Ishmael Reed - Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down

O Peter you don’t have to be so graphic.

Look at dis, Peter said, bringing out 24 cards. Credit cards to da finest stores in Boston and New York. He ain’t so smart.

He has nothing but contempt for you Peter, you and your kind, why he called politics the hated occupation.

Well he can’t think much of me because I’m politics from foot to head.

He said he didn’t want to go the way of the French to Bonaparte.

Well if you ask me Theda my opinion, I tink some of dees protestors need a little Bonaparte right up side da fucking mop baby, pow dat’s what dey need.

Now you’re cooking with gas Peter, my compatriot and dear friend. I’ve been thinking about it Peter and you know what would happen if the British start acting up or them nigger pirates in Barbary start screwing around with our ships. Do we want to look like faggots?

He’s stripped the Navy and uses the boats for those old nasty women he’s always fooling around with, takes pleasure boat rides with those goddamn anarchists and those pseudo intellectual professors. Why just this morning he took off again. Papers piled high on his desk. Just went away. Too La Doo. Said he was nothing but a lowly dirt farmer waved to us and said he’d see us around. Always using slang like that I can’t keep up with him or understand a single thing he says half the time. Said he wanted to catch an eclipse tonight through his telescope. Last time he went to his farm he remained 3 whole months.

Geez dat’s a shame Theda. If we had a ballsy leader da whole shebang would be one big goof off from coast to coast, everything would be boss.

Theda looked at himself through a hand mirror and busied the mole on his cheek.

There are plenty of talented men around. Yourself Pete?

O I’m just a poor simple Congressman. I just got da job because my uncle’s an undertaker.

Then what about me, Pete? Theda hopped from the crate and clutching the lapels of the Congressman’s coat pressed Peter against the wall.

Aw not me, baby, I’m not getting mixed up in no plots.

But your name will become a holiday Peter, just think.

I’d rather bar-be-cue a holiday dan be one Theda. No tanks. You saw what happened to da Aaron Burr conspiracy, dey busted da poor guy all da way down to da floor — he’s ruined.

Aw Burr was a lemon. I’ve been secretly planning here in my little hole in the wall. Maps have been made, an invasion route laid out. Royal Flush Gooseman is extending credit for supplies in exchange for me sub-leasing Florida to him, plus I have an intelligence officer on the biggest cattleman’s household staff to boot.

Gee Theda da way you run it down so clear and fresh as spring water you make it zap my mind.

Of course Peter, dear friend. Why just this evening our Indian scout out on the range sent a message via electronic horsey that he was coding Yellow Back Radio when all of a sudden it went off the beam. He suggests that it might not be long before I took my sword and led a cavalry charge on that part of the country full of black diamonds, black gold, abundant streams of trout and swarming with healthy steer beef.

Look Theda suppose we just bumped da guy off? I’ll let da boys back home know dere’s a contract and while’s he’s out looking for rare butterflies bingo poof and my man is in doornail country.

O Peter you’re so sweet but sometimes I forget you’re the Congressman from New Jersey. Assassinations were crude techniques of the Middle Ages. Perish the thought that civilized men like ourselves would be forced to such tactics in this the century of American Enlightenment.

Wipe the mustard off your tie Pete.

O excuse me Theda I didn’t notice.

No I have a better plan. If indeed Yellow Back Radio wilting feathers are preparing to take a dive into History why don’t we take over the Western section of the country and then declare a civil war? Why with the plentiful resources and cheap labor out there our logistics will be unbeatable and we’d get rid of this crowd once and for all, Hamilton, Paine and Jefferson, the whole civilian crew. Phooey. What do they know. Why I’ll be Emperor and Pete…well Pete you can park all the stagecoaches. By the way Pete how are things in Congress these days?

O Field Marshal I tink sooner or later we’ll get da bakery bilt on da floor of the House. We’re wasting money allatime sending out for pies.

I’m just a poor ol snoljer Pete. I mean far be it from me to interfere with the separation of powers but don’t you think the fellows ought to put a little hoi-polloi into the proceedings? People are beginning to lose confidence — they’ll decide they don’t need us and we’ll have free stores free money free land — what will happen to our little ego games if anarchy comes about?

A page walked in.

Hey chums there’s some redskin out here sez he’s got a message for you. He’s out in the lobby with his valet and tailor.

Thank you page, Theda answered, but in the future please address us by our rightful titles…we’re a young country and all but…

Up yours, the page replied bringing the forefinger of his right hand up with a sharp thrust. The page slammed the door.

Dear, dear, Theda sobbed as Pete screwed on his enormous red nose. Did you see that, they won’t even appropriate enough money for me to get a first rate office staff.

Why do you think da injun’s allowed a valet and tailor Theda?

O he’s the last surviving injun in Yellow Back Radio — Drag Gibson keeps him around in case the Pope wants to visit or something.

Chief Showcase, representative of red pow wow, was escorted into the room. The Field Marshal looked around for a chair.

Don’t bother gents I’ll just sit here on the floor. I know things are rough for you Field Marshal, having a freaky bopper peacenik for President and all who has no respect for the military.

I was on the way back from gay Paree where I bought this fine Pierre Cardin jacket with fur in the hood and I wanted to stop off to tell the Field Marshal that signs point to an early invasion of Yellow Back Radio. Have a smoke.

O thanks Showcase, here try one Peter dear, the soldier said handing one to the Congressman.

Cough! Cough! Cough!

The conspirator’s mouths became smokestacks as fumes filled the room.

You know Chief we always regretted the way those rude Western white trash, that human offal wiped out your people like that. It was really too bad.

Well Theda if we had had about 50 more troops at Big Horn I’d be the one sitting on that crate and you’d be going around the world reading militant poetry, that is if your ass wasn’t on display in some museum.

Yeah, funny da way tings turn out ain’t it, Pete said fidgeting his huge red thumbs and drawing on a cigarette with two free fingers.

Both Theda and Pete began to be wracked by spasms.

Easy easy gentlemen, Showcase said slapping them on the back to ease their agony. You must inhale them slowly.

When the two men were finished coughing and spitting blood Showcase returned to his seat on the floor in the corner of the room.

Now as I was preparing to report…Drag Gibson and the ranch hands were talking about you like a dog. They said they weren’t troubled at all about your demand that they join the Union because they knew you didn’t have enough troops to make it stick. It was so bad the way they were running you down I cried all the way to Paris.

O isn’t that sweet of you, you fine sugar-pappa with the candy between your lucious red thighs. I’ll be your little old buffalo calf anytime you want.

Thanks Field Marshal and I’m here to tell you that you and Pete have nothing to fear. Theda something uncanny is happening on the ranch these days. At this very moment some nigger wampus is giving them a run for their money indeed. Cattle are wasting away emitting pitiful moomoos of mayhem, the fish die on shores and appear in bedrooms in strange flapping monster dances. The darkie even ran the Marshal out of town after a tremendous display of bullwhacking — popped the man with fiery whiplashes and played songs all over the Marshal’s butt so good with his lash that a moose galloped towards a lake and almost drowned, the poor animal was laughing so. And if that wasn’t enough the nigger put a hex on John Wesley Hardin and left John Wesley Hardin demented, only fit for tending the hogs.