I appreciate that Kentucky and Ohio are open carry states. Though I’ve never been a big fan of guns myself, or of cars, explosions, or other loud things, I’ve also never been uncomfortable around them. They’re just tools, after all, like hammers and automobiles. None of them are “dangerous.” With the same hammer you could build a church or cave in the back of my head. One act would be a crime against humanity, the other act simple homicide. Either way, the hammer remains guiltless.
Just like guns.
Still, aware as I am of the hysterical dread that many lefties have of “gun violence,” I like that open carry makes guns more and more visible day after day. By definition, the more something is seen, the more “normal” it becomes, and “normal” is less scary than “weird.”
Normalize responsible tool use. Carry your piece.
update 180224: Back Fence (correspondent KR) responds, “#1 Hammers and cars are dangerous. Look up the definition.” A valid technical point. Toothpicks and teaspoons are “apt to do harm” under the right (wrong?) circumstances, too. Fortunately for the rest of my argument, the dictionary cites no moral component to danger. Please excuse my presentational error in not pointing out that the quotation marks employed were intended to signal the focusing of an otherwise inadequate, but approximate expression. Clumsy of me. “#2 [G]uns are more dangerous than hammers or cars.” Maybe. Based on body count it looks like automobiles and firearms (at about 40k per year) are just about neck and neck, and hammers (at under a thou) are way trailing. Even so, hammers out kill rifles per se. Though long guns can make for dramatic front page long range accuracy, overall, the handgun is the favorite for homicides and suicides. Again, checking the Ghengi-meter, it is body count that sways the argument for this actuarial analyst. “#3 [H]ammers and cars are not built for the purpose of killing. Guns are. …[T]hey serve no purpose in daily life.” First of all, it really doesn’t matter to me that Louisville intended its Slugger to be used for swattin’ horse-hide over the back fence if Negan’s using it to splinter my skull. Second, you are disingenuous or misinformed if you are stating that a gun’s sole purpose is homicide. Not only is it inaccurate, in light of the mountains of evidence showing that the very brandishing of a weapon can be the peaceful solution to an otherwise arduous ordeal, but it is insulting to the great numbers of competitive shooters (of which I am not one, see disclaimer above about “loud things.”). It is even more insulting to the survivors of violence whose prudent foresight saved them or their loved ones (or other innocent strangers) from further abuse. Of course you’re absolutely right otherwise. Violence and the “implements of violence” (those specialized tools designed to advantage the otherwise weaker over would be predators) have no use in daily life. By definition, because attacks of a violent nature are not, thankfully, a “daily” occurrence. The trouble is, emergencies are always unscheduled, so precautions are just sensible. We’re told that God created all men, but we’re also told that it was Sam Colt who made them equal. Whether you are a ninety pound waif or a three hundred pound bruiser, it only takes a few ounces of muscle to squeeze that trigger. “#4 Using hyperbole (“hysterical”) and pejoratives (“lefties”) doesn’t make it any easier … to engage in meaningful discussion.” –Maybe not, but it does make it more enjoyable for me. Besides, I thought “leftie” was descriptive, an obvious abbreviation for collectivist. But more fun and friendly, like “Greeniac” or “Losertarian.” Most hopplophobes are NOT hysterical, but hysteria is often exhibited in the presence of firearms. There is iconic footage of a burly cop shouting “GUN!” and tackling a little old lady because she was safely holding her pistol and pointing it toward the ground and threatening nobody with it. “[#5] Thank you for leaving your gun at home.” (correspondents EA & AM confer their approval on Back Fence’s comments, but significantly not on mine. That’ll show me!.) Knowing your feelings I would hesitate to bring any guns onto your turf, just as I would not smoke anything in a “smoke free” environment. And not to be toooooooo much of an [jerk] about it, while I respect your rules in your house, in the public school I’d prefer to suspect that there is a .38 tucked into the inside pocket of the “School Marshall’s” herringbone blazer. I know many teachers are averse to the notion, and they are excused. I may not have trusted Mister Math or Professor Sociology with guns, but I suspect that Doctor Agronomy or The Dragon Lady would have handled themselves just fine. (And thoroughly no disrespect intended, because I fucking LOVE MISTER MATH!) update 180225: Al Assassid (correspondent AM) responds, “[Y]ou say it yourself… there are those you would not trust with guns.” Correct, but I lean more toward due process than prior restraint. Those who are demonstrably dangerous and unbalanced SHOULD be disarmed, forcefully if necessary, but it’s going to have to be a rare and justifiable event to satisfy my sense of jurisprudence. Al Assassid goes on to posit a scenario in which Mister Math goes nuts and because I let him have all those guns he takes out the glee club. However, because Doctor Agronomy is also present and packing, he stops Mister Math’s rampage short, but not before a few stray slugs leave Doctor Agronomy’s piece and take out a couple of students in Home Ec. Summing up, Al Assassid says, “[Y]ou don’t get it both ways; you can’t have everyone armed and no innocent people dying.” “[T]here is nothing to prevent Mister Math and Professor Sociology from owning the biggest baddest gun arsenal anywhere except…“ their complete lack of interest in owning firearms. It’s not that I don’t trust their intentions, I just think they’d fumble the task. As for innocents in danger, it’s always very sad, and I always do the math. History has demonstrated the superior efficacy of decentralized networks over the top down hierarchy, and when seconds count the police are minutes away. And sometimes people do make terrible irreversible mistakes. In a union of some 320 millions, horrendous anomalies are going to arise and it’s up to the rest of us to be alert to danger. Overall, six fresh corpses (if it came to that) would be less tragic than seventeen. If we can’t count on Barney Fife pissing himself outside the back window, it’d be nice to know that the retired Ranger art teacher was holding iron. update 180226: Al Assassid reminds me that “it is really, really bad to kill or even harm anyone.” Oh but dear, karma is so tricky. If we have to use violence or threats of violence to disarm people, we are right back in that wheel. Judgment and vigilance and reason, oh my! I never pretended these were easy puzzles, just that in the real world we have to face some awful truths sometimes. I feel terribly for the victims of violence, INCLUDING the homeowner who shoots the intruder. I expect it must be horrid to live with that. But still… Don’t. Break. Into. My. House. update 180227: Al Assassid concedes that “it would start a war if the 2nd Amendment were repealed,” but ultimately hopes to “cheer a bunch of teenagers taking down the NRA. Peacefully, of course.” I respect Al Assassid’s peaceful tactics and benign intentions, but do not share her concerns about those wimps at the NRA. They’re the moderates on this issue. For serious victimization prevention advocacy, check out the Gun Owners of America ( https://www.gunowners.org/ ) or Jews for the Preservation of Firearms Ownership ( http://www.jpfo.org ).
update 180305: Correspondent TW (“Assault rifles are used to kill, period”) takes exception to the notion of “hysterical dread” and asserts that “gun violence” is a fact, but seems to forget that factuality and hysterical dread are not exclusive properties. It is a fact that falls from great heights can ALSO hurt acrophobes, hysterical dread notwithstanding. TW appeals to the authority of an anonymous vet who claims that “an assault rifle is for killing people,” casually insulting the legions of sport shooters and defenders of hearth and home who seem to have found good purposes for weapons other than homicide. Finally, TW asks, seemingly apropos of nothing, “Which government bureaucracy do we want to pay for — the one that determines who can own an assault rifle… or the one that bans assault rifles?” False dichotomies are as cheesy as straw men. Neither, please. TW continues not to get me. I want to reclaim these Responsibilities of the Unorganized Militia, not bleat for more government interference.
update 190913:correspondent AK calls for a “modern interpretation of [the] Second Amendment,” neglecting the fact that Eighteenth Century English is as precise today as the day it was written, and that it remains the responsibility of the Militia to be at least as well armed as the Occupation. As George Washington counseled, the Second Amendment is the teeth of the Constitution.
AK also complains that “nowhere does [the advocate for safety and freedom] state WHY he needs a gun.” Like do-gooders before him, AK demands detailed descriptions of freedom actually working before he’ll consider loosening restrictions. As for why I may have needed a gun (or a fire extinguisher, or car insurance), that may well be “essential information” AFTER the fact. Beforehand it is usually unknowable. The correct answer to “Why do you need a gun (or a flashlight, or a seat belt)?” is “I don’t know. I actually hope I DON’T, but if I do I’d sure hate to be without it.”
update to update 180224, 190924: In addition to clumsiness on my part I also suspect insincere nitpickery on the part of correspondent Back Fence.
One of the easiest ways of insulting people is to tell despicable lies about them or people dear to them. Mothers remain the gold standard of rich and rewarding targets. This is particularly effective against adolescents whose personal value is often predicated on the perceived value of their pack and most especially their blood kin. In short, “Diss my dog, diss me!”
This tactic is far less effective against the more emotionally stable (or “mature”) as broad insults to unknown third parties have less power in light of realizations that can range from “This idiot doesn’t know my Mom” to “’Bitch’? Really? Is that all you’ve got? You don’t know the half of this woman’s strength!”
If you’re really intent on insulting someone, the best way is to tell him something that he believes. But how to know what your target believes? Listen, watch, and learn.
People are often eager to tell you what they believe. Ignore this. As (fictional character) Greg House says, “Everybody lies.” Whether he meant it literally (as in “everybody”) or colloquially (as in “everybody, everybody else, most people, some people, few people, nobody, or just me”) it’s a fair warning. Sure, there are some careful analysts who can sift nuggets of truth out of mountains of lies, but most of us don’t have that kind of time. So if explication is not reliable, how can we tell what people believe?
Watch what people DO. Behavior is much more sincere than oratory, especially if money is involved. For example, recently Michelle and Barrack (Bubback Hussein Walker Bush 44) Obama gave us about twelve million good reasons to believe that they don’t take environmental hysteria seriously, nor particularly fear Miami’s, Micronesia’s, or Martha’s Vineyard’s being inundated by the rising sea. Here, again, “do” trumps “say.”
The other reliable way that people will tell you about their real feelings and standards and expectations is through their accusations. Just as with “everybody lying,” everybody also projects. We can hardly help it. Our natural assumption is to believe that everybody is like us. Liars will never believe you and thieves are convinced that you’re trying to rip them off.
It’s also why such a sweet guy as myself is the eternal chump.
Another way to insult people, albeit clumsily and often inadvertently, is to offer broad criticisms of popular stereotypes. Those who are eager to seize offense will assume, with certitude, that you mean them if they happen to match some superficial characteristics. Many others might reasonably infer insult if you have failed to adequately identify qualifying modifiers. Others may breeze by such qualifiers and assume that by “some” you mean “all.”
So be careful with stereotypes. Even if they are exaggerations, the middle-management martinet, the sedentary clerk, and the emotionally retarded tech type are still based on reality, and to the sufficiently tender, they’ll sting as badly as actual facts. (Caveat in re retarded techs: Insulting us is generally a lot safer. We often don’t even realize it’s happening.) As far as using stereotypes in general: If I’ve misspoken, I’m sorry. If you’ve misinferred, I’m sorry. On the other hand, as (fictional character) Chief Smitherman says, “If you think it’s an unfair stereotype, don’t live up to it.”
I am simply horrible at marketing so what do I know? But I think that David Nolanand his friends made a serious mistake in his living room in 1971 when they came up with the name “Libertarian Party.” I don’t mean to kvetch, I’m a big fan generally, and I’ve been voting Libertarian since 1976, but it’s been an uphill climb.
One of the reasons has to do with our name. I know, democrat or republican or soviet or parliamentary are all just procedural descriptions, whereas libertarian speaks to the very core of our philosophy. But it sounds weird. Sorry, but it just does. And it sounds too much like liberal, which is in undeservedly bad favor these days. People misread it as Librarian or Liberation or Libertine often, and many more conflate it with libertine. As a result, an embarrassed ex-rake like Tucker Carlson must now excoriate the “libertarians” who corrupted his youth as some sort of populist penance or purification ritual. Other reformed sybarites and iconoclasts have traveled that same arc from infatuation to regret. It’s also hard for many people to pronounce. I don’t know why, but I seem to mishear it a lot.
Democrat and Republican sound patriotic and American and solid and traditional. And so does Constitutionalist, but it has too many syllables. Republican is pushing it at four, and Libertarian has five. Constitution might pass, but that’s already taken. There is usually comity between members of the CP (that’s Connies, not Commies!) and the LP, so I shouldn‘t wish to jump their claim. For the most part I think they’re already on my side.
The first Federalist Party was not federalist at all, it was nationalist. In response, the actual federalists organized as the Democratic Republican Party. Of course, over time, the FP dissipated and the DRP downsized and their heirs re-aggregated as Repucrats and Demoblicans, but nationalists all. Which leaves the politically active federalists of today scattered across the landscape with some clusters among the Libertutionists and the Constitarians. The Constitution Party saved me from Bob Barr and I’ll always be grateful, but I returned for Gary Johnson’s double-header.
I think members of the CP and the LP and other interested parties should consider scrapping BOTH vehicles and organizing as The Federalist Party.
Federalist sounds American. It sounds solid and traditional and Patriotic. And it’s up for grabs!
Djolaantru! I bring you tidings of joy and entertainment, or tedium and redundancy, depending on whether I’m cluing you in or just now catching up.
I spent most of Thursday (9/12) binging on Auld Trek. I’ve been an ardent Trekkie since 1966 and have rarely been able to get my fill of all things Trek. I also have never objected to being called a “Trekkie.” Though some of the cognoscenti act like it’s a slur, I wear it proudly
Find “Star Trek Continues” on line. It isn’t “real” Auld Trek. It’s an elaborate non-profit fan-production that looks and sounds and feels just like the real thing. Once I got past the actors (the originals are all too old or too dead now) it felt like I’d stumbled across eleven lost episodes from the fourth or fifth season.
While it takes a little to get past the new faces, this company makes it easy. Crafting a sound-alike crew from a pool of accomplished vocal actors, Writer-Director-Producer-Star Vic Mignogna has assembled a spectacular sound-alike ensemble of bridge officers. Look-alike bonus Chris Doohan nails the old man’s franchise with his own stellar turn as Scotty. Additional kudos to polymath sensation Mignogna for his careful study of Bill Shatner’s body language and delivery. From the right angle, he IS Shatner. From other angles he’s Kirk Douglas or Rod Taylor, but from all angles he’s a handsome fella in his own right and a damn fine James T. Kirk!
Assiduously following the set designs and costumes and wild bouffant dos of the original, and piling on intelligent and thought provoking original scripts, makes it easy to believe that, “Popping Planetoids! It’s 1970 all over again but THIS time Star Trek is still on and it’s still great!”
This aptly named continuation seamlessly follows from the foundations laid down during the first three seasons, even tying up a few loose ends that Roddenberry et al had left dangling all these decades. And while it’s all new actors playing old friends, there are a few familiar pros (either on screen or voice-over) as well. Watch and/or listen for John de Lancie, Michael Dorn, Michael Forest, Erin Gray, and Marina Sirtis.
And fanboys gotta know, “Is it canon?” And serious fanboys understand that “canon” is in each fan’s head, where the worlds actually come to life. Federation Space is a BIG universe and only the tiniest fraction has ever been recorded. (Oh the adventures that Qinic, Romulan Renegade, has had, just running guns for the Maquis!) But yeah, it’s canon. The Great and Powerful Lethargy Lad says so, and Rod (son of Majel and Gene) Roddenberry says so too, and avers that his Dad would agree. It’s that good and that smart!
With just eleven episodes from Vic Mignogna and company, there is still plenty of room to fill out without crowding the last two seasons of that “five year mission” we were promised. Set phasers to “fun.”
update 211001, correspondent “STC” indirectly endorses this message and offers explicit thanks for these “kind words and support for [Star Trek Continues]” and also admonishes us to share this joy and to Live Long and Prosper!
If such an acclaimed linguist as John McWhorter can (not just tolerate, but) embrace “Ebonics” then I think the rest of you should have little trouble with my useful laziness, my joyous envy, my noble cowardice, or Ayn Rand’s selfish generosity. If ya’ll’ll bend a little on that, maybe I can start pretending that brown people are “black” and pink people are “white” and depressed homosexuals are “gay” and maybe even that happenstance is “privilege.”
Nah. It’s one thing to reduce reality to black and white distinctions, but to suggest that good luck or circumspect behavior or not matching suspect descriptions are “private laws” or “elite access” is to turn civil discourse on its head.
update 200602: correspondent CA acknowledges everyone’s right not to be assaulted, but points out that one group’s rights are regularly violated, whereas other groups seem not to be so harassed, thereby satisfying that part of the definition of “privilege” which states that it is “an immunity [that is] granted or available only to a particular person or group.”
CA wonders whether I would consider that to be “luck” rather than privilege. Yes, I call it luck. It happens from the outside and the recipient has no control over it. A privilege is defined and defended and exercised. Good luck happens to us.
And the right not to be attacked is violated for many races. Try being a skinny adolescent haole punk in Kalihi. Or Reginald Denny in Los Angeles. Because right-handedness is the condition of the majority you could just as well invent “right privilege.” Because some are blind, you could invent “sight privilege.” I confess that I feel lucky to be able to readily digest lactose, peanuts, and gluten, but none of that makes me “privileged” either.
introduction 190905: It’s a shame I’m such a spineless punk! I was never going to get these jobs anyway (so clear in retrospect) so I might just as well have been more honest during those tedious and ultimately pointless job interviews. I wouldn’t have lost any more than I did, and I might actually have gained a few more laughs along the way.
1) How do you get along with your team members? a) You mean “colleagues”? “Work mates”? “Fellow employees”? What’s a “team member”? Am I going to be on some kind of “team” playing some kind of “game”? I thought this was a job interview.
1.1) How do you get along with your fellow employees? a.1) If they’re not idiots, just fine. If they’re quiet idiots, just fine.
2) What’s your biggest weakness? b.1) I’m hyper-sensitive to stupid questions. b.2) My inability to sustain the pretense that people are not fools. b.3) A lack of self-reflection.
3) How are you today? c) Irritable and frustrated.
3.1) WHY?? c.1) Irritable because you’re already asking about things that have nothing to do with this job or my alleged qualifications. And obviously frustrated. I’m here looking for a job. It has to be that I don’t already have the one I WANT so I’m trying to find another. Not having what you want is the definition of frustration. Go ahead and check the dictionary if you like. I’ll wait.
4) Would you characterize yourself as a people person? d) Absolutely not. I’m not perky enough to be a people person. Besides which, people are just awful.
4.1) Uh… This is a people business, so… d.1) I’m sorry. I mean I love people. People are the best. I’m so perky I can barely stand it. People never lie, people never steal, people never show up late, and people never ask pointless annoying questions. Do I pass now?
5) Do you think you’re better than other people? ’Cause you’re not! e) At what? Without actual comparisons “better” has no meaning. I’m probably better at math and clearly more literate than most, but I’m also a pretty bad singer, so not as good as some others. Again, what’s your metric?
6) Do you think these smart ass answers help? f) Yes. In addition to being amusing they also provide a cathartic release of tension and anger without using actual violence. So yes — “smart ass” answers are a very good thing. However, if you don’t really care for them, try asking fewer stupid assed questions.
And for the sake of stubborn integrity (or foolish consistency), I should apologize to no one, except of course to my former arch nemeses and our spawn, who all had to endure the same crushing poverty as I. It’s tragic! I’m even too awkward and inept to get a job as an engineer, the very archetype of the socially retarded set!
19 February 2019 — The Old Red Con, the Green New Fail, and the Green Leap Forward are all too easy. They’re all good and they’re all apt, but Green Leap is best as it evokes Chairman Mao’s heroic efforts to centralize Chinese agriculture (modeled no doubt on Tovarishch Stalin’s Ukrainian Triumph) resulting in the deaths of tens of millions. In so doing, the Helmsman edged out Uncle Joe as America’s second favorite mass-murderer (“Honest” Abe stands second to none, even as his body count pales in comparison to such giants.)
24 February 2019 — Previous Kommissar Kasich said that he’d vetoed Ohio’s recent “heartbeat bill” because it “contradicts the Settled Law” of Roe v Wade. Maybe I missed it; did Komrade Kasich ever weigh in on the “settled law” of Dred Scott?
9 March 2019 –– Yeah, I Support the Troops. I’d rather not, but the alternative is prison. There’s a big chunk of support taken out of my every paycheck, and it is long past tiresome. I find it particularly annoying to still be supporting such filth as Robert Bales and Nidal Hassan. If it were all I ever had to pay again I’d cheerfully kick in for two last bullets. Although you can recycle rope, so I shouldn’t be so hasty.
11 March 2019 — Representative Tulsi Gabbard declines to parrot the party line that “Bashar al-Assad is a War Criminal.”: If MI-5 and ha Mossad could only persuade their underlings at Langley to convince El Donaldo that Assad is gassing villagers (“again”), just when it is least tactically helpful (again), and most strategically damaging (again), maybe he’ll murder more Syrian janitors (again). That’d show her!
16 March 2019 — Marching to a familiar drummer,correspondent DL (“Concealed carry… is frightening”) is taken in by the logical fallacy of the seen versus the unseen. It is certainly apt to consider what eventual consequences may follow Governor Blevins’ signing Kentucky’s new concealed carry measure. If some future Kentuckian misjudges or otherwise misbehaves and misuses a firearm it will be known, and DL’s misgivings will be vindicated. On the other hand, when a lone jogger elects to flash iron at would-be predators, we’re unlikely to hear about it. In many jurisdictions what she has done is illegal, so she’s probably not spreading the news. And the punks who decided that rape was not such a good idea after all? Cowards and punks and posers are uniformly disinclined to signal their true colors, so the good news goes unreported.
27 September 2019 — It is amusing to witness Jill Biden‘schanneling Monica Lewinsky as she reminds us that it is sometimes necessary to swallow in order to support our Democrat standard bearers.
3 September 2019 — “Agitators Of Conscience” Ocasio-Cortez and Presley, antiFA’s own Congress-minions, betray their hands when they encourage black clad thugs to assault Proud Bostonians who would otherwise peacefully celebrate their own particular peculiarities. Their eager and adulatory support for the bail fund has helped to mitigate the discomfort of about a dozen or so masked violent apparatchiks, and has helped to spread the word more widely that the leftist’s answer to cogent discourse is a coward’s sucker-punch. ( * Ever the peacemaker, I select “minion” over “man” or “woman” in deference to the left’s campaign AGAINST gender clarity. )
No more free samples, but even so, again with the address:
Hard copy is available, post paid from Greigh Area Associates or Piracy Press, for Fifteen United $tates Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” (U$LT) in check or money order, or Three Quarters of a Silver Dollar, in silver coin. Send your U$LT to Gene Greigh, c/o Greigh Area Associates // 401 Rio Concho Drive, Suite 105; San Angelo, Texas; 76903
or, if you’re a Kindler of means…
These comments are sponsored byThe Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead). The Confederate Mint serves a voluntary union of sovereigns who value hard money. For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face valueOne Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates, c/o Gene Greigh // 401 Rio Concho Drive, Suite 105; San Angelo, Texas; 76903
That’s all you get for the price of admission. If you want the rest of the story, hard copy is available, post paid from Greigh Area Associates or Piracy Press, for Fifteen United $tates Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” (U$LT) in check or money order, or Three Quarters of a Silver Dollar, in silver coin. Send your U$LT to Gene Greigh, c/o Greigh Area Associates // 401 Rio Concho Drive, Suite 105; San Angelo, Texas; 76903
I’m sorry. I know that was abrupt. But after the work I put into this I’m not about to give the whole thing away. I’m delighted to share, of course, but I’ve also developed a taste for groceries and electricity and leisure. And while I look forward to having tax victims supporting me soon, I still would like to indulge myself in a manner to which I have yet to become accustomed. So hurry! Write your checks or otherwise stuff those envelopes and send in your U$LT.
Business may be business, and I may be no good at it, but I’d still like to ease your withdrawal with just a few more tastes…
first, fromChapter VIII, “Panem et Circensis”
Team Sherman, The Confederate Mint™, Owensville
“Call Hygiene and get this cleaned up.” Lieutenant Ascik stepped out from the back room. “I’m not waiting for accounting. I need to start taking inventory now. And pictures! Lots of pictures! This is too rich! It’s not just guns and drugs and cash this time. They’ve got a mint back here! Literally! Hydraulic press, it looks like, and coin blanks, and piles of bullion! What’s his problem?” Ascik noticed that only one of his squad was still in the shopfront of The Confederate Mint™ while the other two were outside. One was kneeling over the gutter.
“Hygiene’s on their way.” Sergeant Tompkins looked out front and shook her head. “Gotta remember, LT, only seventy percent of us are combat vets. First time can be pretty rough.”
“Yeah.” Ascik nodded. “Yeah, sure. When he’s feeling better tell him… tell him he gets a gold star for puking outside. It stinks enough in here as it is. Anyway, I gotta call this in, tell Mr Tatum personally. We’ve just hit the mother lode AND uncovered a major nest of domestic terrorists! What do you say, Mr VanDerGroot, you got that safe combination for me yet?”
Barney sat still with his hands cuffed behind him. He looked down at the dead customers littering his lobby, then back up at Lieutenant Ascik. He said nothing.
“Well, just think on it some more.” Ascik snickered, then turned back to Tompkins. “When Rose is on his feet, have him and Voorhees drag these out to the street and start airing this place out. I can’t wait for Hygiene, I need to get started in the back.”
After he left her, Tompkins noticed that Rose was indeed standing again, with Voorhees patting him on the back. She stepped out to convey the LT’s orders.
She nodded to Barney as she exited, and he reflexively nodded back. He then chided himself for the courtesy, as he had just witnessed this woman and her companions walk into his shop and murder his clientele before he could reach his own piece. He chided himself for his courtesy, and he damned himself for his generosity in giving his aide the afternoon off. With another gun hand hidden in the back, maybe… No, thought Barney, that just would have gotten him killed too. With any luck he’s far away from this mess.
Barney sat and watched quietly as the Feds dragged out his customers and propped open the doors to vent the stench. Officer Voorhees stayed outside while Rose and Tompkins came back in to watch over the assets and to wait for Hygiene.
Rose meandered around the shop, gawking at the displays of old and rare coins. Finally, no longer able to resist temptation, he walked around the counter and pulled out a tray. “Geez! There’s gotta be millions in this shop, just sitting around and going to waste. Just so preppers can feel secure. Imagine all the people that could be helped by this money. This kind of hoarding is criminal.”
“Help yourself, boy.” Barney smiled at the boy’s shocked expression. Since the beginning of the operation, this old man hadn’t said a word. The shooting hadn’t lasted but for a few seconds, during which time the old geezer had moved maybe two feet before LT had his gun against his chest. He’d just sat, and never said a word. Until now. “Sure thing they’re not gonna let me have any of it.”
“Not yours to give, old man.”
“Was mine up until a few minutes ago, and I probably wouldn’t have given it to you then. But that was before you buccaneers boarded me sloop.” Barney smiled again, and squinted one eye, and snarled. “Arr! Matey! Load up yer kit with a few choice doubloons, why don’t ye? The Captain’ll nivver suspect a thing!”
Rose picked up one of the gold pieces from the tray and examined it closely. A bead of saliva formed at the corner of his lips.
“Don’t even think about it, Joe.” Officer Tompkins pointed to the security camera at the corner of the shop. “Ten bucks says that’s one of the Algorithm’s eyes by now. You try to palm that coin and Queen City’ll pop your collar faster than you can make a furtive gesture towards your waistband.”
“Ten bucks? Hah!” Barney laughed and snorted. “A hundred says it’s not! I never hooked it up. That’s just a dodge to fake out my insurance. Smith and Wesson are my security team. Go ahead, son, take it! What can it hurt?”
“And a fat lot of good they did you, too.” Lieutenant Ascik appeared suddenly from out of the back. Officer Rose returned the coin he was studying and slid the tray back under the counter. “Nice to hear you talking, Mr VanDerGroot. You ready to open that safe for us or are you going to make us cut it open? Seems like that would be a terrible waste of a perfectly good safe.”
Barney went back to not talking.
nothing for you fromChapter IX, “A Rabble in Arms”
but from Chapter X, “Live Fire Field Trip”
Trailervana
For as long as they’d lived on Binder Creek, the Langdons had always flown two matching flags every day. Fronting the street on a thirty-foot pole was one, and from the corner of their deck on the water flew its mate.
Sweet D loved the Confederate Cross just as much as he did the Stars and Stripes. During his time in the navy, the Rebel Rag was generally little more than an historical curiosity. Then, people rarely took notice of the tattoo on his left arm. If folks were polite about it, D could go on and on about vexillology and history and the Constitution and the Tenth Amendment. The few times anyone ever gave him any grief over it, he would see them — with the Nifty Fifty on his right, and raise them — both fists. They would invariably realize that he was not bluffing, and fold.
But Norma G did not play poker and she was not convinced that it was a good idea to put that flag over her house. Sweet D had no problems with skin color, but she still didn’t want the neighbors thinking they were racists anyway. However, after a year or so of his mixing them up with a multitude of other flags, including Soviet and Nazi flags (of all things, to commemorate “Space Holidays”) and getting little resistance over them, she stopped objecting. Like it ever did any good.
One sunny June 20th, long before the formation of the Binder Creek Security Association, Doc Broese had steeled his nerves to walk up from Paradise Canyon to point out to the hicks that they had missed Hitler’s birthday by two months.
“Oh!” D had laughed. “You mean my Swastika? That’s for Peenemun-Day!”
“Peene — what?”
“Peenemunde! First time Man put an artifact – the V2 missile — into space! That’s why von Braun was spared the war trials. You think I’d celebrate Hitler’s birthday? Lord have mercy! I’d sooner put up a pot leaf or a Charlie Chaplin flag on Four Twenty than anything for the little corporal!”
During the six days running up to Decoration Day (generally known outside the Langdon household as “Memorial Day”) they would proudly fly the Battle Flag of Lee the Abolitionist. On Decoration Day itself they would just as proudly switch to the Union Flag of Grant the Slave-Master and fly that one for seven days. But that wouldn’t be until Monday.
And that is seriously all you get.
You get nothing from Chapter XI, “It Takes a Pillage”
Or from Chapter XII, “The Greater Good”
I told ya, it ya wanna read the rest of it you’re gonna have ta pony up. It’s just a measly Fifteen Bucks, or just three Silver Quarters! Whatya got ta lose? The address is all the way at the top, or right here below!
These comments are sponsored byThe Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead). For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates, c/o Gene Greigh // 401 Rio Concho Drive, Suite 105; San Angelo, Texas; 76903
The statistical links between tobacco use and cancers had been well established, long before the birth of Dylan Huang or the conception of the Algorithm. As orthodoxy, it weighed heavily toward tax liability in the modern healthcare state. Given the authority over Orange Flags granted Recovery Officers, and the history of lung cancers in his family, Atari decided to exercise a little discretion.
Dylan’s flight continued to patrol the remains of the tent city. The hygiene patrol had mostly removed the remains of the initial assault, but the skeletal drone presence continued to watch for RFI tags. “Just like roaches in the laundry room. You’ll think you’ve cleaned ’em out, over and over again, but as you turn on the lights the next morning they’re scuttling back under the dryer. You think your zone is quiet? Check it again.”
As his birds reached the walls of Bruno Arena again, he put them back on autopilot for a slow lift and scan. He stole a glance over at Mr Tatum and Colonel Michaels and saw that they were busy with the Super Barrio Mothers. Juan and Jesus were squabbling over game points. Dylan plugged in his flashdrive and typed “[ctrl][alt]CRAB.” While his keyboard booped in complaint at the odd request, his processor nevertheless loaded and activated subroutine Crab. The bulk of his flight continued their tiresome circuit back over smoldering Katz Square while his chosen birds peeled off from the flock and started cruising up Siegel.
Colonel Michaels had thoroughly hectored them at the start of the afternoon. “The Red Flags and the Green Flags are pretty clear cut and we’ll leave them to the Algorithm and the officers in the field. Once we get into the secondary phase a lot more will rest on us. Remember gentlemen, and Miss Diamond, no one gets Capped for recovering Red Flags, and everybody gets Capped for collecting Green. As for Orange, what can I tell ya? Enrichment is not wanton destruction or thoughtless disposal. We get nothing by wasting resources. We also get nothing for dithering indecision, so keep your flocks moving over your zone and stay alert.
“Also, we have to think past the next Census, and after that, too. The Homeland Economic Recovery Office looks to the farther horizon. We want what’s best from this mess. Any Orange Flag fast, smart, or lucky enough to get past the perimeter of the Summary Zone gets transferred to Processing for a closer look. America has spent too many generations thwarting the wisdom of natural selection. Let’s tilt things back towards nature again, shall we? Bounties up and watch your Caps!”
So the afternoon went.
The Guthrie brothers squabbled over their personal rivalry but kept on producing for the Algorithm. Forest Donovan and Drew Seeger both cackled fiendishly. “Like the hillbillies they are,” thought Dylan. Atari was only partly correct. Pong was indeed from east Tennessee, a fact he celebrated. He also claimed to be a native of the “State of Franklin” and seemed delighted that no one else but Mr Tatum and Colonel Michaels seemed to know what he was talking about. (Yarrow recognized the reference from Sister Merle’s rants but elected not to be impressed.) Game Boy, though he had spent his adolescence in Connecticut, and evinced as much contempt for “hillbillies” as did Dylan, had been born in and spent most of his childhood in Alabama.
“Hey Jude,” said X-box when she’d returned from the washroom. She leaned back at her station and pushed her keyboard away. Subroutine Jude allowed the mic on her throat to pick up subvocal commands.
“Hello, Little Girl!” responded Jude.
“Subroutine ‘Three Scoops Rice’ please.”
“With their piggy wives?” Jude requested full authorization.
“Let it be.” Yarrow smiled, and her birds detached themselves from the charging station atop Bruno Arena. They began to patrol the milling crowds in Auldtown. Each drone broadcast a pilot signal that activated radio frequency identifiers, in civilians’ phones or bankcards, or implanted under their skin. When Three Scoops Rice picked up a ping, Jude checked HIPPA files (originally sold to protect patient privacy) to see if their Body Mass Indices met Her Majesty’s lethal criteria.
The QuikkStopp™ by the Interstate
The tables at Pastry Pat’s and Chik’n’n’Biskits were still crowded, though less so. Some of the remaining patrons continued to nibble at their meals, though many seemed to have lost their appetites.
Muted conversations drifted over to Chuck’s till, where he idled on his stool. No one dared approach the cordon of blue lights outside. The public could get their gasoline and cigarettes well outside the Zone. Since the general impoundment, captors and hostages alike helped themselves to the goods on the shelves. Sergeant Campigno had assigned a couple of subordinates to watch the cooler, though. Bad enough he might have to deal with a frightened panic. He didn’t need them liquored up and extra stupid, to boot. The beer was mainly embargoed, but also selectively used as inducement.
“Last of the hot chicken!” announced the officer, his arms laden with boxes from Chik’n’n’Biskits. “We’re shutting down the kitchen! What do you say, gents?”
Seated behind the till with Chuck Partridge, Dominic looked up from his pad and smiled at the man. “Sure, Mel! Set us up!” The man lay out a couple of paper plates, filled them, and continued spreading joy and hot chicken among the crew.
Dom reached forward and began gnawing on a chicken leg and continued to study his pad. It presently showed a schematic of the shop’s carwash, indicating flow patterns, standing room, and drainage capacity. “Four-inch drain is a problem,” he mumbled around his mouthful. He noticed that Partridge wasn’t eating. “Lose your appetite, Birdman? I don’t blame you. This is a pretty stressful – ”
“Christ no! It’s nothing like that.” He sneered at the plates. “I just can’t handle Chik’n’n’Biskits is all.”
“What? You mean all that ‘family values’ and ‘closed on Sundays’ stuff? You’re no leftie! Since when do you care about any of that?”
“Since never. I don’t mind they’re closed on Sundays. I don’t like working on my day off either. No, I don’t eat their crap because I don’t respect them, and I don’t trust them. I especially don’t trust them.”
Dominic was leaning over his plate and shoveling in coleslaw. He stopped and stared at Chuck. He looked at his plate. “Trust them? You think they — ?”
Chuck laughed. “No! No, it’s nothing like that, nothing intentional. It’s systemic. Idiots can’t spell simple seven letter words like ‘chicken’ and ‘biscuit’ — how am I supposed to trust them with eleven herbs and spices?”
Dominic guffawed, spewing half chewed chicken and coleslaw across the counter and lobby floor. After getting his choking laughter under control, Dom resumed eating and studying his pad. Presently, he stood and stretched, then beckoned to a couple of his men. “Mine about half a dozen deep orange flags outa that crowd for rendition work. Get… uh, get ten volunteers and trot ’em around the long way to the back. Pop the slowest two. Use them for training and inspiration. Tell the remaining eight that the fastest seven get to go home tonight.”
“Got it, Sarge!” The man moved toward the tables and invited those who wanted to live to join them for some messy work. After they’d collected their conscript workers, they marched them out the front and ran them around the building.
“Dang!” Dom sat down again next to Chuck. “I wish I could put you on that detail, Birdman, but just barely red is still red.”
“No Caps for Red Flags.” Chuck looked calmly into Dominic’s eyes.
“Doesn’t help, you bein’ all serene and shit, you know.”
“Sorry. I appreciate the hell out of it, Dom. Really I do.”
“Sure. What else, right? Still, it’d be nice to free up another slot on my DR list. Just in case, you know. You never know…”
“You never know.”
Team McClellan, Bobb’s Woods, by the Interstate
Kandi held her right hand out and moved her left to her belt buckle. “Toe of the holster snaps to my leg,” she said. “Don’t want to drop my piece in the dirt.”
“Alright. Slowly then. Just hold your buckle with your right hand and swing your left around, that’s it. Now ease it all down to the ground and step back.”
As Kandi complied, she continued talking. “You boys could get into a lot of trouble messing with the law. I’m sure we can sort this out without me getting all Barny Fife on ya’ll. This is all county forest, so I know I’m not trespassing. I don’t smell moonshine. And weed’s been legal for three years now, so if this is a grow operation, you’re a little behind the curve, bro.”
“Federal agents, ma’am.” Two men walked out of the forest above Kandi and skid-walked down to her side. One picked up her service revolver and began to unload it while the other stood back and watched. He keyed a switch on his vest and spoke again. “Team McClellan, this is Squad Busiek. We got what looks like a local LEO in custody along the Ridge Trail east of Binder.”
“Run a metric on him; let’s see what you got. Standing by.”
“Negative on the ‘him’ McClellan. This LEO’s a she, black female, young, healthy, Deputy Sheriff. Metric reads deep green. Kick her loose or bring her in?”
“Escort her downslope to the Interstate. Deliver her to Squad ‘Rhino’ for now. The Algorithm has identified several oath-keepers, constitutionalists, and other potential insurgents in your area. Be careful, no telling who might find you.”
Nicholson Center, Auldtown, Friday evening
It seemed like most of the trim, the hale, and tourists had been escorted out of Auldtown. Brian James sat and waited for the Officers to let him go. He fingered the scar on the back of his hand as he pondered his fate. The injection site had at first stung like hell, but that soon faded. The chip sat just under the dermis, its radio frequency response circuitry just waiting for a little flux to power it up.
When the whistle first went off that afternoon and the troops showed up and converged on the tent city sprawling out of Katz Square and seeping into the shadows of Bruno Arena, almost everybody in Auldtown cheered them on.
The cheering quickly turned to gasps of horror as incendiary drones buzzed the encampment and hazmat suited troops moved forward sweeping away campsites and campers alike with their flame throwers. The screaming and the crackling from the fire were soon drowned out by intermittent gunfire. The crowd stood in shocked silence when the troops finally crossed Siegel Boulevard and started separating and herding the residents of Auldtown.
As the officers checked IDs, Brian began to pick up on some of their comments about green, orange, and red flags. The Green Flags were treated like the One Percent, thought Brian, as the officers tended to speak to them politely and assisted them into the waiting cars. Orange flags (like Brian, apparently) were unknowns and questionable. They were hustled and moved and herded from one holding facility to the next as the Operation wore on and the Zone Perimeter was periodically tightened. Occasionally names were called out of the Orange herd, but for the most part they sat and waited while red flags were loaded onto buses which departed in the opposite direction of the cars carrying the Greens.
“Red Flags are Red Shirts,” Brian knew his Trek lore, “and red shirts are dead shirts.” He sat drumming his fingers on the tabletop in the food court in Nicholson Center, fidgeting through nicotine withdrawal, when the overhead lights came back on. As the whine of the generators abated, the incandescent floods winked out and the flickering fluorescents reasserted their authority.
“Power’s back up!” The HERO officer watching the crowd spoke softly into his collar. “Roger that.” He jumped onto the countertop. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to report that the first phase of the Recovery Operation is concluded, and most folks have been processed. Queen City – central operations – reports that we are way ahead of schedule and under budget so things should be looking up for most of us.” As he spoke the soft background music of the mall resumed and musical tones drifted up from the crowd as cell phones came back to life. “We still got a long way to go, so bear with us. New perimeters have been established and shelter-in-place has been lifted so ya’ll can go about what business ya can as the Op gets a little more casual. BUT,” he raised both his voice and his finger, “those perimeters are still fixed, and we have orders to shoot on sight anyone attempting to pass unescorted. So continue to give Homeland Officers your full cooperation. Bottom line, you’re all free to move about within the Zone, but passage out is still on a case by case basis.” He paused and grinned at the crowd. “More good news! Now that power and coms have been restored, concessions is back in business! Good luck, folks, and God Bless you all!”
The frustrated waiting Orange Flag crowd applauded the news vigorously. Many rose from their places and began to meander toward the exits. Recovery Officers checked IDs as the people left Nicholson Center into the cool evening air.
“Thank God! I am dying here!” Brian went directly to the concessions counter and said to the officer there, “Llama Llights™, please.”
“Lights?” The officer looked at the cigarette displays and back to Brian.
“I see Llama…”
Brian sighed. “Llama Bllue™.”
“ID please?”
Brian lay the back of his hand on the countertop scanner. As his chip entered the electromagnetic field, the flux activated the circuitry in the implanted grain and it sang out its electrical signature for the scanner, identifying both Brian and his intended buy. The scanner’s computer checked with Brian’s bank, and also with the central credit registry. Those computers dutifully reported Brian’s tobacco purchase to the computers at the departments of Homeland Security, Treasury, and Health and Human Services, who all eagerly shared their new datum with the Algorithm.
Subroutine Crab caught wind of it and scuttled back to share the news with Atari. Atari’s console pinged and an orange dot appeared on his screen.
“Gotcha, butthead!” Dylan took manual control of a bird and left the rest of the pack on auto, to hover over Katz or to cruise up Siegel. He turned his live bird back toward Nicholson and started hunting bounty.
The Upper Upper Valley (“Gay Springs”), Binder Creek
The oven went dark just as Michael was checking his roast. Chad was supposed to have been home by now. Why hadn’t he called? He must have gotten caught in holiday traffic. From Binder Creek to Leighsburg Staple & Spice shouldn’t take Chad anywhere near the Interstate. Unless he decided he wanted wine with dinner. The he’d have to leave their dry county and cut into Kupper at Toth. That would take him over the I but not onto it. Still, just approaching it could get one snarled up around the entries.
Michael picked up his phone and found it dead, too. He went around the house and flipped switches. As he headed downstairs to check the circuit breakers, he heard loud ringing in the wine cellar.
“Sweet D in the morning! What does he want?” Michael stepped into the cellar and flipped up the cover to the shouting tube that ran into the basement wall. “What do you say, Big D? You got the Greene House on the tube!”
“Mr Mike?” Darryl Anne’s frightened voice quavered out of the tube. “Big Daddy says they’re coming for us. The Feds!”
“Say again, sweetheart? Who’s coming?”
“The government, Mr Mike. Daddy says Baby D saw them kill Mr Howard and Red and they’re probably gonna work their way up the valley. You need to find out who’s home and tell ’em and then Daddy says meet him at Puck’s Notch.”
“This for realz, honeybunch?”
“Your phone dead, too, Mr Mike? The lights go out?”
“Tell Sweet D I’ll see who’s home up here. And then I’ll see him at Puck’s.”
The “Bat Cave” under the Langdon residence, Trailervana,
Seven years before passage of the HERO Act
Baby D had had no intention of frightening Miss Calculation. He and Larry G were involved in some squabble of their own. It was an enormously urgent yet utterly forgettable sibling dispute. While chasing his brother down the steps and under the deck and past the root cellar, Baby D stepped on the cat’s tail. Yowling and hissing, Callie dashed into the cellar and squirmed through the gap under the bricks. She just skirted the constant trickle and disappeared into the opening.
“D!” Larry G screamed at his brother. “You left the cellar door open!”
“You left it open!” answered Darryl Junior. “You better get the cat outa there or Big Daddy’s gonna kick your ass.”
“He’s gonna kick YOUR ass! He left YOU in charge, di’n’t he?”
“Then I’ll just kick YOUR ass now! How ‘bout that, huh?”
“Shut up! We gotta get ’er outa there.” Larry knelt over the tiny rill running from the wall and peered into the hole. He turned his head and looked up at Baby D. “Go get me a flashlight.” Then he put his face into the hole and began to call. “C’mon Callie! Miss Calculation! Callie Pot Pie! Nothin’ for kitties in there, just yuck and ick and wet! Come on, be a good kitty! Come on outa there!”
“Nothin’ for kitties but tasty bugs and lizards.”
Baby D handed him the flashlight. “Any sign of her?”
“I can’t see her. I can hear her complaining. You kick her or what?” Larry G squirmed on the ground and readjusted himself, placed the light just inside the hole and then pushed it a little aside. When he looked again he could see that things opened up a bit behind the wall. “It’s not so little in here, D, and – Oh, there ya are, puss. Come on, kitty. Shit!”
“What happened?”
He crawled back out and stood up. “Hole seems pretty big back there, looks like it goes back some. Cat run up into it and disappeared.”
“Let me see.” Baby D dropped to his knees and looked in. Then he reached in for the light, but fumbled it, and it rolled to the side. “Damn!”
“Now what?”
“Shut up. I dropped the light. Hang on.” He stretched into the hole. He had real hopes that Miss Calculation would eventually get hungry enough to come back out, but he feared it might not be before Sweet D and Norma G got home. As he strained to reach the flashlight his shoulder filled the opening. Willing his arm to grow, Baby D clenched his teeth and muttered Big Daddy’s and Colonel Daniels’ and Chief Pelican’s ripest curses under his breath and –
The brick wall gave way. Not much of it, but enough to release Baby D’s shoulder and to allow him to grab the flashlight before he realized that he was being rained on by bricks. He swore as he scrambled to his feet. “Oh, sweet shit for Christmas! Sweet D is gonna beat us black and bloody! We are so fucking fucked it’s not fucking funny!”
“How’s the flashlight?”
Baby D raised the light like a cudgel, then relaxed his arm and sighed. They both knelt before the hole again and looked in. “It’s not so bad, I guess. We just ‘fess up right away. That helps. And we gotta fix this, but…” D fingered the decaying mortar. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple hours work, and – hey!”
More mortar flaked down as G pulled more bricks out of the opening. “I think I can get through here now.” He squirmed in after his cat, turned around inside, and reached out. “Give me the light.”
“What are you doing? Don’t we already have a big enough problem to fix?”
“Big Daddy’s not gonna whoop us any extra for the bigger hole, and I’m going after Callie if I can. Gimme the light.”
Team Sherman, Moses Manor, Auldtown
When Thai’Rhone woke up he knew that it would be his lucky day. He’d been trying to get out of Moses Manor for as long as he’d lived there. Public housing may sound like a nice idea, but the neighborhood never quite lives up to the promise. Their little apartment was tight enough already when it was just him and his sister and her boyfriend. When the babies started arriving it became unbearable. He loved his sister, and he loved her babies, and he even loved her baby daddy. But he still had to get out.
Getting out involved money, though, and money, beyond his monthly UBI, meant a decent job. If things worked out, maybe he could finally get out of the Manor, and out of Auldtown, and maybe even out of the Redge altogether. If he really made it big, he thought he might like to help out Mush-El and Vickter and their kids. So Thai’Rhone hit the want ads and the internet and the street and he hustled and hunted. And hunted. And hunted.
Vickter and his peeps gave him no end of shit. “How you breave in dem pants? The man don’ give a shit you dress white! Why should you? Hang wif us, blood!”
“Ek-scuse-me-sirrr!” Antjuan would ape Thai’Rhone’s “honky” accent when he tried to reason with them, which only encouraged Thai to talk to them less.
Mush-El was great. She’d cut his dreads for him, despite Vickter’s insistence that he was selling out. She picked out his clothes and tried to keep the kids quiet when he studied, and even got into it with Vick a couple of times when he tried to bring his crew around the crib. It was rocky and arduous, but Thai persisted.
After months of work and research and preparation, this day was going to be special. Armed with his freshly minted coding certificate, he had aced the telephone interview and they had insisted that he come in Friday afternoon for the face to face. As he rose that morning, he only wished it could be nine-thirty instead of three thirty. It gave him the whole day to fidget. And prepare!
The folks at TeleMek™ couldn’t have been more delightful. Or more delighted with Thai’Rhone. They offered him an eye-popping salary, told him to have a great holiday weekend, and to report Tuesday morning sharp at nine. By the time his bus got back to Donenfeld and turned up toward the Manor he had decided to kick off the best weekend in history by taking Mush-El and Vickter (if he was around) and the kids out for dinner. But when the bus stopped in front of the Manor and he was met coming off by a cordon of angry policemen, and he was hustled into the courtyard with scores of his neighbors, his mood darkened.
Inside the vast inner courtyard, surrounded by the gray cinderblock towers of Moses Manor, Thai finally migrated to a corner near the strange new officers. He could hear one of them talking, though it seemed to be to no one in particular.
“That’s right, Mr Winter. We’ll send you the bus directly after the selections. Yes sir, already cleared it with the Colonel. That’s right. Yeah, the medicals have been cleared out and sent down to WheinGhust’s or KU Med already. Ah-huh. Yes sir, about three hundred left, all healthy tax eaters. Ha ha! Yes sir, we will! Ah-huh. Thirty-six seats on the bus. Do you mind if I ask you, sir? Those you can’t use…? Ah. I see. Out of the zone and out of reach. Well, sure, I guess that’s fair. Ah-huh. Oh yes sir, we will! We will! Frankly sir, this is gonna be more fun than collecting those inbred hillbillies at the TV studio. And probably even better for the gene pool, eh? Yes sir. Yes sir, of course. Thank you, sir, we will directly.”
While the man was talking to his ghost, Thai’Rhone recognized Vickter’s slouch across the courtyard. His back was toward Thai but he could be seen talking to his friends Antjuan and TrayVaughn. By the time Thai had reached them Vickter had turned and seen him. “Blood! They take ’em!”
“What!”
“Popo! They come in the crib an’ take Mush-El an’ the babies!”
“Taken? Where?”
“LISTEN UP!” A group of officers, led by the one Thai had heard talking to the unseen Mr Winter, moved into the center of the crowded courtyard. One of the officers plucked a man from the crowd, threw him to the ground and shot him in the head. Stunned, many of the crowd surged forward but the cadre formed a ring around their commander and his victim and shot a couple more of the group and everybody else stood down and carefully watched and listened to the men with the guns. As the shots still echoed off the concrete walls an officer spoke softly. “That was the first favor we’re going to do all of us today. Now I’m sure that everybody still standing believes that I mean it when I tell you that I am holding all of your lives in my hands right now. No questions? Excellent. In fact, I’m not gonna ask any questions either. I’m just gonna assume that every last one of you is determined to do just exactly what I tell ya.” He pointed to a line of his men standing alongside one edge of the courtyard. “I want you to line up in nine even rows in front of my guys over there, facing them. Now. Go!”
For the most part, the crowd hustled to follow their instructions. A few stubbornly and defiantly moseyed, strutted even, and found themselves at the ends of the lines. Thai ended up third from the front, with Vickter and Antjuan right behind him.
The officer in charge whispered to his aide for a moment, then muttered into his collar. “I said even!” Four of his men shot the last one or two in the ragged lines.
“Now that’s better!” He continued, smiling at the crowd. “Now we’ve just done ya’ll another favor. Every breath you take, your odds improve. Of course, honestly, it’s probably not much of an improvement. Those draggy assed slackers at the ends of the lines weren’t exactly your git ‘er done types, now were they? Whoops! I’m sorry! I said no more questions. Still every little bit helps.” He slapped his hands together and began to pace in front to the attentive crowd. “We’ve just thinned you down to exactly two hundred and eighty-eight. There are thirty-six seats on that bus, to take some of you out of the zone and into maybe a long and happy life. May you live happily ever after. Or maybe you’ll end up drunk passed out drowned in a ditch next year. That wouldn’t surprise me either. Anyway, it’s up to you. At least you’re getting a chance. Unlike…” He gestured to the corpses on the ground. Every dead body remained where it had dropped. “Now then, we’re gonna have a foot race, and in order to squeeze the good and bad luck out of this exercise, we’re gonna do this in nine heats. And we don’t want to be tripping over bodies, so we’re gonna have to clear the field. I want a few volunteers to drag your homies over to the breezeway.” He pointed to the arch under the tower leading out of the projects and onto Donenfeld.
Thai had put up his hand, as well as several others. He was not chosen but ended up not regretting it as all the volunteers were returned to the ranks. Like him, he was sure they had all hoped to curry favor with their captors. Notably, neither Vickter nor Antjuan had volunteered. They maintained their characteristic sullen slouches. As usual, the two small fingers of their right hands were each curled casually into waistband security grips just below their hips. Vickter had ridiculed Thai’Rhone’s button down collar and slacks and leather belt earlier that morning. Thai now reflected even more favorably on the notion of dressing like a grown-up.
The first few heats were organized, and Thai watched enviously as winners were seated on the bus, and solemnly as losers were led off. Early resisters were wounded and dragged painfully as an object lesson for others to cooperate. “There ARE fates worse than death,” pointed out the officer in charge, “but fortunately they also end in death, so there is that peace.” Four winners from each heat were seated, but sometimes losers were declared in advance of the finish line. Thai watched one competitor come up from behind another and slam his fist into the back of his head, dropping him to the ground. When it was clear to the nearest officer that he wasn’t getting up soon, he simply shot him where he lay.
Because they were near each other at the time of the announcement, and though generally sluggardly on their own, they were chastened by Thai’s energy. Antjuan and Vick ended up near enough him that they were all chosen for the same heat. Crouching at the starting line, and increasingly aware of both the stakes and the emerging rules of this game, Thai attempted to turn his peripheral vision up to eleven. How he wished he had changed out of these expensive dress shoes that he had worn on his (successful!) butt-kissing expedition, but at least the ground was dry. If he avoided the various blood spills on the ground.
The starting pistol cracked, and they commenced to run. Off to his right he caught a shadow of Vickter smacking another runner in the side of his head. Vick surged away as his victim staggered aside. From Thai’Rhone’s left, another shadow loomed. As he ducked, bouncing off his hands and back up into a sprint, a meaty arm swung wide over his head. He accelerated and looked around as much as he could afford. He didn’t have to be first, but… The field immediately around him was clear and he was making good time. He saw the first runner from his heat cross the line. From his right Vickter came cutting away from Antjuan, who went down in a tumble just short of Vick’s feet as he capered sideways in front of Thai. Thai and Vickter were closing in on the line when Thai caught sight of the second and third men crossing. Thai reached out and pulled at Vickter’s arm, breaking his grip on his waistband so that his trousers slipped and he tripped over himself just short of the line. Thai’Rhone hopped over him and landed safely on the other side.
Seated on the bus with the others, Thai said nothing and no one else did either. Except two at the front who seemed to be ranking and handicapping the players coming after them. Thai simply sat and struggled to not be sick. What would he say to Mush-El when he saw her? Would he ever see her again? He sighed and wept as he sat and no one else on the bus gave him any shit over it. Plenty of them were weeping too. He’d had no idea how lucky when it had started, but it WAS his lucky day. He almost wished it wasn’t.
