| Subject: My book |
Author:
archangel
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Date Posted: 15:15:06 08/14/02 Wed
I think I told you a while ago that i was writing a book.
Here's where i am so far:
Introduction
September 11, 2001. A day which changed the fate of the world. It was the beginning of the decline. There was a fit of patriotism on the part of the plebes, followed by a fit of corruption and political machines by the government, which began to lose its mobility as nepotism become common practice and power was hoarded by a few embezzlers as opposed to a menagerie of intelligent plebeians. Corruption of freedom became so common that even the extensive amount of propaghanda let out by “PR firms” and “Private Sector Media” could not fool the plebeians. You can’t fool all the people all the time. And so, a set upper and lower class were established in a country that had previously only worked because of social mobility. There was no middle class of which to speak, although there were many wealthy plebeians. In a democracy, middle class is defined by political power and not wealth. This setup defied all previous rules of society, and was incredibly unstable. Without a threatening middle class opposition to keep the upper class humoring the lower, the power-hoarders begin to think that they can do anything they want with no retribution. They began to start lagging with propaghanda and the plebeians became more and more unsatisfied. A general disillusionment spread throughout the intelligent plebes, and rebellious factions began to split. This story is an example of mankind’s endless search for the ever-elusive utopias that defy their own greedy nature, and its inevitable failure to do so.
Part one: The suppression
Chapter 1: The beginning
1
Plebe lazily flipped through the channels.
“This is the weather channel. Today is January 15, 2007. The forecast is…”
“of a similar type in Boston and Detroit. These college riots are worrying citizens everywhere. Police chiefs have sai…”
“Stimpy I don’t think that’s such a good idea”
“I don’t think you heard me. This is a gun store, not a ballet concert…”
A pause
“Ren, what are you doing with that iron?”
“This is 20/20 with Barbara Walters. For those of you who haven’t been watching, today’s main story is the wave of political riots and protests in the last few weeks. Our sources say that this new militant group is called the Citizens Aware of their Government, or CAG for short. CAG is made up mostly of college students and professors, and is considered to be the brain of the collection of fringe groups known as the RFP, or Revolution Federation Party. RFP includes groups such as Greenpeace, the PLP (Progressive Labor Party of America), and various others. They have filed for candidacy in the next presidential election, and polls indicate that they will get a 4 or 5 percent vote.”
At this moment, Barbara Walters slapped on a stern expression and pushed her eirpiece against her graying hair. “Umm…this just in, ladies and gentlemen. A CAG protest has just turned into a riot in Ithaca, NY. CAG members from Cornell and Ithaca University have gathered and begun to loot the streets of downtown. Here is a live-video feed.” The studio vanished and was replaced by grainy pictures of massed college students yelling and shooting small firearms into the air.
Plebe, an Ithaca citizen, was now staring at the TV with a sharp look of disbelief. She put on her coat and stumbled out the door. She looked at her small, dilapidated 1 bedroom house and decided she could use some furnishings. She got in her car and drove into downtown. When she got out a hot wave smacked her face as structure fires blazed all around. She pushed through many hard-bodied college students and through a brick through an appliance store window. Hauling a TV out, she saw red and blue lights disrupting the yellow furnace of downtown Ithaca. Oh great! She thought It’s the fucking POPO. But black, cold fear struck her sweet young body when she saw tanks rolling along and casually crushing her ’95 Buick. “ALRIGHT, YOU CAG SCUM! WE’VE HAD IT!” blared the megaphones. “IF YOU DON’T CUT THIS SHIT RIGHT NOW, WE WILL MOW YOU DOWN LIKE LITTLE FUCKING ANTS! THIS IS NOT THE POLICE, THIS IS AN INTERNAL REVOLUTION! WE HAVE SHOT OUR TRAITOR CAPTAIN AND HAVE NO HESITATION TO KILL ALL OF YOU TOO!”
Oh my god Plebe thought their captain is CAG. They’re scared shitless. Things are starting to break down. The well-trained CAG rebels began to fire .38’s, .45’s, and even some heavy guns. “YOU LITTLE SHITS!” cried the megaphone announcer, now with a little hint of desperation “WE’RE NOT AFRAID TO KILL YOU! WE ARE STANDING FOR…” here he seemed to forget what they were standing for, with no captain to inform him “WE ARE STANDING FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS.” With that, gatling guns and rockets of all sort rained down upon the rebels, actually bathing the streets in warm blood. People shrieked “You can’t do this!” or “This isn’t right!” or just “AAAAAAAAA!”. Plebe felt hypnotized by the violence, and in some far off place a young woman carrying a looted TV was shot to death.
2
CAG Minuteman weaved through flipped cars and evading the flaming rubble which fell like brimstone summoned by a horse of the Apocolypse. The cracked asphalt provided an unsteady surface, and he stumbled several times in his mad dash from the chaotic battlefield that was once a college protest. Adrenaline glands in overdrive, he began to sprint recklessly over the battlefield. His foot caught a pothole, and after a terrified moment of “hangtime”, he collapsed on the ground with a hair-raising “crunch”. He howled like wolf caught in a hunter’s claw trap as excrutiating pain radiated from his lower leg. He was sure it was broken, and crawled into an alleyway to avoid the onrush of popo stormtroopers that he could no longer take on.
In his secluded little alleyway the world’s volume was turned down as bullets stopped wizzing by and the heat wave was off his back. As his adrenaline levels started to let up a bit, the pain in his leg grew and to keep the pain off he thought of his cause. He was fighting for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. He was fighting for liberte, egalite et fraternite. Only this time it wasn’t a lie. This time it wasn’t just the middle class hiring the lower class to become the upper class, all the time claiming that they were fighting for those things. This was real war. This war was over everything that a war could be over: Land, Booty, Class, Power, Dignity. He was fighting for the noble cause, not the greediocracy. And he knew that the good side was going to win because this was a case of pure evil against pure good, and the good side always wins. The war had barely begun, and others were still so naïve.
Chapter 2: the preparation
As Patriot flipped one of the hearty burgers over his grill, he basked in his triumph. He was a well-adjusted, normal person with a respectable tract house in the suburbs. And now this. This grill-up was not just a grill-up; it was a joyous celebratory barbecue. He had been voted “town’s best citizen” of 2009 for his ardent patriotism in this time in which patriotism was a rare commodity. So, he found himself cooking succulent grilled meats for the mayor of his town. His twin children whined, but with the help of a joint he completely forgot to scold them. The mayor, who loved children (probably a bit more than he should), lifted a child onto his knee and gave her a puff of stale marijuana. He put on a very simple expression and said, in the voice that adults use with young children when they’re not vexed with them, “pot was illegal when I was your age. Did you know that?” the child looked as if he had just said that dinosaurs still roamed the plains in his youth, but, to be polite, she just said “thas weird”. Jim cut in with some delicious hamburgers.
After about 10 minutes of no talk other than mumbling of how good the food was between fits of mastication, the mayor put on a serious face and sternly said “Patriot, shall we go into the parlor?”. Patriot’s face grew serious, mimicking the mayor’s. The joint seemed to have lost its effect.
As they entered the parlour, Patriot had that nostalgic longing that he always felt when he entered this dry vacuum of a room. This room had been his wife’s pride and joy before she died.
Back in 2000, Patriot’s life had been pretty good. He was a stockbroker, his wife a firewoman in hectic midtown manhattan. His wife was bearing children and Patriot was hauling in enough money to buy the kid a platinum crib if he wanted. Yeah, life was pretty good. But then, in September 2001, an unspeakable disaster struck. As downtown manhattan became a fiery furnace of chaos choked by thick oily smoke, his wife rushed in with no hesitation to save the innocent souls of the office workers in the world trade center. As the buildings collapsed, she was torn and cracked open before dying in a hail of steel, office supplies, and corpses.
Patriot dropped his life that day like some uninteresting toy. He took his worldly possessions and two infants to rural Pennsylvania and dedicated his life to the country that propagandha had convinced him his wife had died for. And now his chance to really aid this land of freedom had arisen. He grew anxious and full of meaning.
“Patriot” the mayor ordered, and Jim snapped to attention. “Patriot, I am sure that you are aware of the growing unrest that his been growing in this fine nation. People are turning rebellious. Luckily, we are far away from riot zones like Boston and Los Angeles. Still, the federal government has ordered every county to collect a group of dedicated patriots for the upcoming martia…unrest. Now Patriot, everybody is this whole damn county loves you because you strong as a bull, sharp as a whip, and vehemently patriotic. For those same reasons, I would like to offer you a position as captain of this county’s mega-SWAT team. I hope you are willing.”
This well-rehearsed speech brought tears to Patriot’s eyes. “Yes. Yes of course I will. Of course I will do what is right for my nation. I will give my life for freedom.”
This made the corrupt mayor fidget a little as his weak, worn down scruples cried and kicked inside of him.
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