J.D. Beaumont is staring out the 19th floor window of the Rockwell Building at the huge Rockwell Power Plant “anti-smoke” stack far off in the distance.
“You can hardly see anything!” he says, exasperated, “there’s hardly anything to see!”
His bald head is turning pink and the blood vessels are beginning to create serpentine patterns on his temples. He struts out of the office and stops in front of Sara’s desk.
“What’s their problem!” he says, not as a question, but as a fact.
He turns and struts back in. “WHAT IS THEIR GADDAM PROBLEM?”
“Oh lord”, mutters Sara, “something set his brain off today. He must have received a call from the inspectors. They make him so mad! “
He struts back out, his portly body moving side to side as he walks on his gimpy hip, looking like a penguin in his black suit and tie – except where the pink balding head sticks out.
“We run and upgrade and rebuild a power plant so that Red Butte can have its air-conditioned casinos and its bright lights and in return for this service we have to spend 100 million dollars on this gaddam environmental garbage so we can please those sleezebag lawyers and their environmental granola-on-the-brain activists.”
He turns to Sara, “A hundred million dollars. What more do they want?”
Sara shrugs hopelessly.
J.D. raises his eyes to the ceiling and shakes his head. “Idiots!
“It’s those obnoxious whining environmental alarmists. They don’t like the ‘haze’ in their air. So off they marched off to the state capitol, lawyers in tow, with their gaddam snippy self-righteous ‘spokesmen’ who then proceed to evangelize everyone’s’ brain. They stimulate all the other brains and hold up their stupid signs saying ridiculous things like ‘our air is being destroyed’, or ‘the priceless beauty of our national parks is shrouded in smog’. Hell you can’t even see the gaddam smoke until you’re standing in some stupid ‘view area’ overlooking some ridiculous hole in the ground misnamed the ‘Grand Canyon’ or looking at some far off rock formation, saying something stupid like ‘Oh George look at those beautiful sandstone formations.’
“Hey folks, they’re just rocks! Big deal, it’s just the earth; its dirt and rock. It’s the stuff you wash off your body, because it’s…it’s dirty! They’re just big dirty rocks and they’re eroding! They’re rotting away!
Why don’t they say ‘Oh George, look at those beautiful flesh formations on that rotting corpse, aren’t they lovely!’ It’s just that loony! It’s the same gaddam thing, only its mother earth’s’ flesh that’s rotting. But she’s dead! She’s rotting away. How can you admire that kind of crap! They’re admirers of decay! That’s what they are. They’re death worshipers!”
Sara dutifully nods and frowns appropriately each time J.D. struts out of his office past her desk, then twirls awkwardly and heads back into his office.
“And I’m sure that if you’re stupid enough to be standing on top of the Hiawatha Mountains looking down into Red Rock basin, the view is a little hazy and you really
can’t even see the basin at all when the weather gets hot and dry. But hey! What are you doing standing on top of some stupid mountain anyway! What, do you enjoy heart attacks and altitude sickness? Does it please you to strain you muscles and ruin you joints? Do you like being bitten by bugs? Do you delight in blisters? They’re all just brains with masochism mutations! Their brain cells need to be reoriented!
“They should could be playing tennis or sitting in a Jacuzzi with all the escorts we’re more than happy to provide for their poor sex-starved brains. I mean what the hell is there to do up on a mountain but sit and sweat and get dirty and gasp for air! What is the point?”
“Something you’ve obviously missed” says Sara to herself. She winces suddenly at a sudden stab of pain in her head.
J.D. continues his brain venting.
“These gaddam nature valley, aesthetically warped children of god are simply reverse-evolving. They’re trying to go back to the gaddam stone age. They’re confused!
“Mother earth died a long time ago. She’s rotting away. What are they doing admiring rot?
“But no. The Neandertholian environmentalists snow the public – ‘smog’ the public rather – into believing that the most plentiful thing on the whole lousy planet – air – is in short supply! They say it’s ‘tainted’.
“Well why the hell don’t they stay inside where the air is filtered and the temperature is perfect?
“Hell, they go out and rejoice and dance as some volcano spews more smoke
and ash into the environment than the Rockwell power plant ever will. They dance through the soot and then have the audacity to go down to Southern Utah and snoot up their snooty noses and say the air is “tainted”.
“Then the stupid, neuro-mutated, environmentally propagandized numb brains buy the crap and start their whining and bitching and going to court to file their gaddam ridiculous lawsuits. And the congressmen – pockets full of ‘snoot money’ – lend their misinformed public a sympathetic ear and pass this obscene law that requires Rockwell Mining to spend millions of hard earned dollars to ‘cleanse’ their smoke so that people who are stupid and reverse-evolved enough can climb the gaddam mountains can see the gaddam rotting earth!!!
Sara is trying to look sympathetic, but her head is hurting now. She reaches for her pills.
J.D.’s head is growing pinker by the minute. The thick vessels on his temple are turning blue.
“You go to San Francisco and ‘ooh’ and ‘aaw’ at the morning mist, and the fog. Then you take a trip to Southern Utah and snoot snoot your snooty nose up in the air and say its ‘smoggy’. What the hell is the difference! There’s just as much air! And that’s what lunges do, they filter out all the gaddam impurities in the air – as long as you don’t stay outside and over-metabolize and breathe in more than they can filter out.
“This is pure insanity! And now I got these gaddam inspectors who just have to find something wrong with our power plant to please their tree hugging, snail darter kissing, liberal voters.”
Sara is beginning to understand what set him off.
The problem is that the government inspectors are getting close. They’re pulling on strings that are connected to things that should not be known.
They’re snooping around the power plant to inspect the anti-pollution equipment, but they’re noticing things that aren’t supposed to be noticed.
They wanted to know why the refined grade of coal seems to burn so uncleanly. They aren’t buying the explanations. They’re getting so gaddam inquisitive.
And if they get real nosy they may discover that the smokestacks have underground flues running into them and these flues that run outward from the plant just beneath the ground for miles. They will find that smoke flows into the flues through hundreds of small vertical vents and the vents descend some 2000 feet down into the ground until they emerge into underground tunnels and these tunnels contain supposed albino gold miners that have never seen the light of day. They will discover that the vents allow the miners in the tunnels to burn their fires to warm their dirty, hairy albino bodies and fuel their primitive refineries to melt down their gold to offer to the gods above – gold that has paid for this city, gods who used the science of Brainology to disconnected them from the surface of the Earth.
No, this is not good.
“Sara. Get me Bud at operations Level 3,”yells J.D. from his office.
“Uh, yes, sir.”
J.D. picks up the blinking line at his desk. “Bud? How many vents do we have in the section 3 flue network?”
“One every 300 yards, sir”
“We need to open them,”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Uh sir, there is a big high pressure over the area with temperature inversions in the lower elevations. If the vents are opened the haze will be very obvious.”
“Gaddammit! How many to reduce the flow into the Plant by 90%?” asks J.D.
“Well, sir that would mean 90% of the vents.”
“OK, you know the situation; we’ve got snoopy inspectors in the plant for another week. I don’t want them noticing the excess smoke.”
“Well sir, we can use some of the Hiawatha network tunnels in the evening – maybe they’ll think it’s the campfires. Or we could start another wildfire a fire sir.”
“No, I don’t want to do that again,” say’s J.D., “the last one was an uncontrollable disaster. Last resort Bud, last resort.”
“OK, we’ve cleaned the underground filters in the southeast network. We can divert to them – that’ll take the flow into the power plant down to about 15%. But in a week, the filters will be completely saturated, we’ll have to divert 40% back to the plant or let it out somewhere.”
“Fine, that’ll buy us a week. I’ll do my best to get them out of here by then; but if the weather gets bad or it gets breezy, open ‘em all.”
“Yes sir, I’ll get right on it.”
J.D. hangs up the phone and opens a drawer, withdrawing a bottle of antacid tablets. He pops a few into his mouth.
Times are changing.
“I hope I’m alive the day those albino’s run out of gold and we plug up those gaddam vents and let them suckers choke on all that gaddam smoke.
He chuckles. “That’ll handle those stupid environmentalists!”
His novel; The Gold Slaves is available via Amazon, and is highly recommended. In fact, come back tomorrow for a special extract from his novel.