StarCat/CatStar

machinegunner in the ‘Nam. A modern day Kutuzov, eye-patched and with
his frock coat unbuttoned because he would be enough of a sweet-dude to
have a military frock coat lying handy for when the advent of the people's
right, Revolution, struck. A Super-trucker. Who has run mountain grades
and hell-on-earth storms of every kind, each second the while, banshee
screaming all the sourness out of his lungs to howl down death.
The military would have nothing to do with us. A great number of
truckers are former servicemen, many of who have seen combat and have
been eager for their heyday since '75. Now their sons are in the service.
We are people of the people of the people, true enough. We’d only have to
deal with the police and the DOT, who hate our guts, as though they were
exposed and noisy. A trucker reminds a cop of the smell of his last shit; a
cop reminds a trucker of something like an old liquor-sick uncle who used
to beat his wife and threaten his children for fun with a polished bone
straight-razor, and who loved his attack dogs better than he did any
human being. Pigs are evil, more cunning than you think. They have to
keep up appearances unlike the trucker; when at heart, the police would
rather just be dressed with rubber raincoats over their naked skin, and
have nothing with them but their batons; but we would manage them,
because we are Legion, the Devil in a pig’s-eye.
In every truckstop across every state you will find a knife-boutique,
‘cause it is a fact that truckers are steel-junkies. We’d gut many a pig
hand-to-hand, because it is one thing with pigs that you can always entice
them into a fight based on a test to see who has the more ponderous
balls...a fight the trucker will win every time, ho, ho.
The Air Force might try and get at us, as it is in its epoch, a great
destroying machine fun to watch on the tv; the Air Force could wreak hell
on our supply lines, but we are the keepers of their jet fuel and we would
use it to fuel our bonfires as we watched their planes fall from the sky, the
pilots choosing to go that way rather than set foot on the ground and have
to deal with us; they would screech from the skies, sending off their
payload: the Incinerator says his Hallelujah in a craze of rockets that
would be meant to soften the ground, where death-ready pilot would
tumble down in an explosion and Black-Out, impact burial, while the fiftyfoot
bonfire we have set burning for the occasion of the sky-falling would
make we observers sweat like three-strike perverts with the keys to a
cathouse. We would solemnly put our hats over our hearts and spit booze
out in the men’s memories.
The ultra-wealthy would simply just leave the county during all of
this, but, of course, not until after we skinned a few of them and paraded
around in their stalks of flesh like drunken heroes. And the beggar’s
banquet would begin. Wein weib und gesang.
But there is no revolution without the one idea, not without the
weltgeist. There’s not been a one to remake the collective mind since
weary man can remember. As I said, masterworks in the arts are not
masterworks at all, but merely a lineage to the one idea…ahhh Over-Soul,