Archive for November 20th, 2017

Big Darkness, Soon Come

So I guess Charles Manson will not be living in the condo after all. Because he is dead now. And generally the condo associations, they prohibit dead people, from living in the condos.

Mongo, he took the news hard. This morning he ordered the nation’s forks lowered to half-mast, in Manson’s honor.

I lived once, for a while, next door to the Manson family. I wrote about the experience a year or so ago, in another tube. Today, as the forks slide gently into that good night, I thought I might reprint the thing here. It goes on forever. So, be prepared.

So for a while I lived next door to the Manson family. This was after Chuckles, Tex, and the wimmins, they went into the prison. These Mansonoids—the neighbors—they were the remnants. Those left behind. True believers. Bitter clingers. Dead-enders.

The family’s pathetic patriarchy, it was still in place. With a little Manson mini-me, occupying the Chuckles position. In charge of the bloviating, and ordering the women to and fro. The women, they did all the work, both in and around the house, and out in the World, where they gathered in the coin mostly through waitressing. Before they went on shift, they would heavily apply the makeup, to obscure the X carved into their foreheads. Carved in honor, and imitation, of Chuckles.

I listened to the Manson mini-me’s spiel a couple times. It was the usual revised standard version: Chuckles, he was innocent, he had killed no one, ordered no one killed, he was misunderstood, a prophet, without honor, in his own country—he was all about Love. Yes, it was true, soon would commence a race war—Big Darkness, Soon Come—but Chuckles, he didn’t try to spark it or anything, he was just trying to get his people Clear.

Like Chuckles, like the MongoRoids, the Manson mini-me—well, brown people, they gave him the vapors. A black man lived across the street, and the Manson mini-me, he really didn’t like that. He especially didn’t like that the black man, he had a white wife. And that, together, they had produced several lovely children, in various fine shades of brown. Sometimes, when these children would come out to play in the street (nobody really drove on this street), the Manson mini-me, he would get weak, and have to go inside, and lie down.

More interesting to me than the Manson mini-me, were the various Manson family children. I especially vividly remember this one boy, who basically just wore these little shorts, all the time, rain or shine. He had a poochy little brown boy belly, and a big beaming smile. He had great memories of living out in the desert; he made it sound like a kids’ paradise. And, to him, it no doubt was. He found Sonoma County—which is where we then were—considerably less wild. Which it was. But he was okay with that. He seemed okay with pretty much everything. He never evinced any desire to, say, hang a pregnant woman, or stick a fork in a grocer’s stomach. He was just a kid. And, when the Manson mini-me was inside, lying down, having the vapors, this boy would play with the brown children from across the street.



When I Worked

November 2017
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