THE HORRIBLE STINK OF THE ROTTING CORPOCRACY

I woke up at 5:30 am like clockwork. Got up. Turned on the twinkling xmas lights draped over Rudolph the red balled reindeer. Grabbed my gun. Turned on the Pursuit Channel and methodically made my way around the shack. Is that a rub on the coffee table leg? I swear I saw tracks in the closet and scrapes in the kitchen, under the coat rack. Ssssshhhhhh. Between ads for hardon pills and cream I thought I saw a big buck crosing the TV screen. I laid the gun barrel over the back of a chair and waited....
After two months in the woods I knew it wouldn't be easy to make the transition back to civilian life. I heard crows and looked up. Buzzards were circling the cieling fan. Was this the big one? Had I actually hit him? I followed my nose behind the woodstove and there it lay- not the monster buck, I had missed clean, but the foul coyote shredded carcass of the American system of government and finance. It seems an unethical hunter had gut shot his buddy and left him to die an ignoble death in the weeds. How could this have happened? Let's try to piece together the forensic evidence.
Once upon a time corporations and government hunted together. Each year they would don the blaze orange, load up the pick up trucks with apples and pumpkins and make their way to the mountains for a weekend of drinking, card playing and shooting around the bait pile. If it was brown it was down. Spikes and does were piled in the truck beds and back to the city they went. It was a system that seemed to work. With names like Madoff and Blogovavich, politicions, hedge fund managers and corporate execs took a little time off to hunt with each other. Deals were made. Pockets were lined. Bush came late and hunted from his tinted window SUV with the lights and heater on. He never even turned the radio off. Then, this year there were no deer. So they drank and their trigger fingers got itchy.
Poor people with late mortgage payments and hardly any meat on their bones were the first to fall. Because the bankers had the most powerful guns and the most ammo the politicians didn't dare draw a bead on them. But fat under gunned auto execs looked mighty tasty, sneaking through the under brush. Brokerage houses were easy picking and by the end of the season all bets were off. No one was safe. For now it's left to the scavengers. For me, I have laundry, wood to get in and a house to finish building. That should keep me busy 'til spring. Four months until turkey season.