Nuclear Paranoia
Almost every day, I make a mad dash, jump my train home from Penn Station. The whole train experience is a big part of my daily life during the week. It's usually a fairly homogenous experience.
So I notice things. Even the most subtle changes. Like the recent increased presence of various civilian police and military personnel. They know something, but they're not telling. Maybe it has something to do with the recent discovery of Grand Central Station planz in the handz of the bad guys.
Tonight, as my walkman plays Jimi Hendrix, I see this new piece of equipment, right next to the big three story tall stairs that exit on 34th street. It's painted white, has a stainless steel hooded stack on it, an a black number 17 emblazoned on the cover. Gizmos protrude from its louvered enclosure. Deja Vu! Suddenly, I'm taken back. I flashback to my dayz on the high seas, rudely awakend by klaxons, buzzers, and bells in the middle of the night, racked from a deep, sleep-deprived slumber torture treatment, or is the day? I don't know which because there is no difference between night and day when you're that far down beneath the waves.
Back to the box. There are features that I immediately recognize. Gov't issued model numbers somehow majikly waift into my head, fragmented thoughts of the cold war. So, I walk straight up to one of the notably numerous, fatigue-wearing soldiers:
G-man, looking out of the right-hand corner of my left eye: Private, What's with all the new equipment up by the escalators?
Pvt. M, taken aback abit by a commuter addressing him in a command-like tone by his proper rank: well, you know, it stuff to sort of, take in the air ....
G-man: You mean, to make sure there's nothing IN the air, like, maybe,
RADIOACTIVE CONTAMINATION,
maybe? Hmmmm? Isn't that what you mean, private?
Pvt. M: well, yeah, well, you know, it's not too hard to sort of put two and two together and figure out, you know, with what's been going on and whatnot.
G-man, wondering whether to continue the chat, seeing the digits click down to last chance to embark and alight: hmm, well, yeah, I know. Later, and be safe, eh?
G-man's walkman: "If I stay too long, people try to pull me down ... Stone free, ride the breeze. Stone free, I got-ta got-ta get away."
As I run by tracks 19, and 18 to get to 15, I notice another one, right by the policemen's stand. Fucking terrorists -- I quit the service, and now, they are mentally pulling me back. It almost makes me want to go and get a piece, fucking bastards. I have a strong urge to be ready to pour hot lead in their asses at a moment's notice, especially if I see their sorry, chicken-shit, ugly-assed heads in my presence. All I got to say is, you terrorists better never ever hope to come face-to-face with a steely-eyed, killer-of-the-deep like me, because I'll vaporize you, bitch.
Finally, I reach the platform. Thankfully, the beer guy is there.
G-man, fishing out $3 from pocket: Heineken, and keep the change.
So I notice things. Even the most subtle changes. Like the recent increased presence of various civilian police and military personnel. They know something, but they're not telling. Maybe it has something to do with the recent discovery of Grand Central Station planz in the handz of the bad guys.
Tonight, as my walkman plays Jimi Hendrix, I see this new piece of equipment, right next to the big three story tall stairs that exit on 34th street. It's painted white, has a stainless steel hooded stack on it, an a black number 17 emblazoned on the cover. Gizmos protrude from its louvered enclosure. Deja Vu! Suddenly, I'm taken back. I flashback to my dayz on the high seas, rudely awakend by klaxons, buzzers, and bells in the middle of the night, racked from a deep, sleep-deprived slumber torture treatment, or is the day? I don't know which because there is no difference between night and day when you're that far down beneath the waves.
Back to the box. There are features that I immediately recognize. Gov't issued model numbers somehow majikly waift into my head, fragmented thoughts of the cold war. So, I walk straight up to one of the notably numerous, fatigue-wearing soldiers:
G-man, looking out of the right-hand corner of my left eye: Private, What's with all the new equipment up by the escalators?
Pvt. M, taken aback abit by a commuter addressing him in a command-like tone by his proper rank: well, you know, it stuff to sort of, take in the air ....
G-man: You mean, to make sure there's nothing IN the air, like, maybe,
RADIOACTIVE CONTAMINATION,
maybe? Hmmmm? Isn't that what you mean, private?
Pvt. M: well, yeah, well, you know, it's not too hard to sort of put two and two together and figure out, you know, with what's been going on and whatnot.
G-man, wondering whether to continue the chat, seeing the digits click down to last chance to embark and alight: hmm, well, yeah, I know. Later, and be safe, eh?
G-man's walkman: "If I stay too long, people try to pull me down ... Stone free, ride the breeze. Stone free, I got-ta got-ta get away."
As I run by tracks 19, and 18 to get to 15, I notice another one, right by the policemen's stand. Fucking terrorists -- I quit the service, and now, they are mentally pulling me back. It almost makes me want to go and get a piece, fucking bastards. I have a strong urge to be ready to pour hot lead in their asses at a moment's notice, especially if I see their sorry, chicken-shit, ugly-assed heads in my presence. All I got to say is, you terrorists better never ever hope to come face-to-face with a steely-eyed, killer-of-the-deep like me, because I'll vaporize you, bitch.
Finally, I reach the platform. Thankfully, the beer guy is there.
G-man, fishing out $3 from pocket: Heineken, and keep the change.
posted by G-man at 9:35 PM
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