A Conspiracy of Dunces

By Bill Shaw

A Conspiracy of Dunces, the third in Shaw's Pistol Thicket trilogy, is a rollicking send-up of John Kennedy Toole's 1980 Pullitzer Prize winning A Confederacy of Dunces. Ignatius P. Reilly, a product of Ignatius J's New Orleans neighborhood, is a 270 pound college star whose NFL destiny is sidetracked by a football injury. Not to be diminished, I.P. is sped upon a godly mission by his church, Trinity Baptist of Pistol Thicket, La., to install an evangelical president in the White House. Along the way, he is assailed by two liberal Marxist Occupy-DC beauties -- Lizza Sachs and Myrna Minkoff -- who make his life a political hell until . . . love happens. Ignatius P stretches his luck and his madcap schemes about as far as can be done as he works himself into the Bachmann campaign while countering the vicious assaults from Lizza and Myrna. Ignatius P. is supported by Tim Sorenson, a Marine veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, and Jim Loughlin, a Bachmann operative. But wait . . . but wait . . . there's a big election night party, November 6, 2012, in Charleston. Readers will be overwhelmed by the unexpected!!!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477248331

Bill Shaw

Conspiracy of Dunces is the third novel in the author’s Pistol Thicket trilogy. Bill and his wife of 46 years, Monica, live in Austin, Texas, close to their three daughters and five grandchildren. Bill is the retired Woodson Professor of Law and Ethics in Business at the McCombs School, University of Texas at Austin. He holds B.S. and MBA degrees from Louisiana Tech University, a J.D. from Tulane, and a LL.M from the University of Texas at Austin. He taught graduate and undergraduate students at Texas for over 30 years, retiring in 2007. Professor Shaw published over 50 scholarly articles on law and business ethics during his career as well as four texts. He served as President of The Academy of Legal Studies in Business, Editor-in-Chief of the American Business Law Journal, and on the editorial board of The Journal of Business Ethics.

Book preview

Chapter One

Sunday morning, August 19th. Quarter to 11.

I.P. walked as briskly as his legs would carry his considerable torso. The distance from his efficiency apartment behind Trinity Baptist to the church kitchen wasn’t far, but the dash left him panting. Got to get back to the gym, he mused.

Entering with a door slam, he caught Mattie and the cooks exchanging glances, eyes rolling. The warm stack of fresh plates and tray of gleaming utensils brought him a wide smile, but he was aghast that the steam table had been scrubbed and emptied.

What’s this??? What’s this Mattie. His voice caught and ended with a troubled sigh.

What’s what, I.P.? What? Mattie snapped.

Maybe husband number four had been a little unkind to her this morning, he mused. Left her on edge. What else could account?

The food Mattie! The food. Where’s the food, Mattie?

Breakfast 7 ’til 9 a.m. I.P. You’re way too late.

Yeah, but… Mattie, Mattie, Mattie, you’re my favorite you know, and surely… .

You know the drill I.P. This wasn’t the first time he’d come bumming in late, and she was having none of it.

Yeah but… yeah but, my valve locked… locked when I was in the midst of morning prayers, and then… . He paused and bent slightly forward, both hands clutching his stomach. And then a tremor… tremors, more than one, and a slight seizure. It was just a fright.

Seizure… what a nice touch he mused. Fresh, and given the array of ailments he was noted for, even plausible. He glanced around the aluminum and buttercup yellow kitchen for a sympathetic eye.

None met his.

Mildred Cogdill, second in command, turned and left in a huff, slamming the door behind her. Almost immediately she stuck her head back in. And take the valve of yours outside. Open it here again and I’ll wring your neck.

It was time for pitiful. He turned those sad eyes around to all assembled, and settled on the fairest. May Belle, May Belle. Flower of the forest, he chimed. May Belle, 17, blossomed beyond the confines of her orange-drab kitchen smock. She fluttered her lashes and blushed as she turned her head to cover a smile. With a father richer than God and a big supporter of Trinity, she had been paroled to this and other church jobs for a multitude of scandalous behaviors.

Too skinny for me, I.P. thought, though clearly she wants my attention. It’s my manly torso, my powerful biceps, my striking visage that intrigues her. The little lamb. She’s fascinated.

May Belle, my sweet, he cooed, "look at your I.P., your I.P., he stressed. I.P. in the final stages, final gasps of… of desperation… famished, starved, weak with hunger.

Mrs. McDowell, Cary, was not impressed. Alone on the kitchen crew, she knew Mrs. Reilly, now deceased but widowed for a decade at least. Iris Reilly, I.P’s sainted and long-suffering mom. Iris held down two waitressing jobs and did a multitude of housekeeping chores while her college educated son gave every sign that a career in the ministry would be a sad joke on some unsuspecting congregation. It’d even take two or three more years at the Dallas seminary before that could happen.

In fact, employment of any description was several levels beyond the reach of a man whose earliest wakening hour was barely in time for 11 a.m. services on Sunday. Weekdays, you could knock at 2 any afternoon and be repelled by threats if not by loud snores. One reason for his extended college sojourn was the dearth of classes offered after 5 p.m.

May Belle set out a glass of milk and put a bagel in the toaster. Her co-workers clucked a collective disapproval.

"Butter and cream, May, butter and cream. Cream cheese, jelly—grape jelly—grits, two eggs over easy, and some bacon should do it. Crispy bacon. I like it crispy.

Get your bagel and move on out of here I.P. We’re closed, Mattie resolved the matter.

Office hours only, Cary added. Try again… .

Next month! Mildred was back on the job.

I.P. slathered the bagel with butter and cream cheese, shoved it into his maw leaving delectable crumbs on his lips and chin, doused the milk and exclaimed, I’m off you loves. Off. Pray for me and Big Bob as I introduce him and smooth things into the service. Pray.

I.P. beat a steady course to the pastor’s study. It was 3 minutes to 11 when he entered the outer office. Reverend Simpson—Bernard Simpson, Th.D.—was in his private study having prayer with the deacons and Big Bob. To enter would only draw more attention to his tardiness, so he entertained himself with The Morning Paper, August 19th edition. The sports page showed the Yankees with a half-game lead over the Rex Sox. The Rangers led the West by two.

He’d barely scratched the 1st column when Bernard led Big Bob and the deacons from the office toward the sanctuary. He looked up with a note of surprise, and quickly remembered I.P.’s part in the service. Where were you I.P.? You were supposed to be inside.

Sorry, I… got caught up with… with… .

Never mind. Nerves, Bernard assumed.

Reverend Hobson, I want you to meet one of our fine young students, I.P. Reilly. In fact, a recent graduate of the Academy. He’ll make the introductions this morning.

I.P., the Reverend said, good to meet you in Christ.

Reverend Bob, good meeting you in Christ Almighty, I.P. responded.

The Amighty puts me one-up, I.P. congratulated himself. He pulled a two page intro from his inside pocket and unfolded it in front of Hobson for approval.

You won’t need that son. Just say Reverend Hobson, or call me Big Bob. Go ahead. Big Bob sounds good. First Baptist Nashville. They’ll know who I am.

Yessir, but your studies, your degrees. Chicago, Princeton, Oxford and the others, I.P. pleaded. Your honors. Prayer at the White House and Congress.

The deacons, twelve in total, had marched in already and were taking their places on the front two center rows, while Pastor Simpson, Big Bob, the Associate Pastor, the Music Director, and I.P. waited for them to be settled before entering the packed congregation.

Big Bob paused while the deacons entered, smiled and continued. I’m just a pastor, son, just a pastor. No special accolades for me, that’s not what it’s about. All that stuff’s in the program anyway, and the congregation can read about it if they get bored. I need every spare second I can have to Praise the Lord Jesus Christ and blister Satan. Blister Satan and all the sinners right there in your sanctuary. Guilt and shame, that’s my message to ’em. Hypocrites, adulterers, blasphemers, gays, communists, socialists, welfare bums, cultists, apostasists, deviate sects, Hindus, Buddhists, Jews, Islamist.

If they’re not in your congregation this morning, they’re close around and closing closer. Satan’s everywhere I go son. He beats me up every morning. Satan’s an early riser if he ever sleeps. If he doesn’t beat me to my destination, he follows close behind. Satan, Sin, and Sinners. Everywhere I go.

The Bible Says It, I Believe It, That Ends It. That’s my message this morning. Put that introduction in your pocket.

He paused a sec, bent his head, eyes closed, for a silent prayer, then gave I.P. a beautiful smile, No, give that intro to me. Bob pulled it from his hand, crumpled it up, and handed it to Bernard. When it’s your turn, just stand up and say ‘Welcome Pastor Hobson. First Baptist Nashville.’ That’s all you need.

Yes, but… .

That lame protest fell on Reverend Simpson’s and Hobson’s back, so he followed them into the sanctuary and sat beside Bernard. Just do what he says I.P.

Reverend Simpson opened with a prayer, welcomed visitors to Temple, and presided over a Rosebud ceremony which invited parents with newborns to the front for blessings and a prayer. He was coy, even teasing, about the morning’s message from their famous guest. Didn’t even mention their visitor’s name, but gave the sermon’s title. The Bible Says It, I Believe It, That Ends It. Then he paused a second, and said, You know who I mean.

The choir and congregation interspersed these formalities with Onward Christian Soldiers, Old Rugged Cross, Amazing Grace, and the orchestra added Bach’s Sheep May Safely Graze to the usual order of worship. At one stage, all Temple members stood and welcomed guests with warm handshakes and hugs. By the time it was I.P.’s moment in the spotlight, Hobson practically beat him to the pulpit, and before he could say more than Welcome…, Hobson was praising him, Simpson, Mitchem, the choir, the orchestra, the college, town, church, and Southern Baptist Christians the world over.

And I want to add a special welcome from Hank, Jr… . yes, Hank Jr… . everybody’s favorite. Hank, Jr. says ‘Howdy’ to you and all his Rowdy Friends at Trinity Baptist. That brought more appreciative smiles and a polite round of applause form the congregation.

I just want to say to you this morning that the strength of America is right here in your hometown with this congregation… with you… with you men and women who give this church your support, and pray for assurance, blessed assurance, that Trinity and Pastor Simpson are on the march for Christ.

We just walked in from a prayer session—your pastor, myself, and these wonderful deacons—and I know Christ is in your hearts and minds.

One thing for sure though, there must be no let-up!!! No! None! Satan is on your doorsteps brothers and sisters in Christ, sin is on your doorsteps, and… if you don’t believe that, I’ll bringing you proof. Proof ladies and gentlemen in Christ. Proof this morning on this podium in your church, proof beyond all reasonable doubt.

From the little satchel he brought with him to the podium, and which no one had noticed before, he extracted a copy of the Dallas Morning News, and held it up. His audience strained forward as if to read the headlines, but only a few front benchers could make out the masthead.

"All in good time, in good time, brothers and sisters in Christ. Patience. Sit back. I’ll reveal it in the Lord’s time. I’m holding proof, but there’s more, much more, much, much more to come before making my case.

Jumping BeJesus and Holy Shit, I.P. thought immediately. He’d have had to get up at 4 a.m. and drive to Shreveport for that copy. Today’s what? 19th? I guess. It was commonly known in local circles that there just weren’t any such Dallas papers in town before 1 p.m., or 2 when UPS or Fed-X arrived with a bundle, and dropped them off downtown.

I.P. was torn between the proof that Big Bob offered, and the sight of May Belle’s legs and thighs. She nestled comfortably in her micro-mini and gave him a flash of white panties from the aisle row across from the deacons. She must have worn that outfit under her kitchen smock he mused.

Next moment: Oh Lord, my boys are tingling, he thought.

Nobody paid any attention to that. Pastor Hobson was launching into the sermon.

Sects, cults… and I don’t have to say LDS, Moslems, Hindus, Buddhists and the like won’t do… they just won’t do. Jesus Christ and the New Testament, that’s the story, Jesus and the New Testament. God’s Hosts. The Heavenly Hosts.

Our Jewish friends… and we love ’em… started out on the righteous path. They strayed and went into captivity, but the Lord brought ’em back, restored their Homeland and their Temple, but they missed the boat. They missed the boat my Christian friends. We love ’em, we pray for ’em, but they missed the boat, and in the process have committed the Unpardonable Sin, my Christian friends, the Unpardonable Sin.

What is it? What is it??? What is the Unpardonable Sin. It is nothing more or less than that… Unpardonable. Unpardonable!!! They missed the boat. They missed Jesus Christ. They’re good people, many of ’em, good people… moral, ethical… but that’s not good enough my Christian friends and brothers and sisters. That’s not good enough. That won’t cut it. They missed the boat and a Devil’s Hell awaits their arrival. A Devil’s Hell, a fiery furnace. A fiery furnace for eternity. And let me tell you, my Christian friends, that’s a long, long time. The Book of Job, Chapter 7. Read it in its entirety. You’ll be amazed.

Listen to me now Christian friends, we weep for ’em, we pray for ’em, we take the message to ’em. If they have ears, let them hear and enter the Kingdom of God. But if not, the Gates of Hells await. Hezzakiah, Chapter 8, Verses 14-18.

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here, the Psalmist said. Abandon hope. Luke, Chapter 17, Verse 14.

Brings to mind the message of that great Irish Christian author Joyce James. How long is eternal punishment in a devil’s hell? How long? How long? Let me tell you what this great Christian had to say. Imagine a mountain thousands of miles high built on a foundation just as deep, and imagine this mountain made of the hardest substance in the universe. Once a year a tiny hummingbird comes to take a peck. Once a year. And when that hummingbird has pecked away that mountain and its foundation thousands of miles deep, those tortured souls can’t begin to rejoice because this is only the beginning, the first day of eternity. The mountain grows again to 10 times its original height and depth, and the hummingbird comes again. Once a year it comes again and takes a little peck, and then do you know what? Do you know what? It starts all over again and again and again for eternity.

I.P. was squirming now. He was pouring in sweat. He even noticed others in the congregation moving around in the pews uncomfortably. Sitting still was becoming impossible. He felt faint and needed to take a leak. Without realizing what had happened, his valve opened and he was engulfed in vapor that snapped him into a higher level of consciousness. His first impulse was to excuse himself and seek other quarters, but that was impossible.

The music director took out his handkerchief and blew. Bernard gave a quick look in his direction, but Hobson never faltered. Fortunately, one of the deacons, well outside the vapor’s dimension, half-stood and collapsed. It was Jason Louie, a paragon of virtue. But maybe not. Maybe not. Who knows these things? Who but Jesus?

While Louie was being helped to the nearest exit, a woman. midway back in the congregation—big hatted Mrs. Armisted, 80 years old and mother of 10—stood and cried, He’p me Jesus, he’p me Lord Jesus. He’p me. This brought on a chorus of He’p mes with Amens resonating even from the balcony.

I.P. determined to use the moment for a quick escape, but Bernard caught his intent and signaled him to remain seated. Fortunately, Bernard’s quick move saved I.P. from missing a glimpse of May Belle’s panties which—though it didn’t seem possible, tiny as they were—extended beyond the hem of her micro."

My God, he thought, did she just smile at me? She did! Really. She did!

His ample flesh took on renewed vigor as he slinked down in the oversized chair for a better peek. With her ash blond hair and shapely crossed legs, she could be mistaken for a talk show hostess. A career as a network news anchor was within her reach.

He was about to join the chorus of hallelujahs that were sweeping the sanctuary, and did in fact mouth a weak one, when Big Bob thankfully switched gears. Sensing that the congregation was at his beck-and-call, he reached for the Dallas paper and held it up.

Climate Change FRAUD, Evolution Theory FRAUD, Social Security FRAUD, ObamaCare FRAUD, and Medicare FRAUD… these are the FRAUDS that have been confusing God’s children and leading them astray. Now they’re exposed!!! Thank you Jesus. Thank you Dallas.

Thanks to Jesus and to Dallas echoed all around the sanctuary.

Jesus never preached anything about state run health care, bureaucratic health care. God gives life to his children, He cares for ’em, and, when it’s time, He calls ’em home.

A spattering of applause and a sprinking of amens.

But you don’t have to believe me. Read it, read it right here, black and white, in the Dallas paper. These are the frauds and confusions—just some of them—put in place by… by… well let me tell you. By hypocrites, adulterers, blasphemers, by gays and lesbians, by the whole homosexual community and fellow travelers, by Roe v. Wade abortionists, by communists, socialists, by welfare bums, apostasists, and deviant cults, by Mormons, Hindus, Buddhists, and Jews.

Loud applause, many standing, with he’p-mes and :amens from all corners.

Boy, I.P. mused almost aloud. I never knew that Dallas paper was such a… such a… oracle. It’s an oracle and I didn’t even know it.

Despite the accolades, Big Bob didn’t miss a beat. You’ll never hear a mean or evil word out of my mouth about ’em though… about all the moral people on this globe who are not Christian. Never a mean or evil word. Listen to me now brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ, we weep for ’em, we pray for ’em, we take the message to ’em. If they have ears, let them hear and enter the Kingdom of God… if not, the Gates of Hells await. Jeremiah, Chapter 6, Verses14-20.

Sinners, yes. Me and you. Sinners all. ‘For we have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.’ Leviticus, Chapter 14, Verse 10. We were born in sin. Original Sin. Original sin brought upon us by Adam and Eve. II Kings, Chapter 9, Verses 15-18.

How perfect was their world? How perfect??? It was perfection personified, brothers and sisters in Christ. Perfection personified. Ezekiel, Chapter 41, Verses 24-26.

And why did that woman disobey her heavenly father and partake of the Tree of Knowledge? Why did she do it? Why? Why did she do it? Let me tell you why she did it brothers and sisters. Sin. Evil. Weakness. Free Will. CHOICE!!! Eve wanted CHOICE, brothers and sisters in Christ. CHOICE!!! Think about it. Think about it."

CHOICE!!! It resonates even unto our present day. Deuteronomy, Chapter 4, Verse 13.

Eve wanted choice, free choice, and she got it. Free Choice. You have it too brothers and sisters. You have it too. But you’ve got to know how to use it. How to use it.

Let me tell you how to use it Christian brothers and sisters. It’s not hard to do. Christians listen to their hearts. Listen to their hearts and their conscience. Listening to your hearts after you’ve given your soul to Christ—publically accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior—is a perfectly fool-proof way to use your free will.

Consternation—actually a frog in his throat—visited I.P. in the form of a coughing fit. Initially it attracted sympathetic eyes, though none from Hobson or Bernard. Soon he gathered uniform disapproval, then hostility. Bernard tried to give discreet signals for I.P. to excuse himself and leave the platform, but his ruminations on May Belle’s panty line made it impossible, or at least quite awkward, to actually stand up and exit at a normal gait.

Immune to self-doubt, impervious to criticism, I.P. continued to hack until the music director leaned over and offered him a swig of warm Coke. He quaffed the bottle and offered the director a relieved smile. Where did that come from, he wondered?

May Belle’s tanned and nyloned limbs restored his composure and returned him to a pleasant reverie.

"And now a very special word to you bright young men and women who are about to leave this marvelous church and the storied halls of the Louisiana Baptist Academy. You are our great hope, our young Christian soldiers. You can see this great Christian nation floundering, on its knees, but not on its knees to the Lord God Almighty, to Jesus Christ our Savior, but to materialism and to secular humanism, to destruction of the sacred bonds of marriage, to free sex, to CHOICE, to every description of dope and narcotics and to pot and weed and stems and wrongful pleasures, to wealth and greed, to the Princes of Hell. In a word, to Mammon. To Mammon, young Christian friends, that all-consuming, awful, hungry, thirsty, swilling maw that will squeeze the life and hope from your young souls and our once great nation.

Resist it, fight it, arm yourself against it. Take your stand, gather your resolve, and carry the message of Our Lord Jesus Christ to every corner and every ballot box in America. You can do, you can do it if you resolve in your heart today to carry this message to every corner of this nation… this once great nation."

You see our plight young Christian men and women. Our once great nation has been led astray. We’ve become an overblown and rotten welfare society like Russia. Like the once proud Soviet Union that collapsed and fell because of its sinfulness. That failed, godless, communistic system. We need leaders today that link us over the years to our Christian Founding Fathers.

Where? Where? Where are they today?

Seek them out. Seek them out. Seek them out and you can find them my fine young Christian friends. You can be one of them. You can be a leader. Search the roster of our most faithful Christian political party and bring America back to God. You know who those people are, young Christian friends. Now seek them out. Lend your strength. Help them bring America back to God.

"No I’m not endorsing these godly leaders by name. No, not one—no, that would be intrusive on your free will and violate one of our laws with most devious consequences

. . . but… but you know who they are. Seek them out and bring this great nation back from the brink of destruction."

Pray it’s not too late! Pray it’s not too late!

Now we are about to close our morning message, and sing and pray. Pray for those lost souls wandering aimlessly through devious and destructive paths open to them in this secular, humanistic, sinful, godless world. Some of those lost souls may have found their way to this sanctuary this morning, and if they’re within the sound of my humble voice, they may feel that gentle tug of Jesus Christ their Savior calling them home. Calling them home to a life in Our Lord Jesus Christ, and this will be their finest chance, maybe their last, to accept His Eternal Salvation.

"As we open our invitation to accept Jesus Christ as your Personal Savior, we ask you to take one courageous step into the aisle. The rest will be easy. Faith, as the New Testament says, faith alone—justification by faith, not works—will bring you into the Kingdom of Heaven. Revelations, Chapter 12, Verses 7—10.

I’m going to ask you to bow your heads now as this great choir begins the first 99 verses of ‘Just As I Am.’ You know it, you know it, you’ve sung it, you’ve felt it…Just as I am Lord, Without one plea… ."

And as our choir begins this great hymn of invitation, I’m going to ask one of your own, one of your own young Christian men to lead us in this prayer of invitation. Let’s all stand with bowed heads as I ask one of your finest young Christian men, a graduate of your own great Louisiana Bible Academy, Mr. Ignatius P. Reilly, to lead us in our closing prayer.

The name caught I.P.’s attention and brought him back quickly from his reverie. It was not as if he had been paying too close attention to the Big Bob sermon, or really had to, because the drift of oh-so-many weeks and months and even years of sermons formed a nucleus—a core, a mother lode—of many threads from which to pull a plea, a prayer, a Sunday School lesson with scarcely any effort. A prayer could be no less moving and sincere if it had been locked-in, so to speak, musing on the heights and depths of sin and salvation, and hoping for whatever occasion to escape.

Bernard reached across the space between them and took I.P.’s arm as if he needed any prompting to get him to the pulpit. This was his moment in the sun, and there was no hesitation, no shred of reluctance to take center stage. It did come as a bit of surprise to him though, or he would have been composing and rehearsing a paean appropriate for the occasion.

If there was any atall fly-in-the-ointment, it was that this godly summons roused him from his focus on the lovely May Belle, her firm breasts, her shapely, inviting legs, her panty line. He followed these thoughts to a spacious king-size bed with access to a 72 inch plasma screen and the New Orleans Saints in the Super Bowl.

But never mind.

Big Bob stepped to one side, and with Bernard on the other, they appeared as a Trinity of Church Fathers. I.P. began.

Dear Lord, as we listened this morning to Reverend Bob’s passionate cry, how could we but be resolved to march upon our Nation’s Capital and take back our country for Christ Almighty. We are resolved, Dear Lord, now, this day, and without one moment’s hesitation to be about your business of bringing the faith of our Christian Founding Fathers to the White House, to godless Washington, D.C., and to all America. Amen.

Amens sounded all around the large auditorium and balcony. Warm hugs followed as if on cue. Warm manly hugs. Hugs from Bob, Bernard, and some of the deacons who flooded the podium.

I’m going to buy you that ticket, I.P., buy you that ticket today, Big Bob whispered in his ear. You’ll be on a plane to that sinful capital today. Get yourself ready to move this afternoon. This will be the first great step on your march to bring America back to God.

Whut?

Chapter Two

The quickest way to the airport, to Monroe International, I.P. figured was to bum a ride with a good pal and team mate. That’d be Lane.

Lane drove a classic 1955 Chevy Bel Air convertible. Cherry red-and-cream-colored with FK-U vanity plates. Lane had spotted him near campus once, honked, stopped, and raised the hood for him to