My buddy Mad Mike * has a book store. Everyone who knows him, which is quite a few, call this place Mad Mikes Book Store. Mad Mike is a pretty mellow guy; he is not filled with rage, as so many mercenaries are. He likes a big dinner, beer, and women in latex catsuits. But then I mentioned Margaret Atwood *, and his face contorted in rage, like a free born British yeoman being told about Ship Money *.
We were at Mad Mike's Book Store, in the back room where you can have a pleasant smoke when you read a book, when the subject of Margaret Atwood came up. I was wondering if the opinions of the bookseller of Guelph were true. That guy said that Margaret Atwood only sold books because people were forced to buy them because of leftist teachers demands. That seemed rather harsh to me. I mean, I am an activist, and I hate white people, straight men, Christians, unborn children, and fun, with the best of them. I would be surprised if my hatred of all those groups lead to a backlash against a fellow ability challenged activist, like Margaret Atwood. Now, Mad Mike has a bookstore, and he would have the straight goods.
Mad Mike hates Margaret Atwood. Will I ever meet someone who has been forced to read her books, forced to spend money to buy them under threat of sanction, that does not hate her guts like a child hates liver and lima beans? Take the kid's allowance money to buy the liver, and you might get an idea. And then again, maybe you are an ability challenged activist, and the money you have for buying liver does not come from the kid, but from the parents of people who have kids, those racist tax payers, and you never buy liver anyway, but keep the money for yourself. (But ability challenged activists do not read my posts, because they cannot read, even if they write for activist newspapers). Anyway, I digress. Mad Mike hates Margaret Atwood:
I am in business for the profit motive, he said. He held up five dusty, unread, volumes of Margaret Atwood. 'These books are kryptonite. They consume capital. You never realize a positive return on them. They come back used, but they have no added value.
Mad Mike does not let his emotions influence his reasoning. As a mercenary, emotions can cause mistakes, which is why leftists are never mercenaries, are afraid of guns, and are clumsy around electrical panels. Mad Mike had a proactive solution for the problem of Margaret Atwood, a final solution, if you will. He opened the secret door that leads to the secret stairs down to the secret basement of Mad Mikes Bookstore. Normally, he just keeps dope, weapons, ammunition, and hostages down there. He calls it the Accounts Receivable office. It also has a shrine to Set, the Snake God. It is a multi-cultural place, fo'shizzle'dizzle.
In the Accounts Receivable office, was a box of books. This was a special collection of the works of Margaret Atwood. These were all the ones used in English classes across the mighty city of London. (I just made up that location; when I say 'London' I do not mean London. I want you to know when I make stuff up, unlike the progressives, who are too ability challenged to know that making stuff up to hoodwink the public can lead to their own public dismemberment by angry men in drag; Me, I want to watch that sort of stuff, so I tell you: 'London' is not London).
This was a special collection of the works of Margaret Atwood: He calls these volumes 'triples' - owned three times, never read once. Triples. Each triple shows signs of wear, but not reading. Names have been neatly inked in the front. But the remaining pages are crisp. No high lighter, no pencil, no notes, no exclamation marks, no underlining of powerful prose, no nothing. Just unread pages, that last saw the light on the day they were printed. Words that live in darkness.
Mike ran his hands over the collection like a wizard passing his hands over an amulet. Burn them, he said. Burn them. Let them trouble the race of free men never more. Such inspiring words that a diversity of post Christian Pagan Canadians can take heart from, er, offer up hearts to, er, whatever.
That night, the burning. We went to a public recreation area. We wore camouflage and got in for free when we told the wheelchair security cadre we were in the Religion of Peace. We went to a circular clearing in the woods, and cut down more trees, green pine and green cedar. Set, the Snake God likes the smell of burning cedar and pine. The wheelchair security cadre drove by in the security vehicle, looking for the source of the sounds of trees being felled in the conservation area. But, their wheelchair could only travel on pavement, so he could only call for help on his radio. He drove off and we raised a mighty mound of wood and waited for nightfall.
I added to the collection of books to be burnt. I added a doll house, with a collection of five dolls. I made each doll myself. I used real human hair. I have a friend who runs a cleaning service in downtown Toronto. He brings me green garbage bags full of hair. This is special hair, that I use. It is the trimmed hair of those aristocrats who have their hair trimmed in an exclusive twin-souled venue, not far off Gloucester street in the downtown. You know where I mean. I used that hair to make five dolls.
The box of books and the doll house were decorated with strips of bacon. An interoffice mail envelope with special requests for Set, the Snake God was added. Each doll in the doll has had a name, along with personal touches. The doll holding a book also had a fat cheque from the tax payers. The fresh water witch held a glass of water and a map of the Great Lakes. There were three others, dolls, to be consigned to the flames. Mad Mike had a merry smile as the pyre was lit. The cedar, the pine, the bacon, and the blend of spices, made a fragrant, attractive offering to Set, the Snake God. We can only hope that the Emerald Serpent can find the time to uplift the spiced morsels of tasty primate flesh that we suggested as side dishes. Being digested by Set, the Snake God is very good for the soul. I like to watch.
The wheelchair security cadre came by just as the worthless books of Margaret Atwood were recycling into something of value. There were two of them, this time. It was dark, but both were wearing electric neon day glow safety vests. The wheelchair security guy had brought his legally blind and highly government paid security buddy.
I was intimidated by this naked show of state authority. The conservation area is a no gun zone. Like all other criminals, I had respected the authority of the posted sign and left my unregistered guns elsewhere. How could I defend my rights to recycle wood into the vital phlogiston * and so stop Global Warming, suppress oppression, and raise awareness of the legacy of colonialism in Africa? Without a gun, I was defenseless. Mad Mike the Mercenary, whose line of work this was anyway, had an idea. He walked up to the stalled security cadre vehicle (it had stalled when the wheelchair driver put the car in park when it was still in motion), and unlocked the doors. (As a safety precaution, the doors of the conservation security apparatus are locked from the outside, so the ability challenged do not open their own doors and fall out, leading to injury and further ability challenges). The one with the thick glasses took a swing at Mike, but he missed in the dark, and instead, punched the roof, a much larger target, so, in fairness, he gets his Bachelor of Arts degree. Mike wiped snot on his glasses, blinding him. As for the wheelchair security guy, we had to carry him over to where we were sitting watching the burning of the worthless books of Margaret Atwood.
The security apparatus guys were making a lot of noise as we watched everything we wanted to burn, burn. Sonjia deSade suggested that we cross dress and sodomize them with a tire iron, just to give the main stream media something bad to say about the Canadian Armed Forces. But Mike demurred. He has an allergy to latex; as for me, I am not Sonjia's size. As a compromise, we dosed the security guys, both the wheelchair and the coke bottle glasses, with LSD, so they would shut up and enjoy the bonfire. Then Sonjia slowly stripped off her clothes and did the snake dance in front of the fire. Set, the Snake God likes it when girls do the snake dance in front of a fire.
Mike laughed and laughed. What a great weekend.