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September 24,
2001
Wanted
Dead or Alive:
Nostradamus
By David
Vest
I never know when the
phone will ring and it'll be my old friend, Leon Despair, calling
from who knows where. just when I least expect it. This time
the phone rang at 2:30 a.m. He had some questions for me, and
they couldn't wait till morning. Leon can never wait for anything.
He's not the kind of guy you want to put on hold, either. Do
that and he'll come to your house.
Here's what
he wanted to know:
How come the
FBI don't pick up this Nostradamus guy? Or Notre Dame-us or whatever
they call him. He's all over the Internet, like weevils in grits.
You can't open your goddamn e-mail without reading one of his
crazy poems. You'd think he was Shakespeare or Ed McMahon or
something.
He's got a
helluva organization, lotta people pimping for him. See, you
don't never get the message direct from him. You always get it
from somebody in between you and him. I'm talking slick.
He's got people
working for him, they never even seen the guy. I got two e-mails
yesterday from pals of mine. What do you think they were doing?
Passing on this guy's crap, like they was on the payroll. What's
up with that?
Unwittin' accomplices,
that's what I'm talking about. This guy don't need television.
He's got half the country running his goddamn errands.
You get mail
from somebody, they don't even ask you how ya doin'. It's just
"you gotta read this!" Half the time it's been forwarded
from 200 people. You think you gonna track this guy down? Forget
about it!
He keeps on
predicting disasters, one right after the other. What the hell?
What does this bum know, and when did he know it? That's the
thing.
If you want
my opinion, it's high time they brought him in for questioning.
They oughtta
use a sap on him, if need be. Uncover his sources. See what I'm
saying?
"You got
something to say, say it right now. Otherwise, I'm gonna have
to make a prediction of my own, Mr. Wise Guy. And you ain't gonna
like it."
That's how
you gotta handle these bums. Let 'em know you mean business.
Apparently
Leon had said his piece, because the line went dead. I went to
the kitchen for a glass of milk, knowing Leon Despair had probably
dropped straight to sleep the minute he hung up the phone.
David Vest is a writer, poet and piano player
for the Cannonballs. A native of Alabama, he now lives in Portland,
Oregon. Visit his webpage for samples of the Cannonballs' brand
of take no prisoners rock & roll and other Vest columns:
http://www.mindspring.com/~dcqv
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