Sitting side by side at their terminals down the long room, dozens of Mob Traffic Controllers dozed off while they waited for those damnable satellite-image downloads to come through. That ancient operating system that kept “blue screening” was forcing everyone to restart the whole process over and over again.
You would have thought after three decades one of the leaders in Washington would have realized that the piece of cac from the software company, that might as well be called MoronSoft, needed to be trash canned, but, Nooooo! That pile of schiessen’y code that began life as something called WindyOz was still around, still the standard of the United States government and proinde, the entire country and the primary reason the nation’s productivity was now on par with that of Luxembourg.
Symbolism, as we previously discussed, was an important part of this “New, Future America,” and for most, it offered the only means of imparting critical information among one’s fellow friends, neighbors and coworkers. The NMASA was no different; the Mob Traffic Control Center room was purposely cloaked in black light just so those very symbols would stand out, almost like graffiti. Stick figurines were drawn all over the walls in florescent colors ranging from red (the most serious of warnings), to bright yellow...so that one could read the signs through clouds of cigar smoke.
If written terms happened to be used, they were used sparingly due to the confusion that could arise, in view of the reality that no one was ever quite sure, with phonetic spelling and all, just what word someone might have been trying to convey. Ebongo-Edongo (Ebangish-Edangish-Egangish) was fun and all, but it did cause some confusion.
“You remembered!”
I sure did...
Pssst...(in a whisper) By the way, have you heard that heavy breathing in the background?
“No, what heavy breathing?”
It sounds like heavy breathing? Wait, listen.
The sound of crickets.
More crickets chirping.
No, it’s gone now. I swear it sounded like someone was laboriously breathing...absolutely disconcerting.
“Well, it’s not around, now.”
Darn if that was not a little scary. Never mind, in all likelihood it was my imagination.
Anyway, if you looked at the walls, the symbol to stand out above all others, the symbol to dominate one’s eye in view of the fact that they were everywhere...they were the symbol of a human stick-figure, slumped over with a red “X” drawn through the figurine...a pretty clear message, “No sleeping at work!”
Also, if one looked closely, they would recognize there was a pattern to the way the workers and their workstations were broken up into groups...some sorted into smaller sections, others into larger formations. You could tell one group from another by the missing workstations that separated each unique set of workers. What was the dividing factor in breaking an otherwise normal-looking group of Americans into sets? It might have something to do with the large phosphorus symbol painted above each grouping.
For instance, above Tommie and to his right several workstations down, you would see the stick symbol of mountains, a clear indicator that the workers of this group had come from the Appalachian Mountain region and were, therefore, in all likelihood hillbillies.
A dozen workstations further down to Tommie’s right was a noticeable gap between his group of rubes and the next section of workers. The same kind of thing was true for the workers on the opposite wall. Above the large section of workers, down to Tommie’s right, their symbol, or emblem was...a boat?
Along the walls, a different symbol, unique to each group, indicated the region of the country from whence those workers had come, and therefore, the sort of dialect they were expected to be likely using.
Snoring could be heard up and down the long hallway, as the diligent warriors of the NMASA fell into and out of catching some Zs.
It was times like these when the supervisors stepped in, blowing their darn whistles.
Tweet!
Once more, our Mob Traffic Controller half fell out of his chair as did a further couple of dozen, or so, who were either nodding off, or had already done so, as the shrill whistling racket echoed throughout the chamber.
“You are not getting paid to sleep you damn fools!” [You's is not digtin' paid t'sleep ya' dummy honky fools! You’s here’s me], shouted the plain appearing, obviously carbohydrate-addicted, black woman supervisor whose nickname among the controllers was “Beast.”
“Wake up, I said, before you get me categorically mad!” [Wake up, ah said! Fry mah hide], the Beast bellowed.
Duh, damn that whistle! thought our Mob Traffic Controller, then looked at his watch.
Hmmm…Scarcely one hour left!
Through experience, muscle memory and the taping of his hand to the handle, this dude…this North Carolinian could nap sitting up while holding and not spilling his cup of coffee! From his backside, no one could tell with any certainty if the country boy was dozing; the act was pure Southern ingenuity!
Tommie took a sip of his now cold coffee…
Darn it! It is cold again, Tommie opined to himself.
This, cold coffee, was one of the sole drawbacks to an otherwise perfect plan.
Schiessen, I guess I am going to have to get some more. [Sheet, ah guess ah's a-gonna haft-a git some mo'e.]
Tommie was just about to roll his chair back to stand when he noticed the satellite image had completed downloading. Through bloodshot eyes and blurred vision something caught his attention.
Holy Josephine Jehoshaphat! What the schiessen is that? [Holy Massa' ine Dgosephine Dgehoshaphat! Koool Dog! What de hell dat, duh...uh...?]
The hangover was still there, so was the foggy intellect, nevertheless, quickly subsiding as his excitement grew. Quickly, the southern hick opened the drawer to his desk to see a mishmash of reports and photos scattered in no predictable way, so Tommie began to sift through all the miscellany.
That, duh, damn photo from yesterday, did I throw it away, already? Tommie asked himself. A minute, or so later, No, here it is!
“Well, I will be a hair on a jackass’ behind, looks like I have hit the jackpot!” [Webuhll, I will be a hair on a dgackass’ behind uh uh, looks like I habe hit de dgackpot! Koool Dog!]
Employees received presents from the management for finding the needles in the haystack, the needles being congregations of humanity that showed up as hotspots of angry hordes. The haystack was the territory within the current set of borders of the United States…something that was forever changing.
“Hey, Mister Supervisor…Bingo!” [Hey, Mistew Supewvisow…Bingass!]
Oh yea, Tommie remembered, “he” be a “she.”
Those controllers sitting within earshot literally had no idea what Tommie said, nor what the cracker said from day to day, or why he was all of a sudden so excited…as far as they knew, the hayseed was just going through his normal ritual of “talking in tongues.” Most Mob Traffic Controllers never saw the early signs of horde formations, partly as a result of the low resolution of the images, partly because most needed glasses, but mainly on account of things like eye exams and eyewear were not covered by the Universal Government Healthcare Program of the United States of America, also known as ‘Castro-Care.’
The latest heat signature readings of the “Left Coast” showed a coherent buildup in humanity, the clear and early sign of a “mob formation.”
“Hey, Misses Supervisor!” [Hey, Misses Supewvisow!]
There was no answer…the whistle blowing, with cigar in mouth, Chicagoan was down at the far end of the room bawling someone out…some poor soul who had not yet mastered the art of holding a coffee cup while catnapping.
“Hey! Damn it! Mister…Duh, I mean Misses Supervisor! Damn it, I have something! Damn it! Bingo!” [Hey! Fry mah hide! Mister…ah, mean Misses Superviso'! Fry mah hide! Dawgone it, ah have sumpin! Fry mah hide! Bingass! Fry mah hide!]
“Who is that yelling at me!” [Who be dat yellin' at me! Right on]! the
drill sergeant demanded as she bit hard into the cigar. “Damn it, how many times do I have to tell you idiots…my name is Missus Heartbreak!” [Damn it, uh, duh, how many times do I habe t' tell you idiots…my dojigger be Missus Heartbust!]
Someone who must have understood what Tommie was hollering decided to get into the action. “Hey Misses Cum Bucket! You’ve got someone down here that’s got something, damn it!” [Hey, bitch Cum Buckets! Right on! Yous’ve gots some sucka waaay down here dat’s gots sump'n! Fry mah hide!]
That character believed the midwestern Amazon would have no idea who yelled the offense at her, at least that was what the fellow initially thought.
“What on earth did you just call me?” [Whut in de hell dun did ya' call me?], the drill sergeant posing as a woman yelled back after finally removing the cigar from her now gaping maw.
stomp…Stomp…STOMP!
Heartbreak’s footsteps echoed off the concrete walls as the supervisor pounded her way toward the now shrinking man.
“I’m going to stick my foot up your silly ass if you said what I think you said you damn hick!” [I’m goin' t'stick mah' foot down yo' silly ass if ya' said whut ah' dink ya' said ya' damn hick!]
In an unveiled attempt to get back into the supervisor’s good graces…before the bitch showed up and started fly-swattering his ass, the character now thought it a good time to compliment her on her wardrobe.
“My, don’t you look down right pretty today, is that a new…” [My, don’t you look down rite pretty today, dat a new…]
“Is you still cursing at me?” [Is you stiww cuwsing at me?]
Bonk!…
“Ow, darn it that hurt!” [Ow, dadburn it thet hert!]
Gonk!…bonk!
“I know what you said you hayseed hick and…” [I know whut ya' said ya' hayseed hick and…]
Hoping to save the fellow from further torment and flyswatter marks, Tommie spoke up, “Mister…I mean Missus Supervisor, I’ve got something…Bingo!” [Mister…I mean Missus Supuh'viso,' I’ve gots sump'n…Bingass! Right on!]
“Why is the clodhopper saying, ‘Bingo?’”
“Bingo” means “Bingo” and is supposed to be a universally understood term for “I’m a winner!” Only in this case, cuz of Tommie’s mountain dialect, “Bingo” sounded just like “Big Ass” to mister...I mean missus Beastly.
“You too! I’m going to slap your silly ass upside the head you dopey hillbilly!” [You'sse too! Right on! I’m goin' t'slap yo' silly ass downside da damn haid ya'se stupid hick-yokel! Right on!]
Now in a similar fix as the fellow with the flyswatter marks about his face, the situation Tommie now found himself in was a perfect example of the sort of minor issues that popped up occasionally thanks to the phonetic, multidialectal, wonderful, glorious mélange of the future language(s).
stomp…Stomp…STOMP!
Desperate not to suffer the same physical affront, Tommie quickly pleads with anyone within earshot, “Schiessen, can anyone tell this bitch what I’m trying to say! Damn it! I’ve got something....Bingo, damn it!” [She’it, kin ennyone tell this hyar bitch whut I’m tryin' t'say! Fry mah hide! I’ve got sumpin....Bingass! Fry mah hide!]
Tommie’s prayers were answered at the last moment.
“Wait a minute, ma'am! This fool says he’s got something on the screen!” [What it is, mama! Right on! Dis honkyfool says he’s gots sump'n on de screen!]
Tommie looked to see it was the ugly redhead. Boy, that bitch is looking better all the time.
“Do you know what this fool is saying?” [Duz youse sucka know whut dis honkyfool be sayin’?] asked Misses Heartbreak.
“He is saying, ‘Bingo’!” [He be sayin' ‘Bin'o! Right on!] responded the redhead, who apparently understood both hillbilly and inner-city ghetto.
“You better not be kidding me, you Southern Baptist white trash! It is the holidays…nobody riots during the holidays,” [You's betta' not be bullschiessen’in me ya' Soudern Baptist Honky Trash! Right on! It be de howodays…nobody riots durin' de howodays! Right on,] responded the drill sergeant in a loud harsh voice, then stuffed the cigar back into her mouth.
“Maybe not on the East Coast, but apparently on the West Coast, go take a gander,” [Mebbe not on the east coast, but appawentwy on the west coast, hoof it in take a gandew], responded the redhead, who was guessing that Tommie Citizen had something.
“You better not be lying to me,” [You's betta' not be lyin' t'me ya' honkyfool], mumbled Misses Heartbreak as she stomped up behind Tommie who looked noticeably smaller next to the two-legged behemoth.
“Let me see!” [Wet me saw!]
“She wants to see what you’ve got” [She wantsa see whut ya've gots], shouted the redhead.
“Mister…I mean Misses Heartbreak, I have got some early signs of a Cyclonic Tempest developing outside San Francisco…the heat signature is pretty damn big.” [Mistew…I mean Misses Heawtbweak, I have got some eawwy signs of a Cycwonic Tempess evelopingday' outside San Francisco…th' heat signature is purdy dadburn trimenjus.]
“Here, take a look at yesterday’s image,” [Hewe, take a wook at yestewday’s imageyay], said the southern gentleman as Tommie handed Misses Heartbreak the photo.
The drill sergeant stood stationary, peering over the North Carolinian’s shoulder, then looked at yesterday’s photo…her heavy, panting breath more than a little distracting, the puffing of that damn cigar of hers all over him more than a little nauseating.
“Where is it? Show me,” [Where be it? Show e’may],” the drill sergeant demanded in her husky, indistinct, man-like voice.
Tommie understood just enough to fathom what the supervisor was saying.
“Jee wiz…right there,” [Jee-a veez…reeght zeere-a], Tommie pointed at a spot, a clearly red spot, a roughly circular spot that showed the clear heat signatures of a growing mass of human debris.
“Well, I’ll be darned. You’re right you Southern Hick. Damn, it has gotten noticeably more consolidated and bigger than yesterday. I owe you an apology.” [Well, I’ll be darn. 'S coo,' Dog. You’re right ya' Soudern Hick. Ya' know? Damn, it gots gotsten noticeabwy konlidated bigga' dan yesterday. Slap mah fro! ah' owe ya' an apology. Slap mah fro.]
Tommie had no idea what the supervisor had said.
“Listen up everyone [Leestee up everyoneyay]!” Misses Heartbreak shouted. “I said listen up you workers!” [I say listen down ya' idiots, right on!]
“This fellow here is an example of what every one of you should be doing!” [Dis Dog here be an 'esample uh whut every one uh ya' should be hangin'!]
“What is your name?” [Whut be yo' dojigger]? the Beast whispered to Tommie.
Huh?
“What’s your goddam name you fool?” [Whut’s yo' fuk’in dojigger ya' boy?]
“She wants your name!” [She a want’sa you’d amenay!] shouted the redhead.
“Tommie!” [Tommah!]
The drill sergeant continues, “Zommie here has just earned himself a tremendous prize.” [Zummeee-a here-a hes joost gots plum earned himself some tremenduoos preeze.]
“She says you’ve won a prize!” [She says you’ve won a pwize!] shouts the redhead.
Tommie was thinking, Oh boy, I’m going to get a government prostitute for the night!
Made perfect sense, most of the previous winners’ prizes had been floozies of one sort or another.
“A prize that comes directly from el Presidente’s stash.” [A preeze dat comes directly fum el Super-dudee’s stash. Lop some boogie]
The redhead kept translating, “The prize is coming from the President himself!” [De pwize be coming from de head honcho he’self!]
Oh my God, his personal stash...who could it be? Tommie asked himself.
“Personally autographed…” [Sucka'ally autographed…]
The redhead left out the part about autographed; even she did not understand Misses Heartbreak on that segment of conversation.
Yes...! Yes...! Tommie said anxiously to
himself.
“...and the finest in the world.” [and da damn finest in de wo'ld.]
“She says it is the best prize anyone could hope to win,” [It be de sweetess in zee wou’d], continued the translator.
Tommie’s thoughts were racing. Holy schiessen! Who can it be? Who am I going to get to screw tonight? Damn, I hope it’s not that ugly redhead even though...yea, she’d work in a pinch.
“...a Cohiba!”
Cohiba! What the f@#&!? thought the hick. Tommie knew through the President’s cigar commercials what a “Cohiba” was...a ficken cigar!
“Now, I want everyone to just sit there and observe as this deserving worker lights up,” [Now, ah' wants' everyone t'plum sit dere and watch as dis deservin' wo'ka' lights down,] continued “the Beast.”
“You’re going to have to smoke it in front of everyone,” [Yo're goigg t' habe t' okesmay it in ontfray of ev'ryone], explained the redhead with a mischievous laugh.
Huh!
Misses Heartbreak continued, “...and smokes the best…” [e smokes de best…]
Ugh!
“Cuban cigar...”
I think I’m going to throw up!
“...in the world!” [in de wo'ld!]
Tommie turned green at the thought...there was no escape.
White Trash Gertrude