Revolution American Style

By Greg Acuna

Los Angeles, December 2012
The end of the world has been predicted!

People are ticking like time bombs, but Abel Spielberg just wants to get out of his father’s Beverly Hills mansion and back to teaching yoga in India. His plans are hijacked when he helps online friend, stripper Kandy Kane, organize a protest against the all-new remote-controlled Breast-o-Matic 2000’s implants.

In a series of unexpected events Abel becomes a messiah-like leader. His journey takes him from being accused of kidnapping a police officer to almost being assassinated while on a whistle stop train tour across the United States. Along the way he is joined by a rag-tag team of twelve apostles who as “The Kommittee” lead America and change the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Acuna
• Release date: Jan 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9780983926528

Greg Acuna

Greg Acuna – has an unusual combination of business and creative experiences from writing, directing and producing media projects to managing complex ventures for major IT companies. He has a degree in political science from University of Southern California and a Masters degree in playwriting from San Francisco State University.Greg has written/directed one feature film, co-written two other produced features and been a script doctor on several projects. Other accomplishments include two novels, several productions of his plays, poetry published in four countries, composing songs, directing music videos, and writing articles. He has taught screenwriting at the university level.He has also been a consultant for Paramount Pictures, Exchange Cubed, Arthur Anderson, CNA and others. Greg has lived in Goa, India for the past 12 years.Major Creative Projects:The Document, SciFi, (Novel), Writer, In ProgressRevolution American Style, Political Satire, (Novel), Writer, 2011Earthlings, Edutainment (Animation/Live-Action Series), Writer/Director, 2006-2009Buddha's Dead, Literary, (Novel), 2005Sister Sonali, (Music Videos), Director, 2004-5Romeo & Juliet, Stage Video, (Drama), Director, 2001Girls Night Out, Feature Film, (Drama), Co-Writer, 1994Sisters, Feature Film, (Action), Co-Writer, 1993Marriage of Inconvenience, Feature Film, (Comedy), Writer/Director, 1990, San FranciscoNo Place Like Home, Stage Play, (Drama), Writer, 1988, MiamiBreakfast, Stage Play, (Experimental), Writer, 1987, Krakow, PolandPeople, Stage Play, (Experimental), Writer, 1985, San FranciscoA Day in the Park, Stage Play, (Drama), Writer, 1985, San FranciscoFamily’s All Here, Stage Play, (Comedy), Writer/Director, 1984, San FranciscoWhat Drives Me: As a writer I'm driven by the passion to tell stories that I find meaningful. Much of that has to do with looking at the world differently and expressing it in a way that is both entertaining and though provoking. I work consistently writing four to six hours a day while on a project. Though writing is often a difficult process the progression of a creative work is highly fulfilling and exciting. It is well worth the time and effort.

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I love CouchSurfing.Com. It's like the whole world comes to visit me. I don't even have to dream about traveling anymore. Only joking...I'm still gonna travel, but it's fantastic!

hollywoodblonde – CouchSurfing Profile

CSing hollywoodblonde. Won't miss Beverly Hills 90210. Can't wait to get back to India. America seems a distant dream & I'm still here.

anjuna_yogi – Twitter

December 14, 2012 – 2:46 pm PST

Marlon Manor Apartments

1538 North Martel Avenue, #321

Los Angeles, CA 90046

Lat/Long: 34° 5' 56.86 N, 118° 20' 58.99 W

Friday, December 14, 2012, 4:13 pm

It was another beautiful day in paradise. Air quality was only moderately unhealthy, the temperature an unseasonably warm 94° F (34.4° C) and freeway traffic already bumper-to-bumper with tens of thousands rushing home at a standstill wanting to enjoy every moment of what was predicted to be their last weekend…ever.

Most Los Angelinos weren't taking the doomsday predictions too seriously. The number of those playing hooky from work and school was an average of only 12.7% higher than the year before. The vast majority were hoping, that the end of the Mayan calendar, and supposed planetary alignment, would be as uneventful as repeated prophecies of California falling into the ocean.

Perhaps the end of the world had everyone ticking because revolution was in the air. McDonalds' McVeg burgers were selling like Big Macs, Skid Row homeless had been protesting the proposed cleanup that would wash away their cardboard homes with fire hoses, and two tits were about to shake the world. Of course, it's impossible to point at a moment or event that started what would be called Revolution American Style since such things are only simple in history books. The fabric of the space-time continuum points off in all directions, with threads woven so tightly together it is often difficult to tell them apart. Still, many would claim it all began when Abel rang Candy's doorbell.

The doorbell groaned like a woman reaching orgasm. There wasn't anything wrong with it, though not exactly genuine. Candy was between lovers and had to fake the recorded climax, which she found easy, since she'd had plenty of practice. A month earlier she bought the "Wireless Recordable Doorbell" by Gadgeteria of Madison, Wisconsin at Home Depot for $12.99 in a fit of mid-afternoon boredom when it was too early to start getting ready for work and too late to watch her soaps.

It didn't bother her that a week later, on the Friday after Thanksgiving, the ads showed the item on sale for Christmas at Target for only $9.99. She figured it was worth the extra three bucks since the day she installed it, in what seemed like the beginning of a run of fateful luck, the Mormon missionaries came calling. Through the peephole, she watched the two freckled faced, pork and corn fed, Midwestern young virgins, in somber Sears & Roebuck suits, turn beet red, and perspire more and more. They kept ringing the bell as if hoping, behind the hollow-core door, there was a lonely nymphomaniac, masturbating, who would soon fling it open, and deflower them both.

When she opened the door for Abel, he stood there with his beat up JanSport daypack hanging over his right shoulder, a mischievous crooked smile on his face, his left eyebrow rising with the last high-pitched squeal of the doorbell coming from behind Candy. Abel Spielberg, no relation to the director, as he'd usual say, was forty-four years old, five feet ten inches tall, one-hundred fifty two pounds, with dark bushy hair and a short, but unkempt beard. His tan was like he'd recently returned from a winter holiday in Puerta Vallarta, and his sculpted arms suggested a gym goer, though he hadn't been to Mexico in years, and the last time he lifted weights was back in high school.

Candace Candy Moore stood in the dimly lit apartment with the light from the bathroom behind her streaming through the air still thick with hot shower fog. Her damp batik sarong clung to her hourglass figure. Perfect, Abel thought, agreeing with his CouchSurfing friend who recommended Candy's place as a possible escape from his father. How perfect, was public domain, since her boss came up with the idea of displaying Playboy like centerfold photos and Essentials, written in each dancer's handwriting outside the club. The larger than life photo of Kandy Kane demurely gazed out onto Sunset Boulevard dressed only in a furry Santa hat with one leg pulled over the other, and her hands both strategically covering her breasts, maximizing cleavage. Her measurements, 38DD-24-34, were also shown in centimeters for Asian and European visitors (96DD-61-86). Her Goal seemed as cliché as a night at the Miss America Pageant, but much would be made by historians analyzing the neat script with curly-cues and the heart shaped o in Change the World.

Abel, Abel, Abel, at last we meet. Come in, come in, she said stepping towards him, blocking his way into the room and extending her face. He kissed both her cheeks, his lips lightly touching her damp skin, and the citrus fragrance of her shampoo filled his nostrils. Oneness, he thought a bit distracted, but his thoughts returned to the moment as Candy pulled him by the arm into the living room.

Welcome to Bimboland. Air Heads 'R Us. Actually, I live alone so I guess I should say Air Heads are I or is that me? Anyway, you get the idea. She smiled warmly, her flawless teeth shining as her hands rose to the sides of her breasts squeezing them together. Silicon Valley right here, baby.

Ah, sorry I'm early, Abel said glancing around.

Early? I've never been early my entire life. Geez, I was born late. Seven minutes after my twin sister. Suddenly serious, she pulled back a little, her hands extended down towards Abel's groin. Whoa boy, not identical. Check those fantasies. She giggled. Only joking. Come on; let me show you your room.

The room was meticulously neat in pastel blues, the comforter pulled tight over a line of big pillows with throw pillows turned at four-five degrees propped up on top. One wall was covered floor to ceiling in corkboard with maps of the world full of colorful thumbtacks and collages of artistically arranged postcards. The facing wall was chock-full of photographs of Candy and others sightseeing LA. Disneyland, Universal Studios, Magic Mountain, Venice Beach and high on a Mulholland Drive lookout with a glowing night view of the city-state of dreams shining below them.

You know I used to think that India was a big Cherokee reservation somewhere, she said laughing at herself pointing to the map of Asia. Geography wasn't one of my strong points. Now I can find Kolkata and Kanyukumari, and I've heard quite a bit about Goa. You'll have to tell me more, but not now. My boss called so I have to go into work early today. Hey, why don't you come with me? She winked at him. I can get you in free.

That might be awkward.

What? Do I have something you've never seen? Abel looked like he was carefully considering his answer, but before he had time to say anything Candy continued in a rush. I didn't think so. Besides, it'll be a nice distraction after all you've been through.

Okay, sounds like fun.

Make yourself at home. Fridge is full. Computer in the living room is connected, just be careful what you download. We don't like viruses. I should be ready in about an hour, maybe a bit longer.

02

Jesus Returns - An Unauthorized Biography

By Graham Lidderbach

Published by Truly Free Press, Copyleft 2013

(Note: Though Mr. Lidderbach never directly interviewed Abel Spielberg, his book is currently considered the best insight into the much debated past of one of the most controversial figures in modern history. The author met several times with Abel's Father, Noah Spielberg, while the billionaire was in self-imposed exile in Geneva, and was allowed access to family documents, including Abel's mother's diaries now on display at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, DC.)

Chapter One

Noah Spielberg always considered himself a cynic, though he admits to having lost his mind during the summer of 1967. He says he became a believer, though only for a few months, and he sometimes wonders if he ever truly fell for the madness as he calls the Summer of Love. The son of a Syracuse, New York Rabbi, Noah disappeared from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign a month before he was supposed to graduate with a degree in business, the sole alternative to rabbinical studies acceptable to his father. Of course, it wasn't a magical vanishing. Many people knew exactly where Noah was, but for three years, his parents had given up their eldest son as dead. It wasn't until the Syracuse Post-Standard ran a short piece Local Boy Makes It Big did the Rabbi and his wife reclaim their prodigal son despite the fact he never returned.

Noah hitchhiked across the northern states and down the west coast arriving in San Francisco in June as the city started to fill with young refugees from all over America. The circus was entertaining, he told me. We smoked weed, we fucked, and we didn't give a shit about anything, though all the talk of peace and love calmed our middle class guilt. When I met Maggie, Abel's mother, I lost my mind. It all became real, actually surreally real.

Margaret Maggie Smith crossed the Bay Bridge with a couple of friends in her brand-new Pontiac Firebird coming out of the Oakland hills on a quest for adventure. She returned from a post-High School year in Europe wanting to enjoy a final summer of freedom before heading to Princeton, college and real-life. It was June 12th and on her second trip into the Haight, she literally fell for Noah Spielberg.

Her diary entry the next day said: "Giggling like teenagers... actually we are teenagers, except for Allison, who turned 20 last month. We were walking across the Panhandle bouncing a SuperBall. Damn thing had a mind of its own. Lucky. I tripped over a green camouflage army blanket in the shade of a giant eucalyptus tree. I fell forward scraping my right hand on a rock hidden in the grass. Heard what I thought was a groan of incredible pain, but soon I was laughing. Under the blanket, it sounded like a litter of puppies were barking and fighting. Suddenly, a head popped out from one end of the blanket. Noah's thick dark hair and beard pointed in all directions with wilted daffodils woven into the snarls and snags. He looked around as if he were hearing invisible voices, but then gazed into my eyes, smiled, and I knew he was only joking.

He rolled across the grass until he freed himself from the blanket, ran a circle around us, grabbed my slightly bleeding hand, and pressed my cut to his lips smearing blood like he was applying lipstick. He struck a pose like a serious actor with his lips puckered, eyes staring off into the distance, and I think all three of us girls were in love as we laughed until we cried." (The Maggie Spielberg Diaries, June 13, 1967.)

Maggie became one of the specters that faded into the landscape of the scene. Her parents went searching for her, and even hired a private detective, but with her hair cut short, dyed red, huge sunglasses and costumes scavenged from second-hand stores and dumpsters, she was invisible. They found the Firebird parked in an alley in the Mission District, filed a missing persons report and waited. They heard from her the following April when she called to ask for money in the name of her yet to be named baby.

No one believed me, but I knew what happened, Maggie wrote in her diary on August 14th after weeks of blank pages. "The vision was real. It was July 4th, Independence Day. We woke late to the sound of firecrackers some guys from Texas bought up in Chinatown, the rat-tat-tat going off in the park below the crash pad where we'd somehow claimed a corner of a room.

"It was already noon when we wandered out, winding through the crowd, and there at the corner of Masonic and Oak, we were handed little mini Dixie cups of 'Love Punch.' Before my first sip I was laughing uncontrollably. Noah looked at me with those inquisitive eyes. I said, 'My Mom has dispensers with these little cups next to every sink in the house.' 'To Mom,' he toasted, curled his arm around mine, and we drank with our eyes devouring each other.

I'm not sure how we got to the middle of Golden Gate Park, but I'm guessing we walked, since it was already dusky when I laid down on a bed of pine needles, peering up at the ever-changing colors of the sky between the branches above me. I melted into the ground, and Noah melted into me. It seemed like hours passed not feeling the barrier of my skin. Everything came together, breathe, sweat, tears, and when the Virgin Mary appeared sitting on Noah's head, winking at me, I knew I was going to conceive. (The Maggie Spielberg Diaries, August 14, 1967.)

Abel Jesus Spielberg's father insists his son was born minutes after midnight on April Fool's Day, April 1, 1968, in the bathtub of a communal house in Berkeley, north of Shattuck, and so reads his birth certificate. Since Noah readily admits that, in rebellion, his son remained unnamed for three months, was referred to as the kid, and they were consuming enough hallucinogens to make even that rat hole seem like the Garden of Eden, the exact date and time of Abel's birth will never be known for certain.

We do know that in July, in celebration of his conception, and in rebellion against the rebels, he was given Old and New Testament names when his parents registered the birth at the City of Berkeley's Office of Vital Statistics on Center Street. That night they packed a cooler full of bologna sandwiches, hot wired the Firebird from the driveway of Maggie's parents' hillside house, and headed to LA.

03

Breast-o-Matic 2000...Better Than Nature. Growing Soon.

Billboard on Sunset Boulevard – November, 2012

Open return now confirmed. Dec 20 heading East via Singapore. 6 Days…counting hours to insanity of Mumbai then peaceful Anjuna

anjuna_yogi – Twitter

December 14, 2012 – 6:03 pm PST

The Body Shop

8250 Sunset Boulevard, West Hollywood, CA 90046

Lat/Long: 34° 5' 50.19 N, 118° 22' 8.29 W

Friday, December 14, 2012, 6:50 pm

Abel was surprised as they entered The Body Shop. It was elegant, low key, and immaculately clean. Not at all like the places he once frequented years before while doing consulting work in San Francisco. On the ride over, Candy had talked about her boss Jackie like he was due for sainthood, and Abel wondered if his preconceptions of the seedy world of strip joints were examples of the subtle conditioning which colored his world in ways in which he wasn't even aware.

When they arrived, the place was almost empty with four guys sitting at a table on the far side of the stage, all bopping their heads to the music, their lips moving to Surfer Girl by the Beach Boys, and watching the dancer starting to remove her miniskirt. Jackie was sitting at the bar drinking a club soda. Despite his sixty-three years, he nimbly jumped down from the bar stool, air kissed Candy's cheeks, and vigorously shook Abel's hand.

So, you're the Indian Yogi from LA, aren't you?

Never thought about it like that, but I guess I am. It's just...

The word is not the thing and all of that mumbo jumbo to not explain all that other mumbo jumbo, right?

That's right. You've been there and done that, huh?

You got it kiddo. He turned to the bartender saying, He can have whatever he wants to drink, and then to Abel, Your money's no good at the bar. With the girls, you can use those well honed sub-continental negotiating skills. I've gotta steal our star attraction for a bit.

Candy reached down and held Jackie's hand as they walked behind the bar and into the office. Since the fully nude club didn't serve alcohol, Abel ordered a virgin Pina Colada thinking of last season's girlfriend, Caroline, and wondering if The Body Shop could make the Goa Top Ten list. He tipped the bartender five bucks, knowing the drink probably would've cost him ten, and sat down at a table next to the stage.

The petite, young woman with budding breasts, naked except for white socks pulled up almost to her knees, was hanging upside down from the pole in the middle of the stage. The top of the pole was gold, but below it had been painted for Christmas with red and white strips circling down. The girl looked underage, but Abel quickly realized it was only a well-done effect accomplished with perfectly applied makeup, Bobby socks and two ponytails swinging to the music. He sipped the Pina Colada. No, he thought, it wouldn't make the list. He guessed it couldn't be done without fresh squeezed pineapple juice and coconut milk, though he thought, it was hard to tell without the rum.

The dancer flipped down from the pole, lowered herself to her knees, crawled towards Abel, pushed herself into the Cobra, her arms straight under her shoulders, back arching, her torso hanging in midair over the edge of the stage. She swayed with her head tilted to the side looking into Abel's eyes. Without turning away, he took a wad of bills from the front pocket of his Levi 501s, peeled off a ten, folded it lengthwise and extended it to her. She winked at him and motioned with her head towards her tits. As he reached forwards she squeezed her shoulders together, and her small breasts created enough of a seam of cleavage to grab the bill. Somehow, she held herself up as her arms wrapped around her body, she rolled to one side, and the bill landed on the ground in the middle of the stage next to several dollar bills. Her arm grabbed the pole, and she swung herself around in circles. Candy snuck up behind Abel and grabbed his shoulders. He didn't flinch.

Did I scare you?

Nope.

You're not going to believe this. Someone from Perfekt came today and left a letter of intent for me to be their new spokeswoman. I'm going to get Breast-o-Matic 2000s. Isn't that fantastic?

Sound's incredible. What is it?

Oh, they probably haven't released 'em in India yet. Breast-o-Matics are absolutely the newest, most revolutionary, breast implants ever. She lifted up a slick pamphlet and started reading. 'With Breast-o-Matic women everywhere will have 'Total Freedom.' With the miniature remote control you can change size, shape, density, temperature, and seven unique types of vibration each with four different speeds.'"

You're right. I don't believe it. Come on, you're pulling my leg.

No, really.

But you're perfect. Why would you want to cut up your body again?

Oh, that's sweet, but you know I'm getting old. I'll be twenty-nine next year. I don't have too many years left in the game. Jackie says my tits are a bit big for this year's fashion. With the Breast-o-Matic, I'll be able to adjust to whatever I need to be.

Come on, you're joking. This is some kind of gag you pull on CouchSurfing visitors.

Look at the flyer. Besides, they want me to be on the Barbara Bush Show tomorrow?

Now I know you're fucking with me. George Bush Senior's wife Barbara died in a drive-by shooting earlier this year while reading to kids in a Houston elementary school.

Not that Barbara Bush. THE Barbara Bush. She's got the hottest live morning show in the whole country. She's national, right from Stage 9 at CBS Studio City. Stage 9. Nine's my lucky number.

You're serious? You're going to surgically change your body because someone says your breasts are slightly too big? Candy, don't you think you should think about it a bit? You think these guys care for you enough to do something so drastic?

Jackie loves me like a Father. Definitely, more than my own Dad.

You sure you're not a cog in their money machine? You know, they make you 'perfect' so they can make others feel bad enough to exploit them.

No, I mean, I don't, I don't know, I don't think…

Hey, Candace honey, Jackie called from the half-open office door. Baby, remember we need you to park on the street sweetie. More spaces for customers. Thanks kiddo. He blew her a kiss and went back into the office.

Abel watched Candy as she rested her head with her cheeks propped up on her palms. At first, she looked thoughtful, but then he thought she was going to cry. He was a little surprised when she started giggling hysterically.

04

Heavenly Sweet – Kandy Kane Undressed

Interview by Bob Slyder

First aired on The BS Show, KFUK

August 3, 2013

Subsequently published by Stripper Weekly

August 21, 2013

Hey Hornies…your Slyster here with the interview of the decade…hell possibly the century. I'm sitting with none other than Miss Kandy Kane, staring right at the two tits that shook the world…sumptuous, and with all the amazing advances America's made...we still love 'em. Are you ready to get up close and personal with the sexiest member of The Kommittee? Sorry Abel fans, but this woman is hot, I mean sizzling…we're talking global warming…and that smile is to die for….she's killin' me.

BS: So Kandy how is it to be out changing the world?

KK: You know Bob this thing is bigger than…

BS: Thanks babe, glad you noticed.

KK: You silly thing. Come on, seriously, I'm just glad to be a part of something so important. It's been a wild ride, and who knows what'll happen next, but it's been incredible to see people everywhere getting involved. I think the best thing is when I talk to people who have transformed their lives, and are truly happy for the first time.

BS: I'm sure most of your fans know about the recent past, but take us back to Cleveland, 1983.

KK: We were born November 29th. My twin sister Liza was first. I was second. From the stories I was told, I guess the whole thing was either comical or shocking. You see. I come from a Mormon family and…

BS: Mormon?! Leaping lingerie is that a wild wedgy or what?

KK: Bobby Boy, you want the story or do you want to listen to the sound of your own voice?

BS: Ouch, pain, cut, bleeding…ahhh, that smile heals all wounds. Please, please, please…carry on Magnificent Miss.

KK: Ends up my middle-class Mormon Mom who no one had ever heard utter a profanity, not even a damn-it, must have been secretly listening to Rap music. My aunty Dollie, who like me, was also excommunicated from the Church, told me when the contractions started, Mom launched into a continuous stream of motherfuckers, cocksuckers and fucking bitch, asshole, cunt, shit licking doctor bastards.

BS: Fan-fucking-tastic! And even better we can now say that on the radio without any motherfucker cocksuckers trying to shut us down. Viva la revolución!

KK: Here, here. So, you'd think coming into the world to such scandalous language might be why I ended up taking my clothes off for a living, but remember my big Sis was there too, and she became a cop. Go figure. Actually, I was quite the normal, good little girl. I mean I wasn't any genius at school, but I passed pretty easily, well at least until high school. Then, when I was fifteen, Davy Williams popped my cherry in the ward chapel, with me sitting on the pulpit, and him standing on a chair, so he could get the right angle. After that, you might say I was a little distracted. Still, I graduated.

BS: And what about your Dad?

KK: "Oh, he's gonna be really excited being mentioned on the BS Show…not! He was a branch manager for Park View Federal Savings in Shaker Heights…it's the suburb right next to where we grew up in Beachwood. Not anymore of course. He's taken up painting and gardening.