Shannon's phone, part II

By nessie

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Shannon volunteered for a while at the Bound Together Anarchist Collective Book Store on Haight Street. She watched the counter one shift, four hours a week. We're all volunteers. It's a labor of love. Anarchy is at least the second or third best idea Shannon ever heard of. Jello Biafra, ex-singer for the "Dead Kennedys," is the one who convinced her. He has a real knack for doing this, which explains a great deal of his legal problems. Losing that mayoral election to Dianne Feinstein, by 10,000 votes, didn't help either. His platform had had two basic planks. If elected he would immediately fire everyone who worked for the city. Then he'd resign. It was a fairly convincing proposal to a city populace still reeling from the assassination of Mayor Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk by a man who passed (then) Supervisor Feinstein in the hall between the two but didn't shoot her. Later the assassin claimed he heard a buzzing sound in his ears as he passed her. I've always wondered what she had in her purse. Later, the people who live here surrounded her, along with the Board of Supervisors, the Chief of Police, and three hundred cops inside City Hall, and ringed them with burning police cars. The front door was being battered down with uprooted parking meters when reinforcements from the towns in the surrounding area finally came to their rescue. The SFPD has never lived down their humiliation. Public humiliation is always more effective than private.

In those days, we used to call her Swinestein. In retrospect, I almost miss her, but not quite. I almost voted for Jello. But if voting could change anything, it'd be against the law. Don't vote, it only encourages them. Besides, they're not our leaders, even if we do elect them. They're our leaders' henchmen. One henchman is as good as the next. Henchmen don't make policy. Henchmen make a credible front. They are plausible deniability personified. Sometimes they make inviting targets. They can be fired upon a lot easier than they can be fired. Jello knows that. Had he won, they'd have shot him. They do things like that, sometimes even to singers, sometimes even to folk singers. The next time you see Victor Jara, ask him if he's still dead. Same goes for Joe Hill. Freedom of speech? Just watch what you sing.

Convincing most people that anarchy is just the best idea ever, is harder than convincing them of some things. In Shannon's case it was easy. She values freedom above all else. She also likes to share. These are the main characteristics of anarchists everywhere. She was sleeping with Jello's former guitar player, East Bay Ray, when we met. As ever, she was working her way up. Jello was always just beyond her grasp. Ray was right there in her hand. Maybe she got bored or something. He is rather easily amused. Maybe she just gave up on scoring Jello. After all, the line is mighty long. Maybe it's because I yanked her ass outa that jam in Oakland, that time. Maybe I look like her father. Maybe it's even possible that I'm just what she told me I am. Stranger things have happened, even to me. What does it matter, anyhow? I'll never know; there's no point in trying to.

In any event, she strolled into the store one day during my shift. Rain fell like it used to that day. The new plate glass window quivered under its wet tattoo. There had been no customers in the store for hours. I was bored. She was bored. The day was made for us. It seems periodically that we were made for each other. People like us get that way sometimes. The easily bored stick together. Nothing personal, y'understand. It's just the way we are. You're that way, we're this way. We respect your right to live like you do. It's not that we look down on you or anything; we just don't find you all that interesting, because, quite frankly, you're not. It doesn't mean you're bad people, or anything. You're just boring. There's plenty of worse things to be (see below). It's not your fault, anyway. It's the lives you lead. If you only just led different lives, you'd all be different people, maybe even interesting people, and maybe I'd have noticed. But you don't, and you aren't, and I won't. Instead, you all live basically the same life, over and over and over, if that can be called living. You are alive, aren't you? Are you sure? I know how you could be. So does Shannon.

We had a few drinks. Pretty soon we weren't bored anymore, or in any doubt whatever that we were still alive. Borrowed time is best. It's harder to measure than live on. Take it from an expert. Next thing I know we'd been seeing each other for years. This didn't go over so well with Dr. Sue. It certainly didn't go over as well as Dianne did, for example. But it went. Between the two of them, I didn't get enough sleep for a very long time. I don't care; I did it and I'm glad. Monogamy recapitulates monotony. If you don't like it, fuck off. It's not why Dr. Sue left me. That was years later. She decided that she liked gurlz better after all. And at her age, too. I always thought you were supposed to sort that stuff out during adolescence. But then who am I to criticize a genius with sheepskins, stacked up to here? Me? A reform school dropout, what don't even talk English right!?! No way. You'd never believe me. Why waste my breath? I only have so many left. Can't say I blame her, though. For one thing they taste better. For another, they sometimes talk about something besides themselves. She's still my best friend. We have joint custody of the dog. I'm very particular about who my friends are. I have excellent taste. Shannon's taste, however sophisticated, is not quite so particular as Dr. Sue's. She usually prefers men, some more than others. I can't see the point, but hey, it's her life. Who am I to criticize? Some people like ketchup, some people like mayonnaise. I like mustard. What's the big deal?

Hunter Thompson got busted, apparently set up by an aspiring opportunist. The Mitchell brothers decided to drive to Colorado for the trial. They wanted to give their friend Hunter some moral support, and maybe drum up a little publicity for their joint. Arty Mitchell wanted to take Shannon along for amusement. Shannon declined. She didn't want to fuck Arty. She didn't want to fuck anybody she didn't want to fuck, just because he said so, especially her boss, especially just to keep her job. Can't say I blame her. Would you? If she worked any other job in the world, she could have sued his ass. Mostly she just didn't want to be cooped up in a car with a couple cocaine addicts. She never wanted to see cocaine again. Cocaine's for horses, it ain't for men. Better you should drink a double cappuccino, hold an ice cube to your nose for five minutes, and burn a hundred dollar bill. Same difference. Less hassle. She'd already learned this the hard way. She didn't want to learn it again. This cost her her job.

The Market Street Cinema is the generally considered the worst strip club in town. They will hire you no matter what, though, even if you just got fired from Mitchell Brothers', even if you got fired from every club in town for being a wise-ass, loud-mouth, trouble-making insubordinate. Even if you are a flaming junkie. The Market Street Cinema doesn't pay as well as the Mitchell Brothers', but it does beat washing dishes. Shannon got tired of working with junkies. Can't say I blame her. They live such wretched, miserable lives that they're totally depressing to be around on a anything like a regular basis. They're particularly hard on a empath like Shannon. They whine. They snivel. Most annoying, they steal. Some of those costumes are very expensive. They're not priced by the yard, you know. Then there's the cash. Stripping is a cash business. Junkies are a pain in the ass around cash. You can't turn your back on 'em. A junkie will steal anything. Never bring a junkie home unless you own nothing, and I do mean nothing, no clothes, no furniture, no plumbing fixtures, no nothing. Even then, if you come home one day and the floorboards are gone, you'll know where they went. A junkie will steal your money and then help you look for it. Anything that can be prised up, wasn't really nailed down. This wasn't true before the Harrison Narcotic Act of 1915, but it's sure as hell true now, especially at the Market Street Cinema.

Shannon decided, instead, to go make some real money. She hired on at a bondage parlor on the other side of the Bay, in Richmond. For lack of a better name, let's call the place "Fantasy Island." It's one of a number of such places, scattered about the Bay Area. Bondage, like lap dancing, is a loophole in the anti-prostitution laws. It's legal to sell, even though actual sex ain't. Of course, you must keep in mind that the door to the session room is closed and nobody else is in there watching. Usually nobody else is listening, either. Well, sometimes they are, but I'll get to that later. Actual sex is not what some folks are after most, anyway. If you want to throw in some sex and make some more money, no one's to know but you and the "client." If you don't want to sell sex, the money is still excellent, most excellent, most very excellent. Why work when you don't have to? Sex is work when you do it for money. It's fun when you do it for fun. Fun is better than work. Ask anybody. Of course, making money can be seen as having fun, in and of itself, if that's how you choose to look at it. Some people do. The only way you can make more money whoring than bondage, is to marry a millionaire. You won't have to do his dishes. You will have to do him. You can imagine what that's like. There's worse forms of slavery, but a slave is a slave is a slave. But who is whose slave? Are you his or he yours? It depends who you ask, and how you phrase it, and when. Good slaves get rewarded. The anticipation of reward is one very good reason to be a good slave. There are others.

As long as you need money, you're a slave. The money system enslaves all who participate. This system is hierarchical. Class pervades all. There are only three classes: masters, slaves and outlaws. You can belong to more than one class at a time. Some, like Mr. Big while he's paying protection, belong to all three. You can't belong to none until we all do. This is because class is not about people. Class is about relationships. A serious case can be made for outlaws being nothing more than runaway slaves. That leaves only two classes. They are the poles of a continuum. It's really a horizontal continuum, it just looks vertical, that's all. But appearance is everything. If it looks vertical, it may as well be, because we act like it is. That's why vertebrates dress up and posture. We see what we look for. Class isn't about how much money you have, or even how you make it. Class is about dominance and submission. Which do you do most at work?

Even a class society is not composed of classes. Society is not composed of individuals, either. Society is composed of relationships. Relationships are composed of interactions. There are only two kinds of interactions, consensual and nonconsensual. Talking on the phone is consensual. Getting your call detail recorder analyzed without permission is nonconsensual, unless you know ahead of time it's a possibility, and you talk on the phone anyhow. Hiring on as a mercenary is consensual. Getting maimed by a terrorist's nail bomb is nonconsensual.

I'm willing the give the perp's job skills the benefit of the doubt in the Bari case. A fuck-up wouldn't have gotten the job, let alone gotten away with it. This was no crime of passion. This guy got paid. He's what we call a gun whore. You may have heard of them. They're around. Some work cheap (see above). For further details, read their trade press, or buy one a drink. They're fascinating entertainment. Many will spring for the next round. They can certainly afford it – they're whores. Whores can usually afford the next round. Some buy drugs. Don't turn your back on 'em. Cheap or dear, it's not the whore who pays the piper, it's not the whore who calls the tune. Understand this and you understand whoring, any kind of whoring. He wasn't paid to kill her. If he was, she'd be dead. He carried out his orders precisely. That's not what makes him a slave. That just what makes him a good slave. How good a whore he is depends on how well he got them to pay him. Getting paid is an art as well as a job skill. It's the money that makes it a trick, not the act. It's the style that makes it an art.

Kink tricks pay big time, just to watch you get nasty while they jerk off. Shannon's a showoff. Guys like to watch. Also to listen. Can't say I blame 'em. If I was a trick, I'd pay money too. Shannon has style. She could make a dead man come, just strolling through the graveyard. And that's before she starts making noise. Ah, the children of the night, what music they make. Got any doubts? Ask the dead. They're around, too, more every day. Night is better. Full moon is best. Knock first, you wouldn't want to startle them.

It's hard to get busted whoring in a bondage parlor. It's hard to get busted doing anything in a bondage parlor. Kink is a superior filter mechanism. Most cops are just not interested in any vice but their own. Most vice cops are just not willing to get that down and dirty just to bust a damn whore. There's too many whores on the street. Quota is easy. Why work when you don't have to? If vice cops had wanted to work for a living, they'd have taken up jobs that entailed some. Vice cops, like predators everywhere, prefer easy prey. Can't say I blame 'em. It's Mother Nature's way. Narcs are another matter. There's all kind of narcs. Some narcs get down.

You can't tell what anyone likes to do in bed just by looking at 'em. Kinks look like all kinds of people. Some even wear uniforms. Some even wear uniforms at work. Kinks are masters of camouflage. Spies study their techniques. Step one: learn to distinguish between colors and drag. Kinks are not nearly as scary as they look when they're playing dress up. If you want to meet some truly scary looking people, check out punk rockers. They dress like the Klingon rollerball team. Never mind that a lot are pacifist vegans who wouldn't swat a bug off their ass, even the kind that'll sting if you don't. You go figure. Better still, look up Batesian mimicry in your nearest natural history section. Hint: birds never eat the defenseless bumble bee. Bumble bees have yellow and black stripes. Never eat an insect with yellow and black stripes. You'll probably get stung by a yellow jacket, hornet, or honey bee. If it's a bumble bee, and you don't eat, you're a bird who's been had. That's how it is with the birds and the bees, and not just with them, either. Most people can't tell colors from drag any better than birds do. A lot of people can't tell anything from anything better than birds do. They all squawk when they're stung. Kinks only get stung if they want to get stung, smart kinks that is. Kinks tend to be a little smarter than normal, but not always. A little smarter than normal ain't very.

Kink is also a superior networking device. All esoteric hobbies are superior networking devices. They cut clear through society, through otherwise insurmountable social barriers, in much the same ways as homosexuality and drug use do. Then there's the introductions. They're a lot like playing show and tell, though that usually comes later. Just knowing a kink gives you access to connections with whom you'd otherwise never cross paths. Why, I've even met gangsters. Where else could a stiff like me meet up with the likes of them? Well, there's always show and tell. And then there's spin the bottle.

If you lack the intestinal fortitude to check out a public play party (should such things happen in your neck of the woods), at least check out the scene. Go to a cocktail or drug party where kinks are likely to congregate. They happen. Get yourself invited. If you lack the requisite social skills to get invited, don't lose hope. Social skills can be acquired, even by you. Hint: observe others. Take notes if you have to. Wear camouflage. It'll set them at ease. It's not so hard on the psyche to wear cammo. You needn't jeopardize your identity (assuming you have one, and know for sure what it is). Just keep in mind that camo is drag and not colors. That means you can still be normal (what ever that is) – and look like a weirdo at the same time. It's Ok to look like a weirdo sometimes. Sometimes it's better. If you still can't get invited to a party, there are other alternatives. Kinks have their favorite bars, their favorite bands. Stand around with your ears open. You'll learn something new about life at the least, that's for sure. And if you're personable enough, you'll get to meet their friends. It always pays to meet people's friends. It helps you suss out their character. You want to be able to suss character. Enemies are everywhere. Friends come and go, enemies accumulate. Some of them are characters in their own right. Kink is a truly great way to meet characters. But be careful. Just because someone is a character doesn't mean they belong in your story. Just because you have one thing in common don't mean you have two. One thing in common is not enough reason to trust anybody, no matter what it is. Never play alone with somebody new who comes unrecommended. You probably shouldn't be committing any felonies with them either. Two recommendations are better than one. Threesomes are better still. Consider the possibilities. The math alone boggles the mind. If you've never had your mind boggled, you just haven't lived. Some people have more than one reputation, just all by their lonesome. Reputation is prized in any community. The more that's at stake, the greater the prize. Kinks put more at stake than any spy or gangster ever dreamed off. Commandos embrace lesser danger. Research people's reputations. Don't take just their word for it. Never take anyone at only their own word. Find out for yourself. Too much is at stake to be sloppy or impulsive. Be informed. Stay alive. It's the prudent tack. Tell 'em I said so.

Since protection is survival, and survival is paramount, you must protect yourself. Nobody else is as fully motivated as you are to get the job done right. You do want the job done right. Know who your friends are. Don't take my word for it. Find out for yourself. After all, why should you trust me? You don't know me from Adam's off ox, and even the humble bumble bee lies through its little bug teeth. Now, that's no reason to be afraid of the bumble bee, mind you, only to know what it is. Faust was right. You want to know what everything is. Take protection for example. You really should know what protection is before you try to understand the role of government in the social scheme of things here. You really oughta know what government's role is if you're gonna live on its turf. You should understand any turf you frequent. Face it, you're stranded on the planet's surface, here. You're just gonna have to deal with it. This is survival stuff I'm telling you, so listen up. Government is first and foremost a protection racket. That's how it eats. Think of the state as an organism, not unlike any other. If it doesn't eat, it dies. It doesn't eat money, it prints money. It eats submission. Guess whose. The paying of protection in cash (or even by check) is merely ceremonial. This ceremony psychologically reinforces the submissive mind state, and hence the relationship, through the ritual of the handling of paper, most sacred icon of our culture.

The fact of life is, no place like Fantasy Island can operate long in the open without active police protection. The protection for Fantasy Island appears to derive from the connections and activities of a long time local pimp named, uh, "Chuck." Chuck has two solid fronts. He repairs computers for a variety of local law enforcement agencies. Presumably, this gives him access to certain information. He also runs a legit kinky sex club. For lack of a better name, let's call it the "Frontdoor." It's very cult-like. Chuck is the guru. The club is strictly social. No actual prostitution goes on at club functions. The money comes from membership dues, which are high. Lonely guys who can't score at club functions get steered to one of the parlors, where they get to spend some more money. Hint-hint, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, nod-nod. The members of Chuck's club are no way a cross section of the Bay Area leather community. They tend to be conservative, white, suburban, Republican breeders, a very narrow range of the spectrum. At the core of the club are Chuck and a couple of his old war buddies from Naval Intelligence. I have considered that Chuck may be running some sort of psy-op. That's just speculation on my part, of course, but like McCarthy used to say, it quacks like a duck. What I wonder, is who it quacks for. For Chuck himself? You'd think so. But he is the kind of guy on whom rank can be pulled. You wouldn't think so to look at him, but, like I said, you can't tell all that much just by looking. Stripes don't make the man.

There's three kinds of guys in the spy biz: agents, assets and assholes. You can be more than one kind at a time. Most spies are at least two.

Shannon's father is a liberal college professor. He drinks. He instilled some values in her at an early age. He taught her to trust him, for one. Then he left her twisting in the wind. She was seven. Nice guy, huh? Her mother next married a gung ho, conservative soldier. He had crashed a Parents Without Partners affair to "pick up some tail." Her politics changed overnight. Integrity is such a valuable commodity, partly because it's so scarce. Some people don't care who pays their bills, or what it'll mean for their kids. You've probably met someone like this in your own life. They're common as fleas on a rat's ass. Shannon's stepfather had been a sergeant-grade flunky in Army Intelligence in Viet Nam. He claims his job was to manage a whorehouse in Saigon where a variety of spy stuff went down. To the best of my knowledge, he and Chuck never met. But then, what do I know? I'm just a civilian. I don't even know if he's telling the truth about spying at all. Spies do lie. It's part of the job description. Even civilians have been known to tell a whopper now and then. You've probably heard a few yourself. Besides, just because two guys both work in the spy biz, don't mean they know each other. There are a damn lot of spies in this life, too many, some say. Most never meet. Even if they do know each other, that's no reason to assume they know who each other are. Spies are a furtive lot, just by their very nature. They are especially furtive about work. In this, they are not alone.

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