Impeach the Kunt

Joy spent most of the three minutes and small change it took Julio to slide his 2019 Dodge RAM 1500 HEMI Limited pick-up truck off the fairy-lit George Washington Bridge onto the grimy Interstate 95/Cross Bronx Expressway, and the almost five minutes it then took us to grind our way through heavy traffic onto I-87 N/Major Deegan Expressway, staring at tomorrow’s full-moon, moaning the hook of ‘Born for a Purpose,’ Dr Alimantado’s 1987, extended, roots-reggae, ode to Mohammed Ali: “If you feel like you have no reason for living, don’t determine my life.”


I wasn’t sure if she was singing it at me, Cohn, Kunt or cunts like us, but she was punching way above her weight and for a while Julio’s truck, had the soul-shaken and stirred amplified intimacy of the New Temple Missionary Baptist church in Los Angeles, where Aretha Franklin Amazed Grace.


Joy ended the song moaning “Li-Li-Li-Life” as if on tape-delay, still staring at tomorrow’s full moon, which swiped in and out of view as one 18-wheeler and then another and its light blue Amazonian brother sauntered past us bludgeoning their way back, to from whence they came — through chaos of cars accelerating and decelerating, swapping lanes and banging horns — having delivered their precious cargos to a city that would, if it were a country, be the 11th biggest economy in the world, falling between Canada and South Korea.


The city tightened its noose as we filtered off the Deegan at W 230 Street, passing a digital construction-crew sign hacked-to-flash ‘Impeach the Kunt,’ lit by the 18,000-lumen searchlight of a NYPD Bell 429 patrol chopper looking for a needle in the ultra-urban haystack that is the South Bronx, the poorest district in the U.S.A., where 38% of adults and 49% of children live in poverty; a bridge over troubled waters away from Manhattan, home to 84 billionaires, whose combined net worth of $469.7 billion is greater than the GDP of Austria.[i] [ii]


A few yards later Julio made a quick left onto Bailey Avenue, past the Abrar, a small cozy white, detached, three-story clapboard mosque topped with a sky-blue polyethylene-coated tarp to protect a roof that was otherwise open to Samawat or at least the rain, to 3028, a nondescript pre-war, brown-brick apartment building, where screams from the dusty second-floor corner window brought the city in so close that it stung and I caught a glimpse of a not-too-much-of-a-man, beating a woman, his woman, or “cuero” with a belt as his pride watched Captain Holt (Andre Braugher) booty shake with Rosa (Stephanie Beatriz) by way of saying hello in “Bimbo,” episode 13 of season 6 of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, on a snowy big screen TV.

When I pointed out the assault to Julio, he swerved the truck off the road, mounted the sidewalk with the front wheels of the truck to get the right angle to flood the window with his brights to: “Deja la violencia mi pana!”

“And when we leave?” I asked with Afghanistan, Vietnam, Iraq, Yemen, Gaza and other similarly unwinnable wars top of mind.


¡El cabron comienza azotándola una y otra vez!" Julio replied shrugging. Like the futility of his mission was ordained and not in the least bit important to him: “Yeah, the cocksucker beats her to a fucking pulp, because to be a lord over something is better than not to be a lord at all.”


Moments later the window opened, and we found ourselves peering into the haunted, vacant, confused face of a tobacco chewing cunt who found relief from his own misery by inflicting it on others, who couldn’t for the life of him work out why we cared.


The haunted cunt’s bloodshot gaze lingered on the truck a while as he mechanically combed over his comb-over to the beat of his munch but bounced off its privacy glass, which frustrated him. So, he spat his chewing tobacco at us and watched on proudly as it bled through the Boogie Down dust, down the window pane like the grey-black shit of a roach.


There was a thick glaze of sweat running off the haunted cunt’s forehead onto his deeply furrowed brow, and a thin sliver of embarrassment cooking on his grill, like he’d been caught wanking in public.

So, he conjured up a dirty white handkerchief and wiped it all away and spat big swinging cunt belligerence: “Singa tu maldita madre traga leche,” at us and the world.

Which is when his battered cuero appeared by his side and at his side, joined at the hip by their bewildered kids in a grandiose show of solidarity designed to put us in our place — he may be a brute, but he was their brute forever and a day. What gave us the right to gate-crash their assault and battery and throw a pity-party.

So, having blundered into a historic conflict without strategic thought or even a temporary solution, we boxed the remains of our self-righteousness and pulled out.

“He owns her,” Joy said quietly to herself and anyone close, shaking her head from side to side to the beat of her despair: “Freedom is to own your body and your mind — let the devil take your soul. Que te lleve el alma el diablo, ” She yelled through the glass for the hard of hearing.

By the time we rolled up to my office at 4641 Broadway it was a few ticks past 9:20 PM, and two matte black BMW X5 Security Plus trucks (with class VR4 ballistic protection) were burning in the street in front of my office door in a fiery expression of the power of Kunts cunts and the cunts they begat.

The flames were particularly intense due to the complex plastics involved, which added a psychedelic edge to an already chilly night.


Rising from those flames, I saw Kunt as Lonesome Rhodes the opportunistic hillbilly from my namesake, Elia Kazan’s 1957 classic movie A Face in the Crowd, who, plucked from an Arkansas jailhouse by a starry-eyed radio producer, develops an unquenchable thirst for power (and a fascistic cult of personality) as he is transformed from an aw-shucks product pitchman to popularist tyrant, destroying lives along the way (hello!) as he sees fit. [iii]



Which, probably not coincidentally, is when Kunt called me huffing and puffing and threatening to blow my house down, before flying right over the cuckoo’s nest and asking me for a favor, “a little quid pro motherfucking quo.”


He started out huffing that he was surrounded by imbeciles like “America’s Mayor” Angel Maranzano, who he was apparently down on because he had failed to make a deal with me, before puffing that: “Deals are my art form. I like making deals, preferably big deals. Right now (and nobody knows this) I’m trying to buy Greenland, which is the biggest island on earth. So, this is one of the biggest real estate deals — ever! And we are going to build the tallest residential building on earth on a golf course there. Apparently, you’ll be able to see Iceland. Or is it Ireland. No, it’s Tim-buk-fucking-tu, from the higher floors.”


“Yeah,” I replied as if irony was the most precious of metals, speculating that Joy had seen Kunt’s ghost-busting swastika avatar announce the incoming call and was hanging on to every word to grade the size of my Tostones: “It makes the offer Maranzano made me seem light, LIKE YOU DON’T PUT MUCH VALUE ON EVERYTHING I’VE LOST: my birthright, mami, Monica and Jay-B.”


“Col·lat·er·al damage,” he answered, as he sighed theatrically, pronouncing every syllable like it carried the weight of the world: “The cost of keeping America safe for the American People!”


“You treat people like they are chattel, when, in reality, you belong to them. It’s a neat trick, and you’re obviously good at it, but like all deceptions, it has obsolescence-built in.”


“I love the American people,” he chuckled wildly, even more Lonesome than Andy Griffiths.


“Kunt, you’re pathological --- 10,000 outright porky-pies as President and counting. You don’t love people at all, you’re amused by the idea that they can be patronized. And it’s your ability to squeeze the last drop of profit out of patronage that makes you a leader of men.”


He sniggered at that, as a being best at ANYTHING (even mass murder) beats not being noticed at all: “If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed, and the world will hear you!” he said proudly, as somewhere in the darker reaches of hell Adolf Hitler winked.


“Kunt, 10,000 lies become 100,000 stories and 100,000 stories, each more out of control than the next, touch 100,000,000 lives and suddenly shit spins out of control, and your investors desert you because even they can’t make money in the chaos and they worry they’ll lose the money they stole, which is why they’ve vanquished the Beasts, the Trinitarios, the Vols and the GRU operatives that owned them and they’re searching LinkedIn for a new cunt to lead us to the promised land.”


“So, you’ve worked it all out,” he sulked.

“No, not everything,” I said, savoring the moment “At the beginning of the call you said you had a favor to ask, a little quid pro motherfucking quo. And I’m still waiting to hear the bid and ask. ” I teased, switching on the voice recorder app on the S7.


ONE BILLION DOLLARS to settle the inheritance question, for Monica’s files, your silence and Joy’s resignation,” he announced, the words amplified and stretched by the enormity of his largess.

So, I whistled, because one billion dollars is still a lot of money before repeating his offer for posterity: “You’ll pay me one billion dollars to settle the inheritance question, my silence, Joy’s resignation and for Monica’s files.”

“Yes,” he said over-eagerly, assuming from a life of low conning and scams that I’d take the bait,[iv] which I may or may not have, but for Joy’s violet eyes and shaking-head, which preempted any bad decision I may have otherwise made. Instead I disconnected the call, saved the voice recording for the grim reaper at the Office of the Intelligence Community and we left Babylon to burn and went inside.[v]



As we approached my office door, I could hear the sound of an intense debate, a “Pelosi” hear, a “Moscow Mitch” there and ‘Kunt, Kunt, Kunt’ everywhere, and as I opened the door Representative Ilhan Omar of Minnesota was making the point that 'I am where I belong, among you all --- my friends and partners in our liberation,'[vi] to Rashida Tlaib of Michigan and Ayanna S. Pressley, Pramila Jayapal of Washington, Ro Khanna of California, and Raul Grijalva of Arizona,


So, I had a full fucking house. [vii]

So, I poured welcoming straight whiskey shots for all but found few chasers. The free radicals were too high on saving the fucking world from Kunt and his cunts to need additional libation.

Joy took a shot, downed it in that instant and refused a second with a hot-glare. I could tell she had a lot to say because she ran her finger round and around the rim of the glass repeatedly, like she was working out how the beginning led to the middle and the relationship between the middle and the end.

I held up my glass as she started burning slowly to give her anger room to blow big, remembering Monica, how the case got started, as I drank sip by sip by sip.

“It’s been a momentous day so far and the night is still very young,” Joy said smiling so thinly you might have missed it if you weren’t intently focused on those Stila “Stay All Day” Liquid in Beso red lips.


“It started out in Alpine, New Jersey with a bunch of Kunt’s cunts who offered us TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS to betray our movement. Then on the way to the Bronx I was shown a deep fake video of me blowing Kunt with my eyes popping out of my head, in ecstasy, to intimidate me. INSTEAD, IT HAS MADE ME MORE RESOLUTE. On the George Washington bridge we were harassed by the Cops, one of whom, quoting Kunt, told me to go home, but of course this is my home, and my promise, our promise is to make it better, day by day, through resistance without end; that shapes and reshapes itself to our struggle. And then, a few minutes ago, as we arrived where GRU trucks are burning to warn us off, Degas-received-a-call-from-the-President, offering ‘one billion dollars to settle the inheritance question, his silence, my resignation and for Monica’s files,’ all of which we recorded,” Joy raged, underdog no more.


“THEIR MISTAKE WAS TO TRY TO BURY ME because their attacks strengthen my resolve to resist Kunt, his billionaire apologists, the MAGA ARMY that goose-step to his every tweet, and the rash of dictators that have seized the last few reactionary seconds before our brand-new day.”

“Quisieron enterrarnos, pero no sabían que éramos semillas de resistencia.” She cried, cribbing me, me cribbing the United Farm Workers Union organizer, Cesar Chavez, cribbing the Greek Poet, Dinos Christianopoulos.

“Yeah, they tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds of the resistance and that we would regrow, each time stronger and more beautiful than before. And that for every Kunt-like Bad Seed there are thousands of Good Seeds prepared to give their lives to bring him down.” She said, snatching a black marker to etch-a sketch of a good seed blooming into the resistance.


“Our place in all this is to build a platform, an architecture, an organization that connects the seeds, ensuring that resistance is in the future, the sum of many small delicate parts that grow strong through mutual support,” she said smiling, which lit up the room and through my picture window on Broadway and the South Bronx and beyond it seemed that tomorrow’s moon shone even more brightly.



And then to rising applause and with a clenched first, Joy went for Kunt’s jugular. The first job of our movement must be to instigate, propagate and catalyze the impeachment of President Kunt because he is the personification of intolerance, discrimination, graft, and inequality.



“He swapped favors for donations to fund his 2016 campaign and the inauguration.”



“He’s il·le·git·i·mate having colluded with Russia to get elected in 2016 and ‘Ooops I did it Again ---’” She groaned improvising around the melody, “ --- Yesterday, I got a call from Sue Gordon, Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence in the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, who is concerned that Kunt is trying to do almost the exact same thing in Ukraine to win in 2020.”



“He obstructed justice ten times to hobble Mueller’s investigation!”



“Became Vladimir’s bitch by way of the piss-tape, the Bayrock loans, the Dmitry Rybolovlev Palm Beach house flip and more.”



“ He sold pardons to the highest bidder!”


“I do not know for sure whether or not Kunt raped writer E. Jean Carroll in a fitting room of a Bergdorf Goodman department store in New York, 23-years ago, but given he said – she said, odds of 50%. and that 20 other women have also accused Kunt of sexual misconduct then the probability Kunt molested at least one of them is [a whopping 99.99%. In other words, it is practically certain.[viii]


“And now Degas has Kunt dead to rights trying to suppress evidence, obstruct justice, and commit campaign fraud. So, who here, by a show of hands, is in favor of turning the screws on Senator Chuck Schumer and Speaker Nancy Pelosi, to persuade them to insist by any means necessary (and we do have the means), to impeach President Kunt to prevent our descent to fascism?”



The hands voted unanimously for impeachment and asked me to serve as their outside counsel, which I agreed to enthusiastically, less out of a sudden urge to serve but to stay in a game that kept me close to Joy, Monica, Jay-B, mami, and all I’d lost and found along the way,


Meanwhile, the free radicals left on a high, leaving me very much alone with my half full glass and Joy who was guiding her pearls up and down their string like rosary beads, because somewhere tucked behind her parched, bloodless smile there was a riot going on.

“It’s eleven,” I said, pointedly, though the point was lost on both of us.


Joy slid her long slim hands down both sides of her side-part a few times and sent her tongue on a return-trip around her lips. When they were sufficiently moist, she dumped me as we all knew she would: “You have some place to go?” she said, with a half-smile. “If you have Degas, it’s best you go alone, because I’m done with us --- I was looking for a love that doesn’t come with chains, which is what you advertise and offered at first. But over time your love has become conditional on your circumstances and your moods which are never very fucking good. And then there is my manita sis Monica, who you are still in love with, and with whom I refuse to compete!” she murmured, as I stood over her exposed, vulnerable, shamed by my generous curves, a three-day growth that abjectly failed to reach the parts of my scalp that hair used to reach.


Muffled car noise, a fight several blocks north, merengue, bachata, reggaeton, hip hop and trap in waves, a chopper, the clatter and then the hiss of the airbrakes of the elevated train, screams, laughter; an urban kind of silence, disturbing and comforting at the same time.

When I looked back at Joy, she was shivering alone.

But when I stepped forward to embrace her, she pulled away.


I’ve been really trying baby, try to hold back the feeling for so long,’ why was that so fucking hard to say.

Where was the music? Where was Marvin, Hector, Romeo to sing the words so that you don’t have to say? I searched for the shadow of my shadow; the man I thought I was, but he was MIA, and all I had was me; sweat-salty, rigid, and wasting away on concerns I didn’t really even have.


Tomorrow’s moon had gotten lost behind big cotton-candy clouds and it started to rain, which surprised me as last time I’d looked there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The rain fell slowly at first, then hard enough to play the office windows like a detuned xylophone, as I paced the floor, kicking chairs, banging walls, tearing myself apart.


Just after midnight, I tired of self-flagellation long enough to bubble-wrap Monica’s files and a USB drive containing my various conversations with Kunt and bundle them into a brown manila envelope addressed to:

Michael Atkinson,Inspector General of the Intelligence Community,1500 Tysons McLean Dr,McLean, VA 22102.


Minutes later, I waded through the rushing waters on Broadway and dropped the envelope into the mail-box outside the post-office on Kimberly Place, a couple of blocks to the south, whistling “This Land is Your Land” as a matte black BMW X5 Security Edition splish splashed by.


Yeah! Born of extreme violence. Robbed of my birthright. I’m the bastard that’s going to take the President, his billionaire apologists, the MAGA ARMY that goose-step to his every tweet, and the rash of dictators that have seized the last few reactionary seconds before our brand-new day, down and save us from ourselves.


THE BEGINNING

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