SEPTEMBER 21, 2014




So anyway, like many small towns with self-assurance ranking up there with the modesty of a Miley Cyrus with her famous butt, our own town has been much concerned about this semi-Islamic fundamentalist group, Daesh. Daesh paramilitary types have been running around the Middle East like the bad little doggies they are, pooping on everything and generally acting like scarved versions of Lewis Carrol's Red Queen, chanting pretty much the same inanities ("Off with his head! Off with his head!").

Concerns have grown in Silly Hall that after Syria, the Island may be next. It stands to reason as we have the best halal markets in the East Bay and we would be a natural lilypad to launch from in attacks on the rest of the West. After all, the famous Doolittle raiders took off from here. Well, at least their aircraft carriers did.

Mr. Terse, LT. USMC, Ret., has gotten up a confab with Mr. Spline, (Black Ops, NSA, TSA, CIA, BPOE), Cmdr. Stiffstik (Ens. USN), and Simon Snark (Masons), even going so far as to lift -- for the moment -- surveillance of Wally's whistleblower son, Joshua up at the Greek Temple so as to get to grips on how to deal with the threat of Daesh in the Heartland where it is well known, as reported by reputable entities such as Soldier of Fortune Magazine, the National Enquirer, and Glen Beck, that sleeper cells were breeding terrorists and Bolsheviks in places like Sioux City, Lincoln, Carbondale, Minneapolis, St. Louis and Birmingham, Alabama, all in collusion with the Executive Branch of our own federal government.

They were joined by the militant arm of Parlor 33 1/3 of the Native Sons of the Golden West. Meanwhile, Joshua took the opportunity to go get a pizza down in the flats.

"I heard that this Obama refused a slice of bundt cake at one of his propaganda whistle stops," said Snark. "What kind of good-old boy American refuses a slice of white cake I tell you? It means something."

"He's a secret Muslim," said Stiffstik. "And a public Socialist to boot. His middle name is Hussein."

"We real Americans gotta band together," Mr. Spline said. "I move that we form a counterrevolutionary force -- I gotta lotta friends up in northern Idaho who know how to survive living on mealbugs and bark and stuff. We can call ourselves the Defenders Of America."

"D.O.A. I kinda like the sound of that," said Cmdr. Stiffstik.

"I am not so sure I wanna survive eating mealybugs," said Mr. Snark.

"Hey, we are all in this together," Mr. Spline said. "You want your daughter to walk around all wrapped in one of those burkha things when its hot as blazes outside? That's what those DAESH types do when they take over some place." That'll keep her out of trouble. Your wife, too."

"Heck," Cmdr. Stiffstik said. "I just lock her up in her room come Friday night. Aint no pimple-faced brat gonna get in her knickers, no way. I am a Navy guy and I know what guys her age are all about."

"You lock up your WIFE . . ."!? Mr. Spline said.

"No, Malvina, my daughter. Pay attention." Said the Commander.

"How about those emergency bars you get in your disaster survival kit? I aint gonna stuff no mealybugs in my mouth," Mr. Snark said.

"You get hungry enough you will put anything in your mouth, believe me. I suppose you would rather become a Communist if it came to choices."

"I don't know about that . . .".

Äll right everybody, say you got rounded up by these here Daesh guys with the turbans and you get a choice -- either renounce your Creator and become an Islamicist of their particular school or eat mealybugs and wash it down with camel snot."

All of them were silent for quite a while imagining that situation and what they would do. For some, this question brought back childhood memories and tears came to the eyes of these grown men. Well, middle-aged men at least.

The meeting went on for quite a while like that until they concluded with a pledge of allegiance to the flag and sang God Bless America and they all swore on Bibles they would stand together to defend the Land of the Free and each other but most certainly not the Government, whom all of them distrusted.

After most of them left, Pahrump and Jose went around cleaning up, putting away the folding chairs and taking down the religious icons hung up for the meeting: framed portraits of St. Ronald Reagan, Glenn Beck, Milton Friedman, Teddy Roosevelt, and Sarah Palin posing in a bikini while holding an AK-47.

"Doesn't look like anyone touched the sponge cake," Jose commented. "Should I keep it?"

""Throw it out," Pahrump said. "That stuff aint real food."

Jose tossed the thing into the trash barrel with some leftover cookies before hauling it out to the fenced container area. It was took heavy to lift and tip into the dumpster so he left it there and locked up the place.

That night the raccoons came to climb over the fence and raid the dumpster. They found the trash barrel and tipped it over to feast on the watermelon and the cookies, batting away the spongecake after one of them sunk his teeth into it before gagging and running over to the pool by the standpipe to vigorously wash his hands and clean the taste of it out of his mouth.

This was observed by the Captain via the periscope belonging to the AIS Chadoor, the Iranian spy submarine hiding in the estuary. The spy sub was supposed to keep tabs on military activity at the port, but this proved to be so boring and uneventful, the captain and crew often trained the scope upon the more entertaining island.

"If we have to rely on these infidels to help us fight the crazy Daesh, then we all are in a lot of trouble," commented the Captain.

"I do not think the Daesh will die laughing," said the First Mate. ""But Allah works in mysterious ways."

They were all quiet for a time, pondering these wise words.

"I don't think we are that much different from them, my Captain," said the First Mate. "We all want to live, to thrive, to raise a family with children. It is just a few people have a problem with control. "

"I agree," the Captain said and clapped up the handles of the periscope to make it descend. "Dive!"

And with that the Iranian spy submarine passed silently out of the estuary into the Bay and from there under the Golden Gate to the inaccurately named Pacific Ocean, running silent, running deep, leaving behind only the barest hint of a ripple.

There came from far off across the water the ululation of the throughpassing train as it trundled from the gantries of the Port of Oaktown with their sentry lights along First Street, letting its cry keen across the waves of the estuary, the riprap embankments, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats and the open spaces of the former Beltline, through the cracked brick of the former Cannery with its leaf-scattered loading dock, its ghost-haunted, weedy railbed, between the interstices of the chainlink fences until the locomotive click-clacked past the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, headed off out of shadows on the edge of town past the old Ohlone shellmounds to parts unknown.