Episode Twenty-Six
From Book 2 of the Sacred Clown's Modern West Trilogy, Sitting Bull's Mutual Funds
The Art of the Steal
“If you can’t grease trust, at least rent disbelief.” ~ The Clown
The off-reservation newspaper was always on the lookout for wrongdoing by Indians, evidence optional. It made their white readership feel superior and reinforced the cycle of castigating Indians as second class citizens even as the businesses on main street lined their pockets with the Indian trade.
“Another Scandal On the Rock!” the headline belched. The article below explained that Sitting Bull had left behind fabulous wealth that would alleviate the need for white tax dollars to be sent to reservation. Soon loyal readers would see their tax bills go down. Valiant efforts were now being made by a crack legal team to track down that money and to invest it the best interests of our red brothers and sisters. The paper had it on good but unnamed authority that the total pot might be more than $10 billion.
Merchants began to ponder how many blue jeans, western shirts, automobiles, pickup trucks, freezers, TVs, and other durable goods that would be purchased with the coming reservation wealth. After a proper mark up, of course. Because the local banks owned the newspaper, there was no mention of the frenzied activity designed to entice their Red Brothers to make speculative investments that the bank itself wouldn’t touch. Look at ’em hooted the Clown. The ink’s not even dry on the headline and Main Street’s drowning in drool!
The article also made mention of the criticism directed at Mamzer He She’s tactics, including the alleged forgery of Sitting Bull’s Social Security Number. But, as the tribune’s editorial board noted, hard measures were necessary to combat the extreme greed of mutual fund managers who lived in Blue states far from the reality of off-reservation towns where all people were, as a matter of long practice, more than scrupulous in their Indian dealings.
There was no mention that Sitting Bull’s remains were exhumed in the middle of the night and spirited away by the same downriver Chamber of Commerce in the 1950s to attract tourists. The editor had edited that unsavory detail out. The story ended with hyping how the town was more than virtuous in its treatment of Indians, always had been and always would be. In the newspaper at least crowed the Clown.
The tribal paper saw things much differently. “Where’s the Beef?” the headline asked. Noting the exorbitant contract the council signed with Mamzer He She, bringing to light his monthly retainer, the paper decried the lack of results. The article also questioned the private contract that an unnamed member of the council had made with Mr. He She. The tribal paper’s young investigative reporter recounted Sitting Bull’s relationship with Buffalo Bill and rumors of scrip that Bill had placed in Sitting Bull’s pine coffin in 1890. The archives were sparse, but the reporter was able to piece together the probable existence of Ambicioso’s mutual fund document. The reporter also noted that Sitting Bull had been covered with lime and these documents—if they existed as he noted—were likely to have broken down along with his corpse. None of this surprised tribal members who had heard the same story from their grandparents. The story brought white hot heat that the off-reservation newspaper couldn’t match.
Both stories were picked up by national media. The agency town was overrun with reporters, television trucks with satellite booms, grippers, and cameramen. A contingent from Fox News arrived presumably in the name of free enterprise. The promise of riches also brought out tribal member wannabes who’d never before so much as raked a toe over the tribal boundaries. They arrived from across the country with flimsy Walmart tents and brandished handmade signs: “We Were Cheated” and “Give Us Back the Bull’s Dough.”
An impromptu process to certify tribal identity was established. The wannabes line stretched around the tribal building and down a gully to the banks of the Missouri River below. The well-heeled among the applicants were staying at the tribal casino and running their credit cards to the max betting on the come. Helicopters flew above the scene, retreating every hour to refuel at the off-reservation town. This was the big time, and everyone could feel it.
Things took a sharp turn when the tribal paper’s next edition noted that five million dollars were still missing from the treasury. “Tribe Looks to New Riches, But Where’s the Missing Money?” the headline asked. The story explained that there was no accounting for the missing five million dollars and demanded an immediate investigation, calling for summoning the FBI if the matter was not resolved expeditiously. Tribal members remembering Sitting Bull’s advice weren’t surprised by any of this. Skan, the flow would rule. Maybe not immediately, but time always wounds all heels. The tribal council was now squarely in the crosshairs. Perspiration streamed down Slippery Elm’s face from his hatband. He’d have to think fast and act even quicker. The Clown, wiped phantom sweat from his own painted brow. Think fast, or drown in your damp hat.
Pudding and Proof
“When the crowd chants, the money vanishes, and the truth runs for cover, you know the show’s not over—it’s just intermission.” ~ The Clown
Tribal police escorted tribal council members from their cars past the crowd into the chambers. The mob outside grew louder. The promise of pudding and proof thickened the air. Maybe not in that order. Tough Wolf asked that the doors to be shut so that he could hear. The racket outside turned into coyote howls. Further out on the prairie, snakes twisted themselves into hoops.
Slippery Elm gripped the dais and was putting on quite a show. “It seems, my fellow council members, that Mr. He She’s efforts to find and retrieve Sitting Bull’s mutual funds have been successful beyond our wildest dreams. He now tells us that he’s recovered $10 billion and that’s just a start. Let us celebrate with you, my colleagues and relations.” Gasps outdid the groans throughout the chamber.
Outside, the Fox News correspondent spotted He She as he got out of his car. His stringer ran up to He She and asked him politely whether he’d consent to being interviewed. “How much you got?” Mamzer asked.
“Nothing. This is all public service and the public’s right to know, don’t you think?” Never one to turn down a chance at spinning his story, He She nodded.
The correspondent was handsome in a predictable, corporate way. Thick black hair, white supremacist tattoos hidden by his dress shirt. Cue the pearly white teeth and prep school tie. Compared to Mamzer He She, the correspondent looked like he’d walked out of Men’s Warehouse. Mamzer’s shabby overcoat, dandruff sprinkled on his shoulder, dark circles underneath his eyes, and unshaven chin was reminiscent of Dick Nixon’s appearance in the Kennedy debate lo, those many years before. Amazing the Clown laughed. Fox Boy’s all shiny teeth and hidden ink, straight off the prep school rack—meanwhile Mamzer’s sweaty Nixon dandruff blizzard and overcoat scream ‘crook couture.’
“Mr. He She, we understand that you’ve uncovered more than ten billion dollars in assets that were once owned by Sitting Bull. Can you comment on that?”
“Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”
“Sir, can’t you be clearer? It seems that the crowd gathered here today and our world-wide viewership would both appreciate candor. As we all know, Fox News is the epitome of honesty and we know that Indians are entitled to nothing because we gave them everything, so our viewers would appreciate your setting the record straight.”
“Don’t even think about bullying me you sissy! These things take time, and time is on my side. When we’re ready, we’ll maybe let you know. Say, I hope you don’t have to spend all winter here. You’ll freeze your balls off.”
“How much is the tribe paying you, Mr. He She?”
“What don’t you understand about ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out?’.”
“Thank you for your candor, Mr. He She. Let’s move on. Isn’t it true that you committed fraud in your attempts to uncover Mr. Bull’s mutual funds. Why did you do that?”
“Nonsense. I did nothing of the sort!”
“Would you like us to play the tape?” It had cost Fox News $10,000 to procure the video from an anonymous source. He She’s face turned blood red. He shouldn’t have told the council the truth about forging Sitting Bull’s signature. The spittle forming on his upper lip seemed almost green this time around.
“I know you are, but what am I?” It was such a childish trope but it had always proven to be effective with morons and had served him well since his law school days.
“I beg your pardon?”
The interview was broadcast to 20 million low-information viewers. He She could feel his gander cooking. There were soldiers falling out of the sky. Most would land on him. He scurried back to his car like a raped ferret and gunned his car out of town.
The throng grew. They didn’t all think the same. Since Sitting Bull’s time tribal politics had created a wider rift between tribal members practicing traditional Lakota beliefs and those members who thought they ran tribal affairs. The traditionals called their relatives participating in white-sponsored governance as Agency Lapdogs. On the other side of things, the hang around the fort Indians called their relatives scattered throughout the reservation Blanket Indians or Hostiles. Competing drums and songs filled the air. The traditionals chanted:
“One, two, three, what are we fighting for?
Don’t ask us, we don’t give a damn.
Sitting Bull’s mutual funds are just a scam!
Find the five mill, before you dangle the ten bill.
We’ve this heard all before.”
The Agency Lapdogs launched a competing chant:
“Gotta get that money.
Without it, there ain’t no honey.”
Everyone thought that rhyme scheme was hilarious. The Lapdogs continued with a touch of gangsta rap:
“There ain’t no romance without finance.”
The volume shot up when all the wannabe enrollees memorized the meme and joined in. Fists were shook on both sides. Turnips and tomatoes were thrown.
Soon, the gist of what He She had just told Fox News ran through both sides of the crowd. The Blankets responded with a chant made up on the spot:
“Bullshit. Bullshit.
Go home and quit.
Your throats we’d like to slit.”
The spontaneity of this rhyme scheme was sketchy but catchy. A few drew their index fingers across their throats and stuck their tongues out at their foes. Others laughed.
As had been their practice since 1870, the hang around the fort crowd and wannabes tried to drown the traditionals out.
“At last! At last!
Let’s cut that fat buffalo now!”
Greed personified. Fantasies of driving fast cars, sleeping until noon, sporting baubles of turquoise, long tropical vacations, and never having to negotiate empty pockets came together this chant. To grift together is to bond said the Clown with a wry grin.
Inside the council chamber, Slippery Elm continued, “This money will make a significant difference in our lives. No longer will we have to grovel to off reservation merchants, no longer will we have bad Internet on the Rez, no longer must our basketball team have to play in that cracker box we call a high school gym, and no longer will we have to wait for just compensation for the stolen Black Hills. Hell, we might even buy them back next week!”
Tapping his microphone to be recognized above the din, Tough Wolf turned to the chairman. “Mr. Chairman, may I be recognized?”
Moving toward the dais, the chairman nodded to him, “I’d like to say a few words first, Mr. Tough Wolf.” Grabbing the microphone from Slippery Elm, he began, “This is certainly good news for all of us if it turns out to be true, Mr. Slippery Elm. When can we expect to receive these monies?”
Everyone saw the sweat soak shrink his hatband. “Soon. Soon. Mr. He She expects the money transfer any day now. Maybe even today! He’ll let us know the very moment it happens.”
“The full $10 billion? What do we need to do to get ready?”
“We need to build a bigger vault, that’s a lot of moolah, that $8 billion.”
“Eight? We all heard you say ten!” The chairman shot back.
“There are certain administrative and transfer fees that are now under negotiation with the mutual fund company. Also, there’s a rubber plantation in the Amazon that has been making noise about taking a cut of the estate. We’ve also heard from Buffalo Bill’s descendants and they’re not happy either. We might wind up with less than eight. Might only be two billion at the end of the day.”
Outrage punctuated the air. Slippery Elm’s Stetson dripped. Outside the traditionals yelled, “Told you so. Told you so.” The hang around the fort and wannabes joined in, “Where’d the loot go? Where’d the loot go?”
“Also, as you’ve certainly heard, my hang around friends want an immediate payout. I suggest that we seek expert legal advice on all these issues from Mamzer He She. He was the horse we rode to this spot, you know.”
Tough Wolf leapt to his feet. “Slippery Elm, my childhood friend, hunting partner, schoolmate, and priest bait, this is confusing. The story keeps changing and for the worse. There are not straight answers here. Mamzer He She isn’t here today and that’s both unprofessional and unethical knowing the topic under discussion. He’s already told us that he’s committed forgery. Where is he?”
“Oh, he was just joking about that. He never would lie! I told him that he didn’t need to be here today, so if I made a mistake in that regard I apologize. He’s busy negotiating on our behalf and his full attention is of the essence in these last stages of negotiation. Better that he takes care of that than to hear all this bickering and backstabbing on such a wonderful day. We’re rich, damn it. Act like it! Sit back and enjoy the ride! Just like you did every night back at our boarding school, Elias. ‘Member them rides?” Slippery Elm was swallowing his vomit in the same way that Tough Wolf had done nightly all those years ago at the boarding school.
Elias flew into a purple rage, “Quit avoiding the question! Where is He She?” Grabbing a ceremonial hatchet off the chamber wall, Tough Wolf mounted a furious charge toward Slippery Elm. “Hoka Hey, today is a good day to die!” Slippery Elm deflected the first blow with his wet hat. Ramming the council doors with his shoulders, he sprinted through the mob, the whole mob, traditionals, hang around the forts, and wannabes joined Tough Wolf in running after Slippery Elm. He barely made the inside of his new pickup truck before speeding away, laughing, slapping the steering wheel, and flipping off all his chasers.