International Criminality

There are no easy choices when it comes to mortality; in one of my many Harrisburg conferences, under the old Pennsylvania Citizens Council, where I first met Josie, who even then was odd, owlish, non descript, a plain Jane who needs to wave Jesus I love pussy on her flagpole, (ah spastic, trolling, now now) there was a deaf dumb and blind minority, pretty woman, considering, who could not hear herself scream when a power chair ran over her foot in a beige pump, Anne Bancroft's majesty entirely absent. What choice does a woman like that have? This is what I asked myself at the time, even as the story of the Belgian twins saddens me. As much as we might need to be wary of Europe's move toward euthanasia, to the extent that I am still viable as a disabled American, one who does not want to die, but is suffering due to extraordinary marginalization, I cannot fault the decision these men made. Would you like me to display compassion toward Josie? Unlikely as it may be, but not impossible, that she and I will ever set eyes on each other again, I know her MS has told on her body, and that she is no longer passable as able. I also know, as you do, that I am a demanding figure, but let me tell you why I am so pissed off with her. She had the ability to recognize how lonely I was, had the ability to ascertain how Cecil's intelligence and perception captivated me, and then turned right around and destroyed any hope I had of building a relationship with him. Progressives who want to tell me this does not make all homosexuals vicious and untrustworthy may be factually correct, but with this kind of dirty laundry, no one needs what you feel you deserve in terms of your sexual activity, and your demands for marriage. What did I do to Josie to deserve this? Let's see. I talked to her in email, perhaps too facetious at times. I gave her daughter a Sherman Alexie collection for which I paid 24 dollars. That is what I did, to New Mobility's managing editor. So what do I want? I want activists to examine their consciences. I am still alone, in exactly the same location where this woman dragged her rancid body to sit near me on a fountain after I charged her with my power chair to grin wolfishly at her hand waving alarm. At the time I thought I meant it as a joke, and much as I have my choice of enemies between this activist mafia and the case management modalities with which they dance, Richard Conte is increasingly hemmed in by the syndicate men whom Kubik controls in Rico. As Eddie heads toward his little brother, Karlson has wardrobe dress everyone up as cowboys. Charming.

Johnny got out too, like the middle child, but apparently opted for a real frontier purity, overshadowed by Lamotta, and Eddie, racked by guilt, decides to fray his cufflinks and turn states evidence, and Alice gets the reward of a recommendation by the DA for the orphanage. I do not think Karlson meant for his viewers to be entirely at ease with this quick plaster happy ending. There seems to be an underlying uncertainty about the price of collusion, but I'll sharpen up my knives as I find the terminology, and the framework I seek.