intern snatched the microphone from his hand.

"Ha, now it's my time to shine!", she cried. "She appears to be inhaling air into her lungs. And now the first word is coming out now...any second now...and here it is!"

And then, clearly reveling in non-victory, Eevellary Bintonian emitted a word. The word resounded throughout the crowd. 

"Hey."

"Braiiiiiiiiiiiins!" roared the crowd.

chapter 2.0 - radio haze (iv)

notes of future  past

To: The Desk Of Dr. Glyxxzzitt Borg, Professor of Human & Earth Studies, Earth University

Dear Professor, 
Enclosed is the file you requested of this thing known as "public radio" or "pubic radio" (we had long hours of discussion about the proper spelling. In fact a bout of fisticuffs broke out! Our expert on Americanese, Dr. Fryxxzzitt Borg (no relation) attempted to punch the professor of Australianese right in his external orosensory gland. Instead it ended up smashing into one of those strange metallic Earth artifacts which clutter his office (I think it he calls it a "blender", some sort of useless ceremonial gift handed out at weddings), and ended up shattering several small bones in his third arm, not to mention a great deal of blood loss. Therefore it will be some time before we can supply you with further transcripts. Let us hope this will suffice for now. 

**MINCEMEAT [note: more radio]]**

[translator's note: transcript, 21st century Earth era; source unknown]

Anchor: In people who matter have died news, reports are filling our inboxes here indicating that dance-rock-pop-soul-rhythm-and-blues-musician-songwriter-appeared-on-innumerable-posters-and-t-shirts guy, Mince, died from an accidental  overdose of Lesspainfulnyl. Although Mince was taking the drug to relieve physical pain from an injured hip and he decided to forgo surgery for that pain, and belonged to a cult that forbids surgery out of some batshit interpretation of book written thousands of years before anesthesia and antibiotics, and in spite of the fact that it should be common knowledge after 40 years of drug war hysteria that any opiod produces physical dependency, let's frame this from the perspective we should: Addiction.  Dr. Addiction, welcome. 

[Translator's note: still working on translation of 'batshit'; may have been a popular character of local folklore who brought fertilizer to the ancient humans. See my monograph, "Origins of the Batshit Myth: Questions Without Good Answers." In addition, "Anchor" seems to have been a very common name. Whether it was passed down matrilineally remains a matter of intense dispute.]

Dr. Addiction: Zombies ate my family!

Anchor: We brought you here to talk about someone who matters.


Dr. Addiction: Right, sorry.

Anchor: Perhaps the zombies were high on smack?

Dr. Addiction: Oh, no doubt about it. Opiod addiction is the greatest crisis facing our nation except for the zombie holoc-

Anchor: I'm sorry but we're not discussing that. Do you want this shot to raise your profile and get that CRAP TALK on youtube?

Dr. Addiction: A CRAP TALK OH FARK YEAH!

Anchor: Good, then play ball and MAYBE you'll get somewhere.

Dr. Addiction: OH YES OH YES OH YES OH YES BOOK DEAL HERE I COME!

Anchor: Alrighty, now settle down...

Dr. Addiction: Ahem, right.

Anchor:  ...and tell us how dangerous this drug is.

Dr. Addiction: Worse than having to see zombie sucking out your wife's brain. And I should know. 

Anchor: That's better. Your future is starting to crystallize and I can see your speech on ubertube. And on the side column I can see links to dozens of extremely popular cat videos. Yes, you will be that popular.

Dr. Addiction: OH GOD OH GOD--

Anchor: Ahem.

Dr. Addiction: Sorry. Started to get carried away there.

Anchor: No need to make orgasmic noises, this isn't some Nora Ephron crap from the 80's.

Dr. Addiciton: Who? What?

[Translator's note: "Nora Ephron" appears to have been another figure of folklore, feared as a supernatural being who would somehow get into one's home with her demonic powers of "basic cable connection", whatever that could be, and steal children's souls with bad cinema.]

Anchor: Never mind. Just compare Lesspainfulnyl to a banned, illegal drug so that we all know how bad and evil it is and make it sound as though we're standing up to HUGE PHARMA even though we're going to do nothing of the sort. 

Dr. Addiction: It's worse than the zombie holocaust because HUGE PHARMA.

Anchor: How huge?

Dr. Addiction: Enormously huge.

Anchor: Can you be more precise?

Dr. Addiction: Huge huge. I'm gesturing with my arms to demonstrate how huge it is.

Anchor: Remember, this is radio. People can't see you.

Dr. Addiction: HUUUUUUUGE....

Anchor: Horrible. There you have it, Mince is now meat. Heh heh, that's a good one.  Thank you doctor.

Dr. Addiction: I have to go bury corpses of my wife and children but not before I sever their heads from their bodies to prevent them from returning as undead.

Anchor: Thank you and you have a great day too!  

[Translator's note: End of file.]

chapter1.11 - an offer you can't afford

the mCsituation

The sound of text alerts suddenly rang out through the group. "My husband, he's alive!" shouted one survivor. "My child is alive!" cried another. As it turned out, everyone was disappointed, as they had all received the same spam text:

Support the Eevellary Bintonion presidential campaign by offering will give them a discount on "Uterus Card" t-shirts*.*5% discount on all purchases made through www.eevellaryisthegreatest.com****Discount does not apply to sales tax, shipping costs, or transaction fees, or any other costs******Discount only applies to orders over 10,000**********No guarantee on availability of size, color, durability or quality, so expect a freight train of XX-small orange and purple tees which will stain all of your other clothing before the fabric itself dissolves water****************100% 'handling' surcharge on all ordersKudos! #YouAreWithHer!

Van Bilge was puzzled by the message. "Hmm, what's a 'uterus card' and why do I want one? Is that like an organ transplant because, you know, I'm pretty sure I don't need one. In fact I don't think anyone needs one. Or do they? Kudos! (whatever those are, you can have all of my kudos as they seem to be invisible and functionless) (might be like neutrinos but I'm not sure what those are either but they are very very small, I've been told so they could be like the same thing or, um, some thing. Hmmm.)"

Fortunately, no one was paying any attention to him, due to what just had appeared on the monitor.

#chapter1.10 - radio haze (iii)

the mCsituation

Subsequently,  a long drone leaked out of the monitor's speakers, much like a bagpipe's lower register. "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."
"What fresh new devilry is this? Is someone dying on the radio? Is it some fiery beast risen from hell?" asked Lockjaw.
"No, Captain," said Mr. Schlock. "It is one of your Earth-human audio programs, "That Ummerican Life."
All of the survivors went silent, listening carefully. Lockjaw cocked his head, dog-like. "Oh, now I hear it," he said. "It's a man. Talking. Sort of."

Indeed, it actually was a human voice of some sort. "Hell...o. Welcome..." Then a long pause. Then what might have been a prolonged  inhalation. "UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

Then the speech began again--and again, barely audible.  "Welcome.." Lockjaw checked his watch. "...to..."  He then began mixing a martini from what was left of the bar. "Okay, who wants more booze?" Everyone raised their hands including the children.  "Hey, what the hell, we're all going to be dead soon, eh?" "...That..." "Just let me shake this up like Taylor Swift on meth." "...American.." Lockjaw continued shaking the container. "...Life." "Finally, we have a title! Hey, let's see what's in here." The captain opened the container. "Just enough left for me, sorry everybody."

it said. A sad sigh went through the little crowd.

Or perhaps the sadness was caused by the voice droned on its low, barely audible, yet somehow annoying monotone. "Today...let'-- talk--about--anger. Not--just--any--anger. [long pause]No. Buuuuuuut [deep inhalation] the worst type of all: The--things--people--say--about--my--show. Let's start with Dave. Dave, you insulted a woman by calling her a, and I quote, and our listeners should probably cover their ears at this point or set down their cup of non-caffeinated herbal tea or just turn off their hearing aids, assuming they can still hear at all--"

The voice of a man, high-pitched and filled with rage, interrupted him. "Yes I did, Jeebus just get to the damn point. You said you were going to call for an ambulance if I answered your questions!"

"And he's being rude by interrupting me. But I will ask the question: Did you call this woman a 'fat bitch'?'

[Somewhere, on another far-off planet, a bearded mystic intoned, "I just felt a disturbance in the Farce, like the sound of a million cups of chamomile being spilled at once. Followed by an outpouring of angry emails, internet postings, text messages, text messages sent as emails, and even letters hand written and sent via post."]

The voice of the angry man filled the room. "Yes I  called her a fat bitch, she's eating my goddamn arm off. Please call an ambulance or do something! Arrrgh."

"Now let's get her response. What do you say to that, madam?"

A woman's voice spoke in response. "Braiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiins!"

The angry man"Dammit my arm is gone! I'm bleeding out here! Please somebody help me! I think  I'm--" There was a crashing noise, like a body falling out of a chair and hitting the floor.

"So there you have it, Ummerica: A rage-filled misogynist; a woman who simply wants to feed upon human flesh. Next up: A story about unappreciative and most likely bigoted, misogynistic leeches who refuse to be guilted into sending money to support this show and other terrific programs on National SomethingSomething Radio."

"For the sake of Jeebus turn it off!" shouted Lockjaw.

"We can't find the remote!"

Lockjaw clenched both fists and sank to his knees cried out: "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

#chapter1.09 - radio haze (ii)

the mCsituation

'Excellent,' thought Miranda Lund (Senior Stewardess Extraordinaire). Her self-congratulatory stream of consciousness for accomplishing precisely nothing was quickly interrupted as National SomethingSomething Radio resumed over the aircraft's audio system: 'Welcome to Something Less Interesting', said a smooth, plangent voice. The motley crew and motley assorted passengers assumed positions of hopelessness and despair, ranging from the classic scream of "Nooooooo!" to resigned shrugs of "Oh fuck it."

"Oh, fuck it," muttered Miranda. She realized that the alliteration of herself 'muttering' was awkward, cloddish, and plebeian, but then she thought, 'Fuck that too, we're almost dead.' 

"So," continued the disconnected (in more ways than one) voice, "we're here with Profeessor Sally Exculpator, a leadshipologist of the University of--well who really cares? Now, Professor, you've done a good deal of research on leadership. So tell us: Will Secretary Bintonian be the best president ever? Or the bestest president ever?"

"The answer is obvious--she will be both. But make no mistake: A woman is judged more harshly for her past mistakes. And if she makes the same mistake over and over and over and over and, you know, over say a period of three decades, she is, for some strange and no doubt sexist reason--well I won't say it's sexist because I can't say with certainty even when it so obviously is sexist as hell that a woman is judged for this war or that war or leaving the garage door open, I mean no one complains that when a man leaves a garage door open but leave the door open and your child runs out into the street or somehow ended up in the washing machine or playing with the neighbor's pit-fighting dogs, yeah a woman does that and then it's all 'indictment this' and 'prosecution that' just because a little incident happened and someone's child sort of died. Well I'm sorry you don't have a granddaughter any more, Mom but boohoo life goes on, you know?"

"Wow. Just so much wow. How unfair."

"Precisely, and let's not forget that a woman is judged for her past and future mistakes. Mistakes that have not even happened!" 

"Wow." 

"For example you lose one or two children and suddenly people are telling you you're a bad mother!"

"Ah ha. So you are saying that Eeveellary Bintonian is being judged not only for what she has done, but what she might do? And men are not?" 

"Correct. Though we might judge them if we know what they will do. But that's a whole freaky area and can't happen. Unless the space-time continuum breaks down in some previously unknown fashion and the past and future start to collide in some crazy kooky but hilarious way."

"Well there you have it. Bintonian, don't judge her judgments, past, present or future. Forgive or forget or forget the future or whatever. So a few people died who shouldn't have. A few soldiers came back bit by bit in used matchboxes and sandwich bagggies. So I put a screaming child in the washing machine. That's no reason to become alarmed." 

"So true. Next up: Will rampant zombieism bring back vinyl records? One industry spokesmen says it just might. Really? That's our next story? Are you fucking kiddding me? Oh, is this still on? Sorry, listeners, it seems that our engineer just ate the producer and is munching on his intestines as we speak. Oh fuck I forgot the fucking trigger word. Zombies. There, are you happy, trigger people? Feel better now! Dammit all why did I ever go into radio?" 

#chapter1.08 - radio haze

the mCsituation

Tragically, someone then changed the channel. (We shall never know whom, in all likelihood, although scholars will continue to debate this for decades to come.)  "Hello and welcome to our live video feed from our studios in Washington," intoned a pleasant, reassuring voice.

"There's a lot going in the world. Reports are coming in from all over the nation that civilization itself is collapsing. Mysterious disappearances have reached untold numbers. Strange and highly disturbing reports of murder and cannibalism permeate the airwaves. So we open this GoodGood Morning Edition with a hard-hitting interview. With my dog, Oedipus Rex." The camera pulled back to reveal a dog sitting in the studio. "Arf!"

"Now Rex, there are many horrible things that are happening. Or, seem to be happening. Videos of accidents, explosions, humans devouring other humans alive in ghastly orgies of blood. So let me ask you, Rex--and please allow me to apologize in advance if this question is too harsh or direct or probing or substantial in any way--I hope you will understand-- but here at NPR, we try to take an objective approach.

Rex nodded his head "Arf."

"Thank you for understanding. Now Rex, here is the question I must ask, which all of America is doubtless asking. Rex: Are you a good boy?"

"Arf!" Rex exclaimed. The news anchor/host tossed Rex a biscuit. "Very good!" she exclaimed.

"But Rex--and I have to ask this--are you sure you're a good boy? And before you answer,  remember that this is being recorded and transcribed for posterity."

Rex wagged his tail. "Arf!"

"And will Eveellary Bintonian be the best president ever? Or the bestest ever?"

"Arf!"

"That sounded to me like 'bestest'. And so it stands, America. Rex is a good boy, and Madame Bintonian will be the bestest president in history. Next up: A hipster folk band is here to debut a song they've just written called, um, 'Braiiiiiiiins!'. Hey guys I'd like to welcome you to Good Morning Edition and goddammit I even own a vinyl imporession -aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiedeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
The news anchor protested mightily as she was torn limb from limb by a heavily bearded folk trio.
 
 'Great inteview,' thought Miranda. 'Wish I could get paid to talk to a dog and be eaten by a hipster folk trio.