Coincidance - Principia Discordia

146 COINCIDANCE
Bobby Kennedy, after being removed as Attorney General by President
Johnson, decided to run for President himself in 1968, posing more potential
problems for the Mafia, but fortunately for them there was another
deranged lone assassin on hand. Since Bobby's death, the Mafia has had little
real heat in the US: Michele Sindona, Mafia lawyer and P2 member, was at
Nixon's inauguration, an honoured guest, and Licio Gelli, the Grandmaster
himself, is in photos taken at Reagan's second inauguration. He and Reagan
are smiling, as if at some private and intimate joke.
From all this we can extrapolate three outstanding facts that are almost
synecdoches of our increasingly clandestine world. 1.) The cocaine money
laundered by Archbishop Marcinkus helped finance the death squads that
killed Archbishop Romeros, who served the same God and the same church
as Marcinkus: we are all living in a Le Carre novel. 2.) In the symbiosis
between the Mafia and the CIA the mob thinks it is using the spooks, and
the spooks think they are using the mob and one of them is terribly
deceived. 3.) Bobby Kennedy broke off his affair with Marilyn when he
learned, from FBI wiretaps, that the Mafia was taping his boudoir adventures.
Contemplate that: while the Justice Department wiretaps the Mafia, the
Mafia wiretaps the head of the Justice Department. It is more than a
synecdoche; it is a Joycean epiphany.
And Norma Jeane, the neurotic woman who created and became
"Marilyn Monroe"? She grew up with a typically American adoration of
Abraham Lincoln, a perfect father-symbol for orphans everywhere; I
suspect that when she climbed into bed with Jack Kennedy she really
thought she was climbing into bed with Lincoln and history. Nobody had
warned her that History is a blood sport, and the only one in which innocent
bystanders are the principle victims.
She was as beautiful as the Parthenon by moonlight, as goofy as a
surrealist painting and as hard to ignore or forget as a kangeroo in a
symphony orchestra. I, for one, still mourn her, tantalized by the wish that
she had found something better than booze and pills to get through the
noon's unease and the nights alone. Which leaves just one haunting note on
which to conclude this odyssey through the undergrowth of American and
international intrigues: where the hell does all the heroin on the streets of
Dublin come from?
Goddess by Anthony Summers