While Kitty and Margot were having their tete-a-tete outside, Stephen dropped into the lobby, and engaged with Daisy.

“Howdy, Mr. Stephen. How you doin’?”

“Well, truth be told, I’m feeling my age rigt now. Feeling old.”

“You come to the rigt place, then. I can fix that for you.”

“No fooling?”

“Honest Injun.”

“I’d appreciate all the help you can give me, girl.”

“It’s real easy. Y’all still use the Fahrenheit scale down under, but we use Celsius. So, when you cross the border, you gotta convert. So, how old are you in Fahrenheit years?”

“Seventy two.”

“Lemme see, that makes you… ‘bout twenty two, or three in Celsius.”

The King of Horror was wildly amused. “You’re a genius, Daisy! I’ll feel better already. Thank you.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure. We do that for old Yanks all the time. Never fails. They never wanna go home.”

“I saw you scribbling on a pad before I so rudely troubled you with my problems. Did I interrupt anything important?”

“Kinda important. I’m working on an economic recovery plan.”

Fascinated, Stephen said, “That’s a mighty big undertaking, Daisy. Is it similar to FDR’s New Deal?”

“Well, I ain’t got far, yet, Mr. Stephen, but I got a pretty good start, so we’ll see where it goes.”

“How far have you gotten, Daisy?”

“Well, seein’ how the ultra high net worth caste hates the middle classes, and the middle classes hate the working poor, I think we have to start with the homeless.”

“You gonna give all the homeless free housing, and then charge them property tax?”

“Kinda, but not really. It’s a little more complicated than that, but in a real simple sorta way.”

“I’m Ross Perot, Daisy. Hit me.”

“Okay, Ross, here goes. We have to start by fining the homeless for not social distancing.”

Laughing, Stephen said, “That’s brilliant.”

“Well, there are gonna be lots and lotsa people losing their jobs, and defaulting on their mortgages, so there’s bound to be a pretty big spike in homelessness. And if the virus sticks around, that spike ain’t gonna be no bubble, neither. So, for my plan to work, everyone will have to stop wearin’ masks, which will make the Freedom Fries Fighters guys happy, and shut ‘em the fuck up.”

“It would be prudent to not piss on the corn flakes of guys who have guns, and drink ‘shine for breakfast.”

“Don’t I know it? By the way, have you noticed they ain’t demandin’ that the bookstores, and libraries be re-opened?”

“I had not,” Stephen admitted, with a chuckle. “Bookstores and libraries will be anomalies following the mass extinction of the literate. Writers and readers will be pariahs to the phone addicted zombies, who will have their herd word immunity set to 140 characters.”

“Yeah, it’s all true, Mr. Stephen, and you know it better than me. The zombies might even burn the libraries, like they did to Ray Bradbury’s library in Alexandria.”

“That truly was a crime against humanity.”

“It sure was.”

“As for all the people saying everything should re=open rigt away, they’re not people.”



“Some people, mostly the gun guys and their biddies, I suppose, say Chinese people come from insectoids, not humans. That’\s why they’re communists, and have slanted yes.”

“Jesus. Even I couldn’t make that shit up. That shit is the product of a really sick mind. I just make up weird shit, but it’s fiction. Those people actually believe the shit they make up.”

“So, if they’re not humans, and they’re not insectoids, who are they?

“Bots. Boss bots. Fake social media accounts.”

“Okay. That makes sense Bosses are losing money, and boy=ts don’t get CORONA,  so what do they care if people die? They’ll find a way to make money of that, too.”

“That’s what they do.”

“Well, I got a way to make money off of people who are just homeless, not dead.”

“Yes, you were saying….”

“So, anyway,, the homeless numbers will just keep growing, so it’s long term sustainable. And they’ll all be huddling together, to keep warm in the winter. So, BAM! We make a killin’ off ‘em. Hell, it will fill the vaults, rigt away, in a place like India. Africa, too.”

“Anyway. So, the homeless numbers will just keep growing, so it’s long term sustainable. And they’ll all be huddling together, to keep warm in the winter. So, BAM! We make a killin’ off ‘em. Hell, it will fill the vaults, rigt away, in a place like India. Africa, too.”

“You should get in touch with Bono about this.”

“Nah, he ain’t done nothin’ for too long, and he’s a liberal, anyway, so probably pretends to like the homeless, even though I bet he never gives ‘em any money. Probably steals out of the begging bowls of buskers, when he catches them playing one of his songs. So, I’m gonna go round to the churches, ‘cause no one hates the homeless as much as the churches do.”

“The churches hate the homeless?”

“Do they ever! Like no one’s business, they hate ‘em. I mean, there they are, preaching Jesus – and baby Jesus loved the poor, and the whores – and they know the baby Jesus cries every time they close their doors, and don’t let the homeless inside his houses, even when it’s like thirty below zero. And they know baby Jesus can send them straight to Hell, but they don’t give a flying fuck ’bout that, “cause they’d rather lick lepers, all day, all night, while roasting in the treehouse they built in the Burning Bush of Ignorance, Indifference and Hypocrisy, than give the poor a place to sleep, even when it’s freezing cold outside.”

“There’s no arguing that. The churches do hate the poor.”

“Hell yeah, they do. I mean, they tell their people to not give money to the homeless. They put it up on signs, rigt on their doors. They tell ‘em to give their money to the church instead. They say they will take care of the poor with the money. But they don’t, unless you call buying candy for little boys taking care of the poor. And they got so much money, too. They got more money than God with a wallet full of credit cards, and bitcoin, and big boxes of Canadian Tire money. And the cheap bastards don’t pay any taxes. So, Ima tax ‘em. Back tax ‘em!”

“How far back?”

“The whole two thousand years. Imagine; two thousand years of back taxes! And I ain’t just talking ‘bout property taxes, neither. I’m talking capital gains, inheritance, and especially sin tax, “cause you know them hypocrites been doin’ shitloads of sinnin’ for the last two millennia.”

“That’s a hefty tab to pick up.”

“Hell, yeah, it is. We’ll get all their money, and plenty more. They’ll never be able to pay everything they owe, just like the government can’t never pay that devil Bill Gates all the money they owe him. They’ll be lucky if they can even keep up on the interest. And it’s a bottomless well, ‘cause the rubes will still keep lining up, every Sunday, to throw money at ‘em. But I’m getting a little ahead of myself.”

“That’s okay, Daisy. I’m still picking up what you’re putting down, so if you have to rewind a bit, you go rigt ahead.”

“So, once we wallop ‘em, wallop ‘em good and hard, the first time, and get all the money they have rigt now, which ain’t everythin’ they gonna owe, we’ll give it all to the homeless people, ‘cause that will make the baby Jesus happier than a case of the clap in a Catholic trailer park, on welfare day. So, the baby Jesus will quit with the boo-hoo-hooing all the time, already, thank fucking God, pardon my French. So, anyway, when we get all the money from the churches, we’ll give it all to all the homeless people, so they can pay the fines we’re gonna slap ‘em with.”

“You’re gonna do all this when you become Prime Minister of Canada.?”

“Nah. Miss Kitty says she gonna talk to her secretary, get me the job, make me General of the UN. I guess that’s why you’ve all come together, rigt now, over me.” Daisy’s face screwed up all weird as she asked no one, “Toe jam football? Miss Kitty ain’t got no toe jam football. I seen her toes. They real clean.”

“Okay, that all adds up, Daisy. But you’re not gonna tell the churches all this when you go see ‘em.”

“Hell no, I ain’t. They call me Crazy Daisy, not Dumb Daisy! I’m just gonna get ’em to rubber stamp the new war on the poor. And they gonna love me for it, ‘cause…”

“Because they hate the poor.”

“They prima facie hate the poor. So, they gonna love me, so Ima be able to discover where they hidin’ all their money. You just gotta know that anyone who loves money as much as the churches do ain’t trustin’ it to the only crooks in town who love money even more than they do.”

“The banksters.”

“Darn tootin’ the banksters. So, if we’re gonna get all the churches’ money, I gotta figure out where they hidin’ it all.”

Stephen’s massive, festering mess of looming dementia did the computations. Then it double, and triple checked the unassailable logic of it all, and concluded that Crazy Daisy ain’t crazy, at all, just like Margot had said, just a few minutes earlier.

“That is, without a doubt, the greatest voodoo economics scheme ever,” Stephen declared. “You let us know if you need any help with any of it.”

Daisy smiled a delightful, delighted smile, and said, “Thank you! I think I got it all covered, so far. But, like I say, I’m just gettin’ started, so I will take you up on your most kind and generous offer, if and when I get a bit confused ‘bout somethin’.”




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