The whole insane mess started while we were watching Monday Night Football. Slag and Pyro came over to my apartment as usual, and as the teams were preparing for the kickoff, Zoom reached into his backpack and pulled out a large bottle labeled as grape juice but containing a brownish liquid, unscrewed the cap and said, "It's your place, man. You take the first swig."
I grabbed the bottle and took a gulp, nearly choking. It tasted more like pure acid than whiskey.
I handed the bottle to Pyro, who examined the dubious contents before taking a big swig. He did cough it up, spraying the entire living room with the vile liquid. I ran to the kitchen for a sponge before it could burn through the floor.
"Where'd this shit come form?" Pyro asked, still coughing. Pyro didn't drink much anymore. He wasn't supposed to drink at all - alcohol weakened the drugs used to cure AIDS.
Slag took the bottle from Pyro. "One of the guys in the band makes it in his cellar." Slag was lead singer of the Steelheads. The band members had all worked together at a steel foundry until it was bought out by a Japanese company and all the non-Japanese employees laid off. Afterward, they concentrated on the band with minor successs, playing the local clubs in Hollywood and Santa Monica every night except Mondays.
Pyro took a small sip this time and managed to hold it in. "Jeez, this stuff tastes worse than horse shit!"
"Sorry. I'll bring some horse shit instead next time."
"Bring some Johnnie Walker. Black Label."
"Where am I going to find that on my salary? Maybe Gorky can afford some."
Hearing that, I decided the floor was clean enough despite the black stains and ducked back into the kitchen. I could have afforded some whiskey, but at $250 a bottle for the cheap stuff, it wasn't to be wasted, especially when one bottle was sufficient to tempt two or three girls back to my apartment.
"Or maybe you could afford some if you got a real job instead of delivering pizzas."
"Who else is going to hire an Orangie?" The AIDS medication stained his skin to an orange tint, and employment offices wouldn't even let Orangies, as they were called, into the room even though under medication the virus was no longer dangerous nor contagious.
There was a knock on the door and Zoom danced into the room. Zoom was tall, with light brown hair and bright blue eyes, which he used to his benefit. Though he was an artist, the few things he sold at local craft shows wouldn't pay for even the meanest apartment. He was usually found living with a not particularly attractive but rich middle-aged divorcee who thought she was doing society a benefit by supporting a starving artist until he got sick of her and moved on to the next woman. "Hey guys, how's the game?" he asked.
"Zoom! You're just in time. Have a gulp of this wonderful stuff Slag brought," Pyro said holding up the bottle of moonshine.
Zoom walked over to the living room, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cellophane wrapped box, that though labeled in Chinese, was unmistakably Marlboro's.
Slag's eyes lit up. "Where did you find them?"
"Sold three paintings for a carton yesterday. Some lady, chain smoker, had her husband smuggle them in from Singapore."
I hesitated, knowing it was futile but said, "I'm sorry guys. No smoking in here."
"Why the fuck not?" Slag demanded.
Zoom added, "Hey, it ain't exactly illegal, at least not yet."
"Might as well be with the tax they threw on it," Pyro interjected.
"It's in my lease. No smoke. Landlady says she'll never be able to rent it again otherwise, and she comes up here sniffing around every couple weeks looking for an excuse to kick me out. I'm even afraid to use the barbecue on the balcony."
"Don't fucking worry. We'll buy you a can of Lysol before we go." Slag opened the box, removed a cigarette and held it to his nose to catch a deep whiff of its aroma. Pyro pulled out a lighter and lit the cigarette. Slag took a deep draw on the cigarette and handed it to Zoom.
After Pyro took a hit, he smiled and said, "If Gerky's landlady don't like cigarettes, she's going to have a fit over this." He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small bag of buds.
Slag and Zoom both grabbed for the bag, Zoom catching it first and raising it to his face, stuck his nose deep into the bag and drew a deep breath. "Mmm. Where did you get this stuff? I haven't seen any for months."
"There are some advantages to pizza delivery. Go ahead, light up," Pyro said, throwing him a notepad that served as rolling papers.
I knew it was hopeless to say anything so I stayed silent. Still, under government orders, my company had instituted mandatory weekly drug tests. Testing positive meant not only dismissal, but blacklisting from just about any other job, so when they passed the joint to me, I had to refuse.
"Lighten up," said Zoom. "Light up and lighten up."
"You're a professional unemployed. You ain't got nothing to worry about," I retorted. He glared at me and I stared back.
"Jesus," said Slag, taking the joint form my hand. "Remember when we all used to go down to the beach, light a joint, drink a beer, and go surfing?"
"Those days are over," sighed Zoom. "The pot used to give you a good buzz then."
"It's going to get worse next year when the Greens win the election," I added.
"It just ain't no fun anymore," Slag said.
"Shit," Pyro said and we all let out a collective sigh.
We sat there, blankly staring at the television screen, thinking of better days.
"What's it their business what we do in our home?" Slag asked.
"They say it's dangerous, " I said, echoing the newspapers.
"There's danger in everything. Like driving my car."
"You won't be able to drive your car much longer either. Too dangerous. Too much pollution," I said based on the strength of the Anti-Pollution Coalition as well as the unemployed millions in the Midwest who had no sympathy for the automobile manufacturers now that they were all Japanese.
"All that meat you eat probably does more damage to your body than all the pot and booze you've ever used."
"Shut up with the vegetarian bullshit," Pyro said.
"I'm just making a point, okay," Zoom explained. "Not counting the disgusting state of your digestive system, thousands of people die every year just from choking on chicken bones. If they're really concerned about our health, why don't they ban chickens. And eggs, too. More people die from heart failure every day than AIDS ever killed."
"So what do we do about it?" Pyro said taking another hit from the joint.
"Start our own political party," I said facetiously.
Slag glared at me. "Everyone in the fuckin' world would laugh at us."
"Maybe then they would finally laugh at the Greens, the WCTU, the APC, and all the other loonies that are taking over."
"Shit." Pyro took the last draw on the weed and threw it into the toilet.
* * * * *
All week, while brainlessly stamping holes in pieces of metal to be attached to other pieces of metal and eventually make up a small piece of a flap for an airplane wing, I thought about forming a political party. I knew the others had long forgotten. Fighting for what they believed in meant a fist to the jaw. Fighting in a political arena was too drawn out and too theoretical. I doubted if they even knew how to register to vote, nonetheless having ever actually voted.
The political system was becoming absurd and the next election seemed likely to mean disaster for personal freedom, those few still existing. Single issue parties were proliferating, not strong enough to challenge the political order but able to bully the major parties and their candidates. Every politician knew that to publicly suggest even rethinking the ban on abortion despite the steeply rising statistics on deserted babies, child abuse, and botched home abortions meant political suicide. The majority of people, who simply wanted to enjoy life, free from unnecessary restrictions and government interference stayed silent.
These musing would have come to nothing if the envelope containing my paycheck that Friday hadn't been empty except for a lab report indicating minute traces of marijuana in my blood and a dismissal letter.
When we met again at my apartment on Monday night, I waited until halftime to announce my plans.
"You're fucking crazy," said Slag. The others nodded their heads in agreement.
"Look at us," Pyro said. "Who's going to vote for an Orangie, a heavy metal singer, and two unemployed bums?"
"All the other people like us," I answered.
"No way," Zoom said.
I hadn't expected this to be easy. I disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle still wrapped in its brown paper bag. I put it on the table and sat down. "I had planned on celebrating the official formation of The Chicken Party and our first political convention. I had planned to celebrate with this," I said pulling the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black out of the bag.
The three stared at the bottle. I smiled. "Okay, what to we gotta do?" asked Zoom.
I explained how we were going to register each of us for a major race. Slag nominated himself for Governor. It was decided Pyro would run for State's Attorney, Zoom for the House of Representatives, and myself for Senator.
After writing our platform, which read, "The eating of all chickens, chicken parts, and chicken embryos shall be banned," we opened the bottle of whiskey, lit a joint a celebrated.
The next morning, hung over, I drove up to Sacramento and registered the party and its four candidates. I mailed out press releases to every newspaper in the state, then began searching through the help wanted sections to see if I could find anything better than pizza delivery.
Honestly, I expected nothing to come of my private protest. It would have been better that way, but when I received a call the next day form a reporter from the LA Tribune who was writing an article about the hundreds of small parties that had sprung up, I was ecstatic. We arranged an interview for the next Monday night.
When the article was published a few weeks later, the Chicken Party rated only two incredulous paragraphs at the end of the story. However, the AP picked up the story, and news of the Chicken Party appeared in the humorous news briefs section in newspapers across the nation.
From that day I was flooded with telephone calls and telegrams from vegetarians, disaffecteds, and lunatics from around the country asking for more information and offering their support and assistance, and occasionally, small sums of money. Many wanted to start branches in their own states and run for election. Within weeks the Chicken Party had 127 registered candidates.
Still, outside the vegetarian community, we were laughed at by the few that had heard of us until what became known in history as "Shocking Wednesday." That day, the LA Tribune released a poll showing Slag running fourth behind the Greens, Democrats, and Republicans in the gubernatorial race, and Pyro second behind the incumbent. Pyro had certainly attracted the large Orangie vote in San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego. Slag's success was more of a mystery to the political commentators. It might have been due to the moderate fame of his band or the Chicken Party actually attracting a small but devoted group of followers. More likely though was the fact that his real name, Peter Adams, was first in alphabetical order in the list of forty-three candidates and enough people, not knowing any of the candidates names, had randomly selected his name.
Immediately, every newspaper and television station in California, and many outside wanted to know just who was Peter Adams and what the hell was the Chicken Party.
We soon had not only the whole-hearted support of the vegetarian community, but the half-hearted support of everyone who hated the three major parties.
Slag's band was approached by BFR Records and after promising to change their name to The Governor and His Cabinet, received a generous recording contract and became the opening act for an aging but partially reunited Led Zeppelin. I was allowed to say a few words before the set and spread our message to a group that didn't normally follow politics. They didn't pay much attention to me, but those old enough to were willing to vote for Slag, and by extension, anyone associated with the Chicken Party. Our popularity grew steadily in California, and like most other trends, quickly spread through the United States. By September, after the primary elections, just before the big party conventions, Slag was second only to the Greens in the gubernatorial race. I was also second in the Senate contest, though far behind the incumbent who rallied on the platform of capital punishment for all felons, especially anyone caught in the possession of any amount of illegal drugs. Pyro actually led his race and we seemed to have a number of small elections around the nation locked up.
The Democrats, far behind and feeling the pressure from their California delegation, knew they had to act. We flipped to their convention during commercials in the football game. We heard parts of a number of speeches condemning our party for irresponsibility, questioning our morals, and slurring my reputation by repeatedly mentioning my job dismissal based on drug use. However, the Rams won the football game, so we celebrated late into the night. The next day they unanimously voted to condemn our platform, and in their usual consistency, on the next vote adopted a clause into their platform supporting a ban on chicken eating with the reasoning that chicken farmers were rich bigots who never paid their fair share of taxes. They ended the day by unveiling their new slogan - "Americans will never be chicken." I shut off the television in disgust.
Immediately, the Democrat's popularity increased at the expense of our party. Some of the vegetarians deserted us and we also lost the endorsement of the PTA which had mistakenly seen an anti-voodoo message in our platform.
We still held the same position in the polls, but could feel the momentum slipping. In addition, the Led Zeppelin tour was finished and The Governor and His Cabinet's album wasn't getting any airplay.
"Any suggestions?" I asked during halftime.
"We should ban beef, too," Zoom said.
"Shut up with the vegetarian shit," Pyro said.
I suggested having our own convention, but was reminded of our lack of funds. Besides, we had nothing to discuss. I wanted Slag and Pyro to appear on the televised debates but with the requirement that they wear suits, they adamantly refused.
The Republican Convention brought more bad news. They, too, attacked our party on one hand and adopted a chicken banning platform on the other hand with the logic that chickens were unpatriotic and true Americans only ate beef. This didn't hurt us much since few of our supporters had ever voted Republican if they had ever voted at all. However, the next week brought the Greens convention. They joined in on the attack on us while admitting that chickens were full of growth hormones and other unhealthy chemicals and advocated switching to turkey. Our popularity plummeted like a chicken thrown off the Empire State Building.
Despite the fact that Slag's band had never failed to fill a venue, suddenly their dates were cancelled for vague reasons. Blaming me for their predicament, he wouldn't talk to me on Monday night until he was well drunk off the Johnnie Walker that was using up my life savings at an alarming rate, and then only to yell at me. "I should never have listened to your hairbrained ideas," he kept saying. "Pyro and Zoom nodded even though Zoom's artwork was selling well. Lonely middle-aged women were much more generous to a starving artist than a potential member of Congress, and was now caught having to support himself.
My appearance at a debate foreshadowed our future predicament. The other three candidates had little to say except that not only should I not be allowed to run for office, but should have been executed when traces of marijuana were found in my system.
With little time remaining before the general election and our popularity slipping, our hope rested with Slag's band. I convinced them to play a gig each weekend as part of an outdoor political rally. I obtained the permit to hold a rally in LA. A large crowd, at least 100,00 people and plenty of television cameras appeared for our first rally. I tried giving a speech imploring people to exercise their right to vote, and of course, vote for the Chicken Party, but was drowned out by the voices screaming for Slag. I gave up and the band came out, but no sooner had they begun to play then the police switched off the electricity and arrested Slag and the other band members for violations of noise regulations. The camera followed them to the police station, and it was these images that filled the television screens that night. The next day brought further attacks on our morals.
Slag wouldn't talk to me, even when I bailed out the band with my own money. And, of course, the other rallies were cancelled.
On Election Day, we gathered at my place, but instead of watching the election returns, decided to watch some porno movies before they became illegal, too. The results of the election were abysmal. The faithful had all deserted to one of the other parties, and the unfaithful decided not to vote after all. We failed to gather even 2% of the vote in any election except one uncontested race in North Dakota.
That fall, the first order of business of the new President and Congress was a bill banning chickens, along with alcohol, tobacco, automobiles with an engine size over 1000cc, and porno movies.
The next Monday night, tipped off by my landlady, the Feds raided my apartment. Though we hadn't been able to score any marijuana or even cigarettes for that night, Zoom had brought another bottle of his undrinkable moonshine and using ultra-sophisticated electronic equipment, the Feds located four seeds buried in the depths of my carpet.
We've languished in jail for over a year now. Pyro, Slag, and Zoom are in the same prison as me, but refuse to talk to me. We've used up our last appeals and are due to be executed in the morning. There seems little sympathy from the public, at least that part of the public unafraid to speak. Ironically, we are the very first to be condemned under the new law. I suspect there will soon be thousands more.
Please send all comments, criticisms, and suggestions to dc@dcpalter.com
Copyright 1986-2008 DC Palter. All rights reserved.