MEMP’IS
BOOK ONE – “A LITTLE LESS
CONVERSATION”
(Tuesday, January 2, 2035)
When Norlin
returns to C-Squad, fending off curious glances from Sack and Ice, it's to muffled protests from Frank Desperate, whose mouth has been
taped again.
"He asked for it,
Corpse..." Eric justifies himself.
Sighing, Norlin
leaves the prisoner muzzled, calling up another com from the datalozenge spinning within its socket in his pleader,
reads aloud (over the King's "Burning Love", crackling over the
Departmental speakers) for the edification of his subordinates...
Dear
Mr. Chief Germany Smith:
I demand you persecute the FexMarket! Thomas Jefferson spoke out against tories disgracing administration, but the mogans and world jewry
still labor for the English crown!
Communism is retarched in Europe, did not
close down and put out of business the monarchist governments
comitted to tentation. The English Crown makes money off the piss
and shit of American working peons. I'm an American student of funding fathers,
smart men who grew food. Look to France,
Mr. Germany... every centsworth of every bodily fex the first step towards abstracted privates. Nearly everyone framed, nearly everybody
farmed… nearly Equally!
Affectionately...
Lola from Angola.
"Speakin'
of decadent Euros, reminds me to check how that hot new issue of diluted
Pompidou doo-doo's been doin'..." is Eric's
mercenary reply. The autocom
buzzes, Departmental Receptionist Amy on the line, and Ice activates it...
"Talk
to me, baybee..."
"Call
for Corporal Norlin... a Mister Percy Said. (whispering) Sounds foreign..."
"No
fex!" replies the sachem of C-Squad. "Rational?"
"Are
any of your call-ins? Do I give him the usual?"
"What
the k'ball, it's a brand new year. Send 'im
through."
While Norlin
has been sparring with Amy, Ice has been accessing the file on his caller and
whispers, loudly, now...
"Dog
man..."
"Norlin, here."
"Officer Norlin, my name is Percival Manfred Said; I... I've been
seeing odd things in my paper, over the past week, news about things that
haven't happened yet..."
"What?"
"You know... crimes,
obituaries, football? I read that
Raleigh and New Vegas would win their divisions even before the opening
kickoffs."
"Lucky you! Who
wins the AmericaBowl?
No... don't tell me, just say who covers the
spread?"
"You don't
understand. I receive only tomorrow's
news today... today's news yesterday, I mean... one day at a time..."
"In the Jatesville Journal?"
"That's
right, Officer Norlin."
"And
that affects the Trouble Factory... how?"
When flustered, Norlin falls back into the
imitated mannerisms of superiors.
"Because... because of
what I read in the papers this morning. There's going to be crime," the
caller predicts, "burglary in Blue City.
An infamous burglary..."
"There's
plenty of crime, every day, Mister... what was your name? Manfred?"
"Said. I said... there is no Mr. Manfred, only
myself. Said. Percival Manfred Said... it
is derived, if this matters to you, from Parsifal, a Teutonic Knight who rode
out after the Holy Grail but did not find it. I, on the other hand, was not in search of
anything beyond a recapitulation of world and local events, with prejudice,
but, when I charged my morning Journal, there it was! I mean, this was important. Is... going to be,
is! They put it in the breaking news box, front page. Very few details. The burglary was going to take place tonight...
late..."
"Was...
or is?"
"That
depends on what your definition of 'is'
is."
Seeing Homer befuddled, Norlin translates... "Old joke, from before the k'ball..."
"I
don't know," Norlin's caller admits. "I'm sorry... I've seen things that,
well, I thought the police ought to know."
"But
not the name of the victim, or the burglar, Mister... who said? Not even when this burglary is going to take
place?"
"Said, Officer.
Percival Manfred Said. I'm
sorry..."
"Yeah, well, sorry
don't cut the J-bar. Look, if you see...
read about something we can use, call back.
Otherwise, well... do the math.
Make yourself some money on this... enlarge
your property..."
"It's
not about money, Officer!"
"It's not about
anything, from what you've given me.
Thank you for your contribution. Health, Security and Property, citizen."
Norlin
leans over Ice and kills the autocom...
"That
was cold, Corp'ral.
You know that Clive and his
boys are listening in..."
"Nothing
I said can be construed as a breach of Compliance..."
Ice glances upwards to one
of the Wire Department's surveillance cameras mounted on the ceiling,
smirking...
"Hey...
Ray... Corpse been kebbin' wit' a
he-she! Know what his initials
stand for?"
"Compliance
knows!"
"Pee-em-ess!
Least you could've asked about tomorrow's futures. Speakin' of rags, I
gotta bid in on an eighth-share, genuine Tori Spelling diaper, certified... three-eighty a
pop."
"You oughta spend less time on your fex
collection and more on the job." He
points to the uncleared casefiles,
piled up on Ice's desk. "Clean up a
few of those moldy oldies, take a hint from Homer."
"I
ain't followin' Homes anywhere!"
Frank Desperate, struggling
and grunting, has managed to wedge the refrigerator door open and swaying
outwards, causing the shaft of weak light to widen and narrow again... Norlin glances at the fresh bruises over one eye and the
drool of blood down his chin, then turns back to Ice.
"Speaking of
Compliance, Clive'll fex
his trousers if he comes back and sees you've been abusing prisoners, again,
especially in ways as leave marks where marks can be seen..."
"Wasn't me,
Corp'ral... blame Homes, there..."
"He made a defamatory
statement about Triple-J, sir... milk is
more addictive than caffa.”
“It's the denial factor..." Eric mimics.
"Maybe
your goin' solar on us ain't
such a bad idea, after all!" Norlin says,
tugging his Departmental charge cube for the Jatesville
Journal out from under a pile of correspondence - mostly pale, green files. Tiny insects scatter. There's fex on EastAmerica - WestAmerica relations,
the implications of Jatesday upcoming, last-minute
negotiations changing the calendar to forty nine-day weeks, but nothing on the
front page breaking newsbox about any burglary.
"Just
for that," Norlin returns to scolding Homer,
"Eric gets to go out with me and some outside dook
loaner on a home visit..."
"Who's
the psycho, this time?" Ice asks, more aggrieved than gratified at this
chance to get out of the Trouble Factory's sub-sub-basement.
"Terushka
Batter. Solar Furnace
cutoff? That retired actress
with, like... thirty husbands, except they're all the same - duplicates of
Colonel Batter, who divorced her more than a decade ago..."
"K'ballin' clones!"
"She says they ain't
clones. They're more like..." Norlin searches for the right word, "like, well, substitutes. Other people, made up by the duplicators to
resemble her Colonel." He
shrugs. "And citizens always got
the right..."
"... to be treated with
the dignity and respect afforded under the American and Baratarian
Constitutions, entitled to Health, Security and Property under provision blah,
section blah blah of the Compliance Order of twenty
blah... whole kebbin' fex,
'til we make 'em strip down to their ugly old bones and milk their bladders for
Skark. Norlin..."
"What now, Eric?"
"I ain't
takin' specimens from no Terushka Batter. Crazy old hen! Even the thought
of her grizzled monkey makes me puke... I'll be off my own performance a
week, after that..."
"Regulations, Eric! All
persons filing complaints that result in Home Visits must undergo urinalysis, fecanalysis and hair-sampling to preclude the influence of
narcotics, alcohol, tobacco, caffeine, dairy, sugar or any other kebbin' illegal substances on their testimony, as must
victims, suspected perpetrators of and witnesses to alleged criminal
activities..."
"Well, let's just not
piss-test Terushka and say we did..."
"We can't do
that..."
"Alright, let's make her drop her grannie-panties,
fill a cup and then put a few drops of caffa in it;
tell Skark we think she found a teabag, somewhere,
old people do hoard their Earl Grey. Got
all hopped-up on caffa... or what's that keb in tea... then decided to have a little fun with the
cops. Gets six months... or, no, we
don't test her, but come back after the twentieth and say she refused, that'll
bag her a year!"
One of Germany Smith's
uniforms from the morning's meeting enters without knocking, but too late to
hear particulars of Eric's conspiracy.
He frowns at Frank Desperate.
"Just wanted to warn
you that a group's on its way down the hall... thought the Chief said to do something about him!" Sensing deliverance... or, maybe, just
another opportunity to make trouble, Frank grunts, enthusiastically.
"We did. He's a dangerous, deranged person... any
kids?"
"Basilisk
Middle, second form.
'Bout half..." And, being
there... and the refrigerator door swaying open, he scans the paper bags in the
fridge, reaches out and snatches one with just the slightest hesitation as
hints, broadly, that the contents are not his property.
"Want him spoutin' off in front of kids, get
us a verbal harassment or obscenity ticket?" Norlin
ventures, and Smith's man frowns, weighing the suspect parcel in his hand. "He's a bad square... kebbit, that's why we're kebbin'
C-Squad!"
"Right, Corporal... uh,
I'll let the Chief know. Use your best
judgment... I'd consider closing the fridge more securely, though, abuse of
Departmental property. An' takin' advantage of the body blows in the future... nuts,
kidneys, don't show... doesn't scare the civilians. Just wanted to warn you..."
"We'll be ready."
The snitch leaves with his
plunder after a few more seconds of hemming and hawing, and Ice slams a file on
his desk - it shudders ominously, startling a couple more bugs who scuttle away under a larger pile of papers.
"K'ball
it!... how's a cop supposed to get any work done with these tour groups, school
groups and reef always comin' through?"
"They pay our bills, Eric," Homer reminds
him. "You want to see what your
paycheck would look like without the revenues that the tourists
contribute? Look busy!"
The autocom
buzzes and Homer Sack picks up, almost before he can identify himself and flip
the speaker button, an old man's speedy voice begins rattling off random words
and phrases...
"Teef',
arm, leg, eyeball, hair... after the k'ball,
doctrinal clockwise swirl in drains swirled in opposite directions. Symbowels stand
still, yet move in colours and Jatesian
forms..."
"Special intelligence...
C-Squad," Homer recites.
"...all of which strive
to capture the spit on the altar. You takin' this down? Clockwise swirl in coloured
drains..."
"All conversations and
communications are recorded," Homer assures him, "to ensure
Compliance with such regulations as ensure all citizens of Jatesland
are treated with respect and dignity congruent to the principles of Health,
Security... hold on, there's kids outside, I'm taking this private..."
"Awww!" leaks from Eric, like gas from a balloon. Then, there's a sharp knock on the door, Norlin... sweeping his hair back with both hands... opens
it to a tour group of about twenty startled souls. Half are bouncy twelve and
thirteen-year-olds, the rest seem to be tourists from East and WestAmerica in bright, overstuffed winter dress. Their
facilitator, Francine Morrison, is attractive in a severe, schoolmatronly
way... dark suit, short, dark hair, more sensible shoes. As she sweeps by, she rewards Norlin with a professional nod, and just the trace of a
smile.
"Quickly now, step this
way... wouldn't due to linger in these corridors, vicious criminals lurk behind
some of those doors," she teases her juvenile charges. "But, in the magnanimity of Jatesland justice, even the most heinous murderers or
depraved Lifestyle Criminals are protected from official abuse by the
Compliance Doctrine - all citizen
complaints, no matter how fantastic or frivolous, are received and uh…” she
stammers at the sight of Frank’s mottled face and drab, gray gag,
“…recorded. Even if no investigation
takes place, a file is opened here and allegations retained upon Permanent
Records... this is Corporal Norlin, and Officers Ice
and Sack. Corporal, isn't it so that
citizen call-ins, no matter how uh... exotic... often result in arrests and
prosecutions..."
"Absolutely,
Francine." Norlin, having greeted the tour group with a wave he'd
glommed off a PV host from one Saturday cartoon morning, with Jody, thrusts his
thumbs into a wholly imaginary waistcoat.
"Why... just the other day!... a retired
military officer was sanctioned for referring to an Afro-Baratarian
as a 'cotton-pickin' liar'... this, of course, being
an implied ethnic slur. Machines, not
human beings of color, pick cotton, now, over there in Mongolia where the
shirts come from. And, it was a citizen
call-in to C-Squad that resulted in the confiscation of antique Spuds McKenzie
toys from the Chinese Market... which some of you old-timers might recognize as
artifacts illegally glorifying beer.
"Affectionate
gladiator particles, right sir," Homer winds up his call, "...
Health, Pros... 'keb!... sorry..." and he glares at a fidgety girl in
pigtails in a manner hinting that he's not
sorry. "Alcohol, as Dr. Turner
proved conclusively on tests using prisoners a half-century ago," he
chooses to reinforce his Corporal, "being a proven enabling agent of
homosexuality..."
"What about Police
Serum?" the moppet talks back.
"My father says that prisons
cause homosexuality..."
"Triple-J would teach
otherwise," Homer rallies. "We
are charged to keep our bodies pure as temples, towards that day when all souls
will ascend to Universality... yes, uh... " (reading
the nametag on the shirt of a squirming, fat-cheeked boy, pointing to Frank)
"Billy?"
"Why
is that beat-up man crucified to the
refrigerator? Did he make a bomb to blow
people up, like Bobby did, or did he think about beer?"
Norlin
leans down to make eye contact with the kid.
"He's the most
dangerous lifestyle criminal imaginable, Billy... it's
Billy Frokes, from Basilisk, isn't it... accused of
providing contraband to children and adults, alike. Not drugs, though, not caffeine or sugar, not
even unlawful sexual paraphernalia... do you know why we have strict laws here,
in Barataria, about the sort of glass people can put
in their windows and mirrors or into their eyes?"
He
straightens, satisfied that most of the young people seem puzzled, and a few of
the old-timers have recoiled with apprehensions, howsoever vaguely
comprehended.
"Yes, sir... " Billy gives
the facilitator a frightened glance, then... a sort of switch having gone on in
his brain... begins reciting, by rote: "Mister Jates
teaches that abnormal glass is ab... an abdominal
window into that Otherness that is the enemy of Substance. But, if Mr. Jates
was so keen on substance, why is that... when they took my stepfather away...
they said it was for substance abuse?
"Because the law is
all-wise, and all-powerful," Francine steps in, preliminary to hustling
the visitors out. "Now, because most LCs are out doing their community
service, who'd like to see the inside of real jail cells?"
She smiles, weakly, at Norlin as the children cry out, in unison...
"Me! Me! Me!"
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