writing from
Scars Publications

Audio/Video chapbooks cc&d magazine Down in the Dirt magazine books

 


This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book!
Email us for re-release to order.

cc&d v199

Order this writing
in the book
Laying the
Groundwork 		Laying the Groundwork
paperback (just issues) 5.5" x 8.5" book w/ b&w pages: $15.95 paperback perfect-bound 5.5" x 8.5" book w/ b&w pages: $17.95 paperback
6" x 9" cc&d perfect-bound book w/ b&w pages: $21.95		 paperback
6" x 9" cc&d perfect-bound book w/ color pages: $114.95
Our Leader

Daniel Beaudoin

        I parted the bluish-gray folds of dawn and squinting my eyes stepped into the sea of acidic brilliance that flooded the lobby inside. The aftertaste of my four a.m. coffee slithered up from my bowels and into my throat like the slippery eel, and I fumbled at my shirt pocket to reassure myself that my little orange pill was there, just in case. How I dreaded these meetings.
    “Today,” I promised myself, “yes today, I will make it through the meeting without it.”
    We were scheduled to meet our Leader, a megalomaniac and power crazed shit, a brutal manipulator of human sentiment, raper of souls and pillager of hope, fumbling his way like a blind beggar through the wasteland of his barren soul.
    Nodding at the sleepy security guards to my left, I took a deep breath and began the march across the seemingly vast stretch of marble that spanned the lobby like a shiny sheet of delicate crystal. A digital chime heralded the arrival of the lift and I picked up my pace as the doors ahead of me hissed open, joining the rest of the group as we squeezed into the narrow and suffocating confines of the lift.
    A short stutter, and up we went, as in slow motion, up the nine floors of the monumental steel and concrete edifice. Nine floors of perfunctory greetings accompanied by the usual bullshit and feigned interest. Fuck, how these miserable bureaucrats disgusted me. “Yes the weekend was great, thank you, “I hope that you drop dead, thank you.” “Still strangers after all these years,” I thought to myself, as we shuffled for space in the cubicle.
    Finally the elevator coughed us out, and we made our way through the long corridor to the Offices of the Wise One, as the faces of the former Selected Few ogled us from their photographs on the walls. I lagged slightly behind, fighting the burning sensations in my stomach, and tried to cancel out the noises in my head. I contemplated the group’s pathetic vigor, they too only just barely disguised their growing malaise. “Maybe we are the new white color proletariat,” I thought to myself, “working for masters that monopolize our dreams and hopes, the most precious possessions we may still have?”
    Our Leader’s personal aid (Beatrice her name, would you fucking believe it, like the one from Dante’s Inferno) conducted a ceremonious roll call, demanded that we prepare ourselves , reminded us that we were to be seated in our assigned seats, gently opened the doors and ushered us in.
    There He was, seated behind his meticulously tidy desk. I forced a grimace as I sat down directly in front of him, and hoped that my thoughts were safe. “You inflated bag of hot wind, dragging us into his office at the crack of dawn, first thing on a Monday,” I dared think. I was reminded of Clinton’s answer, when asked by his biographer “Why did you let Monica chew on your cigar?” He reportedly answered, for the worst possible reason, “because I could.” Well, the only difference of course is that Clinton is Clinton and this fat fuck is just a monolithic bully sitting there as if he were God’s gift to humanity. “Jesus,” I thought to myself, ”is it possible that he is oblivious to the disdain and fear in the room, I mean you could cut the air with a baseball bat it is so thick.”
    The meeting ran its predestined course, the sycophantic shit to my left, the one with the yellow flaccid face of a junkie in rehab, nodded like an ostrich on amphetamines at everything the Enlightened one said, was trying to earn his moment in the sun at the expense of some other poor ashen faced sod sitting next to him. “May flatterers be steeped in human excrement”, I thought, and thanked my literature teacher at school for that one. The rest of the participants sat rigidly in their chairs, perched like uniformed toy soldiers in their electric chairs, barely breathing and wishing they were undetectable.
    “Yes of course sir, you are absolutely right sir, no of course we are not here only to drink coffee, what I meant was......”.
    “Open your fucking ears and listen to what I am saying, you primitive moron, you may actually learn something,” is what I meant. Miraculously I managed not to ruffle any feathers and even allowed the Leader the illusion of acumen. I felt the eel stir in my stomach; revulsion crept up on me again for wasting precious resources of energy and creativity on trying to pacify this intimidating corporate henchman.
    The meeting was coming to a close, fortunately this time it was the folks to my right who were threatened with defenestration, reminded that they were a bunch of useless imbeciles; I had survived the hour unscathed. Hoisting myself from my seat, I bade farewell to the Heap of Ceremonious Trappings of Rank and Panache, and led the pack out of the door, past Beatrice and back to the welcoming elevators.
    The doors whispered behind me, and I stepped out onto the lobby floor. The expanse of marble seemed more opaque now, the huge glass sliding doors almost at arm’s reach. I took a deep breath, re-assured myself that my orange companion was still in my shirt pocket, proud of myself that I had not used it to pacify the eel, which continued to hibernate in a distant corner of my intestines. I traversed the lobby and exited the building into the boiling furnace of the morning.



Scars Publications


Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.




Problems with this page? Then deal with it...