Chorus: Being a Deep State actor tortures the soul with ungodly moral dilemmas, but decisions must be made in times of turmoil and trouble.
Someone must rule.
Regardless of our political party, our hypocrisy sustains our democracy, double double, boil and bubble.
Someone must be cruel.
Pragmatism trumps ideology. All of the truths we tell are tempered by human psychology. We tell them what they want to hear to break the fever of their fear.
We measure human misery and poverty and hate, we stage FBI investigations and we debate, we want all citizens to be happy and free, but we have to face the core problem of taxation. We are the adults in the ether.
We know for the past two score and two years private profits have flowed one way, from the masses to the oligarchs and the well to do. The people have gone begging. A deep spirit of revolution has taken hold among black matriarchs—matriarchs of all colors and languages. What to do? Oh, Lord, what to do…
We witness the sound and fury of the white man in the context of righteous demands for fairness and justice for all, not to mention reparation for the sins of our White fathers, marble men from both sides now.
As white men ourselves, we survive in elected office because we swing, swoon, tap dance to a fine tune so our states trust us enough to wield power over their livelihoods—the sacred balance of power that keeps Leviathan at bay, self-interest on a teeter totter with altruism.
They force us to whitewash our national narrative somewhat, to soften the burden of history as the case may be, to lighten the mystery, to reduce the three-fifths Constitutional curse, the capitalist sins of the Fathers, the Faustian bargain we forged in Philadelphia with the Devil.
Ten of our earliest Presidents were southerners who presaged the Confederacy. In increments we must move like snails through the mud of time on occasion of expediency.
The Electoral College, the Filibuster… Supreme Court rule? Really?
What a tangled web we weave when first we set out to deceive. All men are created equal! Who would believe?
Hark! The moon sails across the sky and a fire still burns on the water…
Scene i.
[Hardcore’s encampment later in the evening. Teddy and Hardcore stand near the river, looking into the night sky.]Hardcore: Look at that sky! There’s the man in the moon. (Pause) So what brings you back here, Teddy?
Teddy: I’m on a fact finding mission.
Hardcore: What kind of facts?
Teddy: The kind that aren’t fake, the kind that might help me understand what went wrong. I want to understand why we’re in this mess.
Hardcore: It’s a hell of a mess. People around here are crazy. (Pause) Want to know something I regret?
Teddy (chuckles): Just one?
Hardcore: I choose to forget my regrets, ha, ha, you get to choose what to think nowadays—but this one—well, I wanted to learn the constellations. The Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, you know, I’m ok, but not like this fella I knew in Vietnam. We called him Star Gazer, but his name was Biff. He had ‘em down cold. Man, he could name them and tell you a little story about each one.
Teddy: I’ve met star gazers with their telescopes and their stories. I get exactly what you mean. I don’t know how to read the sky, either. There’s probably an app. It’s never too late.
Hardcore: Until it is, ha ha. I liked Star Gazer. I’ll tell you a story I don’t tell many people. One time me and him ran into this building after they started firing at us on the street. We were couriers for the big shots. We carried guns, but we didn’t have to use ‘em where we went. This time we went together, I don’t know why, we usually went alone. But they warned us to be careful. Anyway, there was an enemy combatant in the building, a young kid, maybe sixteen or so. He had a knife. Man, he was scared. We both pointed our guns at him. Neither one of us could shoot him, ha ha. We told him “Git!” and he got, ha ha.
(Pause)
Teddy: Lucky kid. The stars lined up for him.
Hardore: He might’ve got killed the next day for all I know. Least I didn’t shoot him, Biff didn’t shoot him, ha ha.
Teddy: Did you and Biff keep in touch?
Hardcore: Yes. We both made it out of there. We weren’t in the middle of the actual fighting. They almost didn’t take us for medical reasons, but they did. He was from Nevada. We got together one time out in Las Vegas a few years after we got back. He drank. I’ve never drank much. A few beers. Haven’t heard much from him last twenty years or so. I sure am glad we didn’t shoot that kid.
Teddy: I imagine so.
Hardcore: After I came home, they called me up on the phone from Washington DC and had me come to the Capital to get an award, a ribbon and a medal, all expenses paid. There were maybe a dozen of us went. They said we were heroes because of what we did over there. I’m not stupid. I’m no hero. I knew the messages we were carrying were secret, CIA documents. They didn’t want the American people finding out what they were really doing over there, bombing places they had no business bombing.
Teddy: You did what you had to do.
Hardcore: Taught me a good lesson. I had no choice. I never did anything to deserve a medal, I knew that. There were a lot of guys got wounded or killed. Me, I ran into a big shot now and then. They knew my name. They wanted their pictures taken at a ceremony. They needed little people, you know, not big shots, to be heroes. I got back home, I put that medal in a drawer. I haven’t looked at it since. Now keep that to yourself. I have to be careful what I say.
Teddy: Of course.
Hardcore: I couldn’t show that medal to people and say I earned it, ha ha ha. I’m not a hero. If I were to have put that medal on display or worn it in a parade, I’d’a been lying. I can’t do that. Now I’m a broke down old man living on the river under a bridge—by choice, don’t get me wrong, I don’t have to live this way, but it suits me. I don’t feel right in a house any more. (Pause) Well, it’s sure taking him an awful long time. You suppose they’re sold out of beer in this town?
Teddy: Hey, when did they change your name to Hardcore? I don’t remember that when we were kids. I remember they called you Scratch, I thought because you were bad at playing pool.
Hardcore: Still am. Yep. Used to be Scratch. I got this new name in 2008. Everybody around here was in a tizzy because they thought Obama was going to win, which he did. The idea of a black man in the White House drove them up the wall. Well, I liked Obama. I liked him when he was a state senator. They fought and fought with me like I was important or something. Nobody cares what I think. But goddamnit, I went to Vietnam. I got a right to like who I like. They started saying I was hard core—hard core democrat, hard core lib tard, hard core this, hard core that. Finally, it was just hard core. I learned to keep my mouth shut. I don’t say much to none of them.
Scene ii:
[Minutes later. Teddy and Hardcore are sitting near the fire, rekindled, burning brighter. Soft voices coming closer, laughing, spitting, then Carl and another white male boomer enter.]Carl: Hey, Hardcore, look who I ran into at the liquor store. You remember Ray? He’s the cop from Milledgeville. You met him once or twice.
Hardcore (rises, extends his hand): Ray’s a hard one to forget, ha ha ha. It’s been awhile.
Ray: This damn pandemic. I came down here today to pick up a gun I’m buying from a guy. Ran into Carl. You got some pot, I hear.
Hardcore: Medicinal purposes only, ha ha ha.
Carl (laughs): Don’t worry. He ain’t going to bust you. It’s legal now for recreation, that’s what they call it. He wants a toot or two. Ray don’t remember you, Teddy. He wouldn’t probably because he went to school way out in the sticks. This is Ray.
[The two men shake hands and utter words in phatic communion. They sit. Hardcore enters his tent and is visible as a shadowy figure.]Carl: I tell you what, you want a good look down and dirty at the shit we’ve been through the past twenty years, you talk to Ray. He’s doing something about it. The damn Democrats running this state have damn neared killed it.
Ray: I usually wear my red hat but I left it in the truck.
[Hardcore enters.]Hardcore (hands Carl a joint): I can’t say that this stuff is any good. It’s been sitting quite a while. I don’t smoke it myself much.
Ray (taking the joint from Carl, pulling out a lighter): Let’s try it out.
Carl: You still smoke dope Teddy?
Teddy: It’s legal now where I am, too.
Carl: It just got legalized here. I never thought I’d see the day. The government has to stick its fingers into everything.
[Ray coughs a bit and passes the joint to Carl, who imbibes and coughs a bit.]Hardcore: You believe the election was stolen I guess.
Ray: Trump has proof.
Hardcore: That’s what he says.
Ray: What, you don’t believe it?
Hardcore: Somebody called him a pathological liar, forget who it was, ha ha ha.
Teddy: Ted Cruz. Trump said Cruz’s father was part of the plot to murder JFK.
Ray: You’re right. Trump is a great liar. I admire that. We need him up there in the swamp, a guy playing hard ball with all them Deep State pedophiles up there telling us to bend over. This election was stolen, but we will take it back. Stand back and stand by. January 6 was a cakewalk compared to what’s coming.
Carl: Tell him about this guy in Chicago you know, this young cop, you know, this guy that was strong as a bull, the guy that got the shit beat out of him.
Ray (straining to speak through a coughing spasm): Oh, they beat him so bad he couldn’t work for two months. A bunch of black guys backed him into an alley after he left a bar. He didn’t have his gun, but he told them he was a cop. That just made them hit him harder.
Carl (laughs): Ray has recruited ten young white guys from around here, early middle-aged guys pissed off about what they’re doing to us, he’s got them in training, learning martial arts, how to handle weapons, getting prepared to help the cause when the time comes. It’s hard to believe it’s come to this, but I understand it. Sonofabitches made me pay three grand last year, the Feds, then they turn around a give it to the so-called minorities. Every Tuesday night. They train for hours.
Ray: True that. Fact is Trump never lies. You just have to understand what he’s saying. He can’t just come out with what he means. He’s for us. He’s our hope. He’s trying to rescue us from BLM, Antifa, us meaning the police, lots of people want to cancel us out, erase us, delete us, all of us white people. He’s a great man. He’s a genius. Hey, man, you’re hogging the joint.
Carl: Oh, sorry. Here. You had to shoot a guy once, am I remembering that correctly?
Ray: Twice.
Hardcore: Ever kill anyone?
Ray: Both times.
Carl: I had to kill a guy once, a young kid. He came at me with a knife one time in a bar. He was like an animal. I was flirting with his damn wife.
Hardcore: That’s bullshit, Carl, and you know it is.
Carl (chuckles): It’s bullshit all right, but I had you going. Did you see Teddy? His eyes were wide open, ha ha ha.
Ray: It’s not something you want to do. I’m not proud of it. Officers in Chicago have killed eight, ten, twelve of ‘em. These two black guys were holding up the Oasis out on Interstate 80. They had guns out. One fired in the air. I took them out. Two shots, two bodies. Somebody has to do it. Somebody has to take the shot.
Carl: He got raked over the coals for it, Internal Investigators got involved, hit the papers. He was exonerated. Never made the national news like George Floyd, but it was all over Facebook.
Scene iii
[Thirty minutes later. Carl and Ray riding in a pickup truck, driving back to the liquor store, Carl behind the wheel. A long silence with Sweet Home Alabama on the radio.]Carl: I wish you hadn’t have done that.
Ray (snickers): He’s a dumb bastard.
Carl: No. He’s not. He just lives in a different world. He doesn’t know.
Ray: He knows now. His jaw might be fucked up for a while. That’ll remind him. Hell, he might look white, but he’s not a White man.
Carl: I mean, yeah, in a way. But you didn’t have to hit him. He was only trying to talk to you.
Ray: You sit there trying to tell me you didn’t want to punch him, too? I saw your eyes. I heard your voice. You got right into it, brother.
Carl: Maybe so, but you were wrong. He didn’t say you should have been found guilty. I beat the shit out of more guys than I care to remember—I’ll kick the shit out of you if you cross me, and you know it—but never just from talking. Guy has to do something to me—not pay me for work, pull a gun on my cousin or my friend, insult my daughters, come at me with his fists, something.
Ray: You don’t know the whole story. I said I didn’t know him, but the truth is I remember him. I remember all about him before he left town. He pissed me off one time, and I let it pass. But it sort of festered. I didn’t go down there for pot. I went down there for Teddy.
Carl: What’d he do to you?
Ray: He called me an illiterate.
Chorus: People are woke, no time to choke, the white man has gorged on supremacy. The Deep State is in deep doodoo without some quickly innovative voodoo, preferably based in factishness sans friction. As a public service we risk our own convictions by speaking freely in this Chorus sans interdiction, for elections have their costs, but speak we must less we lose public trust in our semi-fictions.
Half of us are Southerners or might as well be with unquestioned integrity and experience. Tiki torches and lynch mobs, burning crosses and swastikas may swell our voter rank and file, but truly make us furious. It is no longer couth in the House and Senate to bring up our past Confederacy. No one does. We are White males, we are not monsters.
Half of us are Northerners with Ivy League degrees. The people like our pedigrees but say we take their money, raise their taxes, make war on religion and decorum, drink the blood of children. We have a rule in Congress crossed at great peril: Senators and Representatives act inappropriately when they attack one another’s personal merit. It matters little so long as we have a quorum. Diversity is our calling card.
You understand the problem we face in the United States of Division from the paltry play you’re witnessing as we try to stir your mind to undertake revisions. Our deep state is in chaos and can barely govern with an electorate facebooked and overcooked, underfed and left for dead.
Some believe the change we need in our governance is genderish, benderish, transcenderish, less testosterone in the brew. So true, so true, so true… We wile away the live long day in a paralyzing ballyhoo.
Hark! From the Oracle comes a figure dressed in black atop a mount… A stove pipe hat to match our stove pipe ideologies, the sworn enemy of Faust… Hark! He beckons us come near, to hear his sober message… He whispers, shhhhh!
