The boys set up a guerrilla unit with the young Maize God. Traveling in time on the sacred books, they pick up allies: Tío Mate, an old assassin with eight deer on his gun, followed by El Mono, his adolescent Ka. Wild boys with eighteen-inch Bowie knives, head hunters and bandits, Castro and Chinese guerrillas, Black Panthers and hippies.

The priests have not been idle. They have opened negotiations with the United Fruit Company to arrange for a landing of Marines.

They send in an agent to infiltrate the guerrillas.

The agent shows up at a guerrilla encampment:

"Shucks fellers, you got a reefer?"

"Who is this mother?"

A Black Panther with a submachine gun and a headhunter with a spear cover the stranger.

"You here to report to the head shrinker for a security check?"

The Security Department is divided down the middle into two sets. On one side is a brisk Scientology auditor with an E-Meter set up on a card table.

"Will you pick up the cans, please. Thank you."

On the other side is a grass hut with shrunken heads on shelves.

The head hunter takes up a stand facing the agent with his spear raised. Seated on a high chair is a Death Dwarf with larval flesh and skeleton face. He reaches forward and takes the agent's other hand with dry electric fingers.

"Do you know any CIA men personally?"

The agent looks wildly around at the shrunken heads of his predecessors.

"That reads . . . What do you consider that could mean?"

"The whole idea is repugnant to me. I'd as soon make a friend of a cobra."

"LIE. LIE. LIE," screams the Death Dwarf.

"Why, I've always been a Commie."

"That reads . . . What do you consider this could mean?"

"LIE. LIE. LIE.''

"Do you have any unkind thoughts about M.O.B.? . . . That reads... What do you consider this could mean?"

"Why, all I ever wanted to do was mind my own business and smoke reefers."

"There's another read here."

"LIE. LIE. LIE."

"Are you connected to the CIA? Are you a CIA agent?"

"You got me wrong. I swear to you on my Scout's honor..."

"LIE. LIE. LIE.''

"That ROCKSLAMS. What do you consider this could mean?"

The agent's head shrinks to the size of a fist and takes its place on the shelf.

EDITOR'S NOTE

I admire this dream's rough humor, especially the pun on "headshrinker"--taking the slang term back to its literal roots.

--Chris Wayan

SOURCE: My Education: a book of dreams by William S. Burroughs, 1995, p133-34. Passage untitled; I added title to aid searches.

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