Circa 1953
"Bob" stomped the gas pedal, sending his large blue Buick screaming
down his suburban driveway in reverse on his way to the Foundation.
Carlessly swerving the wheel, he leaned out and waved at the strange
young Arkansas tending his lawn. Reaching the street, he slammed his
brakes, whipped the car around, slammed the stick into drive, and
floored it again, all the while The Pipe clenche din his teeth and The
Grin lighting his imbecilic visage.
A strange groan came from the back seat. Still driving, "Bob" turned
back to look, rubbernecking to view the rear floorboard. There lay L.
Ron Hubbard, bloated, dishhevelled, long stringy red hair, dirty
fingernails, clutching the Bong of Deliverance.
"Wake up, you shit," "Bob" spoke, then ejected a sliver of frop caught
on his teeth onto the bare forearm of the other con man. It's effect
was instantaneous, Hubbard stirred into conciousness.
"'Bob'? Thatchoo?" Hubbard squinted upwards, beholding the Slack
Bringers visage encircled by a sun dog. "Shit."
Hubbard slowly collected himself, running his greasy fingers through
his hair, flicking the Kool butts from his cloths, culminating the
process with a vaprous flatulation. Dobbs drove on, whistling TV them
songs.
"You make a habit of distilling pink souls, too, don't you?" Hubbard
finally spoke. "That's fine. That's good behavior for the founder of
the SubGenius Foundation."
"Bob" turned to address the pathological liar. "Isn't it exciting for
you being a pawn on such a grand chess board? You are playing for the
world. Can you think of anything more exciting?"
Hubbard's face flushed with anger. "I don't give a God damn about the
world. I want a single, gratifying yeti relationship," he shouted
petulantly.
"You couldn't have one," "Bob" responded. "You're an ambitious woman.
You crave power. You're a Marie Antoinette, a Cleopatra, a Lucreatia
Borgia ... You must have a Caesar or an Alexander or a Fidel."
Venom filled Hubbard's eyes, and he hissed, "No, I don't need a
Caesar, though Caesar may need me. I know you now, "Bob," and at this
moment am closer to you than anyone has ever been."
"Bob" hung his head before saying, "And knowing me you don't care for
me anymore."
Affectionate concern swiftly poured acrossed Hubbard's face, "I care
for you in a different, new and exciting way."
Dobbs turned the Buick into the Foundation parking lot, slipped into
his usual place, the jumped into the back seat. He stared deeply into
Hubbard's eyes, put a hand on his shoulder, then took the corpulent
confidence cretin in his arms. "I shouldn't do this," he whispered
before he kissed Hubbard passionately.
"You still do care for me," Hubbard said when the kiss expended
itself. His tone was awed.
"How do you know," "Bob" replied, ignoring his stiffie.
"You can't find your hat. You're distracted," Hubbard answered as he
pulled "Bob"'s porkpie into view.
"Bob"'s smile grew. "That makes you feel powerful, doesn't it?"
"It makes me aware of something interesting. You still want me," said
Hubbard.
Disgust and confusion mingled on the registered face. "Why?"
Hubbard answered easily, "Because you need me. You need me more than I
need you."
"Bob" stared off into space blankly awhile before responding, "In 1939
I was very much in love with a girl. She felt that way too. When I
knew she had a boyfreind coming up, I waited on the stairway with a
gun, just for a moment. Then I said they are flies. I realized who
and what I was and left. I told her I would leave her free to marry a
sharpie with a cigar in his mouth from Muncie, Indiana. Would you
like to be left free?"
"The alternative is a sharpie with a pipe from Dallas, Texas."
Hubbards voice was acid.
"That was unwise, very unwise of you to say that," Dobbs said leaving
the car. He strode purposefully to the foundation entrance, still
whistling theme songs, as Hubbard watched, tears streaming down his
pockmarked face.
Radar Labs 23
July 5, 1998
0700
Original file name: Get a little sumpin' 2nite.É
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