X-mas time, Blue Harbor Shopping Mall Salona, Beijing, China
In a few days, we will all have an opportunity to peacefully inflict a major psychological blow on the rapidly coalescing police state by the simple but powerful act of refusing to play along with the absurd pantomime on the 4th of July that we live in an even nominally free country – one with the rule of law, an operative Constitution and respect for individual rights. One that isn’t a thugocracy.
We can turn our backs on the flag. Decline to participate when urged to cheer and sing. No fireworks. No barbeques.
We can sit down – and bow our heads.
We can mention the unmentionable: That there is no longer any meaningful limit to the power of the government over our lives. No line beyond which it may not tread. That it lies, spies and tyrannizes.
We can admit to ourselves the shoddy – and frightening – reality bubbling up all around us.
By so doing, we can shatter the illusion that this government operates with anything remotely approximating our consent. This is absolutely essential. The 4th of July pantomime requires that we deny the obvious – that we instead pretend we’re free people living in a free country; one in which the governmentis accountable to the people, one in which the government is limited by law. One in which people can’tsimply be dragooned into prisons without due process, held incommunicado, tortured. A country with a president who doesn’t have kill lists – or use the instruments of state power to punish and intimidate his political opponents. One in which citizens must be suspected of a crime before their personal correspondence is filched through and recorded for later use against them. One in which a traveler is free from arbitrary and random searches of his person and effects. One in which the attorney general of the United States isn’t able to get away with providing guns to gangs or brazenly lie about his use of the power of his office to go after political “enemies” rather than pursue justice.
A smoke ring blew across the room in the stale dank air of the bar. In the background, some unknown vagabond was hawking his trade yelling, “Scissors, Knives, Needles… Sharpen, Clean, Repair…” over and over again. Car horns blared, foot traffic could be heard.
The interviewer took out a pen recorder and set it on the low wooden table in front of his subject. Frank Monday.
"So tell me about yourself Frank!" he said in an upbeat voice trying to sound interested.
Frank blew another smoke ring. And stared blankly at the ceiling.
"Where shall I begin? Not that anybody is ever going to read this. Which magazine did you say you worked for?"
The young man in front of him shifted restlessly on his seat and eyed Frank keenly. “It’s not a magazine, all print media has been outlawed for over a decade, it’s the gov’s mouthpiece, it’s called The Stumblr!”
"Oh, right." He tapped ashes into the crystal ashtray on the table in front of him. Focusing intently at the embers of the cigarette’s cherry and taking another long drag before lifting his head and asking sardonically. "And why should I answer any of your questions?"
The reporter kid wasn’t getting at all vexed with the run around. He had gotten similar treatment from the last ten folks he had interviewed. Nobody wanted to talk about origins anymore. The gov had launched a program with a wide sweeping initiative and about 75% of the people that got interviewed disappeared. It was really just a kind of epitaph. These days a person knew if they were getting “interviewed” they were either scheduled for liquidation, headed to the internment camp, or to be put on the blacklist of downgraded individuals which included blacks, gays, libertarians, scientists, school teachers, artists, and any other undesirable element that the NWO disagreed with. That is the global technocrats. They were in charge now and everyone knew it! “Come on Frank! We both know why you have to comply. Let’s cut through the dilly-dallying bullshit and get down to the nitty-gritty of it, shall we?”
"All right then. But let me get a cup of coffee before we get started." Frank signaled to a waiter then asked the kid, "Do you want anything to wash the grit of the city out of your beak? And by the way, what’s your name kid?"
The server-bot scurried over and it’s plastic tray popped open and a little plastic cup dropped out of a sleeve and landed on the tray. There was a bubbling sound as the water heated up inside it’s mechanical body, some steam shot out the dirty little spout above the cup and after a few seconds of splashes a small stream of black liquid filled the dingy cup.
Frank reached out to grab the cub and a red light illuminated his hand. It was the bar scanner located inside the server-bot’s beverage dispenser. There was a beeping sound and a preprogrammed robotic voice said, “Warning, warning, user error. Work-unit monetary chip not detected, user error!” He took the cup and responded, “Cash option, pay cash!” There was a moment as the bot computed the request, then a little spinning red light on it’s head activated and it started beeping again and the robot voice announce repeatedly, “Cash option, user request cash option!” Finally a human server came over and handled the transaction.
The boy journalist shifted in his seat a bit and eyed Frank thoughtfully, “Still holding onto the past are you? Paying with cash, how quaint!” He directed his attention to the serve-bot and said, “Orange-drink, hot!” After the pseudo-juice was ready he stuck his hand in and the same red light scanned an imbedded chip in his hand and made the calculation. “Monetary transaction complete, enjoy your day!”
"You see, isn’t that just so much easier? Full compliance, that’s all our masters want. They just want us to be good little worker bees." He took a sip of the steaming juice and set it on the table. "Now can we please proceed with this interview? Oh, and to answer your question my name is Paul."
Frank lay back on the old sofa and closed his eyes. “Ok Paul, well some of my earliest memories are of growing up in Southern California. We’ll start there.” He took another drag of his smoke and then snuffed it out in the ashtray.
"I don’t know much about my father’s side of the family. My father was seldom home and my mother didn’t talk about the past much. What little I did glean was from my sisters recollections of the information they heard growing up. I have two sisters and they are both ten plus years older than me. The image I have of him is something like Don Draper from the AMC tv series "Mad Men."
"My father was a businessman and my mother was a homemaker. A quite ordinary family for the USA in the 1970’s. There were two girls and two boys. I am the youngest."
"So if anyone is going to psychoanalyze me based on that info they’ll probably get a pretty accurate assessment of my character. Being the youngest often leads to a kid using humor as a means of power in the family. Too small for physical dominance you have to use intelligence to gain the edge and the best kind of smarts is street smarts!"