- Sagebrush
- Feb 26, 2012
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here are the three i'm thinking of
quote:King Hussein Obama I, flanked by his bodyguards, stepped out of his blinged Limoscalade and marched up the gold-lined marble steps of Washington Palace. It should have been a glorious day, yet under his heavy yet exquisite crown of carved human fetus-ivory his brow was ridged deeply as he silently brooded. Still, his posse, boomboxes on their shoulders, dance-walked up the steps, chains and gats jangling over the din as they grabbed their crotches.
As his trusted associates T-Von and Mook-Mook the Bushman pushed open the grand organic farm-grown cruelty-free redwood doors paid for by his 95% tax rate, he stepped into the antechamber of the gold-domed palace. Outside, ShariaVentalism reigned, but in here his word was law, and all his white teen sex slaves cowered before his glare more than even the hemp whips of their latte-drinking tweeded atheist masters.
He walked down the hallway toward his office and a prisoner in chains passed before him, lead by two turban-wearing Mexicans. He spotted the King and began shouting curses.
“You loving fascist! I knew it! I knew it! I told them, but they wouldn’t listen, that your health care platform was a slippery slope to all this! You won’t get away with this! The will of the Free Market will not be denied!”
“Seelenceo een the prezence of the Keeng, preesoner!”
King Obama spotted a chance to improve his ill mood.
“Bring him here. Good. Give me his file.” The king looked over the prisoner’s dossier. A long list of crimes against the state, and a repeat offender.
“You’ll never get away with this! Never!”
“Hush now, Mr. Jack. We have ways of dealing with unruly sorts such as yourself.”
“Praise be to Allah, seenyor.”
“Peh! I spit at your torture! The Free Market gives me strength!”
“Oh, no, not anything as gauche as torture.”
The King grabbed a syringe from the outstretched hand of one of his nearby breakdancing bodyguards, and plunged it into the man’s helpless neck.
“Now you are immune to rubella.”
Kyle’s lingering, echoing screams of tormented horror brought a slight smile like a crack in Obama’s stony brown face as he walked into his lavish velvet-lined office and shut the door behind him. He motioned for his bodyguards to leave the room, and he addressed the giant screens hanging over his desk.
“Screen one on. Connect to Emperor bin Laden of Eurabia. Screen two: Hugo Chavez of the U.S.S.A.R.. Screen three: The High Elder of Zion.”
The three figures appeared live via satelite.
“Gentlemen,” began Obama darkly, “it’s time to have…a conversation.”
quote:I was shooting heroin and reading “The Fountainhead” in the front seat of my privately owned police cruiser when a call came in. I put a quarter in the radio to activate it. It was the chief.
“Bad news, detective. We got a situation.”
“What? Is the mayor trying to ban trans fats again?”
“Worse. Somebody just stole four hundred and forty-seven million dollars’ worth of bitcoins.”
The heroin needle practically fell out of my arm. “What kind of monster would do something like that? Bitcoins are the ultimate currency: virtual, anonymous, stateless. They represent true economic freedom, not subject to arbitrary manipulation by any government. Do we have any leads?”
“Not yet. But mark my words: we’re going to figure out who did this and we’re going to take them down … provided someone pays us a fair market rate to do so.”
“Easy, chief,” I said. “Any rate the market offers is, by definition, fair.”
He laughed. “That’s why you’re the best I got, Lisowski. Now you get out there and find those bitcoins.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m on it.”
I put a quarter in the siren. Ten minutes later, I was on the scene. It was a normal office building, strangled on all sides by public sidewalks. I hopped over them and went inside.
“Home Depot™ Presents the Police!®” I said, flashing my badge and my gun and a small picture of Ron Paul. “Nobody move unless you want to!” They didn’t.
“Now, which one of you punks is going to pay me to investigate this crime?” No one spoke up.
“Come on,” I said. “Don’t you all understand that the protection of private property is the foundation of all personal liberty?”
It didn’t seem like they did.
“Seriously, guys. Without a strong economic motivator, I’m just going to stand here and not solve this case. Cash is fine, but I prefer being paid in gold bullion or autographed Penn Jillette posters.”
Nothing. These people were stonewalling me. It almost seemed like they didn’t care that a fortune in computer money invented to buy drugs was missing.
I figured I could wait them out. I lit several cigarettes indoors. A pregnant lady coughed, and I told her that secondhand smoke is a myth. Just then, a man in glasses made a break for it.
“Subway™ Eat Fresh and Freeze, Scumbag!®” I yelled.
Too late. He was already out the front door. I went after him.
“Stop right there!” I yelled as I ran. He was faster than me because I always try to avoid stepping on public sidewalks. Our country needs a private-sidewalk voucher system, but, thanks to the incestuous interplay between our corrupt federal government and the public-sidewalk lobby, it will never happen.
I was losing him. “Listen, I’ll pay you to stop!” I yelled. “What would you consider an appropriate price point for stopping? I’ll offer you a thirteenth of an ounce of gold and a gently worn ‘Bob Barr ‘08’ extra-large long-sleeved men’s T-shirt!”
He turned. In his hand was a revolver that the Constitution said he had every right to own. He fired at me and missed. I pulled my own gun, put a quarter in it, and fired back. The bullet lodged in a U.S.P.S. mailbox less than a foot from his head. I shot the mailbox again, on purpose.
“All right, all right!” the man yelled, throwing down his weapon. “I give up, cop! I confess: I took the bitcoins.”
“Why’d you do it?” I asked, as I slapped a pair of Oikos™ Greek Yogurt Presents Handcuffs® on the guy.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Afraid of an economic future free from the pernicious meddling of central bankers,” he said. “I’m a central banker.”
I wanted to coldcock the guy. Years ago, a central banker killed my partner. Instead, I shook my head.
“Let this be a message to all your central-banker friends out on the street,” I said. “No matter how many bitcoins you steal, you’ll never take away the dream of an open society based on the principles of personal and economic freedom.”
He nodded, because he knew I was right. Then he swiped his credit card to pay me for arresting him.
quote:i sat in my living room sipping my cup of chicory and looking out my window and pondering my choices. overhead flocks of ghang gliders soared through the soot, taking advantage of the unregulated skies to make their morning commute. i shifted, somewhat uncomfrtable. i needed to make a decision soon, before my neighbor rumbled out of his driveway in his abrams tank and the vibrations from the tearing of pavement made the decision for me
i read through the billboards on the sidewalk again. joe's sewage: faster than anyone! poo poo-b-gon [as i read the name i silently thanked z0r for the death of the nannu state and the freedom to curse in public]: no clogs! there were five others that i passed over, but i knew, that morning, i was a poo poo-b-gon man. i trotted outside and grabbed the sewage hose that sat dribbling on my lawn. where was the nearest linkup station? i jogged down the street, briefly warming my face on the fire from my neighbor's house, before i tripped on a stray corpse and fell face first onto the sidewalk. as i pushed myself up and wiped the blood [not mine ] from my hands, i saw the linkup station. after paying my thirty dollar day-fee [a small price to pay for fredom] and jogging the mile back to my house, i was soon happily doing my business. like a free man
i jammed my foot on the gas and grinned as my engine roared. it was free of catalytic converters and other emasculating controls, and at last, was the robust and mighty machine i had always known it could be. i flipped my sunglasses open and jammed them over my eyes and my butt of black smoke behind me was witness to the power of my works. ther umble of gravel beneath me was like glorious harmony to the howl of the engine. for nearly fifteen seconds i was grinning like a maniac as the car jolted and crunched down the crumbling street. of course , i had to slow and toss my tiny cube of gold into the toll box, and wait for my neighbor to wave me past, but soon i was back to full speed, living life as free as the birds used to do before we shot them all.
i downshifted into third as i caught side of an unfamiliar barricade ahead. smoke rose in a plume behind the stacked wood and bodies. as i came to a stop a man with a cigar gritted in his teeth and a shirt soaked red and cracked sunglasses waved me to roll down my window.
"what seems to be the problem?"
"new repairs on this stretch. going to need double tolls till weve got it fixed"
i grimaced as i searched around my glove box for an extra cube. at this rate id never make the public hanging...
i run into the center of bear-baiting ring. my stomach churns as i face the beast. howls and cries from the crowd wash over me like hypodermic needles at the beach. i feint left b ut as i push off the blood-soaked earth my foot explodes throgh the my shoddily-constructed shoe. with a silent curse for whatever nameless ten-year-old sewed it i kick it off and dash to the right. thank z0r i always ccw, i think to myself as i air-somersault past the bear. the crowd of mercenaries roar at the sight of my acrobatics.
if i can win the crowd then perhaps the king of this stretch of road will let me go...good thing i have an ace up my sleeve.
make that two, i think as i pull out my twin desert eagles, locked and loaded with the finest hollow-tip bullets that our local toy/gun store carry. the recoil from both firing at once knock me back against the blood-drenched wall of the arena but i keep firing at the bear.
as it finally staggers back and crashes to the ground i air somersault forward again and kneel, crossing my arms in front of my chest and holding my guns against my shoulders and feeling the cheers of the crowd wash over me. i have won my freedom. i let only the briefest pity for the less skillful travelers wash over me, but content myself with the thought of penning a scathing letter against these mercenaries tonight. then i grin. score one for the market, motherfucker
shoeless and gasping i run down the road toward the city, dodging shards of glass and the bones of long dead children. i had paid the last toll with my car itself. once the consortium has purchased enough of sick and dying bodies from the local hospital to grind into cement, we'll have our new roads [or so the ads promise], but it's too late for my car.
i hear a faint stirring in the underbrush that stretches out toward the asphalt. with all the nimbleness of an unregulated manufacturer responding to demand, i do a three-quarters cartwheel while simultaneously firing ten shots from my dual DEs. i chuckle at the crashing and groaning from the brush in the silence after my deafening barrage. oen step closer to that new road.
i take off running again. by three p.m. i'm at the office. as i approach the elevators there's a deafening crash and smoke comes from behind the elevator doors. i note the name of the manufacturer and use my bleeding feet to write a message of warning on the floor of the hall. i ignore the moans and take the stairs to my office.
my manager scuttles toward me as i enter. "eight hours late? you're fired. and you can be sure no other company will hire your scummy rear end in the future"
my left eye twitches as i calmly respond. "you forgot one thing."
"what's that?"
"there's only one monopoly we don't tolerate. a monopoly of force." i backflip as i pull out my DEs and start firing. the screams of the dying fill the air like mercury. this is one market that just got regulated.
before i leave the office, i loot the bodies of my dead coworkers, murdered by my hand, like an irs employee mailing a 1040. i leave the office a tomb; a blood offering to the hungry god i worship now. stepping back into the stairwell is like stepping through a looking glass. i am wearing shoes ripped from the dead feet of my former boss. call it an audit.
with a ninja's grace i leap from stair to stair as i exit the building. light bulbs flicker and dim; the local smallpox epidemic is two weeks old and they've almost run out of bodies to burn for power. they're talking about charging customers one child per year as fuel. some people were upset about it but at least the government isn't behind it.
my shoulders are heaving as i crash through doors into the lobby. a pack of wolves lurk around the receptionist's desk. night is almost here. they begin to howl as i jog outside into the gathering darkness
i check my watch—6 oclock. I had meant to run a few errands before going home. Just one, actually. I run down the street until i see a dimly-lit verizon store. the salesman doesn't even blink an eye when i enter, dripping blood and gore, desert eagles jammed in my waist. then i pull out my guns and point them in his face.
he blinks.
"i paid 5 bucks more last month, you know?" i growl between gritted teeth
"so?" he says
i put the guns back in my waist. the salesman exhales in relief
then i kneel and draw my katana. with one smooth motion i behead the clerk.
"i wish to file a complaint," i say, as gouts of arterial blood spray paint the ceiling.
at last i'm home. i recline back in my babyskin chair and swirl some orange juice in a mug. as i bring the mug up to my limits i feel a sudden pain in my lip. i fish around in the juice and pull out a shard of glass. rolling my eyes i toss it on the pile in the corner.
my pet tiger pads into the room. not for the first time i offer a silent thanks that no gang of criminals can tell me not to keep it. then i see the blood dripping from its jaws.
i curse as i ease out of my chair and walk into the next room, following the blood. the corpse of my neighbor's son is still warm on the floor of the kitchen. i turn on the alarm system and set up the house defenses just in time for the doorbell to ring.
I look out my front window; my neighbor is carrying a shotgun and has a crazed look on his face. I call out:
"What do you want?"
"I want that damned tiger."
"No."
"GIVE ME THE TIGER."
"Come and get him."
My neighbor shudders as he considers his options: 1) wait to ambush me later, 2) attack now, 3) write a scathing letter and mail it to all our neighbors. He cocks his shotgun and fires it at the door.
My defense system activates. With fury and power that would warm the heart of a Blackwater soldier it reduces my neighbor to ash. As the whir of the chainguns slows i walk back to my babyskin chair. it feels soft. it feels warm. it feels like freedom.
alarms wake me from my slumber. not my house; the neighborhood coop alarms are ringing. i listen to the sound. next to me my slave girl stirs. i casually backhand her across the mouth to keep her quiet. three horns followed by a low ringing—possible outsider invasion.
i check to see that her chains are secure then lower myself out of bed. a low whistel summons my tiger. i press a button next to my bed; a slave child scurries in. i order him to bring me my katana.
wrapped in my robe and with my sword strapped across my back i slip outside into the ringing night. the noises are coming from the south. i see a neighbor across the street slap his wife in the face as she begs him not to leave and i thank z0r no slave has tempted me.
the light from torches flicker in the distance at the watch point. there are already several neighbors gathered in a circle. i can hear a low muttering but i cannot see what they have surrounded
i reach the outside of the circle with my tiger at my side. it carelessly bites one of the men in the circle on the leg. he falls to ground and i take his place and see...
it is worse than i had feared...a face as dark and soulless as the night sky looks up at me. tears stream down his face. i shudder at the thought of more of them...out in the darkness...i lope away from the circel and call my tiger to my side. tonight...we hunt
i see the fear in their eyes as i approach the campfire. i wear a chain of tiny ears around my neck and my face is spattered with blood. i grip the head of my enemy in my right hand.
ashen-faced, my neighbor asks me of the forces in the darkness
"it's a group seeking medicine for sick children," i reply. "it was." i suppress a giggle. i toss the little head into the middle of the circle.
"are you ok?" one asks
the others mumble, afraid to look me in the eyes
i look him in the eyes. he twitches. i say
"sanity is like a rule. a regulation. i am free."
i heft my katana in my right hand, then bring it to his neck
"will you question me, or will you do as i say."
it is not a question.
"a man chooses" i say.
they kneel before me. alarms wail in the distance. i see the earth soaked in a tide of blood. i finger the necklace of ears like a rosary.
"we are strong," i say. "together we are free".
they murmur in assent. one man remains quiet. i remove his head, then hand it to one of my followers.
"we are free. put it on a stake, to warn those who would oppose us."
i order the rest of the men to secure the neighborhood gold. we will keep it at my house; i will disperse it as necessary. the gold is mine...the precious...
...
i sit on a throne of skulls inside my new house. palace. i run my fingers through the head of the slave who kneels at my side. in my other hand i grip the femur of a dead enemy. a slave used a rock to hone the end of the bone to sharp points. the walls and floor are red, spattered with blood and smeared with dirt; the ceiling is black with soot. my tiger stalks outside.
when the snows come we move to the caves in the hills for warmth. i will spread my seed.
a beast stirs. i breath in the fetid air, thick with blood and death. law is dead. i am the law. the market is dead. i am the market. i scratch at my fur loincloth and crush a louse. government is dead. i am the government. god is dead. i am a god.
somewhere in the distance i hear the howl of the alarms and the chatter of guns.
and this is heaven.
But you remember one thing: if you screw up just this much, you'll be flying a cargo plane full of rubber dog poo poo out of Hong Kong!
epilogue
the cave is dark but warm. the women huddle under furs and blankets for warmth during the day. i lead the hunting parties out in search of game but any creature larger than a chipmunk has long since been slaughtered. we hunt squirrels and rodents with our AK-47s; sometimes a scrap of meat is still left after the hail of bullets.
one of the women is heavy with my child. i alone may mate with them. the heads of the men who objected rot on stakes outside the cave mouth.
one evening after we have returned from our mighty hunt with two squirrel carcasses and a dead robin someone almost tripped on, we spy a man in the distance staggering toward the cave. we watch as he winds his way through the badlands. black snow falls, mixed with ash. his powder blue shirt is badly torn and bloody and there is no spark in his eyes.
he begs us for shelter. i explain that our food supplies are low but that there is room in our cave if he will hunt and accept my rule. he nods, exhausted, and starts to shuffle past me to the fire.
then i catch sight of the patch on his sleeve. a stylized white eagle on a field of blue. the mark of the oppressors. i grab his collar and growl in his face "you're one of them"
"what? what are you talking about"
"one of them. the patch. the eagle."
"p-p-please...i just...delivered mail"
i grip his throat in my hand and lift him and shout "A CRIMINAL!!!!!"
my tribe huddles around me.
"HE WORKED...FOR THE GOVERNMENT!!!"
i see the rage in their eyes. hooting, they jump up and down, calling for blood. i lower the man to the ground and they mutter with disappointment. i beckon for a slave to bring me my club: all sharpened bone and shattered glass. i put my mouth next to the man's ear and i grasp the club and hold it in front of his eyes. "If you want a vision of the future," I say. "Imagine my warclub, smashing a human face, forever."
then i swing it against his head, and it crunches, and he falls to the ground. "we eat meat tonight" I say with a smile. the cheers are deafening.
also this one, which doesn't belong in the corpus but which i always remember with the others
quote:This morning I was awoken by my alarm clock powered by electricity generated by the public power monopoly regulated by the U.S. Department of Energy.
I then took a shower in the clean water provided by a municipal water utility.
After that, I turned on the TV to one of the FCC-regulated channels to see what the National Weather Service of the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration determined the weather was going to be like, using satellites designed, built, and launched by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.
I watched this while eating my breakfast of U.S. Department of Agriculture-inspected food and taking the drugs which have been determined as safe by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration.
At the appropriate time, as regulated by the U.S. Congress and kept accurate by the National Institute of Standards and Technology and the U.S. Naval Observatory, I get into my National Highway Traffic Safety Administration-approved automobile and set out to work on the roads built by the local, state, and federal Departments of Transportation, possibly stopping to purchase additional fuel of a quality level determined by the Environmental Protection Agency, using legal tender issued by the Federal Reserve Bank.
On the way out the door I deposit any mail I have to be sent out via the U.S. Postal Service and drop the kids off at the public school.
After spending another day not being maimed or killed at work thanks to the workplace regulations imposed by the Department of Labor and the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, enjoying another two meals which again do not kill me because of the USDA, I drive my NHTSA car back home on the DOT roads, to my house which has not burned down in my absence because of the state and local building codes and Fire Marshal's inspection, and which has not been plundered of all its valuables, thanks to the local police department.
And then I log on to the internet -- which was developed by the Defense Advanced Research Projects Administration -- and post on Facebook and the Fox News forums about how SOCIALISM is BAD and the government can't do anything right.
e: and another two, how could i forget Flurp or the eldritch Obama
i guess i'm kinda conflating your libertarian bot with a general alt-right worldview so just use whatever, i'm just enjoying reading these stories again
quote:If I had to describe my daily commute through Independence in one word, the word would be "Flurp." That's the sound you get when you step onto a near-empty juice box. They're everywhere in this town. I stick to the traveled paths, where dozens, hundreds, thousands of shoes have turned the boxes into a soft, nearly even papier-mâché mat over the sidewalk, but, sooner or later, a fresh one ends up underfoot. It always does. This one spits a tiny stream of fermented apple-extract up through its straw, soaking my pant-leg, and I know from experience that the smell will stay with me for at least a week. Flurp.
I hear noise coming from the Marketplace plaza. There's always noise at the Marketplace, but this time, it's louder. People are screaming at one another, shouting slogans, or just shouting that they're hungry. drat. drat, drat, drat. The Outsiders are back. My stomach rumbles, and, for a second, I wonder if it wouldn't be worth it to risk it, to dive into the crowd, to try and fight my way over to the food trucks before the riot breaks out.
No. Bad idea. Very bad. I know what happened the last time the Patriots tried to force the outsiders out. Even if the whole mess doesn't explode, it's risky. If I don't take off my Patriot armband it's a counterfeit, but it's a drat good one, and getting things yourself is what being a Patriot is all about I'll get knifed halfway to the truck. If I don't, I'm liable to get shot by a Patriot on the way out.
I duck my head and trudge past the Patriot cordon, trying to think invisible thoughts. I pass behind the stage where a Pundit Superior stands screaming, his crimson robes flapping in the wind. A Turtle turns its head, tracking my movement. The gun turret on its shell twitches and turns and my stomach leaps up into my throat, even though I know it's just keeping me covered while it assesses what I am. Rheumy, ancient eyes study me for an endless second then the reptile blinks and turns away. I'm not a threat.
"Sir! Patriot! Wait!"
I keep walking. Footsteps sound behind me, hurried and light and muffled by the carpet of refuse, thicker and flatter here in the market than anywhere else. Behind me, someone lets out a gasp and slips on something decidedly moist. For once, the noise is not a Flurp. It's more of a Quish. I turn and see a scrawny boy in ragged red burlap scrambling up off the ground.
"You alright, kid?" I don't hold out a hand. I stop myself just in time. Kindness is the worst insult you can give an Apprentice Pundit.
"Y-yes sir," he stammers. He lowers his head. His right foot is covered by something thick and slimy and clearly rotting. He looks at it with hungry eyes. "I wish to ask why you are not helping your fellow patriots protest this travesty. Sir."
"I've got to get to work, kid," I say. My voice sounds too loud. Who else is listening? "I don't want to get involved."
"Sir! Everyone is already involved. These foreigners are undermining our very way of life. It is the duty of every good Patriot to cast them from our city and punish those freeloaders taking their poisoned gifts and betraying our ways by accepting this Charity!"
"Look, the foreigners are giving out food to anyone who can grab it. Can't blame people for taking advantage of those foreign idiots and seizing an opportunity. Right?" Why did I just say that? What the hell is wrong with me? The boy stares at me with his too-big eyes. Odds are he's thinking the same thing.
"I'm sorry, sir," he says. "I am not yet learned enough to explain why you are wrong in this matter. I apologize for failing you." He gives me a bow. I can see his hands shake.
"What are you talking about, kid?"
"I know you are wrong, sir," he mumbles. He's still bowing, eyes once again on the ground. "But I do not yet know why, and can offer no rebuttal. It is clear that I must return to my training."
He trudges back towards the rally. His shoulders are shaking now, too. I turn away. I don't want to know what, exactly, I just caused what his failure will lead to. Maybe his Master Pundit is a kind, forgiving man who thinks mistakes are something to learn from.
Maybe.
I feel the eyes and gun-barrels of a half-dozen Turtles on me as I leave. The yells from Ellis fall behind me. The yells of Opportunity Lane engulf me.
"Help wanted test suuubject!" shouts a man in a stained lab coat.
"Stablehaaand! A growing field! Staaablehand needed!"
I pull out my sign 'Manure Technician Needed' and search for an empty spot to stand in. I work for Ranch Five-B. Mostly as a recruiter, which means I hardly ever see the Ranch itself thank you, merciful Beck. The last cow in Independence died three years ago, but Five-B still has plenty of manure to get rid of. Plenty. We're shorthanded, too. Three of our Manure Technicians died of... something just the other week. No one is sure what. We burned their corpses in the same pit we use for the cow cadavers we dig out.
"You! Sir! I see you have no Job Sigil!" says a thin, oily-haired recruiter to a tired man with a large suitcase. "Just came through Ellis, I'll bet! How would you like to join the Extreme Rodeo!? A great honor! A great opportunity! Everyone watches the Extreme Rodeo!"
Yes. That's true enough. There are no bulls around anymore but they do not use bulls.
Three men wearing Patriot armbands appear behind the fresh immigrant. He mumbles something and the biggest of the three shoves him hard.
"Don't you dare turn down this opportunity, you slug! Don't you dare!"
I step around the man as he whimpers on the ground. The three Patriots work him over. One of them a boy barely out of apprenticeship kicks so hard that he hurts him own ankle. He stumbles takes a hopping half-step backwards. A juice-box goes Flurp underfoot.
quote:12:05 PM eastern standard time, the Muslims have vanished.
Check for yourself if you don’t believe me. Where have they gone to?
There is speculation, of course. Scientists mention a cosmic storm that passed the Earth on January 20. A man says they are all in caves. Certain groups lament a faulty Rapture. A woman says he has taken their power and absorbed it into himself. She means Barack Obama. I doubt it, but he does seem somehow taller. The ground rumbles at times. The breaking news says WASHINGTON DC, with red concentric circles. I’m uneasy, but what can we do? Terror is defeated and if Obama were a Muslim, he’d be just as gone as them. There’s no cause for alarm.
Within months, Barack Obama has declared a war on vague unease. It’s a good idea, because frankly we could all use some peace of mind. Approval rating is higher than ever now that the Muslims had left, but I don’t think we are happy yet. His eyes are shining sometimes, as a deer’s eyes shine in a flashlight beam. Small fissures criss-cross the pavement. Trees are swaying, but the breeze is gone. Something is changing in our world.
Aeroplanes don’t exist anymore. Scientists explain that the density of the air is too low to support their wings. Then how do we breathe?! We should have died by now, but I think we are evolving. Our bodies haven’t changed, but the atmosphere..
One man says it was the rapture after all, and we have since entered the Kingdom of God. Barack is now the size of an oak tree. He sleeps outside since the rains have ceased, and his skin is thick to bullets. Now he wanders through he countryside impassively. He ignores a rural photo-op. He studies a leaf for twenty days. Only a fool would call this Heaven.
Satellites fall to earth like rain used to. No friction burns them away, so we trudge past countless flecks of solar panel and ribbons of golden cloth. It’s a silent car crash every few hours, though cars themselves no longer run. No oxygen remains to ignite their fuel. Obama strides across the landscape, taller than the Freedom Tower. We’ve given up on assassination; all men are immortal now, and guns no longer fire.
I’m starting to wish the Muslims were back.
We found them with a telescope. Images of a colony on the right side of the moon. See the parts that jut from the lower right? I think they’re mosques. Soon they are visible to the naked eye, but how? Their cities are enormous. We watch them as they live and die. They have our former atmosphere; the moon is fringed with blue. “Look at how they wield their guns,” writes a man. “I always said he’d take our guns away.” They eat and sleep like we once did, building worthless ziggurats. We have everything we wanted, but oh how we envy their strife!
It’s long been clear that Obama brought this uncomfortable perfection upon us, but I can’t bring myself to blame him for it. He’s reminded us all of how our lives had been discarded out of fear. I know now why he grows each day. In time, when we are ready he will reach out into space. He will raise us up in his great hand, to this new Earth that gleams like a frozen star. And if Obama does not carry us, we can climb… Sagebrush fucked around with this message at 05:50 on Nov 19, 2016
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Nov 8, 2016 14:10
