Downtown Diary

[this is satire]

Rocky the Diabolical Cat™ and I relaxed in our seats on the gondola City of Indianapolis while our guide and gondolier, Bart-tron 2K3, propelled us along the mile-and-a-half long, 4-feet-deep downtown canal.

“You.two.are.very.negative//That.is.why.I.have.invited.you.on.this.private.cruise//
To.show.you.and.your.readers.the.vibrant.city.you.have.been.missing//,”
the robot-mayor said.

Presently, a cumulus cloud of soot from the power plant south of downtown appeared and made itself stationary above us.

“My.idea.of.gondolas.plying.the.waters.of.this.canal.is.part.of.a.plan.I.//
have.to.further.strengthen.Indianapolis’.position.as.the.premiere.//
entertainment.and.recreation.and.convention.destination.in.Central.Indiana//,”
the robot said.

“Don’t set your goals too high, Bart-tron,” Rocky snorted.

A gondola-load of drunken policemen sped past us, then crashed.

Bart-tron crooned “Space Truckin’” by Deep Purple as he stood at the stern and pushed the boat along with his oar.

“Bart-tron, briefly outline your plan for this canal, how your plan will bring prosperity again to this benighted city,” I asked in a journalistic tone.

“We.will.revitalize.the.city.by.having.gondolas.on.this.4.feet.deep.canal//
The.shallowness.is.to.our.benefit.because.we.can.buy.shorter.oars.for.//
the.gondoliers//.

We.will.use.I.mean.train.welfare.recipients.for.an.exciting.career.as.a.//
gondolier.while.saving.money.by.paying.them.minimum.wage//

We.could.further.cut.costs.by.using.I.mean.training.inmates.from.the.//
Department.of.Corrections//People.say.I.have.no.feeling.for.the.//
p-.p-.p-.p-.p-.p-.poor.because.of.my.class. background//

Because.I.was.born.with.a.silver.shovel.in.my.mouth//
But.it.is.not.true//
I.do.feel.for.p-.p-.p-.p-.p-.p-.poor.people//
I.just.think.we .should.run.this.city.like.a.business//,” the robot said.

“Dear, dear Bart-tron,” Rocky said, “the only ‘business’ this city reminds one of is a plantation.”

“I.hate.you.and.all.you.stand.for//,” Bart-tron said, glaring at Rocky.

“Anyway// I.think.a.new.football.stadium.accessible.by.//
romantic.gondolas.is.a.winning.idea.and//
.I.am.all.about.whatever.it.takes.to.win//,” the robot said.

“Win what?” Rocky asked.

“Construction.contracts.after.I.leave.office.ha.ha.ha//,” the robot chuckled mechanically.

A gondola-load of drunken business leaders, lobbyists and politicians roared by in a speedboat, causing our gondola to capsize.

“You.see.//Even.if.a.catastrophe.occurs.this.canal.is.only.4.feet.deep.so.//
we.should.be.able.to.get.a.discount.on.liability.insurance//,” the robot said
before his wiring fell victim to the water and he short-circuited .

I looked at Rocky and asked, “Well? Shall we go?”

“Yes, let’s go,” he replied, and we slogged out of the canal, chilled to the bone by the wintry temperature.