| May 27, 2005 Alaskan in Exile by Neil Zawicki A violent thunderstorm raged outside the exile bunker last night. I sat and sipped a Pabst while lighting strobed the room, and thunder crackled like an angry Moses above me. The rain ran in sheets down the six-inch-thick, Kevlar-infused ballistic windows. No matter. I was curled up with a copy of Newsweek, considering how well the newsmagazine used language to put its tail between its legs – retracting the story of the flushed Koran at Guantanamo Bay. It must have been a combination of my reading and the thunder that prevented me from hearing the knock at the door until it was a frantic pounding. Who could be here on a night like this? This is an exile location, and so is not listed on any above-board address finder, yellow pages index, or meter reading map. But the Alaskan in me was duty-bound to answer the door, and let any rain-soaked travelers in. The man at the door was limp with rain, and shivering. I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside. “Thank you,” he blurted, “ I don’t know how I got so lost, and what a night for it.” “Not a problem,” I said, taking his coat and offering him a wool blanket. “Is this wool?” he asked as his walrus-like mustache framed his scowl. “What kind of place is this?” My wayward guest was less than grateful, but I took it in stride, and ushered him into the study. “I can’t believe the rain out there,” he continued. “It’s just like – you’re not reading that rag are you? Newsweek is the bottom rung of liberal media. What’s wrong with you? Are you drinkin’ from the liberal Kool-Aid? What kind of place is this anyway?” My quiet evening had turned tense with my Samaritan efforts. Nonetheless, I felt a compulsion to accommodate this hapless traveler. “Look, why don’t we have a drink,” I offered, “you’ve clearly had a long day, and could use some relaxation. My name’s Neil, what’s yours?” A chill shot through my spine when he told me his name. “My Name’s Bolton. John Bolton,” he said in a flat voice. And when he said it, a flash of lightning reflected off his glasses, and illuminated his mustache. A thunderclap completed the blow. “John Bolton?” I replied, adjusting nervously in my chair. “The Bush nominee for U.N. Ambassador?” “That’s right,” he said, “I’m that prick you’ve been reading about in your liberal asshole media. And if those kiss-ass fairies know what’s good for them, they’ll confirm my brilliant ass before the whole shit house goes up in flames.” I took a long gulp of my beer, and the ticking clock became the only sound. “Didn’t Jim Morrison say that?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. “Jim who? Say what?” he replied, slamming his beer like an angry frat boy. “You live alone here? What are you, some kind of faggot?” Before I could answer, he leapt from his seat and began to walk through the room. He stopped at a bookshelf. “Kurt Vonnegut, Jack London, Sun Tzu…what in THEE HELL kind of books are these?” he bellowed. “This just ain’t gonna fly, man. This is bolo, dude.” I began to regret feeding him beer. Next, he seized a baseball cap, put it on backwards and sauntered into the kitchen. He returned with a cherry popsicle in his hand. “You see,” he continued, “all those assholes think I’m a bad choice for ambassador to the United Nations. They think I’m arrogant and a bully. They don’t know shit. If it wasn’t for the United States of America, there wouldn’t be any United Nations. All they need is someone to show them how to handle the world, and where the HELL do I get to sleep tonight!” I incredulously prepared a bed for him on the main couch. “Oh, man,” he growled, “is that all the blanket I get? C’mon, you’ve gotta have more. And what kind of shit-assed pillow is that? What am I, a goddamned Somali?” My patience had worn thread bare, and I could take no more. “Hey man,” I said, grabbing him by the mustache and yanking him to his knees, “I’ve been nice enough to help you out tonight. I’ve fed you beer, I’ve given you warm blankets and a dry bed to sleep in. And all you’ve done is shout at me and insult me and spout off about your professional problems. Now, I’m tired of your shit, and I’d like to get back to my magazine, and I think you should just settle down and get back to reality. It’s raining hard, you’re very tired, and you should just get some sleep.” Bolton looked up at me with startled eyes, and then he smiled. He pulled himself up and walked over to the desk and picked up my copy of Newsweek. Then, he turned to me and gave a revelatory glare. “You want to get back to reality?” he said. “You want to know about reality? This little chickenshit magazine is reality. Do you really think it ever had a good source for the Koran story? Oh, they went with the source, alright. They ate it up. And then when the shit hit the fan, they had to reverse themselves, and then WE got to rip out their throats and call them shoddy liberal journalists. Sure, the Koran abuse, and all the other abuse happens, but who cares? All that matters is that their credibility is destroyed. We planted that source. He came straight from the Pentagon with his revelation. And then they ran the story like giddy little tattletales, and then the source went sour on them, and they had no choice but to try and take it back, and we got to piss all over their faces. That’s reality. That’s how it goes in the great big world. The press is the puppet, and we hold the strings.” I cracked another Pabst as a silent flash lit the room. His speech had put me in a stunned fear, and then I became sublime; my theories confirmed, and the beast revealed once and for all. Neil Zawicki, exiled Alaskan, is Editor at Large for Insurgent49, a former reporter for the Alaska Star, and winner of the Alaska Press Club's 'Best Columnist' award. He is now living out the rest of his days in an undisclosed location in Oregon. He can be contacted at - neil@insurgent49.com |
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Reserved. in-sur-gent (in sur'jent), n. 1. a member of a group which revolts against the policies of its leadership. |
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