Sork is not necessarily of this planet, which is one of the first things he wants you to know. It’s best to nod deeply and keep working, because there’s soup to thaw, but first there’s a sink to santitize since it’s sporting a slick coat of slime, and all during this process there are customers walking in and up to the counter where they expect and demand immediate attention, so it’s best to nod and let him go.
Like most night people, Sork’s not like the rest of them. He’s not always stoned or drunk; sometimes he’s one or the other, but just as often he’s neither. Tonight his eyes are clams.
“Kerry, Bush, Kerry could actually be worse, we don’t know. Both these guys belong to the same club. So does Cheney and Rumsfeld, all those guys, rich guys I’m talkin’ about. Ever heard of Skull and Bones? It goes deeper than that, my friend, much deeper. Ever heard of Marengo Monsoon? It’s where the initiation happens. Live sacrifice. Live. Into the fire. That’s how they do it. Burned alive. That’s the initiation rite.
“That’s what bonds them, what makes them different, able to think the way they think, that they’re better than us, that they have the right to do whatever they want to us or anybody else anywhere else, like Iraq, for instance, or Afghanistan, for example. They can do it because they’re not afraid to throw the innocents into the fire.”
A man wants turkey on light rye, extra mayo, no tomato, extra lettuce, mustard, and could you throw on a few slices of pepperoni. Sork keeps talking. “Kerry already said he’s not pulling out of Iraq until the job is finished. What ‘job’ is he talking about? You see? The club. They know best. They’ll do what they want. You watch.
“Want a know what’s gonna happen? The election? Bush already called it off. Advance warning. IF the election is disrupted by terrorism, what would the procedure be? That’s their plan. They blow up a few polling stations, maybe pull the old U.S. Army anthrax letter stunt again — and by the way they KNOW it was the U.S. Army that did it and that’s also where the trail stopped cold. So how come there’s no congressional investigation of that?
“Next thing, they keep putting it off, putting it off, people getting mad and getting madder. When’s the election?”
Sork gets serious and gets shorter, plunging himself into thought. In his longcoat he resembles the letter S; his hair is thick, tall as a hedgerow. “Give me a couple pounds of this. Hey. Hey. Swt. Hey. Give me a couple pounds of this. So what’s next? What… is… next? What’s next?
“The great civil unrest! That solemn day when you and you sir and myself all get our guns and load up on the ammo and call ourselves the militia, yes yes, believe it now, the common militia that rises up and says bullSHIT my brother, and Bush declares martial law, as foretold, herewith have you heard it. And lo, a time of great woe has come upon us, and what have we done to deserve it, is nothing. But a time is coming when it’s going to be a time to do something.”
“You know,” says the paying customer, “if you want this guy out of here all you got to do is call 911. They know him, believe me.”
“Fuck you, sir,” says Sork. The customer, in short sleeves and solid tie, smiles as he takes his change. “No,” he says, crossing the threshold, “fuck you.”
Sork forgets himself awhile and stands very still, somewhere else, hiding in underbrush, until he’s handed a bag and advised to get in bed before the sun rises.Powered by Sidelines