Disney Buys Lucas: Episode 19 - The Unconsolable Mouseketeer Andy

   This is not really a picture of Mouseketeer Andy. But if it was it would be complimentary.
   Erratic skin growth and bone growth is only erratic if you decide to call it that. Your own skin and bones are erratic growths. We think of them as normal because these are the erratic growths that aid rather than impede survival for the species - of all the millions that there are - that we were born into.
   Why anything should grow at all is really and actually more than the human mind - which is itself an erratic growth, just not of skin and bone - why anything should grow at all is more than the human mind can really cope with. We accept it as magic. It's easier that way. In fact we accept so many unmagical things as magic due to our primitive IQ's that accepting the existence of Actual magic is not a big leap, especially if you are stupid, because it's actually a leap backwards.
   Can we move on?
   Mouseketeer Andy was not only a grotesque abortion of all that is conducive to sanity-friendly apparitions and sights, he was also an angry grotesque abortion of all things that are conducive to sanity-friendly apparitions and sights.
   It was a pretty safe assumption that when Andy auditioned he must have had parents. All the rest of us certainly did. How it was they had not reported their son missing is mysterious unless you hypothesize that he was not missing, that they knew where he was.
   My own theory is that he ate them. That it was he that should have been reporting his parents as missing. Not the other way around.
   He was certainly capable of eating them, I once had some fellows I know in the meat packing business bring him a live, fully testicled bull, just to see what he would do with it. Me and the other two men had electrical cattle prods that within a very short time not only had the untethered bull become convinced that moving our direction would be repeatedly painful and annoying, the smell wafting off of Andy was also convincing the bull that something was not as it should be in the other direction either.
   At the moment Andy was in darkness. The "meeting halls," as I call them, under the Burbank surface and that comprise and house electrical and flood control and a few other things, one of them being Andy, are very large spaces, acres in volume, and having a concrete roofs 12 feet high. If you like the smell of eternal concrete mold at 56 degrees it is heaven to someone like me. However it was jail to someone like Andy.
   Hearing the clatter, Andy, who was slow and reluctant to respond to stimuli and yet would on occasion respond to it in the most heinous ways imaginable and with great fury, slid out from his dark section of the Meeting Room and began to ease his way into the unwarm illumination of the pallid 60 watt reinforced light bulbs in the dungeon.
   The two men - who were both professional murderers - went into combat mode even though neither of them had guns, which amounted to bouncing to defensive positions and yelling at me - who wasnt doing anything - "What the fuck is that!!!"
   I told them it was Mouseketeer Andy.
   Mouseketeer Andy was undulating, or maybe crabbing, or maybe scratching, more and more into view.
   The untesticled bull, while not seeing Andy clearly, being a bull and in poor artificial light, was sensing menace-aplenty coming from Andy's vicinity. Well from more than from Andy's vicinity actually, it was coming from Andy himself.
   Bulls with their testicles intact have one response to what they consider menace, especially if the menace is also inducing fear: and that is to gore violently and mightily after their charging horizontal powerful attack is brought to a halt by contact with the fear-inducing thing. The fear-inducing thing in this case being Andy.
   Bulls do not run on cement well, but this one did himself proud on his first - and last - charge. Which were the same charge. He handled the concrete like Sonya Henie handled ice. He hit Andy hard and solid in one of Andy's many midsections and had just begun to hook his horns into whatever God might send their way, when the bull suddenly was squeezed in the center by two pressing tubes coming together, and in an instant writhed its head and contorted its face like, I swear, something off the canvas of Guernica, and didn't even utter a howl when it burst into two fountains of bull-innards, one from its jaws and the other from its rectum. As the bull disappeared from the shape of a bull, and reappeared in the shape of two eruptions of guts, the only sound to monopolize the entire event was the now-apparent
very loud slapping of heavy bull-innards onto the greenish algae'd ichor of the large cement room, that sounded like vomit splashing into the street from a nauseated choir of a thousand drunks.
   The volume of exposed bull viscera actually was warming the air out of its dungeon coolness. The heated air off the cooling bull added a level of 4th dimensional reality to this - to the two butchers - nightmare that I was dealing with with a lot more calmness. I'd seen Andy in action before. Just not with something this huge.
   "What the fuck is that," they more or less both said again only this time with a lot less volume and with a lot more readiness; I guess they figured they were next.
   I walked toward Andy and saved the interview with the butchers for later and told Andy aloud that I had brought the bull just to see what Andy would do with it.
   Andy responded to me telepathically. Andy could send - and maybe receive - thoughts, but he was never able to receive mine. I had to speak to him. He never answered audibly but I could always hear his responses, not as a voice, but as knowledge. This was mysterious but not scary. In fact communications from Andy - even though anguished - in the receiver they triggered some sort of calmative hormone that nullified fear and any angst, or blocked it, or camouflaged it. I suspect this is how the "good apparitions" of the Bible communicated to humans, usually with the accompanying admonitions "Do not be afraid." Except I never heard Andy say do not be afraid. It's just that his intrusions into my head never caused fear. It was like the fear was over-ridden. I dunno. And I don't really much care, actually.
   Andy communicated his annoyance with my little games clearly and I reminded him that other than silverfish and worms, I was the closest thing to company he would ever have and that I was going to take advantage of it, since Andy was pretty much what you would call a goldmine of interest and potential entertainment.
   Andy was a fellow Mouseketeer, if nothing else, and childhood show business forms bonds of, while not friendship, a sort of hostility-marked camaraderie of the similarly wounded. I was always reminding Andy that he should count his blessing that he didn't end up as a suicidal drug addict working in a supermarket for 50 years and then killing himself after hearing for the millionth time "How come you never did anything after the Mouseketeers, loser?"
   Andy never appreciated the wisdom of this heartfelt and selfless advice and almost resented the fact that I - basically normal, at least compared to him - visited him at all. But it was either me or just the worms.
   Andy had personally killed 27 electricians and other city workers. He never left witnesses. All anyone on the municipal payroll knew was if you go into section 14 WRT near Griffith Park you were never heard from again. Once in a while the chief of police of either Los Angeles or Burbank or Glendale would send small two-man teams of heavily-armed officers into section 14 WRT of the underground city that housed the grid and the other flows of material and they were never heard from again. Since this was infallibly the result,  the decision to just go balls-out and send a division of Marines into section 14 WRT....no bureaucrat could bring himself to make that call.
   One thing you learn about life in the USA if you pay any attention at all, which nobody does, is that a "cover up" is not the exception. It is the normal mode of government operation. They are experts at it because the job itself is a coverup. No one really needs a bureaucrat in his life. But everyone thinks he does. This is because of a coverup. The coverup being "You need us!" People on the public payroll see this clearly. They see it so clearly that if any department of anything is threatened with dissolvement the response is "You get rid of us and we will burn down the city." Everyone in government knows this. So nothing gets  shut down. Unless its something that plays on the heartstrings and fears of the idiot public. "We have no more money and you won't let us raise taxes so you can't go to Yosemite and if you call a cop he won't come." Big deal. You can't go to Yosemite when its wide open for business anyway, it's so fucking fucked up,  and a cop never comes when you call him anyway, and he sure is never there to prevent trouble from happening. A cop's way of preventing trouble is to put you into prison.
   So nobody came to deal with Andy, or whatever the mystery of section 14 WRT was. Why bother. If  nobody disappeared as long as nobody was sent there, ok, that's good enough for us, thank you, everyone back to your naps, we gut a good thing going here, why make noise, no one liked Workman Garcia or Officer Melendez or Electrician Sanchez anyway, they wern't even citizens, why bring attention to them now that they are gone from us? "Aye-aye, sir! Not a problem, sir!"
   Besides, Griffith Park has a reputation for being haunted and cursed anyway. This can be researched on Google and Wikipedia. It even looks haunted and cursed at night, a big pitch black lightless void in the night embedded into the entire southern sector of the San Fernando Valley. Bats don't even go in there. It's an anomaly that defies correction or explanation. You want to get scared?...take Zoo Drive off the 134 at three in the morning and park your car in one of the parking lots and turn off the lights and open the windows and just sit there. You will last about 2 seconds before you fucking freak and roar your car to life and screech the fuck away. You will think you are in a pit of empty hell. You will feel entities coming over you like a fucking black thick blanket. And yet you are actually in the dead center of the biggest metropolis on earth, mother fucker!! "What is your problem, mang? Hey, my pren, me miho pren, ess ju esairedycat??? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA"  Fact is, I guess, yeah. I'm scared. What of it, Mexican. In fact go in there and bring some guns. Bring some grenades. Bring the fucking Hells Angels. See if that changes anything. The Hells Angels will leave before you do.