My Very First Assassination Scare

Between flat-screen monitors that turn-off mysteriously, and CPU's that reboot all by themselves in the middle of a sentence, I don't get on Soldier Boy's Internet as often as I would like. Waiting for my 15 minutes of net time before "sleepy" turns the machines off, I went out front of the senior citizen place to show off I'd smoke a half-cig "they" left in the ashtray, like any chronically homeless guy. Why? The big statement employing carcinogens came about because the longer butts were a PARLIAMENT and PALL MALL, two brands my momma smoked before "they" cut up her brain in the late 1960's, then murdered her before the "Terrorist Attacks Upon the United States." The "attacks" were in 2001. For further details, consult Wikipedia.

I always wondered why the medical records of my mother's last hours were so detailed. Now I know, and where are my copies? In the seized Penske truck, of course. So complicated, but so simple. Roswell wreckage may have provided real versions of Star Trek toys, 24th Century computer programs, and innovative ways to torture from afar, but none of that is my legacy. I'm the guy who's going to clean-up Dodge, or get my ass killed like the main character in my politico-thriller of a screenplay, now a work in progress.

Should my already famous but unproduced character RITA make a brief cameo in the last reel? Can't decide, so maybe I'll write it both ways, and let a Hollywood weasel decide. Last time I did that, in a treatment titled So Help Me God, the soldier/spies stole the Microsoft file containing the version where the good guy ends up president, and left the one where he's an old man and the heroic political odyssey was only a dream. I got the message, in that I must be a pretty important guy, and the totalitarian state in sheep's clothing has gone nuts, not me.

Maybe that's why after I crushed out my half a Parliament cig, on 09.26.09, a rather loud BANG on the roof of the senior center sent roof tar gravel spraying, and sent one witness jumping in the air, as did I. Like the spy movie you morons think my life is, I whirled around, determined where the mini-explosion had originated, sniffed for sulphur and smelled none, while the lady in red with silver spangles also out front was already "spinning cover" for plastic explosives or Soldier Boy's "gel" by saying, "That sounded like a popped balloon." Louder than a powerful firecracker, and she's saying popped balloon?

At least I had a witness, and even better, the senior center bossman came running out and asked, "What was that?" Mark, I don't know, but generally politicians don't like loud popping sounds, and if you doubt me, check into GEORGE WALLACE or RONALD REAGAN on Wikipedia. Sharper-sounding than fireworks, louder than a gunshot--indeed what was it, Department of Homeland Security explosives man? Gosh, I did not see your little tactical vans like Mr. Bush showed me out on I-5 in Kings County, but I'm not surprised. Just another dirty prank, with not so much as a 911 call, because the policeman knows my threshold for bothering him is very high.

Media people, I'm telling you, when this goes above ground, and I campaign for real, you'd better wear comfortable shoes the way this is going, if 'ya get what I mean. And again, why do I say that? Oh, maybe it's the smarmy, Syrian-looking guy with spy-mandatory shades seen staring at me minutes before the blast. Wanna play dirty? If so, I'm sure Ms. Palin strayed from her assigned bed more than once since 1996. Is it going to be a handshake and "fight fair," or more "dirty tricks." My name Hughes, and I'm struggling to decide on my favorite grandpa story that is close to factual. Taking the Spruce Goose up on it's only flight after chasing-off the reporters is just like something I'd do, and all civil authorities should not allege I'm crazy for contemplating an aerial stunt in the suppressed script titled II. Suppressed? What is this Hughes, China? No, it's worse, because you rubes think you're "free." Oh, I promise not to break a bunch of ribs like when Howard flew a stunt for his movie; I'm planning to be a one-trick pony, like the 9/11 hijacker pilots.

Yes, Sarah, they did not change my name, and it's still Hughes, so she'd better think ahead on the conduct of any three-way race for president. Dirty tricks we don't need, but that said, once my hands are on major cash, some real "fun" could begin for the already lame duck Kenyan and all GOP loudmouths. If you ask me, the better course on mud-slinging parallels yet another saying from my beloved 1970's that went, "Let's don't, and say we did."