Bruce Wagner - Dead Stars

Around noon of the 2nd day, she started to edit together an hour or so of footage. But when she replayed Rikki’s hilarious monolog with the chopping of duh arms & legs of duh cats&dogs and duh Justin Beeber cone-surt feelm, she said fuck it, fuck the montage, and told Rikki that’s what she was going to give em. Rikki started to protest, not even too much, but Tom-Tom told him it was now in the hands of the lord. With a wild eye she said

“TOO LATE! Already pusht SEND! It is now in the hands of the Lord, & the Lord’s Resistance Army too. Nigger yo sweet black ass is officially uploaded! You gunna be a moviestar . Now come & get your reward, I’m gunna suck that beautiful black dick til your eyes roll up in your fuckin head. What are you smiling at, whats the matter, you don’t want me to? What, you don’t like the way I suck it? Cause nigger I know you do . Now how’s Reeyonna gunna find out about that shit? Who’s gunna tell her, you? Cuz I sure as hell don’t plan to… don’t you like the way I do you? Cause I know you aint never been done like the way I do. Well aw-ite, that’s better now, nigger show me that you mean it, cause otherwise you gunna hurt my feelings. Ooh ooh that’s better. Look at that muthafucker. Just look. And take a long look, cause you aint gunna see it for a while. That’s right. Say ‘Bye-Bye!’ Say, ‘Bye-Bye, Black Beauty!’ Cause that muther is goin in. ”

To Kill A Hummingbird

Jerzy’s

intel, his twittinformers, twatsnitches, GPS-holes, whatever, had furnished him plate numbers & car descriptions, so he could still make the I.D. & give chase, even if they did a vehicle switcheroo, even if the windows were blacked out he could still follow them to Melrose Place or Giorgio Baldi or In-N-Out (the one by LAX had been good to him) or the plastic surgeon’s or wherever. This late afternoon, he had cellpics of plates, dents, & scuffs on Rihanna’s SUV, Reese’s Audi wagon, V Beckham’s Rolls, Colin Farrell’s Fiat, Lindsay’s Lex hybrid plus 100 more, all +/- the last 48 hrs at most, because anything later than that was untrustworthy intel.

A current one to watch was Michael Douglas, who at this moment was being chauffeured around in a Music Express Mercedes. Jerzy was one of a handful of people on planet Earth who knew Douglas was having dinner with Heather Morris at a private estate above the reservoir in Silverlake Hills. He told his twits&shouts to sit on that because if it was a romantic thing (more would be revealed), a furtive exit pic/shadowkiss could gross a fucking mill & if they didn’t keep their mouths shut, they wouldn’t get a penny, which was the only way to guarantee any kind of silence… the situation tho was de facto way volatile, he couldn’t keep a lid on it too long, it was a LeakyLeak world like Tom-Tom said, the tomtom drums could be heard in every global village, the Douglas/Hemo tête-à-teats (he sent out a tweet: does Hemo still have her implants? ) would need to come to a head soon, i.e., before his rival pack-o’-ratsies found out.

This, as Hyman Roth said, was the life he chose.

. .

He cycled thru this kind of trouble a couple times a year when sleeping issues got out of hand.

He needed GBH to come down, GBH worked nicely, but heroin or methadone was still preferable. Tom-Tom became his source, very reliable, gave him just enough to mellow at the end of the day, then a few hours later sleep, problem being eventually it wouldn’t be enough. He’d slide into smoking PCP (to further chill), which worked for awhile, in that way everything works for awhile, until it doesn’t, until came the familiar visitations of paranoia&(mostly) auditory hallucinations.

He knew a wave was coming, immense & unsurfable, when he switched the sat radio in the truck from CNN manwhores Blitzer & Cooper to Shade 45 , the hardcore hip hop station belonging to racist genius Eminem. It was important for him to listen because Mr. Mathers was the enemy, the Em eny, Mr. Mathers (Jerzy always used his white birthname) was the Trojan horse from which all coming racial strife, bondage & pestilence would run havoc. Msquared was the puppetmaster, biding his time with his white cohorts & consorts, slaves too but of a higher class, Elton & David, Fallon/Fey, Ashton & Demi (still together tho maintaining divorced personae per PuppetM’s orders), Tom & Katie, Justins Bieber/Timberlake/Theroux, the list was hella long… M 2’s most ardent skill being his immense instincts/knowledge of how to seduce the black, how to play on their weaknesses, their whitelove of fame & money, their blackened obsession to be white, their white obsession with it, Mr. Mathers played it like a Game of Thrones.

For Jerzy, the distant rolling thunder of conspiracy always had the same flavor: the Race Wars, newfangled, coming race wars, grandfather of that which Manson botched. Today, listening to The Shade , he could see the dark familiar funnel of it as yet far away, trunk of an F5, awesome furry black twister spiral-shimmer with untwinkling rhinestones along its wormy trunk which on closer look were upspooling specks of debris, church pews, housesplinters, yard shard jetsam, John Deeres & orchard trees feeding the frivolous maw, Jerzy saw it change direction & begin its slow advance toward him, & it was a warning he recognized, the gargantuan drill-biting clang, the chomping pulverization of the ground in the syncopated broken circle of 4/4 time, ferocious machine shop tapdance roving over the checkerboard of his mindscape like a playstation God of —

Time to ready himself for his role of counterspy: the White thought he was spying for them on the Black but in actuality he was spying on the Whites for the Black, yessir, that is correct, gathering intel/conducting cointelpro on behalf of those few Black left who could be trusted, the few who hadn’t been bootysnatched by M 2& his minions Jay-Z (Hov), Kanye (Yahweh), Nicki (Miriam), Lil Wayne (Zion)… and now Tyler the Creator was owned by the Puppetmathers who came a-raping in the night, Odd Future no longer a collective but collected, oh the tragedy of it! for Tyler had the shiniest shine, for a moment, Suge had thought he was The One, but now it was done, the Odds weren’t good & the goods were Odd, Wolf Gang still pretending to be heretical anarchists flying above their SUPREME t-shirts the SUPREME agitprop banner of Youth, all had succumbed, now blind sucklers of M 2’s cock, tongue & tits. They be Gobblin——

Even the Jackal will offer her teats and suckle her cubs (Lamentations 4:3).

Jerzy was one of the coveted outsiders (whites) accepted into the camp of the Black; in the manner Tom Hagen was accepted as the only non-Italian consigliere.

When he first saw him on American Idol , Jerzy looked into his eyes & his soul, down into the ratty mouth of him, & at once he knew — the knowledge electrifying him like a gust from another world, a stellar wind — knew without question that Jimmy Iovine was behind the erasures of Biggie & Tupac — it was I–Veen, with the help of minions Paula Abdul, Spike, Quincy, Arsenio & Eddie Murphy (Tupac said Eddie gave money to charity but the $$$ never ever found its way to the ghetto, Toop said ½ his fans were white & that Madonna was his homie, & Don McClean his mentor), who knocked down that 2nd domino of helter-skelter (Charlie M having pushed the 1st). I–Veen had 50 middleclass Whites standing by, each elected by a constituency of 100,000 Whites all across the land — across the breadbasket & belt of this land my land your land this made for you & me land, by the end they stood for 5 million , all told, but the skittish Black pointed Judaslike fingers at one of their own — Suge — my Suge, your Suge, their Suge, Suge Knight! Suge Knight, who was the only warrior meshugg enough to lead them out of the White darkness that had descended & enshrouded them, if only they had listened— but the water got too muddied, crafty I–Veen knew the triumphant surfacing of the White at that time would have read lunatic-racist-fringey instead of sober-consensus-of-the-White-Mass — so, like a judicious climber who because of inclement weather conditions, turns back a mere 500 feet from Everest’s peak, the wisdom & even-keeled brilliance of General I–Veen bade his infantry retreat. The dominos were scattered, many tin soldiers fell, the Race War was not to be waged.