Man of Mystery

2004-02-15 - 11:17 p.m.

I have a confession to make, bon hommes: I find myself aroused by articles of incredible foulness: economics.

I know, I know; I should be ashamed, save my filthy lust for wholesome things such as Hong Kong Babylonia and fighting vampiric zombie legions in a post apocalyptic future side by side with cropped haired saucy strumpets wearing vintage World War I Tank Driver Goggles and wielding nail studded baseball bats.

But I can’t help it. The impending hostile take over of Disney spins Gibsonian stories of corporate mercenaries and Shadowruns, fantasies of running around the Magic Kingdom wearing vintage Che berets and bullet fucking Minnie Mouse.

But it’s the other stuff, the stuff on how outsourcing jobs is good for the economy—pretty much the entire Bush faith-based Budget just fills me with a horrid fascination. I suppose the reason is voodoo economics.

Voodoo.

Who Do? asks the filthy Administration mouthpiece.

You do.

Do what?

Remind me of the fucking Reagan/Bush I years.

Sitting in his place of power, Papa Hero, lights a red candle.

By the light of this candle I call upon the Loa, the ministers of mystery. By the light of this candle do I call Ogou Feray, that the Iron Warrior may light my way though the paths of politics by his fire.

Light a black candle.

By the light of this candle do I call upon Papa Gehede, that Baron Saturday may give me the wisdom to walk among demons and come away unharmed.

Invoking the faith I sit and in front of images of the warrior jester saints: of St. Chow of the Never-Empty Clip, of St. Samuel of the Afro and wait.

And then she comes: the Boccor Diabolique, the devil’s magician, the Honey blonde demoness form of Ann Coulter, come to tell lies and pour honeyed poison.

“Be a zombie, vote for us. Whatever ever we say is good, do what we say.”

And Papa Hero, houngan of Action, laughs the laugh of wind though the graveyard as the Divine Horsemen arrive: the Fire and Iron of Ogou Feray, saber in hand and wrath emanating from him like heat from a bonfire.

And Papa Gehede, Baron Saturday, Baron Cemetery, the grinning corpse in top hat and tails, graveyard dust like smoke blowing about him, laughing like a deadman’s smile.

“Voodoo Economics,” Papa Hero says. “Like you motherfuckers know anything about Voodoo. You want to play like this, little Boccor? Then let’s roll the dice for your bloody dress, Bitch.”