Mer Rouge (Part 9)

The priest fired a few more rounds at the gang of bikers before looking over his shoulder. “There it is!” he shouted to Oren. Oren’s eyes squinted to see the uneven dirt road less than a hundred yards ahead. He understood immediately what the priest was getting at. While the ninety degree turn would be easy for the Honcho, the gaggle of Harley’s would have to slow down to make the sharp right. The marshy farmland on both sides also meant the bikes would have to stay on the pot marked dirt path to maintain their pursuit. This was the perfect opportunity to put some distance between them and the Mad Max mafia.

They were closing in on Kurtzy Road fast. “Hang on!” Oren shouted. He swerved right into the shallow marsh and nearly flung out the two passengers in the bed. While Hutch and the priest hung on for dear life, a wave of green and brownish water washed over them. They were covered in shit and leaches and all the muck Louisiana had to offer. When the Honcho was squared up on the dirt road, the priest raised up to look behind them. Through the clouds of dirt and dust, the pursuing lights were dimming. Relieved by this, he threw his arms around a shit covered Hutch. “By god, perhaps there’s a god afterall!” he beamed.

But a cool fog was descending upon the dirt road and visibility was quickly deteriorating. “I can’t see shit!” Oren screamed to the back.

“Don’t worry, there ain’t nuthin on this road! Just drive as fast as you can!” the priest assured him.

“That’s easy for you to say, pal!” the driver argued back. But while Oren had his eyes momentarily looking over his shoulder, road construction signs abruptly appeared. With little time to react, the Honcho crashed through a barricade and barreled toward a seemingly pointless ramp bolstered by a pile of rubble. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkk!” Oren shouted. Failing to hit the brakes, the Honcho went up the ramp at speeds reaching 90mph. Hutch and the priest were flung out from the bed while Oren had little choice but to accept his fate. The truck flew through the air for several yards before crashing face first into the newly cemented pavement. Then it hung vertically for a moment or two before landing upside down and nearly crushing its occupant.

There was silence. Even the crickets and creatures of the night ceased their chanting. But this calm after calamity was interrupted by the roars of Harley’s and hell wagons riding up to the scene. First was the sheriff. He slowed and stopped then lowered the kickstand and dismounted. He looked to the left side of the road. Hutch was laying face down in a drainage ditch. Then he looked to the right. The priest was nowhere to be found. Far ahead was the wreckage of that 81 Honcho. The sheriff presumed its driver to be dead. As the other bikers dismounted, the sheriff issued his orders. First, he pointed at Hutch’s unconscious body. “Grab him,” he said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 8)

A single Harley roared in front of the others and the biker slammed his chain against the Honcho taillight. Millions of pieces of red plastic bits scattered across the two lane blacktop and the priest fired the opening volley of the counter assault. Through the storm of roaring engines, the .38 barely registered a sound. But a single shot lodged itself into the chest of the marauding biker and the resulting explosion of red mist was apparent even under the piercing blackness of night. While the biker clutched his chest, the wheels beneath him bobbled before collapsing bare onto the asphalt and skidding for several seconds. While the Harleys behind him attempted a dodge, they were too close. Sparks, blood, and indiscernible body parts were left in the wake of the skidding Harley and other bikers plowed into the wreckage which left a meshed pile of broken bodies and motorbikes. Stunned by the calamity, Hutch would have vomited had the certainty of an unpleasant death wasn’t upon him.

“Goddamn! That was one hell of a shot!” he shouted to the priest.

“It ain’t over yet!”

The dozen or so remaining bikes scurried around the wreckage, and once they cleared it, the tangled mess of Harley’s inexplicably erupted into a brilliant fireball which casted a hellish orange glow over the bayou. Oren was floored while watching the spectacle in the rearview mirror. Then, like a bat out of hell, another Harley tore its way in front of the pack and emptied a barrage of bullets into the Honcho. Hutch and the priest flattened themselves in the bed as the rounds whizzed above them. From inside the cab, glass rained down on Oren as the rear window shattered. But before the priest could return fire, the speeding Harley was already running apace with the Honcho on the driver’s side. The biker emptied a clip from a semiautomatic and the bullets tattered and ricocheted inside the cab and barely missed the driver. “Jesus Christ!” Oren screamed. Then the priest leapt up from the bed and fired a shot. He missed entirely but sensing gunfire behind him, the biker sped up to outrun the truck. This was a critical miscalculation. While outgaining the Honcho, Oren thought quickly and swerved into the rear of the Harley. The bike swiftly turned right and smashed against the front of the truck. With his right leg shattered, the biker screamed in agony before the Harley fell underneath the runaway Honcho. The vehicle lifted slightly to climb the meager wreckage before the rear passenger tire landed on the biker’s head and smashed it like a bloody meat melon.

Seeing the carnage behind him illuminated by the lights of pursuing Harley’s, Hutch did manage to vomit. Then the priest poked his head in through the broken rear window glass. “Kurtzy Road is coming up!” he told Oren. “Be prepared!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

What goes around

Last year, I predicted the very predictable fall of YouTuber Turkey Tom. The accusations against him, which are discussed in the video here, hardly come as a surprise to those who are familiar with that personality type. For legal purposes, I should point out that as far as I’m aware, Turkish Thomas has yet to address these allegations. So as it stands now, these are just accusations. Nevertheless, I think the news has come at a very timely moment. And thank you to Muck Hole for doing my homework. Turkey Tom is a near perfect example of the “Trumpist” mindset, which I sat out to distinguish from the typical fascist mindset in my prior post. Is there some overlap? Sure. I might discuss that at a later time. But Trumpism rests in a bizarre state that is both more benign yet far more terrifyingly nihilistic than fascism. Read the comments section of Muck Hole’s video and you might see comical variations of the Nietzschean saying “when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.” And that’s a correct summation on the matter. In my view, the video does a pretty good job of explaining the psychological loops one finds themselves in prior to making the great leap into fascism. The internet has been an abyss we’ve been staring down for nearly 30 years. This combined with the economic and political situation we’re experiencing under neoliberalism, it was only a matter of time before someone came along and flicked the switch into full blown authoritarianism.

Your neighborhood fascist

“It should be awkward to NOT talk about politics these days,” a quote I read on my IG feed. And I agree! The situation in Minneapolis has gotten a lot of people talking and the word we hear a lot is facism. Hyperbole? I think not. Especially when the head of ICE looks like this:

While Greg Bovino’s style choices may be neither here nor there, it is interesting to see how the term fascist has become an increasingly accepted term to describe the second administration of Donald Trump. It wasn’t that people weren’t calling him that the first time around. They were. It’s just that everyone from MAGA hats to Marxists would dismiss those accusations as over exaggerated defamations from liberals holding sour grapes after the embarrassing defeat of Hillary Clinton. Which was also partially true. But, what no one wants to admit now, the “libs”, whom everyone has been trying to “own” the last ten years, were actually RIGHT. So a word of advice to the Left and center-left: if everyone can agree that Trump is a “fascist”, then someone owes someone an apology. Maybe Terence Ray is right; It’s time for truth and reconciliation between leftists and liberals.

But that’s not what I want to talk about. Firstly, I want to chagrin at my lack of credentials in discussing this topic. I ain’t a sociologist or political scientist (I am, however, a historian. And that’s a hill I’m willing to die on). For more qualified views, I recommend Hannah Arendt and Robert O. Paxton. The point I’m wanting to make is fascism is considered a flavor of authoritarianism, generally speaking, and Trumpism is a subflavor of fascism, or possibly a different subcategory of authoritarianism altogether. I suppose it’s the wannabe academic in me that wants to define our terms and not get things conflated. In sum, while there are notable similarities, Trumpism and fascism are fundamentally two different things (even if those distinctions are merely academic to the casual eye).

First let’s start with the differences. The historical differences are obvious. Strictly speaking, fascism was a heavily influential ideology in Europe from the 1920s on up to 1945. Key components were national renewal via purging the “Other” (for example, antisemitism), militarism, and the merging of corporate interests with state interests under the control of a despotic figure. Another interesting component was a social Darwinian promulgation of “the will”, or, in simpler terms: “might makes right”. While it’s easy to draw parallels between the fascism of Europe to Trumpism in 21st century America, the biggest difference to me is this: cynicism.

To be honest, I can’t speak much to Mussolini, but I think it’s safe to say that Hitler was very much a believer in the bullshit he spewed. While the Nazis attracted its share of hooligans and grifters, the leaders who fueled its engine: Hitler, Goebbels, Bormann, Himmler, etc were all true believers. No doubt, Trump has a few “true believers” in his cabinet, but if you put a gun to my head and asked me if I thought he held any genuine ideology in regards to the US or the conservative movement in which he hijacked, I’d tell you ‘no’. Every action the president has committed both times in office has been in service to his own enrichment and preservation. Therein lies the biggest distinction between Trumpism and fascism. Hitler and Goebbels committed suicide and went down with the ideology they proclaimed. Trump would never. While it’s obvious that Trump and his movement have disdain for large segments of the population, there’s a very American flavor to Trumpism that was perhaps absent in 1930s Germany and Italy—a flavor that could only appear in late stage capitalism: an unbridled passion for narcissistic self-interest.

Anywho, I’m tired of writing for today. Maybe I’ll pick this up later. I’ll let you know 👍

Mer Rouge (part 7)

Oren floored it northbound, or possibly westbound, out of the Mer Rouge outskirts and onto the moonlit delta bayou. The road signs were riddled with bullet holes and graffiti and failed to provide any sense of direction. Despite this, to the best of his knowledge, he was making a beeline towards the Arkansas border. Yet the priest, noticing the futility of this path as the breeze swept back his greying hair, used the barrel of his .38 to tap on the rearview glass. Keeping his eyes on the road, Oren reached back to slide open the window. “In about 8 miles,” the priest shouted over the wind, “you’ll see a dirt road on the right! Kurtzy Road!”

“Who the fuck are you?!”

“I’m here to save you buddy!”

Behind them, down the straight and narrow road, a gaggle of lights began to flicker. The priest’s eyes narrowed. “If you can get this piece of shit to move any faster, I’d do it!” he told Oren.

“It’s topped out!”

Then Oren looked in the rearview mirror and saw the lights zero in. There was no outgaining them. From the bed of the Honcho, seeing what they saw, Hutch grabbed the priest’s cassock. “Do you have another gun?!” he begged the holy man.

“No, but we have the upper hand,” he bullshitted Hutch. “If they try to board us, just kick them off!”

But bullets began ricocheting off the bed and the thunderous roar of a legion of motorcycles overwhelmed the cool night air. Hutch and the priest fell flat on the bed and the priest reloaded the .38 chamber. As the bikes drew closer, the hell riders drew their clubs and chains to begin their assault.

TO BE CONTINUED…

She’s dead, Jim

First off, fuck all yall for not reading Mer Rouge. And secondly, I want to thank everyone for really putting in the views this month. The blog has been on the upswing viewership-wise lately, so everyone should pat themselves on the back for a job well done.

But enough of that shit. Let’s talk about the important things: Starfleet Academy and the death of Star Trek.

Have I watched SFA? Fuck no. Do I have anything against its existence? No, not really. The concept doesn’t particularly appeal to me, but then again the Alex Kurtzman era of Trek has been fumbled so many times that I kinda quit giving a shit. A few have complained that no one wants “One Tree Hill” ripoff in the Star Trek universe, but I think that’s beside the point. They forget that Deep Space Nine was a huge swing which paid off because fans gave the Rick Berman and the show-runners the benefit of the doubt. The Next Generation was a huge hit critically and financially. Fans were open to the idea of a Star Trek that was a little bit different. The same could have been said for SFA had Alex Kurtzman not shit the bed with Discovery, Strange New Worlds, Section 31, etc. Like DS9, SFA could be the next great Star Trek show but it’s too late. The damage has been done and fans are actively rooting against Alex Kurtzman and SFA.

This was apparent on YouTube when Redlettermedia released their review of DS9 the same day Paramount released the first two episodes of SFA on the platform. Unfortunately for Kurtzman and Paramount, Redlettermedia got more views. But why this was an undisputed W for the Kurtzman haters is because Mike Stoklasa and Rich Evans are effectively the thought leaders in the anti-NuTrek movement. For a studio that presumably spent hundreds of millions on this production, it should be embarrassing to lose to two drunks in a Milwaukee basement. So in essence, this was a true David and Goliath situation.

Honestly, good for Mike and Rich (and that sex pervert Jay Bauman as well). But I’ve reached the zen phase of my grief. I’ve accepted, if not happy over, the death of Star Trek. If there was some good to come out of the Kurtzman era, it was season three of Picard. I’m not talking about the quality of that particular series, because if we’re being honest with ourselves, Picard S3 was just as bad as everything else under NuTrek banner. But it did provide a sense of closure. There was a happy ending for the entire TNG crew, which in my mind at least, provided a happy ending for the entire Berman-era of Star Trek and thus Star Trek as a whole. That’s better than what most cherished IPs will get.

But I have a bad feeling that Mike and Rich (especially Mike) are holding out hope that things will improve. In their DS9 review, they mentioned that younger audiences are rediscovering old Star Trek through reaction videos. While I too think that’s a good thing, I don’t want my hope mistaken for a desire that Trek should continue.

It’s over for me. We should cherish the old and embrace the new. What happened to Star Trek is a sign of the times and it’s not alone in its downfall. Every franchise will eventually face the same fate. While it sucks to see a beloved family member succumb to a slow agonizing death, it’s also a part of the life cycle that we have to accept. And we have to accept that Star Trek is in a deep demented state. It doesn’t have much longer. You can fight it or come to peace with it.

I choose peace.

But I’ll be GODDAMNED if I let Amazon fuck up James Bond…

Mer Rouge (part 6)

Dirk furrowed his brow and glared at the holy man. Since the priest had him dead to rights and he failed to securely cuff Hutch’s wrists, he knew he couldn’t reach for the concealed .44. It was hidden underneath his leather vest. Reaching for it would have risked Hutch escaping, or worse, the priest getting off the first shot. Not having the upper hand, the sheriff flashed his dimples and well manicured teeth. “Forgive me for saying so,” said Dirk, “but I think you’re a little out of your jurisdiction.”

All eyes shifted to the priest and the priest stood motionless and steadfast. The pistol was held firmly in his right hand. “You’re wrong, sheriff,” he softly spoke. “God has jurisdiction everywhere. Even in this godforsaken state of Louisiana.”

Dirk chuckled and thought. “It’s hard to argue with that, preacher man,” he said. Then he released Hutch’s wrists and placed the cuffs in his back pocket. Hutch was puzzled. Not knowing what to do, the out-of-towner turned around to face the sheriff. “Go on now,” Dirk instructed him.

The priest stepped towards Hutch, still gripping the pistol, and took him by the elbow. “Come on, young man,” he said. Then the two marched past the crowd and towards the exit. When they had one foot out the door, the sheriff called out. “And Jesus said ‘get thee behind me Satan’…”, he ominously proclaimed. Hutch and the priest turned around. The bar was dead silent.

“…so watch your back,” the sheriff finally warned.

The two dismissed him and departed the tavern. Outside, Hutch saw the Honcho parked across the street with the engine running and Oren still inside. As he headed in its direction, the priest gave him some last bit of advice. “Young man, you need to haul ass out of here and never come back, you understand?!”. Before Hutch could respond, the harrowing sound of Magnum .44 echoed through the town square. The bullet whizzed past them and blew the priest’s skoufia clear off his head. While Inside the Honcho, Oren jumped out of his seat and looked in the rear view mirror. Hutch and the priest were lying flat on the ground while the sheriff was charging out of the tavern and pumping bullets in their direction.

“Well shit!” the priest yelled. “Do you have a ride out of this shithole?!”

“We gotta make it to that Honcho! The engine’s running!”

“Then get going!”

“But bullets are flying padre!”

“Goddamnit, for the last time! I ain’t Catholic!”. Then he reached into his cassock and pulled out the .38. “Now go! God will cover us!”

Hutch leapt up and bolted towards the truck. Next was the priest, who stood straight up and emptied the revolver at the sheriff. But the sheriff dropped behind the rows of Harleys and dodged every round. Other patrons poured out of the bar with their firearms ready. Hutch and the priest hopped into the bed of the Honcho and Hutch ordered his brother to step on it. Tires squealed and they went rolling out of the town square going 7-0. Meanwhile, legions of guns sounded off from tavern patrons. They fired indiscriminately in the direction of the Honcho until it was out of sight. The sheriff reholstered his .44.

“On your bikes!” he ordered.

Then the army of roughians and hellions mounted their Harleys and riproared out of the square like a gathering storm.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 5)

Hutch’s eyes shifted downward and he clutched his beer glass. Dirk, towering six inches above all the patrons, sauntered over to his side of the bar and laid his large, bigoted hand next to the outsider. Hutch fixated on it. Tattooed just below his pinky was the unmistakable blood cross of the Ku Klux Klan. Dirk greeted the bouncer. “Good evening Sam,” he said. “How the hell have you been?”

“Oh you know me,” explained Sam, “been in the hospital for a few days. My rectum got all blowed up from that firecracker I shoved up there. Been having to shit standing up. Other than that, things have been good. How the hell have you been?”

Hutch was sweating bullets.

“Well you know,” began Dirk, “just been up to things. What can I do for ya?”

“This fella right here,” Sam said, laying his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “He claims some fellers stole some vacuum cleaners from the back of his truck. Can you believe that shit? What kind of sicko would do such a thing?”

“Yeah that doesn’t sound like somethin folks around here would do,” he said. Dirk lifted his hand from the bar and swiveled Hutch around on his stool. He was petrified by fear. The sheriff rubbed his hand across his chin and looked this outsider up and down. “Say, you weren’t that feller who came ridin in here in that fancy Jeep Honcho was you?”

Hutch shook his head.

“Yeah, I know it was you,” Dirk continued. “Thought you was a couple of badasses rollin down the square.”

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else sir.”

“Bullshit,” the sheriff laughed. “Where’s that other fella you was with? The one drivin. The colored fella.”

Hutch tried to disguise his hands as they trembled. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Well I can’t get to the bottom of this matter if I don’t talk to all the witnesses involved. You understand that I’ll need to bring this man into questioning.”

Hutch smiled and sat his beer on the bar. Then he reached into his pockets to pull out all the money on his person, which totaled $2.27 and then waved the cash in front of the sheriff. “Gentlemen, this is all one big misunderstanding,” he explained. “I was just pulling the bartender’s leg, ya see? Now why don’t you take my cash here and buy yourself a drink and let’s forget this matter.”

He shoved the money into the sheriff’s vest pocket and stood up. Dirk looked at his pocket. As Hutch tried to barrel past him, he placed his hand on his chest. “Now wait just one goddamn minute,” the sheriff said. “In the state of Louisiana, it’s a crime to bribe an officer of the law. You’re under arrest.”

Hutch was perplexed. “Would you take a check?” he asked.

“Turn around!” Dirk ordered as he reached for his cuffs. Hutch was thrown face first into the bar and the sheriff clasped his wrists. The bar patrons stopped their revelry to gawk at the unfolding spectacle.

“I’m an innocent man!” protested Hutch.

“You have the right to remain silent, you son of a bitch!”

Hutch wiggled and squirmed as the sheriff apprehended him and a slight commotion was erupting in the bar. Then punches were thrown. As Hutch fought for his escape, an all out brawl broke out. “Christ! I’m gonna need back up!” Dirk yelled. But before the scene crumbled into a complete war zone, a gunshot silenced the crowd. Eyes turned to the back of the bar and they saw a lone figure holding up a .38 service revolver. When he had the crowd’s attention, he lowered the pistol and stepped forward. Patrons moved aside, creating a direct path to the front of the bar. Seconds later, a bearded fellow in a black cassock and a black skoufia presented himself to the Sheriff and Hutch. A crucifix hung around his neck with the .38 by his side. “Let him go,” he ordered the sheriff.

“This ain’t your fight padre,” Dirk retorted.

“Padre?” the priest asked. “I’m Greek Orthadox. Not Catholic.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 4)

Oren hopped back into the pick up and immediately cut on the engine. He watched the rear view mirror as Hutch sauntered over to Kal’s Kountry Katina with hands in his pockets and one shoe untied. After he disappeared into the thicket of bikers and roughnecks, Oren slumped in the driver’s seat with his hood up. As he approached the bar, the locals looked Hutch up and down. He simply flashed his aw-shucks smile and trudged past them. When he swung open the door, clouds of cigarette smoke bellowed out and the sounds of roaring Harleys outside were replaced with riotous laughter and clanking beer bottles. Above all the noise was the cracking of billiard balls bouncing into one another. Hutch simply shrugged and approached the bar. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” he repeated as he snaked past the towering leatherbound patrons. When he reached the bar, he slammed his hand onto the sticky wood and called for the bartender.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?” the faded blond barmaid asked him. She had a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“A beer,” Hutch said. “AND some information.” Then he held up two $1 bills and he slid the money across the bar. The barmaid didn’t react. “Four assholes stole some vacuum cleaners out of the back of a red 81’ Honcho,” he continued. “I wanna know who did it.”

“Honey, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Gonna play hardball eh?” Hutch dug into his pocket and rolled out a few more dimes. “Now tell me what you do know.”

“Sam!” the barmaid yelled. A stout fella with a leather vest and beer belly waddled towards the bar and hovered behind Hutch and crossed his arms. “What seems to be the problem?” Sam asked the barmaid.

“This fella here is acting like a dumbass,” she explained.

“Excuse me,” Hutch protested. “But a crime has been committed here and I’m trying to get to the bottom of it!”

“That’s what the police are for,” the barmaid said.

“The sheriff is right over there,” offered Sam.

Hutch looked across the bar towards the sheriff. He didn’t like what he saw. It was a tall, clean cut fella, also shirtless and donning only a leather vest. Curiously, the man sported numerous tattoos. Two of them stood out: an iron cross over his chest and a Nazi SS emblem on his forearm. Hutch nodded. “I think I’m good,” he said. “I think I’ll leave and drop this matter altogether.”

“You sure?” asked Sam. “He’s a nice guy and he’ll be happy to help.”

“I’m quite sure. Thanks.”

“Just a second, I’ll call him over. Hey Dirk!” Sam yelled out.

Dirk turned around. His eyes narrowed and he glared in Sam’s direction. When he saw this, Hutch swallowed hard. He knew that if he hadn’t clogged the toilet earlier in the night that he would have shat his pants right then and there. His mind raced. He contemplated making a beeline towards the exit. Then the barmaid returned. “Here’s your beer!” she said to Hutch.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (part 3)

Oren threw open the passenger’s side door and his brother nearly fell out. “What the hell?!” Hutch cried out.

“You had ONE job, Hutch! ONE job!,” Oren yelled. “You couldn’t stay awake for three minutes?!”

“I was tired!”

“And now all of the vacuums are gone!”

Hutch raised an eyebrow and strained his neck trying to look out the rear view window. When he saw that the bed was empty, he furrowed his brow and faced his brother. “No worries,” he calmly explained. “We’ll just go to the police.”

“The police ain’t gonna do shit!”

Oren restrained himself from swinging at his brother. Since there was nothing to be done, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. But Hutch, in a rare moment of self awareness, was embarrassed by his lack of vigilance. He unbuckled himself from the passenger’s seat and stepped out. While Oren was busy choking back tears of rage, he looked around the town square. It was a Friday night and the square was poppin’. The engines of Harley’s and Dodge Ram’s roared up and down the road and they all migrated around the local tavern like moths to a light. Figuring he had to do something, he consoled his brother.

“There there,” Hutch said as he patted Oren’s shoulder. “There’s no shame in a grown man crying. I would never cry in front of another man but it’s okay if you do. So why don’t you sit in the truck while I wander over to the watering hole. Surely someone over there saw something.”

Oren wiped his eyes and nose and looked towards the tavern. It would have been comical if it wasn’t so tragic. Kal’s Komfy Kantina the sign read in gothic lettering. As if that wasn’t enough, a prominent flaming cross was the finishing touch. To Oren, this wasn’t a promising start. But before Hutch marched in its direction, he grabbed his brother by the elbow. “If you get in trouble there,” explained Oren, “I can’t help you.”

Hutch shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked.

TO BE CONTINUED…