April 5, 2010

• Part Two, Chapter Three

  Bruce’s heaviest
  history had been with a well loved, amply fletched snake known by his
  intimates as the Prez. The Prez had heavy history with everyone. As a
  mere cub, he had represented Utah in the WWII Office of War Information
  under Artchibald Mac Liesh and Poets. He had distinguished himself in
  the Utah Writer’s Project, then, married
  his first wife before
  going off to war with a camera and notepad.

  The Prez stayed
  on in Europe for the the War Crimes Tribunal at Nueremberg duration of
  US Operations in Europe. He reported on the Berlin Airlift from West
  Germany before called to assist the Brethryn, who in those days, had
  little notion of the Mission Field.

  During the Nueremberg
  Process the Prez was oft seen in public with a stunning LDS companion, a
  German Woman toward his intentions were unknown. A Mormon stenographer
  whose formerly intended had returned to the States. She found the two
  men interchageable, but in the end accepted an invitation from the Prez’
  bunt brother, the Spruce Goose. A stunning woman still, by Device
  rather than Devine Designs.

  So Bruce now attended the
  tottering Prez who enjoyed sugarless Shirley Temples with all natural
  Marachino Cherries on sprees with the Sprucce Goose in Nothern
  Mexico–There the Goose’s private physician gave them both, Prez and
  attache’, an exhaustive going over.

  The Gooose’s Circle
  were scarcely repectabe well aged–widowers, feigned batchelors. The
  Spruce Goose, was a formidable puppeteer. The Prez’s shadowy buddy of
  Paper clipper buddy surrounded himself with Mormons: tough, sneaky,
  smart, fine as long as they got Jesus on Sunday, and Jews Shabat on
  Friday Night.

  Chapter

  When the Brethren
  beleived Bruce was a confirmed Batcheler, on the advice of Ancient
  Mentors set his cap for an Old Maid School teacher whom he then
  betrothed to himself via a Deseret Tower rooftop tete a tete with first
  the aging maiden herself, next a 3 way consultation with her great
  ancient Uncle, Bruce’s big boss, the Prez.

  The Prez, in
  his time, had set the matter of his German War Widow before an Mission
  President and Hierophant who suggested he take her back to the states
  with the last load of Paperclippers fleeing Stalin on CIA bribes, and
  hand her off
  to someone with a more passionate interest.

  Bruce’s maternal great Uncle had set him up out of Highschool with
  a modest moonlight media guy out West to the Stateline. He was droll
  and had a thick Dixie Drawl. Stateline was his home turf. Bruce was once
  a Humanities TA with an expensive Liveboard he used for two way
  communication with his studennts. Bruce fostered a Drama program at
  Wendover High School and drove out for rehersals. To this, the next
  year, he added an entry level position at Benny Life.

  Having exceeded the age of a tree, the Prez had long since come to
  detest the News.

  The Prez encouraged, discovered that his
  Health Manager, a
  Naval Lab Tech was pliable and amusing.
  Moreover Daddy Bruce Bunny was endowed, at the time, with Single
  Blessedness and showed satirical talent. A War Correspondent’s Sacred
  trust, quoth the Prez, was to commit the Truth, the whole Truth and
  Nothing but the Truth to heavy bond paper–and giving a copy secured by a
  friend who would see it into print if anything ever happened. The rest
  of what he wrote depended on the public appetite for the actual.

  The Prez held the Spruce Goose as financial Guarenteur of his
  literary legacy, as Bruce relied on the Potash Poker Set for his. His
  workaday revolved around spin.

  Having so lived, having so
  lied, the convolutions of the Prez once, lamentably, triggered a
  scandal. A subordinate took the rap. Bruce had the tortuous tale from
  the tormented confessor’s mouth. The Prez, at the insistance of unnamed
  Senior Brethren, had cooked a melange of WWII and Korean war stories
  down to demontsrate how a young man of Israel fought when his country
  flocked like raptors to war, the sons of Helamen among them.

  He found an up and comer go getter Titan to disperse the Prez’s froth
  to the air of the Holy Tabernacle, which had not known such creativity
  since the loss of Heber Golden Kimbel., the foul mouthed comedian who
  had skinned meals for his cracked wheat. In the Prez’s case the grim
  reaper laughed last, for the whole Church would have loved to kill him.
  Enshrined in every
  member family was that 50 dollar set of war
  stories designed
  to interest the Youth of Zion, firm as the
  Mountains around them.

  In the Second World War the Prez
  said he’d spent the whole damn war pushing papers. It was more
  complicated than that. The Church rumor mill imagined and imbued with
  apocrypha and ephemera his long friendship with the shadowed figure the
  Prez refered to as the Spruce Goose, not cooked nor stray and during the
  WWII War scandle, one sorry Goose. For the Prez
  had asked his
  advice. He thought that since the man couldn’t
  keep his mouth
  shut, and less than half of it was true anyway,
  he was perfect
  in the role to which History and fate had
  called him. The man
  wanted to brag? Stuffed his mouth with bragaddocio.

  Bruce
  had hashed the entire matter over first with the Spruce Goose. The Goose
  thought the young, ambitious aspirant a leit motif–Righteous glory in
  war and baseball. Yes, he had been
  an athlete and his huge
  frame was oogled by the sister, less for his words, the man was poetry
  in motion.

  The ambitious miscreant satisfied his Superiors.
  The Gerontocracy dove under their desks. The Prez became the power
  behind the throne for his composure was complete.

  CHAPTER
  THREE

  The war incident had been during Viet Nam, the
  unsuspected spearhead a young appointee, Graduate of an Elite
  Theological where the guns were gilded and loaded. Robust, handsome,
  graced with Midas’s John Waynes withthering gait the up and comer
  emitted a reliable charisma. Numerable factions held out a hemp fishing
  net to save the Prez if he went down. His name was not mentioned during
  the affair.

  Stenography school put a bland face on
  preparation for Nueremberg. Well over half a Century afterward, the Prez
  was begging the Old Man to beam him up. A dignified end. It was said
  Moses went that way–just glitter in the form of a man that
  
  faded out. Trouble was the pact made at Neremberg with the young Spruce
  Goose, wasnt going to let his Wingman go.

  Oh, the Prez
  murmered wistfully, where was it written–
  ”We’ll all go
  together when we go, every Hottentot and Every Eskimo.” Bound by a
  brotherly oath to the Spruce Goose, they had vowed to conquer the bleak
  and dolorous world God surely never intended for his children. With
  enough money, any problem had a ready solution

  Certainly
  living long enough to understand his wrongs plainly, Bruce Daddy Bunny
  began anew–“If you love me, he recited, keep my commandments, and
  jumping Jehosephat he did love the Prez.”

  The saints now
  hoped to reclaim their genome from the Atomic Energy comission (AEC).
  The Goose, after staging his demise, allowed two copies of his will to
  surface: one on a desk in the Church Office Building’s upper secretarial
  sactum. The other on a startled windshied of a lowly soon to be rich
  and famous gas station attendent who got all the royalties from the
  movie version.

  Bundt brothers, Heirophant and Goose had
  nurtured the global ignorance feigned by those who had read the
  Nuremberg Medical Accords when Ike declassified them in the mid-fifties
  and sadly turned away, those who spun history as a potter on his wheel
  needed clout–wealth, power, influence, prestige, charisma to see even
  paltry justice done. The letter of the spirit of the law they would see
  enforced.

  The Spruce Goose had ambition and the first of
  his great ambitions had been to abolish the Adversary’s sickness and
  death gambit, that ancient Serpent.

  The Goose imposed. He
  had his own men in the world and his office and home, kept a bright and
  handsome medical attache. The Contemporary press, still given to
  internicine wars, was an unlevel playing field. Spin was the deciding
  advantage–to this Wendover added the gadfly and the harpoon.
  
  There the Prez, incognito, had surprize and a downhill slope. He had
  the youth of Zion in his care. He had, demonstratbly, throughout 911
  Olympic, and monster storm era, Mick Romney and Mr. Redford and the
  Mormon Washington Caucus to protect his vulnerable flank–his unheard of
  longevity. There were things so sacrosanct and devisive that even
  Sundance had no comment.

  Few knew the Prez as a political
  animal, ignominity was the Prez’s Ace in the hole–he had one hope of
  retirement–a funeral with an empty coffin. It had been 80 years since
  the prez had been left as a curr in Nueremberg to assemble and prepare
  the Nazi horrors for Court presentation–each old photo painted a
  blurred picture, edited, it told a lie of omission.

  The
  American Press Corp had sruggled with the vast extent of the Holocaust
  against the Jews et al. Actually, the Prez said, most, war weary and ill
  just went home, despite what the journalists had seen–their mission as
  a mere remnant, was to collect indisputable evidence for a massive
  tribunal.

  The religious boys tended to be more likely to
  sign on to the project, abandoned with the cameras, the stenography. The
  Prez heard and saw things that dwarfed the hate crimes at Haun’s mill.
  Numbers offered no horror or solace as skeletons one by one, sobbed out
  intimate tales of indifferent brutalization.

  Listening to
  skeletons with reedy voices was a task for Mormons, men who lied only
  under direct orders, patient and scrupulous as parsons. Men to do their
  duty in their time.

  Neuremberg haunted. The Prez burned
  midnight oil beneath his Mormon brother in his lower bunk, pouring over
  stenography, copying long sections of transcripts complaining that the
  future of the world, the future conventions of war, ought not to rest on
  his stenograhic errors.

  His bunkmate had an interest in
  the German trial of Tokyo Rose and often burned midnight oil beside him.
  He was a boy from Bear Lake, with family up to Richfeild who
  feared the precedent they were setting in the Court. They crumpled their
  originals for retrieval later, all others being dead, drunk, and
  asleep. Memory of the Nueremberg testimony girded the Prez, enabling him
  to steer his people through times where moral choice was constant and
  briskly paced.

  To keep the lid on the issues that too much
  had been made of already, this was the mandate of the Prez. There were
  his long companions, whose minds were vast as the Louvre, or of the lost
  Libraries at Alexandria, the burned Mayan and Incan libraries. The Nazi
  Book burnings, the Chinese who stuffed their matresses with ancient
  Tibetan manuscripts, for these history made slow progress.

  Like a invertabrate beetle climbing a sand dune. With Bruce’s treatment,
  which Bruce and his lobbyists had talked him into taking. the brain of
  the Prez healed before the rest of the body, leaving a respectable
  appearance of age. It was tricky getting the biologicals in precise
  balance. He left instructions for his trainees when he went fact
  finding, assigning each the appropriate doses. Bruce had adored his old
  men, if he got out of his current watery predicament, he would adore
  them and the mercy of thier common Diety, even more.

  • 8:25 am
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