By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret.
Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum
Chapter Ten: Smoothness
Dude and the Chief started out after the ambulance carrying Harriette. The streets were crowded, but the paramedic driving was an ex-cab driver who knew how to maneuver around and through pedestrians and city traffic at breath taking speed during lunch hour. At one point Dude and Chief found themselves following him up the wrong side of a four lane street, kept on the wrong side by a concrete divider that stretched for a mile.
The ambulance driver was not only a self-proclaimed driving expert, but a whiz with both siren and lights, which he worked into a dazzling, blinding display he presented along with an eerie wail of tremolos from his siren, all of which he'd honed into an art form. He and others considered him the Keith Moon of ambulance drivers, occasionally leaving his passengers clawing at the back window from their gurneys to escape, as he swerved and swayed along like a speed boat in choppy waters. Dude watched a couple people standing on the street almost jump out of their pants, and others crouch down while looking up into the sky for some danger as the ambulance swooped by.
"Keep up with that nut, Dude," Chief Kosner growled, his body tensing.
"I'm not letting it out of my sight," Dude said without breaking his concentration. He didn't know what to expect from the ambulance driver, and needed to stay alert. If he'd trusted those two, he'd have gone ahead to the hospital, but he trusted few.
"Nice car," Chief Kosner said, trying to relax, to ignore the blur of people whizzing by, visible through the rose tinted windows of the car. The car's matte black interior took on a rather eerie deep glow in the orange and green lights of the console, which took the Chief into another place, or so it seemed. As the world outside rushed by, in here it became quiet and still. Stranger still was the presence he felt in the back seat, that he couldn't discern clearly, even after glancing back into the seat. Dude kept his mind on the mad ambulance driver, and paid particular attention to the automobiles both in front and behind him, but took a moment to address the feeling emanating from the Chief.
"My companion, and very shy," Dude said. "Her name is Pi." The Chief was unable to detect more than a shadow and unsure he saw that, considering the darkness of the interior. He changed the subject.
"Wow, a five-speed 1965 Mustang. My buddy had a five-speed 1965 coupe, but his looked like it belonged on earth." It'd been a while since the Chief had ridden at such high speeds, but he'd never driven in such comfort. At one point, while settled back into his bucket seat, he looked down into the well and thought about a car-well secretary.
"It's obvious you're not on a city budget," the Chief remarked, settling deeper into the comfort. All he wanted now was a bag of popcorn, but instead pulled a cigar from his pocket and put the end in his mouth without lighting it. Dude hit the car's lighter and extended a metal cigar clip to the Chief. "Oh, no thanks, jus' want somethin' ta chew on."
"Here, try one of mine," Dude said popping the cover on the console. There was a small box of hand rolled Cuban Cohibas.
"Little rich for my blood, but since you're offerin'," the Chief said reaching for one. He looked at the cigar as he turned it in his fingers, deciding to save it for later, when he could smoke it in peace. For now he was content chewing on his fifty-five cent Bering.
"If ya don't mind, I'll save this for later."
"Good idea," Dude remarked. The Chief turned to him and shrugged, then glanced into the back seat again, barely able to make out what he thought he saw.
"So, what can ya tell me," the Chief asked, placing the Cohiba in his pocket and the Bering in his mouth. Without taking his eyes off the ambulance, Dude reached into a pocket on the door beside him.
"Have you ever seen this person," Dude asked reaching for a photo and handing it to the Chief. He took it and gawked in disbelief.
"Sure, dat's Harriette," he said. He glanced at Dude with an unasked question in his eyes, as if wondering why he'd been shown a photo of his prized detective. Dude noticed the Chief's eyes move from the photo, to the back seat and back again, and smiled.
"It's not Harriette," Dude corrected. The Chief examined the photo more scrupulously, and insisted it was Harriette. Okay, maybe the clothes weren't hers and the hair all wrong, but she could have been at a costume party.
"Aw, come on, Dude, I know Harriette when I see her."
"I know, but that's not her. As of yet, we're unsure of her real name, but she goes under the name of Sheebra Isadeatha. Our code name for her is The Fallen Angel." The photo took the Chief from his comfort as he continued studying it, taken by its uncanny likeness to Harriette. He sported a concerned look, as if upset with himself, but soon shook it off.
"Well okay, but what's dat gotta do with me?"
"I thought you may have heard of the Gonif."
"Well, yea," the Chief said in pondering. "City has a couple fellas assigned to its growing activity. Word's out on dat group, but the info's sketchy at best, and what we have ain't good. Seems they're goin' round killin' women, we think, but don't follow a particular pattern. They go after the rich, poor, young and middle-aged, without rhyme or reason. And by the time somebody files a missin' person report, the trail's cold. The bodies are never found and da group don't leave no calling card." Dude stayed close to the ambulance while filling the Chief in on a few things.
"There's an Organization devoted to making America a police state. They've been working to this end for years. They're especially active in Congress. They made their first decisive move in 1911 when they successfully pushed the Apportionment Act through Congress, which guaranteed for them a manageable number of Representatives, controllable through bribes and threats. With this one Act they took Congress away from the common people. Our 'representative' form of government, and then our 'real' money were swept away, replaced with the smoke and mirrors of gerrymandering, and Federal Reserve Notes. Can't call that being awake." Chief listened, stopping only to chew and scratch himself, as Dude went on.
"This Organization has an assortment of henchmen and assassins, and one such group of frightened fanaticals, referred to as the Gonif, recently became independent. The Gonif happens to be an army of radicals who believe in the Beast, in its literal sense."
"Da Beast? Whoa there, you're losing me Dude. I'm not up on dat Bib'ical stuff," the Chief groused.
"The concept of a beast, and of four horsemen, are medieval connotations. Today it's a psychological complex at the collective level that has and will continue to well up over and over again throughout human history as long as people refuse to accept the existence of the unconscious. It's in all of us. After each time this collective complex fails, it rises again, and another human figure emerges from the ashes, from a collective magnitude of human unconsciousness, to re-define the collective psychosis once again. As the personification of evil it wars against good, to extinguish consciousness, hope, faith, happiness, and light, to spread darkness, as it's done in Europe and the East several times, and is attempting again now.
"And now dis psycho-mumbo-jumbo."
"Think of your prejudices and bigotries. Not suggesting you have any. Like to see them become manifest? Real bigots wrap their hatred in the armor of righteousness, then mount their high horses to wage war on some human right, and pass it off as an act of caring..."
"Stop."
