The Descent of Dan

8/14/2019 The Descent of Dan

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John Fogarty 4950 words3635 Chateau Lane All RightsIndianapolis, IN 46226 2008,[email protected] John Fogarty

The Descent of Dan

By John Fogarty

He was about to bust the game open with a Bishop sacrifice on h7 when the

telephone rang. At first, Dan tried to ignore it. Few things annoyed him more than a

ringing telephone; so shrill, so demanding. So damned imperious. And it was always

some mindless, motor-mouthed automaton selling something, or an appeal for donations,

or some other IQ-83 tele-dork dialing for dollars.

But it could also be his publisher, and that was one shrill, imperious call Dan

didnt want to miss. He glanced at his screen and sighed.

Excuse me, Caissa.

Of course, she replied.

He turned to answer the phone, knocking a copy ofFinnegans Wake onto the CD

player as he did so. Ravels Daphne et Chloe, which had been coursing smoothly

through the First Movement, now skipped into the frenzied Second and, like that, Dan

Acumens tranquil home became bedlam.

Illegitimati! he cursed. He rescued the CD, turned off his stereo and picked up

the hated device.

What? he barked. I mean, hello?

Hey, Einstein, came the reply. Hows the universe this morning?


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The Descent of DanThe Descent of Dan.doc / John Fogarty- 2

It was Steve Norman, one of his few remaining friends. Steves IQ was a modest

150.

Fine. But, in future, Stephen, please dont call me Einstein. He was a vastly

overrated media creation, and a suckpoop. If you must compare me to great brains of the

past, please reference Nietzsche, Shakespeare or Plato.

Suckpoop? asked Steve.

Yes. Similar to ass-kisser, a suckpoop is one who adoringly laps up the crap

that our governments lapdog media-machine spews each day from its collective rectum.

Collective Rectum? Sounds like a neo-punk death-metal band.

Dan Acumen sighed. So, whats on your mind? If you can call it that.

Did I catch you at a bad time? Steve asked. You sound a little . . . shitty.

Well, actually, I was playing with

Yourself? Again?

No, I was

Ah, gazing at a heavenly body, then?

No, wimple-dick, I was about to say, playing with Caissa.

Caissa? Havent you been diddling around with her a bit much lately?

Nonsense, Dan returned. She is the finest companion a man of intellect could

ever have.

Yeah, if she had boobs.

That is no way to speak of my chess program.

So, why didnt you? Steve asked. Program her with boobs, I mean?


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Boobs, he muttered. Stephen, your obsession with the female mammae borders

on the perverse.

Oh, so youve gone gay, then?

Negatory, Dan stated. No peter-puffer, I. Its just that I refuse to let the media

turn me into yet another sex-addled meat-puppet like the rest of Ameri-Kwa.

Say what?

Im saying there is a time and a place for everything, Dan replied. Boobs

included. Right now, I have more important things on my mind. You, however

Nothingis more important than boobs.

You, however, Dan continued, seem only too eager to join the moronic masses

mesmerized by mammo-vision. Those hapless twits kept perpetually distracted from real

issueslife-threatening issuesby a pair of silicon-bloated jubblies on the boob-tube.

You really are anti-television, arent you?

Yes, thank you, I am.

But . . . why? asked Steve. How can the brainiest guy I know be such a close-

minded, isolated hermit?

The better to avoid exposure to television, newspapers and all other forms of so-

called media.

Jesus, not that again. Why does everything have to revolve around the media?

Because everything does, Dan replied.

Steve paused, obviously wrestling with strong emotions. Finally, he said: Im

sorry, I just . . . I dont get it.


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Thats all right, Stephen, I know you dont, Dan replied. But they do. Dont

you see? Its the oldshell game, my friend, but with a distinctly Levantine twist: while

distracting us with increasingly greater doses of sex, and passing legislation that permits

perversion of every stripe, they pump the country full of nigs, nogs, and pollywogsthe

better to dilute our raceand dismantle our Constitution so we cant protest our own

destruction.

Thats why you dont like tits?

Erroneous conclusion, thou cringing catamite of hell, Dan replied. I love tits.

Especially creamy, white Anglo-Saxon tits. Tits arent the point. The point is that, thanks

to the last 40 years of Televitz and Hollyweird, its now perfectly permissible to fuck

anyone or anything you wantmen, women, children, dogs, American piesjust dont

look up long enough to question whats going on.

Oh, please

And dont even begin to notice that our new state religion is Negro Worship. All

hail the Mighty Sambo, and yall bettuh jes' bend obuh an like it. And dont ask why

youre not allowed to ask why, either. You can piss on the cross, outlaw Santa Claus and

burn the flag all day longbut dont ever let slip the dreaded N-word or even question

the Holocaust. Theyll lock you up.

Whatever, Steve said, sighing again. I guess asking you to come out and chase

secretaries with me tonight is out of the Q, eh?

Not at all, Dan replied. Id be happy to join you on your never-ending quest for

the female pudendajust not tonight.


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Why not?

Because it is Thursday night, Dan said, and I know that on Thursday nights

you insist on flinging yourself at the denizens of Morries Cove.

What the hells wrong with Morries?

It is ein yahoodinhaus, Dan replied. Packed to the nostrils with hebes, yids,

kikes and other hook-nosed, bubble-lipped bandits, all yammering away about how to

filch still more money from the hypnotized goyish cattle. The very sight of them makes

me retch.

Oh, come on, man, Steve said. Pussys pussy.

Again, negatory. Pussy is most assuredly not just pussy. If I ever woke up next

to one of those camel-faced cunts, Id stick a toilet plunger down my throat. And use it.

OK, forget it. Youre hopeless.

Look, Steve, if you would only chase white, European females, Id come along.

But your lemming-like rush over the cliff of miscegenation not only puzzles me, it

repulses me. Your children will all look like Bullwinkle, and theyll have nothing but

contempt for you. Besides, I have a novel to finish.

Oh, yeah. Your sci-fi thing, right?

No, no. Finished that weeks ago.

Well, then. No need to stay cooped up tonight, right?

Actually, Im working on another onean allegorical tale of aliens invading

earth. Clever, greedy, ruthless aliens who dress up like normal humans and go among us

seeking whom they might devour. They look just like us, except for their schnozzes:


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huge. Not merely huge but grotesque. Their hideous noses are the only way to tell them

apart from humans. The books almost finished.

Then you can afford to break out for one night. And we wont go to Morries.

No, really, Id better not.

What is it now? No, dont tell me, I think I can guess: you dont want to harm

any of those precious little gray cells with beer, correct?

Ehh . . . yes. Correct.

Look, Dan, I know youve got this marvelous brainhell, everyone since grade

school has knownbut, still. Does that mean you have to sit around the house and

admire it all day?

Yes.

Dude, youre 29, not 92. Come on, youve been shut up in that apartment of

yours the past six months working on your eleventh or twelfth novel, or whatever,

playing computer chess and surfing racist web sites. Isnt it about time you took a break,

got out among real people? Youve earned it.

No. Thanks, Steve, but I just cant.

And Caissa is waiting.

Exactly.

Dan, youre an android. An anti-Semitic, racist, homophobic, genius android.

You make Mr. Spock look like Hugh Hefner.

Why, thank you, Stephen. I appreciate that.


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And sat there, transfixed.

Dealing with life from an IQ of over 200 had conditioned Daniel P. Acumen to

avoid most television shows whenever possible, and network programming altogether. He

was unfamiliar with such household names as Roseanne Barr, Halle Barry, and Martin

Lawrence. The closest he came to watching chimps copulate was Wild Kingdom.

Now, as he sat gaping at his television, he knew why hed been reluctant to buy

one in the first place. It had taken his alleged friend, Steve, several years to talk him into

getting a TV. Hed finally yielded, but only to get Steve off his back.

And, now, here he was, absolutely riveted. Glued to the tube in horrified

fascination, as sit-coms and newscasts danced in his brain. He would remain that way

until 11:00 pm, when he finally fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Dan booted up his computer and loaded the Caissa program,

which hed created several months earlier. Hed modified his Compaq with a voice

synthesizer and had programmed Caissa to respond verbally to over 1,000 spoken

commands. One of which was:

Good morning, Caissa.

Good morning, handsome.

Id like a game, please.

And Id like your body, Dan.

Not now, darling. Pawn to King Four, please.


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He normally beat her within 40 moves, even though hed designed her for

International Grandmaster level play. Still, she was the only real challenge he had

anymore. That and the telephone, which now began ringing in his ear.

Dan turned down the Ravel and reached for the hated device. As he picked up the

receiver, an awful realization swept over him: Ravel was sounding a bit . . . maudlin this

morning. A bit mushy. Perhaps it was the headache he suffered. Dan had felt weird all

morningdizzy, light-headed and . . . fuzzy, ever since his exposure to prime-time TV

last night. Nonsense, of course; he was probably just coming down the flu. That would

account for the cerebral fog.

Hello? he said.

Lo, Danny-boy, howaya?

It was Mort Stein, his New York agent. Dan detested Stein for more reasons than

one, yet he had to deal with him; there were no gentile literary agents left in Jew York.

Steins IQ was only 135dumb for a yid.

Oh, hello, Mort. How are things in Babylon?

Good news, kiddo, the agent said, leering. Nescient House has bought an

option on your book.

Really? Which one?

Ha! the agent laughed.

Mort? Which one?

Come on, you meshugganeh, cut the clowning. They wanna know which rights

were


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Mortimer, Dan said, which one?

Youre serious, arent you? You feeling all right?

Fine, fine, I just . . . I dont recall . . . what was the title?

The title? Stein gurgled. Are you . . . on something, Dan? You been into the

nose candy?

No, no, its just that

So its the booze, huh? Oy, you Irish are all alike . . .

Wrong, putz. I dont drink. Its just that I cant remember the

Eye on Pleiades, said Stein. Its the one about the . . . well, you know the

story, of course.

The story? Dan asked. Oh, yes, of course. The story. Heh.

Dan, you dont sound well at all. Maybe you oughtta

Mort, do you like Ravel?

This momentarily silenced the tele-hebe, as he struggled to understand what his

client had asked. Finally, it dawned: Ravel? You mean the composer? Whats he got to

do with anything?

Do you like him, his music? Dan persisted.

Well, yeah, I guess. Personally, I like Kenny-G a lot better. I thought Ravel was

your favorite.

My . . . favorite.

What the hells got into you, kiddo? You sound spaced. You getting enough

sleep?


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Sleep. Yes. ImIm sorry, Mort. I think Im . . . coming down with the flu. Or

something.

Ah, the flu, Stein said. No wonder. Fix yourself some chicken soup, go to bed

and get some rest. Go see a good Jewish doctuh, theyre the best. And dont worry about

your next book; we can push the deadline back.

Next book. Right. Ill . . . talk to you later, Mort. Bye.

With that, Dan Acumen hung up the phone and stood tottering on his feet. Next

book? What the hell was this fool babbling about? Dan shook his head and staggered

back to his computer. And Caissa. Ah, Caissa. Yes, she was the only thing that made

sense anymore.

And she beat him. Soundly. First time ever.

* * *

But, there was a first time for everything, right? It was bound to happen

eventually, and didnt really mean anything. After all, he was coming down with the flu.

Or something.

Still, over the next few days, Dan found himself turning away from his computer,

his work, and the beloved Caissa for, of all things, television. And not the PBS station,

either, but network. Prime Time. His dizziness increased commensurately.

One morning not long thereafter, he decided that, indeed, Ravel was a bit much. A

bit too sentimental. Ditto for Debussy, Chabrier and Dukas.


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Moreover, he discovered what appeared to be the first draft of a manuscripta

novelin one of his desk drawers. It was pure gobbledygook, all about space aliens

coming to earth, with huge noses and sheeny-shiny hair, and trying to palm themselves

off as humans. And succeeding. Even though the humans outnumbered them 50-1, the

aliens were able to fool them and gradually gain control of the planets means of

communication.

This allowed them to disarm the host population by spreading anti-human

propaganda in the guise of tolerance and anti-hate messages. Their influence was

everywherenewspapers, magazines, radio, TV, movies, commercials, musiceven the

schools. Especially the schools.

When some of the humans finally figured out what was going on, viz., that the

aliens werent merely after communications technology and money, but had also

infiltrated the government and were enacting interplanetary immigration laws designed to

annihilate the host population, the loyal humans protested. But since questioning the

aliens amounted to hate speech, they were denounced as intolerant, anti-alien, and

haters and rounded up by the Tolerance Police.

Ridiculous, of course. No human population in any country could be so easily

cowed, like so many lily-livered sheep. He couldnt imagine who had written the book or

why.

And another thing, he told his friend Steve that afternoon, on the phone, I

realized something today that makes me very ashamed.


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Really? Steve asked with a chortle, certain Dan was teasing him. And whats

that?

That Ive been a racist, Steve. Ive been . . . intolerant.

Well, shyeah. And? Your point?

Dan blinked repeatedly, looking down his nose at the phone. My point, is that

it is wrong. Terribly wrong for any white person take an interest in his race, ethnicity, or

heritage. Its . . . why, its discriminatory.

Say again?

Were all one family, Dan told him. There are no races. Dont you understand?

Were all members of the and here his voice thickened, as if he was about to cry

the human family.

Right, right. So, you ready to go out and score some pussy to

We are all one, Dan insisted. Black, white, brown, it doesnt matter. Dont you

see?

Well, yeah, Steve replied. I mean, thats what Ive always . . . uh . . . thought.

Thought? You must believe, Steve. You must be told. Everyone must be told. We

are the Melting Pot. Were meant to blend, to merge, to meld. To become one huge,

brown, loving familyno races, no ethnicitieslike a vast and mighty bowl of oatmeal,

Steve. As long as racist, over-privileged white people exist, there will never peace or

justice.

This seemed to make sense to Steve, though hed never heard it put so boldly

before. Still, Dans message of racial unity jibed with everything hed ever learned in


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school, and it seemed in perfect accord with everything hed ever seen on TV, so it must

be right. And, yet . . .

. . . and yet, it didnt sound quite right when spoken aloud like this. In fact, it

sounded

And we must nurture the Black Man, Dan said, and Steve could hear the

capital letters in his voice. We must lend him a helping hand. And what price the Jew?

Look what weve done to Gods Chosen! Oh, I feel so guilty

Uh huh. Well, sure, I mean

In fact, we must bring every underprivileged, Third World victim into this

country and give them the . . . the freedom and democracy they are denied. We must open

our hearts and homes to them, Steve. We whites have been hoarding the worlds wealth

and privilegeunearned privilege, I might addfor far too long. We must accede to the

demands of humanity.

Uh, yeah, look, I gotta get go

And one more thing, Dan said, one more very important thing.

God, what now? Steve wondered. Yet, to hear his friend finally coming to his

senses and abandoning hate was so encouraging, Steve tried to be patient. Go on

Dan drew in his breath and stated: I need a woman.

Now youre talking.

Maybe even a wife.

A what?


15/23


They are Gods gifts, Steve. Delightful creatures, really. I dont know how I ever

got along without one.

So, you want to get . . . married?

Touchdown! Dan screamed.

Huh? Hello? Dan, are you

Rams just scored again! he trumpeted. Its a classic see-saw battle!

Whatre you . . . are you watching football? On TV?

Hell, yes! Dan shouted. Best investment I ever made. I cant thank you

enough for talking me into buying one. Remember? You said it would help me

get in touch with the real world, yes, I remember. Well, I guess youre

rejoining society in a big way. Thats a good sign. Oh, by the way, hows your next book

coming along? The one about the aliens who

Fumble! Dan Acumen screamed. You see that? Ha! Rams got the ball right

back again. Incredible!

Then Steve heard a hissing, sucking noise in the background.

Whats that sound? he asked. Dan? Dan, can you hear me?

Um, um, hold on . . . lemme find an ashtray.

Ashtray?

Yeah, for my Camel.

Youre smoking?

Sure. Hey, it goes great with beer. Besides, I needed a new hobby, my man.

New hobby? Dan, what the hells hap


16/23


INTERCEPTION?! Warner, you idiot! Goddammit, we need a new quarterback

a black one. Jeff Blake, maybe, or Kordel Stewart. Someone with some fucking talent!

Only blacks have talent, everybody knows that!

Steve heard Dan throw the phone on the floor and storm into the living room,

where he continued coaching the tube. A few moments later, Steve shook his head and

hung up.

* * *

The following morning, at 5:15 a.m., Steves telephone rang.

Rise and shine! screamed the voice in his ear. Time to get up, get out n get at

it!

Who . . . is this . . .Dan?

Course its me, lugnut. Come on, get your funk on. Were going downtown to

protest white racism.

Wh-what?

White racism! A redundancy, of course: there is only one kind of racism, and

thats white. White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, heterosexual, gentile racism! Intolerance!

White Pride! Theres a big NAACP/Workers Party protest downtown at First National

Bank, and were gonna be there.

Dan, I have to be at work by

Dont worry about work, Ive already taken care of that for you.

Huh?


17/23


You know, Dan continued, you really should consider working elsewhere,

Steve. Your boss is a racist. I know, I just talked to him. All I did was call him up this

morning to

You called him? Steve choked. This morning?

Sure. To tell him youd be late.

Hewyou didnt. You couldnt. You

No need to thank me, Steve. Just doing a pal a favor. And speaking of pals, did

you catch Friends last night? They had a guest appearance by Jamal Whatitbe, and he

was getting Courtney Cox in bed just when . . . Steve? Steve, what the hell are you

crying for? Steve?

And the phone went dead.

All right, dont go protesting, you white lackey, said Dan. With that, he

slammed he phone onto the hook.

* * *

Later that day, while his friend Steve labored under the cruelest glares an

employer ever leveled at an employee, Dan Acumen went shopping. First, he trashed all

his classical CDs and records (old dead white men music) and made room on his shelves

for the new CDs and tapes.

Snoop Doggy Dog, LL Cool J, Dr. Dre, Coolio, Puff Daddy, Dilated Peoples, DJ

Clue, DJ Quik, 2Pac, Raekwon, Memphis Bleek, Ghost-Face Killah, Xzibit, Bloodz,

Tone-Loc, Tear Da Honky Up Thugz, So Def Bootie Blam, Da Muffugas, NWA and more


18/23


now adorned the shelves in his living room. A similar fate befell his books: Turgenev and

Tolstoy were replaced by Sheldon and Steele; Hemingway and Faulkner gave way to

Robbins and Krantz. Even James Joyce was abandoned in favor of Oprah. And the

television stayed on always.

Mort, he said to his agent one day, I am in love.

Oh, with your computer? Yeah, Ive heard all about that. Great PR.

Eccentricities like that are always good for

What the hell are you talking about? I mean a real woman. An angel . . .

Uh oh, said Stein. Vats her name, Daniel?

LaQuishya. Her name is LaQuishya Shontell Bananarama Jones. Shes a lip

gloss technician down on Sixteenth Street. You gots to meet her, Mort. She a tall, noble

Mambolambo sistuh, repletely mocha-toned, wif a ghetto-bootie bubble-butt an some

serious junk-in-de-trunk.

Are you trying to be funny?

Funny? I gotchyo funny hangin, beotch. And she adore my ass, bruh. I coolios

on down ta her crib yestiddy, know whut ahm shayin, puts de big lip lock on dat stanky

love-bubble, an we had dat trailer rockin, bruh. Know what ahm shayin?

Trailer?

Word, blooph. Beotch got de trailer an de fo kids when her las old man split.

Ize gwine raise em as my own, know what ahm sh

Dan, I think you must be under some severe nervous strain. Maybe youve been

working too hard on your next novel. I told you we could move the deadline back.


19/23


There you go again! Dan shouted, forgetting his Ebonics. Novel! What novel?

I dont know what youre talking about. And for that matter, I dont even know why Im

talking to you. Who are you, anyway? Did I know you in a previous life? Thats what

LaQuishya says. She thinks she and I were lovers in Atlantis. Sure makes you wonder,

doesnt it? Well, I gotta go. And dont ever call me at this number again, whoever you

are!

Dan slammed the phone down and pimp-rolled back into his living room, where

the music of ThugBro competed with MTV Raps for his attention.

Heaven, sighed Dan Acumen.

* * *

Two days later, Dan realized that the Reverend Al Sharpton was a genius.

And the Reverend Kweisi Mfume was an Enlightened Bruthuh, too. As for the

Reverend Jesse Jackson, well . . .

. . . by this point, Jesse had attained the status of a prophet.

So alongside his rap CDs and tapes came $500 worth videos, books and

pamphlets containing all the wisdom of black Ameri-Kwa. Although this only weighed a

few grams total, it was among Dan Acumens most revered possessions.

The most dramatic change of all was when Dan suddenly lost his faith in God.

Always a confident believer in the Lord, Dan now realized that the God of his universe

couldnt possibly be some ancient, bearded white guy in the sky. No sir.

Martin Luther King was God.


20/23


Naturally, Dan quit attending Beverly Hills Presbyterian Church. He now took his

Sunday morning worship in front of the TV in the form of BET. He joined the ACLU, the

ADL, and the NAACP. He began sending all his money to the Martin Luther King, Jr.,

Memorial Fund, the Holocaust Museum and the Southern Poverty Law Center.

Diversity, he often said to himself in trembling tones, is ourgreateststrength.

That Saturday night, Dans phone was trying its best to be heard above the din.

Gangsta Honky Killa was thumping away on his stereo, while the cast of Who De

Boss Now? was bumping and humping and TV. Dan, meanwhile, was absorbed with a

Kool, a 40 of St. Ives, and the latest issue of Ebony. He now wore his hair in

dreadlocks and had a gold tooth, which his beotch LaQuishya had inserted for him

before running off with a cocaine dealer named Mustafah and leaving him with her four

children, who were now happily smearing their feces on the walls of his home.

Dan finally heard the phone and answered it.

Yo, he said.

Dan? This is Steve.

Steve?

Steve Norman, remember?

What it eeeiz, whitebread honky?

Uh, well, Im fine, said Steve. The question is, how are you? Are you . . .

OK?

Okay, mokay, muffugah. Sheeyut. What it azzemble to, bruh? Whatchew be

callin me fo, know what ahm shayin?


21/23


What the hells happened to you, Dan? Have you lost your freaking mind?

Mbulu! Sheeyut! Muffuguh, you disaspect me I poppa cap in yo ass!

Would you please cut the gangsta act and tell me whats going on? In the

background, Steve could hear the thumping of the rap music, the yammering on MTV,

and another sound he didnt recognize at first. The only thing he could liken it to was the

noise he sometimes heard during trips to the zoo: it sounded like a cage full of monkeys

chattering for bananas.

What the hell is that screeching? he asked.

Das be my cheerens, Dan replied.

Cheerens?

Uh huh. I gots fo cheerens now: Chaquita, Chatawkwa, Cha-nille and Tyrone.

Deys my bebbes. I gets welfare, food stamps, ADC, WIC, Section 8, free medical,

dental, eyecarefree everthang, bruh. Lawdy, I hab reached de mountaintop!

I see. And what, pray tell, are you going to when the freebies run out?

At first, Dan couldnt reply. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to marshal his

thoughts. The dizziness was on him all the time now, along with a persistent itching in his

penis, which caused him to grab his crotch at all times. He could no longer add, subtract

or divide even simple cardinal numbers, but he had a feeling he could still multiply just

fine, given a new ho.

I . . . I am . . . he tried, barely able to remember the old form of the verb to be.

I is gwine becomes a star, Steve. Ize gwine be a Rap Awtist!

?


22/23


I eben be liftin weights.

Dan, need I remind you that youre a writer? Sure, lift weights if you must, but

forget about rapping, OK?

A writuh? Me?

Yes. Youve written nearly a dozen novels, remember? Youve got a computer in

your living room, which has everything you've ever

Iz dat what dat was? Sheeyut. I funk it was a TV set. Couldnt get de muffuguh

to woik, so I thew it out.

You threw it out?!

No, thew. I thew it out.

But . . . Caissa, Steve choked. What about Caissa?

Who?

Never mind, Steve moaned.

Well, bruh, Ize gots to train fo my fust rap video, muffuguh, said Dan. I gots

to go.

Right. Take . . . take care, Dan.

Yo.

Dan hung up the phone in his kitchen sink and loped into the living room, where

his four cheerens rolled and cavorted amidst their own offal. He tried to do some one-

armed push ups, but collapsed on the floor in a heap. He lay there for several hours.

* * *


23/23


And, later that night, after his cheerens had snuck out and stolen all the bicycles in

the neighborhood, Dan began drawing up in the fetal position. He tried to stick his thumb

in his mouth but missed. Instead, he drooled on the carpet while Growing Pains

babbled away on the tube.

His last conscious thoughts had nothing to do with rap, crack or cheerens; he was

beyond all that now. All he could think of were bubbles, nipples and soft, fluffy bunnies.

It was then that he decided to run for public office.

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The Descent of Dan