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Buckminster Fuller； The Beatles and the Kennedys （not to mention dozens of more contemporary hero…figures； from Bob Geldof to Michael and Jesse Jackson）。
Though they； too； were shouting and waving signs； not a one of them was laughing： and though all of them had their pants around their ankles as well； none of them seemed to be wanking off with any degree of success。 Their signs read CUT IT OUT and THAT'S NOT NICE。
And at the front of the sad…eyed crowd hung poor old Jesus； three…quarters crucified。 He'd gotten one hand free； and it held a magnifying glass。 He was trying to find his dick with it： squinting real hard； also without success。
The little sign nailed above his head read； simply： WUSS。
〃So；〃 Lydia blurted； practically beside herself； 〃what do you think？〃
〃I think；〃 Garth proclaimed； 〃that this is the most vile； repugnant； penocentric wad of indefensible swill I've ever seen。〃
〃Me； too；〃 she agreed； smiling。 〃Don'cha just love it？〃
〃You bet！〃 Garth said。 He felt all warm and fuzzy inside。
〃Yeah；〃 Lydia beamed； gunning the Scuzzbug down South George Street； 〃if this don't get us orphaned； nothin' will。〃
And； of course； it was true。 Taken together； it was an utterly obscene tableau； calculated to outrage and horrify even the most open…minded member of the studio audience。
That in itself； though gratifying； was simply not enough。 So Garth and Lydia had found it necessary to go that extra mile； by adding that little personal touch。
The face on the paunchy baby…raper belonged to Werner Blake。
The face on the dickless Jesus was Lydia's father； Frank。
It was their special 〃Sins of the Father's Day Salute！〃
And it was just their little way of saying thanks。
Because Garth and Lydia were pissed； no question about it。 When they said NO FUTURE； they weren't just pulling a petulant teenage hissy…fit。 They were only sixteen years old； and they knew that their civilization wouldn't last out the century。 They knew that they'd been fucked out of their birthrights by the greedheads who ran the world and； worse； the cowards who watched it all happen without lifting a finger to stop it。
Which was where； Garth reminded himself； assholes like Lydia's dad came in。
It was one thing to hate men like Werner Blake。 They were wholly transparent scum； and they certainly didn't deserve to live； but at least they'd never volunteered the pretense of brotherly love or global concern。
Guys like Frank Vickers； on the other hand； were nothing but pretense： a bunch of pathetic old ex…hippie…turned…yuppie…turned…bitter…old…lecherous…drunken liberal shmucks who； if anything； Garth and Lydia hated even more than Garth's old man； because at least Garth's old man could get it up once in a while。
If there was one thing more pathetic than listening to Frank Vickers drone on about 〃the Sixties〃…when people really cared； unlike today…Garth couldn't for the life of him imagine what it was。 These days； Frank's idea of social responsibility was to form an 〃environmental action group；〃 which mostly consisted of other middle…aged whining pisspots like himself。 They would get together and talk about political action and drafting resolutions and shit； except it always turned into an argument about who was in charge； if it even got that far。 They they'd break for refreshments and wind up trashed； having acplished nothing； playing Trivial Pursuit and talking about how the dope was better in the good old days。
Chalk another one up for peace； love； and understanding。
Which leaves people like us with pretty damn little to work with in the role…model department； Garth mused。 Not that this is a big surprise or anything。 I mean； we would have liked to believe you guys； but you're just too utterly full of shit。
All we want is a fucking admission of guilt。 That's all。 Just to hear the truth spoken…just once…in our lifetimes。 It may seem like a lot to ask； but what the hell。
Everybody's gotta have a dream 。。。
〃Hey； careful with the merchandise；〃 Lydia cut in； bursting the bubble of rumination。 〃You could put someone's eye out with that thing！〃
〃Huh？〃 Garth blurted； then looked at his hands。 He had rolled the premiere issue of NO FUTURE into a cylinder tight enough to train puppies with。 〃Oh； sorry！〃 Garth said sheepishly。
〃Don't worry about it；〃 Lydia replied。 〃Here； take out your impulses on these。〃
She handed him what looked like a roll of laminated toilet paper。 〃Oh wow！〃 Garth exclaimed； unfurling it： piece upon piece of lovely； adhesive…backed sticker paper； each square throbbing with the NO FUTURE logo。
〃No shit。〃 He turned to her； pleased； met the gleam in her eye。 〃How many did we get？〃
〃A thousand； so far。〃 They just couldn't stop smiling。 〃That's why I'm so late。 I've been sticking 'em on pay phones all morning 。。。 〃
〃Without ME？〃 he hollered； horrified。
〃Yeah； well；〃 she said； as the Scuzzbug rolled straight for the heart of Paradise。 〃That's what we get whole lives for； they tell me。〃 And Garth just laughed and laughed and laughed。
Their day； it seemed； had at long last e。
And what a day it was。
Thirty…Four
Sunday； Nov。 23
FROM THE DESK OF： Bernard S。 Kleigel
To the editor：
Am I the only one who's fed up with all the 〃parasites and leeches〃 on the Body Politic？ Isn't anyone tired of supporting lazy 〃Good…For…Nothings〃 who get fat off the fat of the land？ And I'm not just referring to 〃Welfare Cheats〃 and the Socialist programs that make it possible for Mixed Races to rage Drug Wars in America's backyards。
No； I'm talking about the very 〃Public Servants〃 that our tax dollars are supposed to be SUPPORTING！！！ That's right； I'm talking about the people who 〃Operate〃 our 911 numbers； and the
There was somebody at the door。
〃DAMMIT； MILLIE！〃 Bernie bellowed。 〃GET THE DOOR； FERCRISSAKES！〃 He couldn't for the life of him prehend that woman's problem。 Here he was； struggling over draft seventeen of his letter； and he couldn't even concentrate on what he was doing； because of all that
hammering on the damn front door。 For God's sake； she knew how important it was！ He'd told her a million times： if you plained loudly enough； eventually they had to listen！
No question about it。 It had to be kids。 From his perspective…stuck in the paper…cluttered corner of the basement he called his office…it was a distant； persistent tattoo of thudlike sound。 He had half a mind to march up there and sue their parents； but God did he ever have a headache！ And he had to finish this letter。 Strike while the iron was hot。
our 911 numbers； and the so…called 〃Peace Officers〃 who are supposed to protect us！
Today； my son and I were NEARLY KILLED by teenage hoodlums （I can only assume they were involved in 〃Illegal Drug Activity；〃 which is just a fancy name for plain old dope dealing！）。 That in itself was 〃bad enough〃！ But it was nothing pared to the treatment I got from the 〃Friendly People〃 （HAH！！！） at 911
〃GOD DAMN IT！〃
Now they were stomping around up there； and he could definitely hear laughter； high…pitched and giddy。 Who the hell were these kids？ They sure weren't friends of Billy's； so far as he knew； Billy didn't have any friends。 It just didn't make any sense 。。。
Then Millie screamed。
And Billy screamed。
And Bernard S。 Kleigel； the Conscience of a Nation； just sat there： paralyzed； sweating； with a hammer for a heart。
〃No；〃 he whimpered； as the footsteps thundered down the hallway： Millie's in the lead； two other sets in hot pursuit。 Billy's persistent screams moved with her。 Bernie could picture his son in her arms as she ran； crying out as well。
Crying out for him 。。。
But there was nothing he could do。 She had to understand that。 She had to understand that he was helpless； that he had no choice； that he absolutely could not move； he had spent his whole life imagining the worst and now that it was here； he was pletely unprepared for it。
〃Please；〃 he whined； as if it would help。 As if he were tapped into some cosmic 911 line； relaying his message directly to God for immediate customer satisfaction。 As if he could wish his cares away。
As if God were actually taking his calls 。。。
And he didn't want to picture it； to envision in his mind the apocalyptic WHOOMP that shook the house to its foundation； construct a visual of his wife as she hit the floorboards above his head； match her scream with the face he knew she must be making。 He didn't want to see the sources of that terrible laughter； was unable to conjure up images adequate for describing the sounds being torn from his son。
But when the meat like gravy oozed down through the cracks； he no longer had to use his imagination。 It spattered the floor in a rich red rain； drove him screaming from his chair and his sanity。 He was halfway to the stairs before he knew he was moving； halfway up the stairs before he saw his salvation。
It was his old pal； Officer Hal Thoman。
911 had e through； after all。
〃NO！〃 Bernie screamed as the dead cop descended。 〃NO！〃 as the shadows pulled back to reveal Hal's full green open…skulled glory。