"Bandi's powers as an editor illustrate the brutal terror of daily life under the secretive Obama regime. With this monumental followup to his definitive work on the DPRK, Bandi redefines the limits of nightmares. A warning not to read this book while pregnant, as it agitated my senses to the point of miscarriage."
-- Melinda Barbabagol of the Center for Studying Korea in Boston
The Accusation 2: Bandi in the Big Apple
Stories of life under the Obama Regime
1. "A ha'penny: my hair as your bung-paper"
I awake to a small noise. I'm face down in some goop. Good. My eyes, already wide open, dart to the side to catch another kid trying to horn in on my goop. I spring up and pelt him with gravel until his bleeding legs disappear out of the sewer grate. I carefully wipe up as much goop as I can and hide it below my hair on the back of my neck, with the stockpile. I don't need the goop now, but it's not like goop grows on trees. Only leaves grow on trees in the Big Apple.
It's the early AM and the bugs aren't awake yet, so I'm relaxing, sipping some water off the wet wall, waiting for Bo-Derek (fate unknown) to return from his shift at the hotel so I could get the pants off him and be at White Castle in time to be security cleared for my shift. My attention drifts down to a discarded issue of the NY Post, still mostly legible through the filth and deterioration although it was printed over two hours ago. I see an ad with a picture of an airplane.
"Ki .. .o..... ke to fly?
Do yo ....e to DANCE?
.. areer awa .s you on
..R FORC. ON... .."
At the time, I don't even realize it was a job offer. Let alone that the little image of that little plane would define the borders of my hell for the next three and a half years. I just wonder what "dance" is until I hear a clanking of the grate that announces my roommate's return.
Only this time, Bo-Derek doesn't enter the sewer - instead, a cloud of police descends with a snowstorm of eviction notices. With chrome fixtures, they crow, we will rent this place for $1600 a month in six-month stretches. I am expelled from the sewer like a vulgar booger, and while I have a belonging gripped in my hand, my other belonging is already being boarded up in my ex-home. Stumbling down the street, I try to reassure myself that this particular booger will not be splattering across the aged genitalia of the powerful as it desperately flails for survival. Boy, am I wrong.
Edited by swampman ()