Todays Big Smiley book 6, 4th. skit. This early morning is still dark and were snowed under. According to the view from our kitchen window the next door neighbors roof has about a foot and a half of snow on top of it. But for the moment the huge flakes have stopped coming down. (Happy New Year, Everybody, dont want to disturb anyone who is sleeping in from a night of celebration.) Chapter 4 On Sunday morning, Sonny left Mulusa, the mystical white rabbit, in charge of the feral cats in the shed, while he attended six o’clock mass. Like most of his friends he not only prayed for the fallen away and the poor, but he also prayed fervently for the president and for Israel. At one time he had been the head pastor of a huge Texas religious attraction before the board of directors became so fat and quarrelsome from an unhealthy diet of greed. He had forsaken that awful pitfall with only the clothes on his back before the dollar signs in their eyes blinded him too. The harsh memory often rose up of himself on bended knee, crying out, “Lord, can’t You see what they’re doing to my church?” And the Holy Spirit answered, saying, “Who’s church?” These carefree days of living among the homeless, where a limited trust fund family inheritance kept him a shade above the truly down and out, and gave him a little something to share. Now, he considered the greatest thing that had ever happened in his life was also the most frightening dark of night, nightmare, when the girl died in the woods, shortly after giving birth to Misty Anna. God had placed him there in his sleeping bag under the stars to wait and it was merciful he didn’t even know he was waiting. Suited in his black priest’s uniform with his white collar, the elderly pastor always treated Sonny special, as though they were spiritual equals. Father Thomas knew nothing of his soul searching, Bible college background. Instead of kicking over the money changers’ tables he had fled as fast as his trembling legs could carry him. Raised a protestant, he had repented of his sins many times, but had never been exposed to the bleeding heart’s repentant confessional. But with what he had left, he tried to do the best he could. After the service Sonny stopped for a cup of coffee with Gordon Dickerson’s large family. He waded through the eight inch snow fall and onto the porch of what was still considered the Democrat gathering station. An action packed flash of memories gave him pause as he tapped on the front door. Unless you had actually witnessed the awakening of a mildly afflicted, chubby, sunken chest, pot belly Down syndrome victim who had collapsed in a seizure that placed him helpless against police brutality, armed with a hair triggered taser gun, perhaps you had to be there for a full reckoning. Confused and frightened, Gogo Dicky and two other Down syndrome, Radey and Ommie, and one wheelchair, handicapped, McKinsy, had been abandoned, with their meager belongings on the sidewalk, after the eviction notice was tacked on the door of their care home. Again, Andrew rescued Gogo Dicky’s adopted family and brought him from the hospital emergency to settle them into another place. Everyone involved at the time naturally thought it was a temporary position. Those in charge of the state capital and the governor’s ninth floor offices may have had the underhanded authority to short change the needy in many ways, but their disability Social Security checks were off the table. When the opportunity arose, by pooling their resources, and with the assistance of a few benefactors, Gordon Dickerson’s family was able to buy Obama’s shabby, little headquarters. It simply never occurred to the proud owners of their home to turn away a pair of eleven and ten year old sisters, Cloie and Essense, and their three little brothers, Porge, Hansie and Murry, the motherless children who appeared out of the rain one night. Under Gogo Dicky’s instructions the attic was simply extended to accommodate an extended family. Their feisty schnauzer, Sparkplug, barked with a wagging tail to greet Sonny and make him feel more than welcome. “You want me to stay for breakfast,” he chuckled at the pup, as McKinsy took a large plastic container full of hot buttered oat meal out of the microwave oven. Taking a word of wisdom from the Jews, feed the children and the animals first, the youngsters were at the kitchen sink, washing and drying their dishes. “He can talk,” popped off Ommie, “he’s already had his breakfast. But when it comes to oat meal we have plenty.” While the men gathered around the dining table, their focus was on the New Year’s Eve talk show that stated the high risk of the mentally constipated GOP Congress. Secretary Hillary Clinton’s medical condition was released. She was not only suffering a brain concussion she had been hospitalized with a blood clot. “You’d think something that bad would satisfy her accusers,” added Sonny. “What else could you expect from the way Boehner and McConnell pretended to be asleep when the president called them after we won the election? Those two halfwits were too mad to be asleep. They behave like the whole GOP party is plagued with advanced stages of dementia. We ought to demand to see their medical records.” Not having anything else on their agenda, Bookers Books, used book sales and academy; located on Old Main, across the street side alley, from McCall’s Breakfast Nook, had not spun its wheels nor lost traction of their cradle to grave educational goals during the holidays. In fact the school had stretched their means to set up a rough picnic table and two benches to include an outreach program for the three Rock Jail prisoners. As troubled inmates go, it was determined Russell, John and Buck would need a little more restraint than a man cave full of attorneys at law might provide. After a brief introduction, Chief Wolfgang and his personal wise men decided to keep them contained in the Arapaho nation, he said, because most of the states still had a death penalty. He firmly stood against physical torture, especially water-boarding. What if the domestic bullies were reclassified as domestic terrorists, to which in some ways, they were? No matter how legalistically powerful the iron fist of justice, the Wendale Superior Court might have slipped up, considering its commonly held shoddy reputation, on various occasions. The Indian leader did not want to be responsible for another mass murder. As an extremely trusted treaty related American alliance, one country to another, newly elected Aspin County Sheriff Creg Quinn couldn’t very well find sound reason to disagree. And as the Pastor of a whopping mega church, Rev. John Sr. Beckron didn’t know where the hell Johnny and that wench of his had run off to. In other words, the chief was havin’ fun. Sonny’s secret service had negotiated non-custodian financial aid for the support of the privatized, stone solid, penitentiary coop. He authorized the unmarked Treadaway van to be sent to pick up the Five lively Granddaddy Long Legs hillbilly, wined up musicians’ great Dancers. Nothing excited the Indian girls much more than a Walmart shopping binge in town. Buck already had his brand new Christmas present change of clothes and the movers and shakers had managed to scrounge through Russell’s pile of dirty laundry to retrieve him a denim set of freshly washed and dried, ordinarily heat packin’, pool hall casual wear, but John had nothing at all suitable, not a stitch. The warm over-coat, with matching gabardine suit and loose tie, that he had slept in for over a week had not held up well, he looked sorta grim. It only took a few minutes for Lily Pad, Raven, Bobby Cat, Piper and Wild Honey to flip through the stack of Rustler blue jeans and size the lined flannel shirt, and whatever else was on the pokey’s list. Then they were free to chatter quietly among themselves, while sorting over the gorgeous purses, fur top boots and the gay abundance of nighties and unmentionables. Then Luigi St. escorted them to have cashew-chicken salad at the Nook. Their very presence turned him into an instant celebrity. The whole lunch crowd wanted an introduction to the Arapaho beauties. Since the Indians had little to speak of out in public, only a few had ever heard of the Five stars, but it was somehow obvious they should have been famous. The owner, Liz McCall, a single mother who had a set of kindergarten, identical twin girls, she had adopted, from the failed second marriage of her first husband, and the presence of those dainty dimplings hadn’t raised that much attention. At least no one had asked for their autographs. Although there was a question of curiosity about how loveable Liz felt toward the kids, which was easily answered. Their twice moved up grandmother said, “Liz acts as if she’s glad she didn’t have to have them.” Meanwhile, up the mountain at the reservation at nine o’clock, January 1st, Father Thomas begin his personal old fashioned, crucified on the cross, Christ Jesus’ shed blood of salvation, catechism instructions of the principle creed of St. Jude Catholic Church. Just in case anyone disagreed, the armed guards had his back. And while the little known Obama supporters searched for ways and means to reach out helping hands to those less fortunate of their community, there was a whole pack of special interests legislators pacing the halls of Capital City feverish with hatred. They’d rather scorch the earth than say yes to a black president. But they desperately needed to live to fight another day, so off the fiscal cliff rage was put to smolder on a back burner.
Posted on: Thu, 01 Jan 2015 12:30:09 +0000
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