The Gate Swings Open

Bonnie waved her good-bye without looking back and the gate closed behind her. She had arrived fortified with certainty, purpose, and intent, and was leaving confused. Zeno did not appear to be the loathsome and irredeemable creature described to her. What if the truth and nothing but turns out to be missing another link and spins between magnetic poles once again? She knew what that was like. Bonnie was a hard worker. She strived to be thorough in the fulfillment of her tasks. She was conscientious and accountable. But, without the security provided by her certainty she was prone to historically drift. Wasn’t that how she ended up sleeping in the street outside of the gates at Sri Aurobindo Ashram in Puducherry, India? Or starving in a string hammock stretched above a floor of mud in El Yunque where the rain never ebbed, only flowed? It was always a man at fault. She had too much proof of the truth and consequences to forget. Isn’t that the reason why she was done with men for good?

Her perplexity was captured by the first of several cameras attached to rolling platforms in a pair of red manzanita trees that flanked the rocky road. All angles of the only way in and out were covered. The remotely controlled cameras were silently activated each time the gate opened or closed on a constant loop. Duane Von Witzel had designed and written all of the code, flawlessly. No fuzzy thinking or displays of emotion from his corner. Bonnie stopped to check her hair in the rear view mirror and fret. She was nearly thirty years old. The hair was turning into a dry, stringy mess, her lips chapped, skin on her arms flaking and beginning to freckle and spot. Her pink cheeks and creamy white skin could be such a burden. She dug into her purse for a tube of lotion and added a touch of lip gloss. The license plate on the rear of her thrifty Isuzu hatchback was clearly framed in the second camera, along with a colorful array of bumper stickers, Clinton/Gore, Save Our Shores, Pack Your Trash, Barbara Boxer Gives a Damn.

Later, after all of the data had been entered, the graphs, charts, and formulas updated, and the images transmitted in real time to a monitor inside of a double wide trailer located on the adjacent ninety-seven acre property, a valuable parcel which was stuck in a complicated escrow bind pending approval by Santa Cruz County Commissioners of a highly innovative and idealistic development project featuring a world class golf course that was planned to beneficially clearcut, grade, and level a combined 12000 years of redwood tree growth, Duane Von Witzel would try to maintain focus on the comforting image of Bonnie’s smooth red Anglo-Saxon lips. It helped to block out the horrific portrait that came to mind of the mongrel Jew cunt, Barbara Boxer, U.S. Senator from California.

He called his contact in the Eastern time zone with a concise verbal summary in outline form of the latest documentation soon to arrive at the office by speedy courier. Sort of. An apparent dispute manifesting between erratic individuals in the construction trades was causing tumult at the warehouse location in Flushing, Queens. The level of decibels in the background was painfully high. It made straightforward communication more difficult than usual. Duane had previously attempted to explain the basics of ascii in the simplest of layman terms to provide helpful pedantic context to the mutt prior to delivering the meat of his remarks. But, alas, to little avail. There are those who can and then there are those who cannot. But in the big picture, Duane was no teacher. He was a doer.

He heard, “Yeah, I’ll be waiting with bated breath. What else you got?”

Believe me, this is only the beginning.”

Ordinarily, Duane Von Witzel allowed little of his dynamic intellectual energy to be squandered on the dismal affairs of weak and inadequate misfits and lowlife scum, but he understood that a chain of command based upon practice and proximity in Flushing, Queens had to be maintained. Of course no one could be expected to match his intellectual output back there, or anywhere. He was a uniquely creative and elevated thinker, born to rise high above the mewling crowd. He was wholesomely raised by pure and authentic pioneer stock, a gleaming lineage he could trace back to the Hohenzollern Brandenburgs circa 1415, destined to be kings of mighty Prussia. No reprobates, delinquents, or quitters there. His academic achievements remained historic in the annals of Indiana secondary schools. Nothing less than an A in mathematics, ever. That included the college level calculus course he aced as a second semester junior in high school. He was certified a genius by the Tippecanoe Valley School District, not once, but twice, first time ever. Foreign languages and physical education did not count. He defiantly refused to countenance not only Marxism-Leninism, fuzzy thinking, folk music, dark skin, big noses, slant eyes, unshaven legs, school busing, gun control, equal rights, uncuffed trousers, foul mouthed humor, imported cotton, and untoward public displays of female emotion, but loud colors, abstract theories, religious heresies, marijuana, government handouts, evolution from apes, and especially majority rule. By definition, a majority performed at a level below average, or nearly so, which languished too close to the presence of apes to be comforting. Even workaday dolts burdened with dull, pointless lives should be able to understand that much, for their own good, and stand respectfully aside.

Don’t bother calling again until you got something good.”

The trend is up, up, and climbing.”

Yeah, like all I got to do all day long is follow the next loony-toon trend circling the next drain.”

Duane began experiencing instant success in the illuminating hush-hush field of information extraction and management for the F.D. Drumpf Organization during his hyperactive summer of 1973, assisting in the promotion of what turned out to be a cataclysmic tennis contest of asexual prowess between Bobby Riggs, a major disappointment, and Billie Jean King, another vile cunt. The job soon evolved into a personal as well as a professional crusade for him, an affirmation of alpha over beta, heaven risen higher than mud. Elements unable to rise by nature deserved to drop like lead. Socially, too. Perhaps especially socially. He had finished the bulk of work on his M.S. at M.I.T. at the time, and was considering several offers. There was never a doubt that the choice he made was 100% correct.

The practical experience he garnered in the trenches turned out handsomely from the very beginning. At the deepest level Duane became immersed in the fundamentals of ground shattering parabolic surveillance. Nothing fuzzy about it. Performers perform. Period. Those seated in the strategic inner circle of the Drumpf Corporation appreciated and understood best. He hit it off particularly well with the scion F.D. Drumpf, Jr., another dynamic personality who possessed unbridled magnetism and character. Duane was not surprised to learn of the genetic ancestry shared between their ancient families. Doers do. It’s what’s always been done. Period. The commingling of the pure Aryan roots between the Drumps and the Von Witzels went back to the black woods of Baden-Wurtemberg, a dark and promised land bounded by the beauteous Rhine Valley. They were all deep and profoundly unhappy people back then, and they made it work.

Duane began to derive and extrapolate revealing data from Bonnie’s license plate as soon as he arrived home from his nominal day job at Sun Microsystems in Santa Clara, where he was achieving ground shattering results in limitless storage capacity daily. He stretched out on the padded avocado green carpeting of his uniquely unfurnished condominium to minimize discomfort from a minor case of irritable bowel syndrome and munched finger licking chicken forms as he pecked at the keyboard. Deftly, he probed at the weaknesses in Bonnie’s digital defenses. It was pure pleasure. He created charts, lists, compilations. He was soon able to glean a stream of high value data from her credit card purchases. The joy of superior achievement was unmatched. Of course, he licked his fingers. Who could resist? The secret blend of corn oil, salt, saltpeter, and dextrose monohydrate was enormously satisfying. He washed it down with the economical rain barrel size of Diet Dr. Pepper, straight, no ice, as he delved deeper. And a gooey tub of generic sweetness as a reward.

Bonnie’s recent credit card purchases included two sets of twin size sheets and pillow cases featuring copyrighted characters Tigger, Kanga, and Rabbit, from Winnie the Pooh Authorized Trademarks, Inc. and two sheet sets featuring pirated versions of unlicensed characters from Star Wars at The Little People Store. Plus a cute night light with bunny ears and a rubber ducky for the tub. A day earlier she bought finger paints, crayons, and chalk at Palace Arts in Capitola, plus a half ton load of mini fir bark delivered by Evergreen Landscape Supply. Duane felt he would have to look deeper into that and assess the potential of arson as a motive. Earlier, she drove from the revamped and expanded Safeway in Soquel, where she stocked up on a large assortment of cranberry, cran-apple, and cran-grape juice packs, to The Buttery in Santa Cruz, where she placed a large deposit on a birthday cake to be picked up the following Saturday.

It became abundantly clear to Duane that a likely X was leading by default to a definitive model Y. Bonnie’s character, or lack of, was not only lamentably flawed, but common. Another presumably unmarried hippie fornicator, unschooled, unwise, and inherently unstable. They continued to flock like primitive lemmings to the central coast of California, to grovel without shame on the beach and in the waves, and to clamor for their entitlements and handouts. The fragile existence of uplifting technology, scientific advancement, stock options, and property rights was in constant jeopardy wherever such an irresponsible and disproportional majority ruled.

Duane knew what had to be done. No one understood the implications better.

Of course they would misguidedly attempt to block the cutting edge achievement represented by a world class golf course carved out of an empty redwood forest. Of course, they would remain incapable of understanding that tall trees pay no property taxes. Of course, they had to be stopped everywhere, but nowhere more than here and now, once and for all.

About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in environment, humor, shopping, short stories and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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