38) Saturday, February 15th: 4:00 PM – “Druglords in Smart Repose!”
In the Oval Office, President and First Spouse Rivers, Beavis,
Butt-head and FCC Chairman Yunis had been joined by
lobbyist Fred Faubourg and newly appointed Homeland
Security Czar Paul Gomez – a slight, thin, fellow, wringing his hands at the
prospect of domestic terror escalating into domestic insurrection. “I had intended
to make a statement in my first
term,” said the Chief Executive, “… to carry out a mandate for change; instead,
I am faced with… with this?”
“It’s just an unfortunate criminal outbreak, complicated by
local police overreaction,” Gomez tried to defuse the situation. “I shouldn’t be distracted by these…”
“These
uprisings?” the President intoned. “But
I am… distracted. Where is my base?” he thundered, referring to
and seizing authority over polling data that thirty eight point two percent of
Americans would vote to re-elect the gentleman whose office he’d usurped
despite the lunach, the history, the Nazis...
“They’re the ones doing the rioting,”
said Chairman Yunis, raising a finger to the ceiling…
as if to appeal to God or, perhaps, one of many surveillance devices ever
turning, ever recording. “So let’s make
this situation known for what it is.
Vern Cooth, our new manager… well, he has
proof that the entire controversy was generated by outside agitators. The sort ever waiting in dark shadows to
besmirch the credibility of authority… yours, your success… others,” he waved a
plump finger, beringed with the emblem of a secret
society as would’ve driven Millard Fillmore to gnashing his teeth… “no matter!”
The First
Daughter threw her two cents on the table.
“Well, and with all due respect, poor people who don’t have very much to
begin with hardly need outside agitators to become, well, agitated over losing their Superbowl
which, as I understand, will end up costing more than that awful boxing match
last year…”
“It’s not their Superbowl,
it’s just a commodity… like a car or a hotdog,” Faubourg
disputed… “available at a price, a reasonable price,
from the private sector. No more, and
nothing less…”
The Daughter
would not be swayed. “Unfortunately, it
seems to have taken on aspects of a ritual.
When we were students, at the University…”
“I’ll take this, thank you.
What… what we, as a nation, are,” the President declared with the
professorial air he sometimes assumed when dealing with incompetents, “is a
society somewhat evolved but not so different from that based on the classical
model, the Greek and Roman systems. With
necessary lines of stratification mitigated by bread and circuses… beauty
pageants and the such, and up…”
“If they can’t
afford the new media,” Faubourg grumbled before
President Rivers could cement the failure, “they can still listen to this
circus over their radios…”
Chairman Yunis exhaled pointedly, ensuring that the attention of the
whole room was where it should be – on him.
The hot-line kept ringing, impotently.
“1937 is on the line, they want their fireside chats back,” he sneered. “If you’re looking for someone to blame, the
Commission doesn’t entirely have clean hands on this. There was a skunk in the works…”
“Pardon?” frowned the Presidential Daughter.
“A snake at the
garden party. A
mole. One of our own… one of
those people, attached to our Research Division in Maryland,” Yunis explained. “A
holdover, Vern assures me, from the previous administration; fortunately, I
believe Paul has photographs from Nakonset Park…”
Gomez looked from
the President to the First Daughter, nodding and twitching....
“Blame it on
Obama! That might do it. And George Soros, or… if the polls
indicate... Elon Musk!”
The President
turned upwards towards the Eminences-in-training. “You’ve both been uncharacteristically quiet…
can you suggest a course of action?”
“Crack down…”
advised Beavis
“…don’t back
down…” was Butt-head’s immediate reply.
Both grinned and
slapped hands in a high-five,
¾ ¾ ¾
Tom Eppert was, perhaps, the first to
realize that Giga-Plex was going to encounter an
inventory crisis as severe, now, as the supply-chain woes and pandemic panic of
a year ago – hard times which most in occupancy in the likes of Purley and Dempster ruefully
acknowledged would be back, sooner or later, when a new, more lethal viral
variant swept up out of some Godforsaken African or Asian hellhole or if the
Russians invaded Latvia. The stolid
Mexicans swept up the remains of twelve Dominators and towers of less expensive
MHDTV sets in the stockroom rapidly diminished.
Pickup of large ticket items from the loading dock having been
militarized under the watchful gaze of Screaming Eagles… the customers were given
tickets at the register, then sent around the back to the loading dock where,
after gaining the attention of Craig Synch or one of the Mexicans, said tickets
were punched and exchanged for merchandise.
Because only Craig and Pablo (and, in the crush that began with the afternoon
commute, Marko Mosrovich) were capable of reading
English, inspection of the receipts was tedious and careful, requiring
production of photo IDs and, as the sun sank lower in the sky and freezing
drizzle permeated skin and bones, tempers flared and the line lengthened until
an angry man at its head wearing a black and red plaid jacket and earflaps,
disputed Craig’s challenge to his ID.
“Not again? I already showed ID at the register…”
Craig was tired
and wet and beginning to think that the job wasn’t worth it despite the promise
of overtime. Fuckin’ Taylor! “Then, since you already have it out, just
hand it over and thank you for shopping Giga-Plex…”
Like those
waiting behind him, Earflaps was plenty mad and ready to collect his full
measure of attention. “Already paid for
my set,” he said, with a belligerent glance at the Screaming Eagle patrolling
the dock, “don’t have to show no stinkin’ ID…”
“You don’t got ID, get off the property…” the security man answered,
massaging his nightstick.
“I got ID. An’ I got my rights…” said Earflaps, probably the wrong thing to say, as his
truculence brought shouts from those waiting behind.
“Just show the
man your license, asshole!” said the tall guy in the baseball cap, fourth in
line. “It’s cold out here…”
“Who you callin’ asshole, asshole…”
Earflaps stepped
out of line and threw a punch at the man he thought had disrespected him,
another fellow entirely… meanwhile, the third-in-line tried to push past second
and get Craig’s attention, inciting another fight. Since it was cold and wet and movement, of
any sort, greatly welcomed, Mall security, Giga-Plex
security, Screaming Eagles and a pair of local cops emerged from their vehicles
to break it up… the cop cuffing the man who’d been second in line and someone
else, a young black man, just standing by…
“Why me? I din’t do nothin’…” the bystander wailed
“You have the
right to remain silent, you know the drill…” said the officer, driving his club
into the fellow’s solar plexus. His
partner opened the back door to the cop car and the bystander was shoved in…
three private guards had jumped on the original complainant, Earflaps… berserk
now, waving his receipt…
“I gotta fuckin’ receipt. I got
rights! Got my fuckin’ receipt…”
“Lemme see that!” Craig said. The cuffed man gave Craig his ticket to a 42”
Panasonic LCD and Craig tore it in half, tore the halves in halves, tore the
wad a few more times and tossed it into the wind.
“Don’t see
no receipt…”
As the cops drove their prisoners away, still screaming, the two
Eagles manning the surveillance van trudged back, scattering a bunch of kids
who’d crept up on the dark side facing the One World Mall (Phase Two)
construction site…
“Hey get outta
here, you little bastards…” shouted one of the mercenaries.
His companion pointed: “Shit!”
Their jaunty,
intimidating logo on the far side of the vehicle had been defaced by the
addition of a spraypainted “B” to Eagles and the
outline of a dog, about three quarters complete… rather like Snoopy, but
stupider, and with bigger genitalia.
And, to make matters worse, Mark Tenison was
marching back through the loading dock, smiling cluelessly.
“Everything
alright back here?”
Craig Synch took
a deep breath. He figured the cameras on
the ceiling would record any facial gesture of exasperation, that Big Sonny’s
anal analysts could analyze and wondered… also… what would be so bad about
losing this job that paid barely over minimum?
“Hell no!” he finally said. “One
of the crew just clocked out and left… man, the motherfucker can curse. Didn’t even take off our vest,
probably send it back full of dynamite!
We’re also running way low on the cheap stuff… down to four Tungwas, all 27s.
The minis are gone, even those crap old Vrada
projection sets, got maybe half a dozen left.
A few Koreans… above 45, though, we’re OK. You gonna take the display models off the
floor?”
Tenison gave him the sort of pitying look reserved for
amputees and imbeciles. “That’s why I’m
the manager and you’re out here. Tell
‘em they got a choice… come back Tuesday afternoon after the truck gets in, or
the cheap bastards can go back into the store and exchange for something we
have… which, of course, will cost more…”
“What if they
want refunds? Send ‘em back?”
“No refunds,” the Manager wagged a finger. “Exchange only… Big Sonny himself called me
an hour ago. He’s had it with bums
takin’ home the merchandise and getting’ second thoughts after the game…”
Craig exhaled, really not caring if some dummy made a black mark
next to his name. “Taylor
comin’ back?
“No. He’s history. Which reminds me…”
They sauntered
back into the slightly warmer stockroom; Tenison
blowing his whistle and Craig motioning for the Mexicans to come inside…
outraged customers, intimidated by security, unable to do more than shout and
swear, shooting nervous, defiant glances at the Screaming Beagles. The Manager cupped his hands, shouting: “Man
on the crane. You, too!” to Tom Eppert,
up in the cab.
“There’s gonna be
overtime for anybody who wants it, and if you want to get paid… you’ll want the
overtime…”
Marko Mosrovich palmed his smoke as a sea of brown faces stared
back and Tenison threw his hands up in the air.
“Tiempo… tiempo… ah fuck, abuela de la tiempo. Much tiempo,
dinero… capisché?”
The Mexicans,
puzzled, begin asking questions of Pablo, who fired back an explanation, then
turned to the manager while the arrogant Hamish Khost
folded his arms…
“Hokay, but they want pay in cash, you know…”
“Fine, tell ‘em
fine,” Mark snapped. “They get paid off
at midnight, paga media en la noche…
you there…” he turned to Tom Eppert, “can you work to
close?”
“Do I get a discount on one of those?” Tom pointed to the four remaining
Mongolians. “And set it aside, now… I ain’t waitin’ for Tuesday…”
“Fine! Help me out here, an’ I can give you the
regular employee discount, not the temp.
If you could come back for a few days…”
“I got two weeks free…” Tom nodded, “seeing as that idiot’s
fired?”
“Fired. You wanna apply for
his job? It’s twelve-plus an hour, an’
benefits…”
“I gotta better job,” Tom shook his
head, briefly grateful to be sucking on the Federal teat, even if the union
reps were left-wing crybabies, “but I can fill in the rest of the month ‘til
you find a replacement. I’m on… uh…
vacation, a working vacation. Gotta work, you know?
So fifteen percent off five seventy eight’s a little under five hundred…
can I put somethin’ down on my check and the rest… three hundred…”
“Twenty a month
for eighteen months or fifteen for two years… that’s regular employee rate…”
“I’ll pay the
twenty… I got a regular job, not like some of these bums…”
“Business doin’ pleasure with you,
uh…”
“Tom. Tom Eppert…”
Tenison nodded and wrote “SOLD: Tom” on the back of a
flyer, taping it to one of the sets.
Craig and the foreign people had returned to the angry customers at the
loading dock; big Anjelika marching into the stockroom,
pointing to the Manager’s office…
“Mr. Sonny…” she
pointed
Mark closed the
door to his office, picked up the old-fashioned rotary phone he favoured, just out of spite against this unpleasant
century…
“How’s it hangin’, O great one?”
Anjelika stonily watched him
nod, mutter a few fawning OK’s and Yessirs… hang up
and head for the door, telling her: “BS is hung up in Reston. Says he’ll be here by nine, which means
nine-thirty… we got the balloons, soda and nickel hotdogs…”
“Those sausages vere laid out at
“Not my problem…”
the Manager scoffed, hurrying back onto the floor where Ray Wilson was coaxing
three corpulent customers who looked like Colombian druglords
or, maybe, Burmese generals from the Smart Clothing Shoppe towards the Appliantology furniture and appliance quadrangle.
“All 21 and up
model g-Shoes have global positioning that can be tracked on company or regular
police-issue scanners, so wherever you go, you know where you are…”
The most deferential
of the trio looked back to his companions, both of whom were strapped, locked
and loaded. Diplomats, the salesman
hoped, with permits and unlimited credit.
“You can use to track where other
people are, too?”
“Theoretically,”
Ray allowed. “Might be legal issues
involved…”
The El Supremo of the group smiled back, under his black,
reflective shades – a half-munched hotdog in either fist. “In our country, not a problem…”
“Gotcha!” Ray winked, figuring whatever country these creeps
came from was a place he didn’t want to visit – but also a location where
certain merch would be appreciated. “Those Kevlar vests, by the way, are fully
temperature-controlled... warm in January, cool in July,” (and then, discerning
that their puzzled grimaces were perhaps owing to a house of nativity south of
the Equator) added: “or the climatic settings can be adjusted with a simple
application.” Everybody smiled. “And they can pick up digital satellite
transmissions through no less than forty two providers through this little wire
running up through the collar that can hook up with earphones. Ask the Captain of our outside security…”
He pointed
towards Capps, busy chaining some poor goof to one of the stout, metal poles of
the Tech and Credit Tent, then steered his prey into Appliantology,
pointing down at a smart bed that cost almost as much as a Dominator.
“Now this… this
is a Moondreams.
Way better than Starry Night, even… you got full stereo, pop up
nineteen-inch set on… not the headboard, that opposite part of the bed… adjusts
temperature, vibrates on three stages… mild, moderate and ooh-la-la; even tells
you if you have any medical conditions… go ahead, try it out…”
The gamma goon,
catching reflective stares from the other two, lay down stiffly… as if
expecting some sort of ambush… Moondreams’
androgynous voice suggested…
“You have an
elevated blood pressure level and pheromones that suggest a chemical
anomaly. For a soothing massage, press
#52 or say “massage”, for a body temperature readout,
press #19 or say “print temperature”.
The other two druglords, or dictators, smiled and exchanged a few soft
words in their native tongue – Mark Tenison
proceeded, past them, through the massive selection of HDTV sets, Anjelika trailing.
The balloons, so festive during the morning and early afternoon, had
been defective - shriveling like big old condoms, lying everywhere or floating
aimlessly, knee-high, through the store.
Captain Capps was bending over another teenager cuffed to the credit
tent; when he stepped away, they saw a neatly lettered cardboard sign “THIEF”
hung ‘round the miscreant’s neck.
“I din’t do nothin’! I was gonna pay… I just forgot…”
“Fool!” Tenison opined, before turning
to Anjelika.
“You said that the compressor is busted?”
“It iss no longer functional,” agreed the big blonde. “There iss no way to
blow up more bahloons… except…”
And all three
smiled at their prisoner.
“Get another box
out of my office…” said the Manager, glancing over at the three druglords, now cuddling and cooing together on the smart
bed as Moondreams’ “ooh la la”
massage function vibrated them away to druglord
dreamland.
¾ ¾ ¾
When Kristi Chaine doled out the Upper
Midwest territory to David Lee… a patently obvious attempt to shield him from
the worst of the transition fallout… both had assumed that only a placid response to transition from
the stolid, stoical farmers, brewmasters and cheesemakers was in the offing… failing to take into
account their pure, unpasteurized rage at being cheated of an opportunity to
see the upstart, dumb-lucky, cancelled Redskins turned Football Team turned
Commanders (who’d shafted their beloved Pack) get their clocks cleaned in
Tampa, tomorrow evening.
Hanging up the
phone as Kristi hovered over him, worried now, he informed her: “That was
Marquette, Michigan. Three more
cellphone towers…”
“Pulled down or
bombed?” Kristi inquired.
“Bombed. Hey…” and
David spread his arms, suppressing a smile, “…lotsa
explosives up there. It’s mining and
militia territory. No arrests, of
course…”
“No communiqués
from self-styled patriots?”
“Not yet. But it just proves… again… that people who ain’t up to buying some new five-grand plasma replacement
aren’t rich, but aren’t stupid… they know about the connection to
cellphones. Probably a lot of them use
cells, themselves, those farmers…”
“They’re rich,”
Kristi shot him down. “Have you priced a
loaf of bread or a gallon of milk this year?
Besides, they should’ve been pleased to see the 700 frequencies
reallocated…”
“Not really. They’re convenient…” David allowed “…but,
mostly, the new generation of smart cellphones are used to keep track of
people, monitor and punish. Mothers keeping track of kids. Bosses keeping track of
workers. A lot of people use the
cells because they have to, not because they want to… and all that resentment
is part of what’s bubbling over; that and, well, they’re starting to trust
President Rivers to do the right thing on the... you know... but they still
loved Donald Trump, that poor old invalid...”
“So it’s not just that they’re missing out on the Superbowl…”
Kristi sneered.
“Well, that too…”
“Speaking of smartphones, Vern’s been following the Chairman’s
negotiations with Homeland Security and the President and keeping track of the riots in
“Are they rioting, again? Already?”
“They will
be. It’s in their genetic
configuration,” Kristi informed him, tapping a black lacquered fingernail on
his desk, “…all they need is somebody stirring the pot like that prick, Boris
Malone or that masked idiot, driving around the city in some old van,
broadcasting pirate tapes from AdvanceforwardAmerica
dot com. Oh… and Vern says he’s got
verified satellite confirmation that Trent Lockett has gone over to the dark
side…”
“That could be interpreted as a racist
remark,” David ventured.
“Shut up! Any moment now,
they’ll be drawing up Revised Patriot Act warrants… and need I say that any
misguided attempt to help a colleague would be viewed negatively… you wouldn’t happen to know where our
wayward colleague’s parked his ass, would you…”
David pointed to
his computer screen. “He’s not in
fuckin’ Minneapolis, if that’s what
you’re thinking about…”
¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾ ¾
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