UNITED STATES—There were so many now. Iran, Laos, Thailand, the Philippines, (stole from Spain as Spain stole it first from the natives) and Cuba, where Graydon Miller was destined to spend the last of his days, as America healed and at last there was truly a Cuba Libre, and not just the rum-and-Coke drink.
One of the redacted documents Miller examined when his research took him to an archive in the University of Toronto. Here came to be the resting place of a trove of Allied correspondence rescued by an aging warehouse worker who tipped off a Canadian anthropologist to their existence, from the time of the Titanic to the early Reagan years.
This document had a long blank line suggesting, to the overheated imagination of the Wizard of Fiction, there was another overthrow secretly undertaken by the Dewey Brothers.
The only honestly elected president in the history of the republic aged twelve years in the last four days, which comes out to three years a day of the psychological siege engineered by the adman wiz Bernie.
You have very intense emotions and when they are bound to inebriation, alcoholism is the inevitable result. Retreating to the presidential palace, President Gascón spent these days of Operation Succe$$, wandering the halls and mumbling about the gringos in a drunken stupor, fueled by Johnny Walker and Seagram’s. The President was disheveled and sleepless. He sporadically went on the radio. Our enemy is led by the arch-traitor Juan David Guerra who commands a heterogenous Fruit Co. expeditionary force against our homeland, his whisky-slurred words further blurred by static produced by the CIA, the Satanic offspring of the Allied Fruit Co.
El Gringo, the Dewey Bros. Our crime consists of having enacted an agrarian reform which affected the interests of the Fruit Company. Gascón was cheered by news, some of it real, some of it invented like the birth of sextuplets and the landing of a Spaceship from Mars in Grover’s Falls, New Jersey.
Gascón was so far gone into despair and drink, he could no longer tell the difference between truth and fiction. The cord that ran from his soul to his brain, which had always been taut as a guitar string, snapped with a twang. Gascón was unsure. Everything unseated his judgement; every hunch was followed by a question mark. Should he wave the white flag of surrender, should he run for the hills. Would anybody care, one way or the other?
That was the beauty and the horror of psychological warfare, which Bernie Lukasey, Freud’s nephew outlined for this mission, a peacetime idea man, a shill for General Electric and Singer sewing machines, and Nestlé, (here’s to you, reader of the future, who scratches your head and asks. “What was Nestlé?”) Bernie, who knew that ideas can be more powerful than weapons. Psychological warfare, touted for its absence of collateral damage, is a form of social kindness, quietly devouring the enemy from within.
Meanwhile, Bernie was following the events closely, through the pages of the New York paper. Bernie, molder of empires, shaker and mover extraordinaire, never had a TV set, shill for big alcohol—a lifelong teetotaler and vegetarian, who believed these privations relinquished a healthy degree of ego, the minimum required allowance of narcissism that every robust soul requires to thrive on this earth.
Oh, how the smell of fried ground beef patties tempted him still. Bernie now, soon to enter his fifth decade in public relations (a phrase which he himself coined, and which embodies the volatile nature of all relations, public, human or otherwise), was uncharacteristically pensive the day that the Spitfire planes were flying over Guatemala City. He thought about Uncle Sigmund, a fearless man of science, who let uncomfortable truths fall where they may.
To be continued...
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