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... Where the Town of Algiers Secedes from New Orleans, and Then Bombs It ...
And that was the day the town of Algiers, located just across the river from New Orleans, began its missile strikes on the French Quarter. I was there when it happened. That's because I'm a mortician, and I'm always on call. Kermit Broadmeyer. You'll meet me one day.
It happened out of nowhere, and before anybody knew what the fuck, all these Che Guevara motherfuckers were swarming all over Algiers Point with converted semi-automatic weapons, shouting "Fuck New Orleans" and popping off civilians who were getting drunk on the Riverboat, which is named after a Civil War general, and then New Orleans was a Zone of Terror. And nobody in the City was fighting back! Because these mercenaries, well, it's just the Way they were Raised and when somebody, say, rapes your sister, what you DO in your grief and your shock is tune in to CNN NEW ORLEANS and watch for like, hours. You have to be a Local to pick it up, see.
And there'll be a priest on there, and an expert on Freedom Fighting who teaches at L.S.U., and this guy who used to kill people, and this other one who didn't. And they'll argue for NINE HOURS about how we in the Quarter really have to stop, process our grief, and stroke our dicks and drink piña coladas while we consider what it was that might have made the residents of Algiers so ANGRY as to pull that shit! And then, we'll start to realize, as I have, that they are RIGHT! And then, we up and kill our brothers. See? It's great for business, let me tell ya.
Me, I love to be horrified and shit. 'Cause all the hell else there is to do in this place is get drunk and listen to Dixieland. It's pretty boring. Or have sex with somebody you've never met and try to Achieve Orgasm. But that fateful day, the people on the Riverboat, who were actually tourists from Houston, got sunk into the Mississippi along with The Arrogant Crawfish, this shitty Dr. John cover-tune band that was playing for them while they got ready to fuck somebody else's pimp's wife, Lord have Mercy.
But it actually occurred to me that a good part of the reason why God let this place get struck in such a heartless manner was because Frankie Minot, that disgusting pimp who lives on Dauphine Street and makes his living out of all that North of Basin Street action, is here. But he'll be mine soon enough, lol, : - 8, HAH!
Not that the entire Quarter was gone or anything. But people were lying around in their own blood for days, because in New Orleans, when you call an ambulance or the cops, they just won't come! Really. Give it a shot when you're here. And no, I'm not paying them off. I've already got far more Clients than I can handle as it is.
So the afternoon got late and nobody could find their Art Buddies. Art, see, in New Orleans, is like hockey is up North — simply another excuse to drink and act like an asshole. Like that asshole on Napoleon Avenue or wherever the fuck he is who owns a former mortuary and writes songs about how depressed he is. Anyway, I should probably get that Art Teacher Fenton Rochilieu to tell you about the Art Cliques here in town, the ones that are just like the Art Cliques in San Francisco, New York, Boston, Chicago, Phoenix, and Lincoln, Nebraska, except the Art Sluts here don't seem to realize that their souls, such as they have them, are inhabited by at least 15 other people just like them, and that they all live at the exact same time, parallel lives in different American cities, and that none of them, their soul or the other 14/15ths of it, have ever created Art! Whooohhh! And I rest my case, motherfuckers, because I'm either NOT an Artist or I am the one to be acting like the Asshole at the End of the Day, because it's ME, Kermit Broadmeyer, who makes your dead ass quasi-presentable on your Way Out which, if you have moved to New Orleans, is comin' right up. That's what I do, among other things, lolololol! Whooh!!! I hate Art. Fuck, man. So anyway, God was dispersing these little idiots as well.
So it was once I realized that the violence in the Quarter had nothing whatsoever to do with my life, that I poured myself a stiff one, got in with the Enemy and moved to Algiers on the Freedom Fighter Ferry which passed once a day to the other side of the River, and I thought, hey, Good Riddance to all these shitwads in New Orleans who met their end in so bitter a fashion! It's sure been entertaining and lucrative for me, so the whole thing, well I just think it's great that it ended up making a few residents of that shithole across the River think about how they were pissing off God and shit. Nobody was ever actually sure what the People of Algiers wanted, but, well, there's been tension in the region for YEARS over artistic differences, poetic license, and the like. But mostly, they were all just in it to Let the Good Times Roll. And not a single person outside of the Metro Area paid any attention to these happenings, either. Which is very much the way we like it here. This colony was Founded on the Principle of Artistic Tolerance, but when you haven't done anything in 35 years but slam Hurricanes and argue, well, fuck it. You deserve to die.
At least it brought areas of the City together, or at least, so long as those drugs were working.
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