Chaos Manager

By Michael Farnum

First, do no harm. The compulsory caveat of every caring health professional. Even a compassionate, highly empathic case manager. Make that, Chaos Manager. In a mental health world gone mad, even the most stable of individuals might not make it out with their sanity intact. And few would mistake self-diagnosed Borderline Narcissist CM Freeman as the sanest of the lot by any stretch of the sordid imagination. Come along if you dare to explore the ongoing misadventures of Jackie Boy Freeman, in Part Two of the American Minions series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716307010

Book preview

Chaos Manager

American Minions, Part Two

Michael V. Farnum

Copyright

Chaos Manager

First edition

Copyright ©2021 Michael Farnum/Flying Monkey Publications

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 

978-1-716-30701-0

This work is published under a Standard Copyright License. 

It cannot be distributed, remixed or otherwise used without express written consent.

Quotes:

"That which is never ceases to be.

That which is not, never comes into existence."

--Parmenides

Disclaimer

The following contains explicit language and conversation,

dark humor, and crude dialogue. 

It may portray graphic scenes and images

of mental illness, trauma, violence,

extreme human perversion,

adult nudity,

and themes of highly explicit and offensive

gratuitous sexuality.

It is intended for mature audiences only.

This is a work of fiction.

Any similarities to actual persons, places, things or entities

is purely coincidental. 

PROLOGUE:  Recurring Dream

    It was an oddly recurring dream or nightmare, very popular amongst his ironic higher selves and miscellaneous astral companions and acquaintances.  Very prophetic, the strange misadventure continued to be re-experienced by one of his unlikely but possible alternative future selves, the poor guy.  Jack Freeman had been having the same dream since he was a young kid, eleven or twelve years old and it was likely inspired by his young genius friend, super-rich Princess Danika, who went off to private school at the end of that fateful summer, never to be heard from again . . .   

"Center your country in the Tao

and evil will have no power.

Not that it isn't there,

but you'll be able to step out of its way . . ."

--Vice President Jackson Michael Freeman-Van Allen,

paraphrasing the Tao, s. 60, sadly falling upon deaf ears . . .

    [Pandemic/panic:  From Latin, pan (all) + demic/demos/demotic (people) to demon(s), i.e. all demons(?)] 

    The very night of his synchronistic run-in with old friend, Danika V., Jackie boy Freeman had a rather telling, bizarre, and prophetic dream.  One of those rare breed of unique dreams one couldn’t forget, as opposed to the so-called normal ones you couldn’t remember.   

    If, in fact, it was a dream at all . . . 

    In the so-called dream, Jack woke up abruptly to an invisible (perhaps bio-mechanically or otherwise implanted) radio-alarm clock blaring a rocking old Zevon song.  Perpetually feeling stuck between a hard place and a Mt. Rushmore rock, himself, or two hard-bodied babes at a Vegas or Cleveland Hard Rock Café, wink, wink, nudge, somehow, the shameless old playboy was a bit shocked to see the time was nigh on twelve o’ clock, noon.  The exact year, unknown.

    Otherwise, not feeling very well or good, he felt himself to be a much older version of himself.  Sadly alone, reeling bad hangover-like from a strange dream about his childhood, he lay in a fabulously relaxing California King four-poster waterbed in a very spacious bedroom in an absolutely ginormous neoclassical white mansion.  Rather comforting, the huge white house was surrounded by a lofty perimeter of electric fences and tightly secured by an elaborate security matrix, including a small army of highly-trained, heavily-armed bodyguards, hungry attack dogs and invisible dead-eye snipers. 

    Wow, late sleeper, much, Mr. Important?  Shit, he missed another daily sunrise beyond-top-secret Presidential Cabinet briefing!  Ha!  Fuck him and the Holy Nine Sisters!  He’d have a better chance crashing a New Year’s Eve Illuminati sex party at Buckingham Palace, sleepy Joe!

Yeah, they loved that joke down in the Vice-Presidential basement bowling alley loser bar and loosely dubbed gentleman’s club.  There, he routinely hung out with the likes of pandering so-called journalists, rabidly ambitious unpaid interns, not-really-off-duty NSA trolls, Russian double agents, and other miscellaneous bottom feeders.  Or pretended to love it, the two-faced punks.

    FYI:  Down in the basement, top-shelf Presidential personnel were also privileged to receive the benefit of free haircuts, shoeshines, personal astrology readings, blockbuster movie screenings and other Presidential perks, hey-now! . . .  Admittedly, his sorry Vice-Presidential ass couldn’t find the Presidential Laundromat and do his own laundry with an instruction manual, a road map and a mirror.  But don’t cry for him, Venezuela!  This guy owned more vintage records than the KGB, and did he know how to throw a party, at least back in the day, before this global collectivist scourge of ubiquitous political correctness, Uber-hypersensitivity, anti-dark humor and whatever, absolutely disgraceful! . . . 

    We’ll always have Paris, Julia Armond.  And half the cool cats of Mad Men.

  And he had good people, damned good people, like faithful sidekick Little John, his crack staff of mostly sexy personal nurses, a countless human stream of painfully redundant Presidential assistants, the ghosts of a hundred dead Kennedys, and the incomparable Madame President herself watching his sleeping back.  So suck on that, CNN!  Freaking Fox News, whoever!  Why was he so angry all of a sudden, goddamned CIA mind control puppeteers, or whoever insidious asshole was pulling his invisible biometric strings!                     

Boo-yow!  That timeless classic, The Big Lebowski (starring the quirky and handsome Jeff Bridges, John Goodman, Steve Buscemi and John Turturro) was playing on its usual endless loop on the ginormous ceiling holo-screen. 

    Apropos of nothing, really, just interesting, he was butt naked.  Sadly alone.  Not that he had anything to be ashamed of in that regard, by any means.  Obviously, he worked out like a narcissistic beast.  And, again, he was alone.  Except for Zevon, Warren.  The Dude.  And Thomas Jefferson, oddly enough.     

    In fact, it likewise occurred to him that this was The Thomas Jefferson Room. 

    There was one highly capable agent personally assigned to guard him, big (but not too bright) Little John, dutifully posted right outside his locked private bedroom at this very moment, he knew, somehow.  Likewise, an avid esoteric reader, the proud American Samoan-Italian (a former professional TV wrestler and bit actor, a big surfer back on the Big Island, in fact) big L. J. was a huge fellow fan of Jung, Kafka, Nietzsche, PKD, Kubrick and all the great masters of philosophical paranoia, or paranoid philosophy, if you like.  Like the fabulous Celine Dion, Live in Vegas, it was all coming back to him now.   

    V-P Freeman-Van Allen and his affable bodyguard often engaged in deep, mind-bending, rather enjoyable conversations—admiring, critiquing, and debating great books, music, movies, food, American and otherwise; generously sharing personal recipes, world history conspiracy theories and all the rest.  And smoked, just to kill the time.  If Freeman gave up his Presidential room service dessert, particularly if it was that rare, fabulous raspberry swirl French cheesecake from Chi-town Johnny loved, the big guy would often pretend to look the other way, whilst his restless charge slipped downstairs for a quick breath of fresh air, walking meditation or private smoke.  (Actually, Freeman didn’t even smoke and never had, to be honest.  Hated that cancerous shit, actually, but he’d always been a great amateur method actor, in the storied tradition of Brando, DeNiro, Pacino, Pitt and all the rest . . .)

    Sometimes the two played an energetic game of HORSE or PIG on the Presidential basketball court, or tennis, or lifted weights and sparred a little in the exercise yard of the Teddy Roosevelt Sports Complex.  The pick-up water polo matches with Little John’s fellow Secret Service babysitters, or Marco Polo, were always a real hoot in the Presidential Olympic pool.  Almost as good as big Little John, he had been an awesome swimmer since he was a kid.  And, a little late-night brush-up target practice on the Charlton Heston Gun Range was always a blast!                     

    This rather uneventful morning, it occurred to him that his dreamy genius wife, a beautiful, golden-haired and very powerful woman, dear Dani, perhaps the most powerful in all the Land, was nowhere to be seen, heard or smelt (that glorious subtle top-shelf jasmine-vanilla-blackberry scent imported directly from Paris, with just a hint of commoner’s Irish Spring, but he digresses).  His much better half, certainly conspicuously absent from this elaborate, moderately feminine boudoir, overlooked by the aforementioned preeminent Rembrandt Peale portrait of none other than Mr. Thomas Jefferson.  Another one of Freeman’s great historic American Freemason heroes, regarding him with a mirthful mindfulness.  Or a mindful mirthfulness, if you like.   

    Somehow he felt a depressing sense of social distancing between them, he, Mr. Jackson Michael Freeman-Van Allen, and his powerful rainmaking spouse, who had been spending an inordinate amount of time in the Eleanor Roosevelt Room as of late, at least during their designated Presidential sleep time.  He did his best to mask his feelings, for the Greater Good, of course.  No doubt it was for socially responsible reasons of health and safety, that pesky, ludicrous, universally instituted social distancing mandate, due to the ongoing evil elite-Big Pharma-manufactured global plandemic. 

    Or perhaps it was just some mundane manner of ongoing marital issues, he wasn’t quite crystal on the whole picture.  Plus, he did need oodles of absolute quiet time to focus on completing his fascinating, highly revealing and enlightening personal memoirs.  Come to think of it, he should probably get started on that shit, ASAP.  None of us were getting any younger, Saint Germaine!

    Notoriously haunted, needless to say, they both avoided the Lincoln and Kennedy Bedrooms like the so-called China plague.  (Although some cheeky right-wing pundits had dubbed it the Democratic or Liberal plague.  And technically Lincoln was a Republican, a Whig and a National Unionist man.)  The Bushie Rooms likewise had a spooky mojo; great for storage, though, his lovely wife being something of an infamous closet hoarder.  The merciless lamestream media just loved to point out nit-picky shit like that about their far superior politico foes, burn them all, bitches!

    (Meanwhile, Manic Danika had an absolute shit-ton of nostalgic junk in her pirate trunks.  Mostly a ridiculous stockpile of Janet/Michael Jackson, Prince and Madonna pop cultish memorabilia, record albums, music CDs, movie posters, Super hero collectibles, baseball cards, plus more ancient alchemy and conspiracy books than you could shake Merlin’s magic wand at, to be embarrassingly precise.  Half that shit left over from the glorious Seventies and Eighties alone.  Maybe some of it was his, but that was a story for another time . . .  If only the woman, so-called psychic, remember, had put as much time and energy into Doomsday prepping, well, another story for a different day.  Take it from him, playing the blame game was a dead-end road to nowhere, boys and girls . . .)     

    Are you ready for your morning, um, make that your afternoon exercise and mental clarity exam, Mr. Vice President? . . .

    Ready as rain, Nurse Ratched! . . . 

    Come to think of it, it was more likely the ball ‘n’ chain Boss Lady had once again placed him under marital house arrest, domestic time-out, the proverbial bad boy penalty box, shame on him.

    Holy Nine Sisters, so, this is what he got for wining and dining Natasha, the ravenous Russian Ambassador, trying to get the inside scoop on so-called Rooskie election collusion and alleged social media trolling.  (Hey, everybody did it these days!)  And her adorable little, strawberry-blonde half-sister, also from both Chicago and the Commonwealth of Kentucky!  What were the odds?! . . .   

    Not to toot his own horn or anything but Freeman-Van Allen recalled that he, himself did indeed possess a notorious wandering third eye for the femme fatales; often dangerously so, the infamously charming, shameless pussy hound.  More to the point, he suddenly recalled having recently engaged in a rather ill-advised affair with the seductive likes of sassy little sister.  The spunky, young redhead, a former cocktail waitress, years ago, to put herself through school, of course, was a marginally talented freelance investigative journalist regularly featured in such high-profile Leftist media outlets and magazines as GQ, Rolling Stone, Playgirl, NPR and CNN.  Having interviewed him for television numerous times, the precocious carrot top from Chi-town, the once fabulously gentrified food Mecca, now burning, lawless, gun-infested Gangland hot mess of a Windy City war zone.  The more things change, the more they stay the same, Your Honor, Missus Mayor . . . 

    She was the one his darling wife called The Scarlet Woman, rather cheekily.  As opposed to the Crimson Tart, that rather succulent ultra-rich red-hot baking magnate and socialite, a/k/a Flaming Red, a former Super model, top-shelf political donor and invaluable marketing asset from the Big Apple, yet another despotic metropolitan catastrophe in the making. 

    Unless she was referring to spicy Asian-American (some said undisclosed Canadian China girl) Ginger, his globetrotting geisha girl the once trusted Presidential psychic astrology adviser and his former West Coast concubine from San Fran, Seattle, somewhere in the once picturesque, now horrifically apocalyptic Northwest Pacific No Man’s Land.  Once upon a time a deep Hollywood insider herself (La La Land likewise one big zombie apocalypse homeless camp nightmare) and brief, one-hit-wonder pop star/former child Disney star, curiously multi-talented G-girl also a brilliant mathematician/computer genius, tits-deep with that whole nerdy-hipster elitist social media Silicon Valley crowd, thick as thieves with the D.S. Inteligencia/global elite.  Paranoid android Danika totally mistrusted that one for some reason.  Jealous much, Madame President?  (Just his rotten luck, that sexy beast was CCP, and Mossad, too.  And a natural brunette, to boot.) 

    Not particularly religious by any stretch, he certainly seemed to have a thing for the rubicund burning bush, but he digresses. 

    Not that Empress Danika was particularly the envious type, or so she ridiculously claimed.  Not that she had time to be, single-handedly rescuing humanity from its own subconsciously manifested destruction, bless her Presidential heart.   

    More to the point, all these ridiculous honey traps he was so stupidly allowing himself to become ensnared in were costing her big time, Blockhead, strategically, politically, not to mention needlessly enriching and empowering her degenerate bloodthirsty psychotic left-wing political enemies to untold degrees, as if they needed any help in the counter-intelligence department, so she said.

    Not to mention, that stupid juvenile shit was just plain freaking embarrassing, asshole!  Keep it in your freaking four-figure designer pants for once, Lothario!  At least until the last election, you tragically aging frat boy!

    Madame President could be quite hurtful at times, you know . . .

    Whatever the case, he knew that he himself occupied an important if rather ambiguous high-level position within their historic administration, perhaps Vice President, obviously First Husband, or both, which allowed him a virtual eternity of time to pursue his own philanthropic activities and/or free-balling areas of personal interest, growth and enlightenment.

    In the meantime, the shamelessly freeballing Freeman-Van Allen, the sad man behind caramel-brown eyes (or custom-designed baby blue contacts) pumped himself up with his daily invigorating Qi gong routine (and a little Survivor, Eye of the Tiger) out on the spacious Harry Truman balcony.  Afterwards, he enjoyed a luxurious morning constitution, steamy-hot decontamination shower, and healing aromatherapy massage in the spacious if slightly outdated Mikhail Gorbachev master Russian bath.  But who was he to complain?  Kindly attended to by a dutiful staff of pristine, young, on-call personal attendants, very diligent and detail-oriented, if slightly robotic pleasure-model Replicant for his modest tastes. 

    Not that this was a bad thing, by any means . . .

    Once again, not that he was complaining by any stretch of the old skull and bones, sadistically urged on by his own pair of personal Vice-Presidential personal trainers (those insatiable hardly human hybrids, golden twin siblings, Rutger and Cruella (probably not their real names.))  Meanwhile, just glad to be of service to a grateful nation, this guy . . . 

    Your usual invigorating antioxidant-rich anti-aging green smoothie and Sinful Buns, Mr. Vice President? . . .  Ooh, so tasty!

    Later that afternoon/late evening, Freeman managed to slip out of the big house (via the William Jefferson Clinton Arcade and Game Room.)  The key to Little John’s bitchin’ neon-green Dodge Charger firmly in hand:  a full tank of gas, a half a pack of cigarettes and he was gratefully wearing sunglasses to ward off that annoying sunset glare, ready to hit the mean streets of Gotham. 

Jesus H. Christ, there was nowhere near a full tank of gas in this mother!  This bitch was ridin’ on freaking fumes, that thoughtless airhead! . . . Now he was left swinging in the weeds out here!  Still think The Purge, Parts 1-11 weren’t predictive programming, pal?  Have you looked out your bulletproof window lately, big guy? . . .     

    Time to initiate freaking Plan B,  disappearing on foot amongst the rabid, drug-addled savages of the discontented, riotous streets of murderous D.C., Goddess Hathor help him. 

    Temporarily donning a classic old Michael Myers Halloween horror mug (plucked off a presumably sleeping generous street person), he deftly melted into an angry mob of moronic flag-burning pro-Mask Nazis.  Taking no prisoners and leaving no leftovers, these clueless fecless fear zombies (apparently taking a break from their incessant store crashing and other miscellaneous mindless dratsing and dunging) were mindlessly spewing the latest insidious Globalist agenda while bombarding the impenetrable White House gates and its small army of shielded, heavily-armed Federales with vicious epithets, random trash, actual trash cans, illegal fireworks, Molotov cocktails and feces bombs, really?)

    Holy Civil War, Batman!  This was the bloody Russian/French/Chinese Revolutions all over again!  It was a page right out of the Anarchist’s Cookbook:  employing dastardly chaos agents and useful idiots to create and perpetrate widespread political division, total chaos, mayhem, random destruction, arson, rape, murder and all-around madness.  An insidious globalist, bankster-funded (i. e., Freemasonic) socially-engineered occult ritual conspiracy designed to cripple a thriving, prosperous free nation; decimate its bustling economy, erase its history and destroy its culture; eliminate good leaders, police, and other enlightened troublemakers via bribery, blackmail, extortion or assassination while bamboozling, hypnotizing, traumatizing, drugging up and dumbing down the clueless public into submission in order to institute a so-called secret communist slave Empire.  Shock and confuse!  Divide and conquer! Problem, reaction, solution! . . .

    The great American Revolution was not what we were taught. 

    The great War Between the States was never what it was purported to be, exactly.

    The Vietnam War was a dopey, dangerous lie.   

      The same could be said for the so-called Statue of Liberty, Hollywood, Disney World, and the NFL, professional and collegiate sports in general, my poor delusional children!   

But, nothing new under the sun, Soylent Green is people, no time for that now! 

    He was on a mission from the Goddess . . .         

    Briefly choosing freedom over security, Mr. Incognito purposely gave the slip to his rather suffocating, skintight personal detail of absolute amateurs and mostly clueless babysitting blockheads.  Obviously, the poor bastards had bigger fugitives to fry . . .   

    He, Mr. Jackson Michael Freeman-Van Allen, was, after all, a bona fide master of the spy craft—disguise, evasion, human tracking, counter-surveillance and all the rest—a slippery character in general; a reluctant associate of the most despicable double-crossers, drug peddlers, pirates, prostitutes, pimps,  human traffickers, spies, assassins, weapons dealers and warmongering psychopaths imaginable.  At least formerly having worked for any number of undisclosed diabolical Deep State agencies of the global Inteligencia that he knew of.  He suddenly recalled he was recently retired for unknown reasons.  It was obviously highly classified disinformation.   

    Cleverly disguised as a common unemployed citizen in Redskins’ (having no particular fan affiliation, just for the record) baseball cap, jeans, Ramones t-shirt and stylish, steel-toed Wolverine hiking boots, he discarded the three-piece Christian D’or monkey suit with paisley power tie and freshly-shined Stacey Adams’ loafers in a rather disreputable back alley homeless camp behind his favorite so-called natural grocery store.  Even for the sad dumpster divers, it was slim pickins these days, brother . . .

    Another one of his endless personal quirks as a human being, he just needed to get a little fresh air every day, perhaps a freshly brewed latte, maybe enjoy an invigorating jog along the Potomac, grab a little guilty pleasure drive-or-walk-thru White Castle before picking up a few things for tonight’s likely painfully lonesome late Presidential dinner, and perhaps dessert.

    Perchance even catch a show, or movie or Netflick as the kids said today.  It proved to be a rather useless yet invigorating, death-defying hike/borrowed motorbike ride over to the old Spielberg on 33rd and Roosevelt.  C’est la vie, what the hell!  The goddamned place looked like it had been shuttered for ages, and the only shows playing: that ultra-violent old horrorshow flick with mischievous old Mickey and Mallory (Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis) which he’d seen a million times on cable, and some ludicrous (Robert Downey, Jr.) Marvel superhero shit . . .  He should have just stuck to the task of grocery shopping as instructed, shame on him. 

    No use crying over spilled American brandy, the so-called old man needed the exercise anyhow.  Not that Freeman-Van Allen was some washed-up old cupcake by any means, don’t think that for a minute, cowboy.  This old Chicago boy was still lean as a hungry bear and fit as the devil’s fiddle.  Green smoothies and Chai Tea, every day for this guy!  Sharp as a Presidential ginzu knife, baby.