Friday, June 20, 2008

Leading the Rothschilds to Jesus

Baxter hung up the phone with a self satisfied smirk on his face. "Guess who that was?"

Baxter's wife Flangelica, whom he had met in Prospero, Mexico, just across the border from McAllen, Texas, when he had been talking to the Mexican boys who were selling switchblades in the small alley between two tourist trap Prospero stores, either hadn't heard him or didn't understand him. Baxter watched her walk by cooly, her long, shapely bronze-colored legs taut and covered with the sheen of her panty hose as she strode, confidently, seductively like a beautiful Philly. She wore a green sundress, with padded shoulders, silk, or so it looked, with a tiny object spaced four inches apart which Baxter couldn't make out. He was too busy looking at her tush, the way her buns pouted outward as she walked, creating that intoxicating rhythm which men love. Baxter always tried to imagine what her butt crack looked like. They were still newlyweds, technically speaking. Because Baxter had been gone a while. They'd been married sixteen months ago, and Baxter had only been home with his new bride a month before he left. And before that, he'd only known her a couple of weeks.

But now he was home, and his juices were flowing. He felt like Charles Manson. Baxter had read overseas how Manson had been an English double agent, working for the German Embassy in Madrid. It had been a thick book, but Baxter got almost two-thirds through it before he put it down. For good. Shit like that gave him the creeps, but he felt a strange kinship with Manson, because as Baxter had read about the fairly good musician's appetite for sex, he become aroused thinking about his bride and how much her family had grown. Every picture he received from oveseas from Flan, she was standing with another brother or cousin, men who had not been at the wedding because of work. But now he was back, and he knew his young bride wanted him, the way she kept walking by, teasing him by not looking at him. It was a rubber duck, that was the object which formed the very broad pattern in her dress. That did it. He couldn't help himself. The thought of the rubber duck had reminded himself of soapsuds. And that had reminded him of a jacuzzi, and that had reminded him of sex, except all of woman's natural lubricant was lost in the water, so it wasn't sex as much as it was the suggestion of sex. And so he decided right then that he would take her, because after all ... he was going to be rich. Because he had finally gotten the direction that his life had been lacking, and all because he had forced himself to read more while he was away. The direction? It came in the form of an article in a magazine someone had presumably left behind on the airplane in the strongly elastic pouch on the backs of the seat in front of him. Baxter at first was puzzled by the Persian language. He now knew that it was Persian, because he had asked the stewardess which language it was, and she had said, with her perky breasts pushing out over onto the tray she was carrying especially high, that she thought it was probably either Persian or Arabic. And he had been thinking Persian.

He'd slipped the magazine into his coat, since someone had left it, and most certainly someone would likely throw it away if they ever found it, because it hadn't been an airline magazine, and it was Persian. As luck would have it, the man on the far aisle had a turban wrapped around his head, and so Baxter, in an effort to solve the mystery of what the magazine article he was interested in said, he began throwing ice cubes in the direction of the man with the turban. Baxter's strategy was to hit the man in the head as softly as possible; however, since the man in the turban was six seats away, at about 1 o' clock in the large French airliner he was flying in, the cubes would have to have some velocity to reach their target. And then there was the matter of trying to avoid hitting the heads of any of the other passengers who most likely could not speak Persian. It was more unlikely that they would speak Persian than the man in the turban, Baxter had reasoned, although there was a mixed breed of some kind three heads into the obligue pattern of heads. Other heads represented Baxter's greatest obstacle to get this magazine article translated, which he was determined to do. Why? Because the article obviously had something to do with three of Baxter's favorite things: money, religion and Jesus.

But Baxter was no a fundamentalist. He was in fact a nervous wreck, because he didn't know what kind of a Christian he was anymore. The homosexual-hating homosexual liberal fundamentalist preacher had seriously thrown him religiously. Who could you trust anymore? He didn't think he could trust this preacher anymore, or, the much heavier one whom Baxter caught one Sunday on television skipping back and forth between two topics: the Rapture and whether or not to provoke a war so that Israel could kick somebody's ass and we could get on with the peaceable kingdom. The heavier preacher from Texas had two things going for him: first, he had a good artist on his staff, a person capable of drawing or painting very, very large objects and words to supplement what Baxter mostly believed was false teaching. The other thing this Texas preacher had going for him was his very descriptive vocabulary, which made up for the awkward gesturing which the preacher did because his arms were too short for his balloon-like girth. The balloon image was one which reminded Baxter humorously of a remark the Texas preacher had made about the Rapture, as he took aim at the head of the man with the turban, biting his lip as he always did when he concentrated.

"Bingo!" Baxter had shouted when he finally connected just before several of the passengers wiping their heads had sent stewardesses in his direction. But Baxter didn't care. He was going to learn the mystery of the Persian article ... and if he had correctly identified the crest on this one man's blazer ... Baxter was going to lead the Luciferian Rothschild family, everyone of them, to Jesus. Baxter thought about his chances as he held a bag of ice against he face when he slipped on the hardwood floors wearing his socks in his mad dash for his bride and collided with the large iron penis sculpture which one of Flan's cousin's made for her.