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Suggested Torture
cc&d (v261) (the March/April 2016 issue)




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Suggested Torture

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Blood of the Lamb

Phil Temples

    I’m sitting on the couch, kicking back a brewsky while watching an old rerun of The Wire when Doogie calls.
    “Hey, wanna come with me to the political rally downtown tonight? You know, it’s that Harry Turple dude who’s running for president.”
    “I know who Turple is, dumbass.”
    Everybody knows who Turple is. Doogie must think I live in a vacuum. Or that I don’t own a TV. I tell him “sure” because I got nothing better to do tonight and besides, it’ll be fun to hear what that ass wipe will say and what he’ll do. He’s been calling women “breeders”, Hispanics “Spics” and taking potshots at just about every other ethnic minority. Turple wants to abolish foreign aid, jail homosexuals, increase military spending, and give free loans to churches.

*    *    *


    We take the subway and arrive at the capital building about a half hour before the rally is about to begin. There’s standing room only, and it’s already a circus—I mean, a literal circus! I see a fellow in blackface, wearing a dog collar and being “walked” around by another big, ugly dude wearing a White Power tee shirt. Hell, I’m no “Libtard” but even I can see this guy is one scary sombitch! Doogie turns to me; we glance at each other with raised eyebrows. Blackface Guy bumps roughly into me on his way by. White Power Dude glares at me in turn.
    A little further into the crowd, I see jugglers, a fire-breather, along with a scam artist who is playing the suckers with a shell game trick.
    “Keep your eye on the cup. Here! The ball is here, right? It should be right . . . here!” The scammer picks up the cup. There’s no ball.
    “Oh, MY! It’s got to be under this one, right?” He picks up the middle cup. Still, no ball.
    “That means . . .” Scam man picks up the third cup. Underneath is a marble.
    “. . . you lose! Sorry. Hey, try again? Double or nothin’ this time.”
    Off to the right, I see a commotion. There’s a guy floppin’ on the ground. He’s clutching something to his chest. I figure the dude is having an epileptic seizure, but no one is making any effort to come to his aid. I draw closer. That’s when I see it. He’s clutching a bible. And he’s spouting all sorts of gibberish. A woman next to me puts her hand in the air and shouts, “Praise Jeeeeeee-Zus! Our brother has been touched by the Holy spirit!” The crowd murmurs approvingly, “Amen.”
    I have a few Holy Rollers in my immediate family, so I have to chuckle. A couple of the crowd shoots me dirty looks.
    Doogie says to me, “Wasn’t this a great idea, man? I mean, the ‘main attraction’ hasn’t appeared on stage yet, and already we’ve gotten our entertainment for the evening.”
    Doogie’s right.

*    *    *


    “. . . Friends, they say we got a ‘global warming’ problem. I submit we have a bigger problem. We have a Canuk problem! Those foreigners to our North tell us we’re best friends and allies. But from where I’m sitting, they’re not actin’ very friendly. They have an AWFUL lot of water and they’re not sharing it. Those bastards want to continue a North American Free Trade Agreement? Let’em put their water where they mouths are! You know what I’m talking about, right? California is bone-dry! Now, what kind of ally is that, huh? HUH?” Turple pauses long enough to wipe back his stringy greased hair. “That’s BULLSHIT!”
    The crowd applauds loudly. Then, one of his onstage assistants hands him a small Canadian flag. Turple pulls out a cigarette lighter and proceeds to set it on fire. He waves the flag over his head, fanning the flames. The crowd goes wild.
    Damn! I think to myself. I ain’t never heard Turple pick on Canadians before. I guess he’s worn out the Spicks, Darkies, and Feminist-panties-in-a-wad cards, and now he’s reaching for another. It seems to be working, too.
    Turple spends the next few minutes castigating our incumbent President, Nguyễn Dũng, the liberal Democrat and former Governor from Connecticut. I have to smile; I know what his favorite joke is about our Vietnamese-American Commander-in-Chief.
    “Now, what the fuck?!—Pardon my French, folks—what ‘the heck’ kind of name is Dũng, anyway?” Turple pauses for the laughter to subside.
    “I know they say he was born in Hartford ’n all, but . . . man-oh-man! Wouldn’t a true, red-blooded American be ashamed of a name like that? I know I’d change it to ‘Bill. Or George. Or ANYTHING but Sue’!” The crowd erupts at the Johnny Cash reference. Without waiting for the noise to subside, Turple shouts over the multitude, “HEY! MISTER PRESIDENT! GET A NAME THAT DOESN’T SOUND LIKE SHIT!”
    Turple then proceeds to do a Mea culpa on the stage for his rough language. It’s his standard disclaimer during appearances, where the networks always have to run a seven-second delay in order to bleep him.
    “You know, I’m a wealthy son-of-a-bitch, but I’m also a God-fearin’ man so I’m gonna get down on one knee in a minute and ask our Heavenly Father to forgive me for my foul language. I just . . . well, I just get a little carried away sometimes, because I care so DEEPLY for the fate of this nation, OUR nation. One Nation, Under God.” He pauses for a second. “Come on, now. You KNOW this one. Everyone! Please join in.”
    The crowd begins to recite with Turple: “I pledge allegiance to the flag, of the United States of America, and to the Republic, for which it stands . . .”
    There’s not a dry eye in the crowd. Even I feel a little teary-eyed by the end of it.
    Turple gets down on one knee, and begs forgiveness for his foul mouth and all of his other rude and inappropriate behavior and sins, including a vague reference to his crowd-pleasing, yet-to-come, closing act.
    I wink at Doogie. He knows what’s coming next. In fact, everyone knows what’s coming. Unless they’ve been living in a vacuum. Or, they don’t own a television.
    A dude jumps up on stage with a small cage covered with cloth as Turple announces, “Folks, if you elect me as your next President and Commander-in-Chief, I promise you, this is what I will do to all of those terrorists, Commies, and other enemies of the U. S. of A.”
    The dude removes the cloth. Inside is a live chicken.
    Turple jerks open the cage door and grabs the chicken by the neck. The bird is startled. It begins to wildly flap its wings. Feathers fly everywhere into the crowd.
    “Hold still, you damn vermin! YOU ISIS COCKSUCKER!” Turple shouts at the terrorist bird. “You and your kind wanna behead Americans, huh? Well, I’ll show you not to mess with Uncle Sam!”
    Turple is enraged, like a man possessed. He screams guttural sounds at the bird as he flings it to and fro by the neck. The crowd noise begins to crescendo. For a brief moment, I’m thinking he’ll just swing the bird back and forth and break its neck. After all, I’ve never seen this play out live and in-person.
    Oh! There he goes!
    Doogie grabs my arm and points excitedly ahead at the spectacle, as though I will miss it. Even though his viselike grip is painful, I don’t yell at Doogie. In fact, I reach over and touch Doogie’s shoulder. It’s a “bo”-bonding moment.
    Then, in the blink of an eye, he does it.
    Turple does it!
    He bites it. Clean Off. The Head. Clean off that fucking chicken! It’s a good thing that dude is rich: blood splatters onto everyone and everything on that stage.
    Turple spits the head out of his mouth and wipes his face off onto his thousand-dollar suit sleeve, as he mutters something about “the cleansing blood of the lamb.” And then, before we know it, it’s over. He leads everyone in a final prayer, and then he hangs around to sign autographs.
    Dude! Dũng ain’t got a chance!



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