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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Diss Sojourn part 1 of 1 (NND)
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Andrew Roller Presents
DIS'S SOJOURN
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The handcuffs were too tight. The man's arms were bent back
painfully as he was ushered down the pavement to the squad car. He was
given a gratuitous punch in the stomach as he was bent into the car.
"Fucking child molester!" the cop hissed under his breath. The
prisoner tumbled into the back seat of the squad car and regained his
composure.
The squad car pulled away into the brightly lit afternoon.
Behind it a hysterical mother coddled a disoriented child as a woman
from Child Protective Services launched into a sanctimonious lecture.
"Nice day for a ride," the prisoner in the squad car observed
as the vehicle gained the freeway. He shifted across the car's bench
seat to sit in the sunlight.
In front the cop on the right finished making his report over
the radio and clicked off the receiver. He turned around in his seat.
"What was that you said, mother fucker?" the cop snarled.
"Such beautiful language!" the prisoner exclaimed.
"Shut the fuck up!" the cop said, and swung his fist back and
struck the prisoner in the jaw. Blood began trickling out, but then
stopped.
"Fuck, you want we should have to make a pit stop to clean him
up?" the cop on the left said to his partner. "Punch him where it won't
show, O.K.?"
"Are you allowed to punch me?" the prisoner asked. The cop on
the right turned around again. He grabbed the prisoner by the neck and
then seized his crotch. He squeezed the prisoner's groin, hard.
"We see cretins like you get off every day," the cop said as
the prisoner groaned under the pain. "We like to get in a few licks for
society while we can. Keeps us respected, too. You don't wanna get
messed with, don't do nothin' that gets us called out."
"And certainly don't go fuckin' with no little girls," the cop
driving chimed in. His partner released the prisoner and turned back in
his seat. They smiled at each other. The driver increased his speed,
shooting down the highway at a brisk 80 m.p.h.
"You certainly are a delightful pair of pigs," the prisoner
gasped.
"Fucking A!" the cop driving swore. He was fat, and while the
word pig might have been an appropriate appellation he seemed incensed
by it. He spun around in his seat and swung at the prisoner. The squad
car swerved.
"Chet! Look out!" his partner cried. The squad car slammed
into the buttress of an overpass, its front end crumpled and burst into
flames.
Vehicles skidded around the disabled squad car. The two cops
made to get out as the flames from their smashed engine roared into the
passenger compartment. One of the cops managed to tumble out,
screaming, engulfed in fire. He rolled several feet across the asphalt,
his feet kicking the air as he expired. In the inferno of the car the
prisoner sat laughing.
***
A squad car careened up to the scene of the accident. The car
before it was a charred hulk. Amidst the ruins, on the blackened steel
framing of what must have once been the car's back seat, sat a man in a
freshly pressed white shirt that hung down over a pair of bright red
shorts. He wore sandals. His hair was neatly parted down the middle
and he appeared unperturbed by the wreckage around him. It seemed as if
he were waiting for someone to get into the mass of twisted steel and
start it up to continue the journey.
The cop who stepped out of the newly arrived squad car was
incredulous. He peered intently at the scene, and noticed the
blackened handcuffs about the wrists of the man in the wreck.
"Must have managed to get out and then stepped back in to sit
down," the partner of the newly arrived cop commented. "No place else
to rest his butt, I guess."
***
The police station was a buzz of activity. In the midst of it
stood the prisoner in the white shirt, before the desk of a sergeant.
"Name," the sergeant inquired in a bored voice of the prisoner.
"Sam," the prisoner said absently.
"The little girls called him Sammy, according to the report,"
one of the two cops who had ultimately brought him in commented. The
sergeant shook his head.
"Sam, or Sammy, you got a last name?" the sergeant asked
without looking up from his form.
"Dis," the prisoner replied.
"How 'bout a middle name? The scum who bore you give you one
of those, too?" the sergeant asked.
"You knew my mother?" Dis inquired, eyes widening slightly.
"Nah, never had the pleasure," the sergeant said.
"You will," Dis observed.
"Cut the crap and give me your middle name?" the sergeant said,
looking up.
***
"Samuel Luther Dis," the police photographer announced as he
prepared to take his mug shot of Dis. "What're you in for?"
"I'm looking for new members," Dis smiled.
"Child molestation," one of the cops accompanying Dis said to
the photographer.
"Oh," the photographer grimaced, working with his equipment.
"New members as in fresh, virgin genitalia."
"Jesus Christ!" a cop beside Dis swore.
"I love it when you use that name that way," Dis smiled at him.
***
The prison was large and foreboding. Dis smiled admiringly at
the structure as the squad car pulled up. He was being held without
bail, and could look forward to a long stay here, at least if the people
nominally in charge of the place had their way.
"Get out, pervert," the cop commanded Dis when the squad car
had come to a stop. Dis was led off to the penitentiary's office.
After several days of beatings and little food Dis was able to
obtain an audience with the prisoner who called the shots inside the
facility. His evening palace, so to speak, consisted of a dingy atrium
in the recreational portion of the asylum. It was mid-summer now, and
despite the exertions routinely engaged in here this portion of the
complex was not air conditioned. Men slaved over iron weights in the
simmering heat as a boom box beat out the strains of the Rolling Stones'
Sympathy for the Devil.
"God, your breath stinks!" Prince, the black ruler of the
convicts, exclaimed. "Get him away from me!" Prince's closest
bodyguard, who had Dis by the throat, pulled his limp form back. "Your
breath smells bad, man, like an incinerator for leftover napalm."
"Agent Orange," a bodyguard near Prince suggested in a low
voice.
"Shut the fuck up!" Prince snapped at his bodyguard. He turned
back to Dis. "What can his highness do for a piece of shit like
yourself?"
"I wish only to be of service, my lord," Dis said, wresting
himself from the hands of the bodyguard and dropping to his knees.
"Now I like that!" Prince exclaimed. "Even my bodyguards don't
do that." Prince smiled at Dis. "You please his majesty."
"That is my aim, temporally speaking," Dis replied.
***
Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5 wafted out over the cafeteria's
loudspeaker. Below Prince assumed a position of regal authority atop
one of the long white tables where the prisoners' meals were taken. Dis
sat beside him, whispering in his ear. The prisoners lined up and, one
by one, began bowing before Prince and receiving his blessing.
"What the fuck is going on down there?" one guard exclaimed to
another.
"Assholes worshipping Prince," the other guard replied.
***
Prince's authority over his fellow convicts became like a grip
of steel. Obedience to the prison's rules became the order of the day,
and was enforced by Prince himself without mercy. The penitentiary
became a model of good behavior. In time the number of guards was
reduced, the men being shifted to more problematic facilities.
Prince sat in a little room with Dis, alone.
"What do you recommend?" Prince asked the white man.
"All the signs are right," Dis said, sifting through
astrological material on his lap. "This is the night to liberate the
prison."
"I agree," Prince replied. They both rose at once and walked
from the room together, Dis deferring to the black man by letting him
exit first. Prince ascended the overturned milk crate which served as
his throne in his evening palace and waved his arm for silence. Dis
knelt down beside him.
"The Almighty Prince shall speak!" a black bodyguard bellowed.
"Tonight I shall exchange my throne here for one in the White
House!" Prince announced. There was stunned silence followed by a
cheer. For the next several minutes Prince ranted and raved, exhorting
his men. Then he turned the dais over to Dis.
"We shall break from here and attack the National Guard
armory," Dis explained. "It is not far from here, on 58th street...1013
58th street. Normally the place would be locked up in the evening, but
tonight the Guardsmen are having a party for their wives and
children." Hoots and hollers went up from the crowd.
"You men have been practicing in small groups," Dis continued.
"After arming ourselves at the armory we shall break up into our little
groups and attack other prisons. Upon liberating a prison you shall
augment your little group with all the convicts from that facility. You
will rule them fiercely and put the least disciplined on the front lines
where they will quickly be killed. As you do this you will advance upon
your new objective, which will in most cases be some kind of federal
military base.
"Do not concern yourselves with police stations, sheriffs
departments, and certainly not with correctional officers," Dis
ordered. "They are mere flies. We must take the military bases in
order to get the best weapons; planes and tanks and bazookas that will
enable us to install our mighty ruler in his rightful place in
America!" Cheering erupted as maps were passed out to the men.
***
Prince, with his trusted lieutenants, stood beside Dis on a
platform overlooking the prison. Behind him the asylum roared with
flames, before him a pitched battle was turning against the guards as
the prisoners struggled to break free.
"By tomorrow most of them will be dead," Prince commented.
"It is a suicide run at best, my lord," Dis said. "But now
they will die with dignity instead of wasting away in a prison." The
flames cast flickering shadows over Dis's aquiline features.
"Gack! We're getting too much smoke here," Prince exclaimed,
choking. Ashen clouds billowed over the platform.
"I hadn't noticed," Dis replied as the group turned away.
***
Dawn brought lambent fingers of light to the flaming wreckage
of a residential neighborhood. Here Prince's men had finally been
stopped. Prince cowered in a corner along the outside wall of a house.
A partly shredded rag doll lay amidst soot at his feet. Dis strode up
to him.
"Your plan failed!" Prince shrieked.
"I apologize for being unable to effectuate your escape," Dis
said dispassionately.
"All that commotion, all that rioting, all that burning, and
you couldn't get me safely away?" Prince cried.
"'Fraid not," Dis said, pulling a cigarette from his shirt
pocket and lighting it.
"You'll die too, you know!" Prince yelled. "I'll see to that.
We'll go to Hell together!"
"I'm going now," Dis said. He turned and walked away from the
house, straight into the flames which raged about them. His laughter
floated eerily from the consuming fire, dying slowly. Police officers
rushed up to Prince and seized him.
"Where's your partner?" a police officer barked at Prince.
"Where's Dis?"
"Sitting on his throne," Prince, his face stricken by
revelation, said. "Sitting on his throne....in Hell!"
THE END
[Editor's note: In Dante's Inferno Satan is known as "Dis."]
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