The summer skies were cloudless, the birds were singing, the bees were buzzing, the dogs were barking and the patients in their fetid, stained gowns were shuffling around the hallways reeking to high heaven.
Outside the now rare spectacle of a jetliner crossed the sky leaving in its wake a white contrail. It used to be you could see those vapor trails everywhere crisscrossing the heavens. Now, you might see a single airliner once a month if you were lucky.
Wait! What’s that?
The familiar contrail turned a brownish color for a few moments. Was that smoke? Was the jetliner having engine trouble? No, there was the familiar white contrail, once more. What in the world was...Wait! There it is...again!
Hold on a second.
The sound of rustling papers…Rustle…rustle…rustle
I don’t see anything in the script on what on earth is happening. Wait a moment while I check.
The noise of footsteps moving off into the background…Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump…tap…
The creaking of a door opening.
What sounds like two fellows whispering in the background…Pssst…pssst…pssst
Someone asking, “What?” out loud, nevertheless muffled like they’re talking from a room farther away.
More whispering…Pssst…pssst…pssst
What sounds like the narrator’s voice, “Oh, that’s right!”
Noise of a door closing shut…
Thud
The noise of approaching footsteps.…Thump…tap, thump, tap, thump, tap…
Sorry, the novelist forgot to clue me in on just what was happening to that airliner. Seems what looked like smoke, the brownish stuff, was simply the Department of Energy at work; an energy-saving measure allowing the airlines to simply dump (flush) the passengers’ cac into the heavens.
“What the f@!*?”
I know, but remember this is 2050 and things have changed a little. There are now bureaucrats running the country who could very well have been living in a jungle, mud huts, or using outhouses…just last year!
In today’s America the regulation made perfect sense; less weight meant better mileage, nevertheless getting the authorization...that had not been easy. The Department of Energy was fought tooth and nail by both the Environmental Protection Agency and the Department of the Sierra Club, both of which had a cow at the thought that this simple act might reignite Global Warming.
The media establishment was calling the court battle that ensued the “Case of the Century.” Ultimately the legal struggle worked its way up to the Supreme Court which, up to then, spent most of its time reinterpreting the U.S. Constitution and any laws that no longer made any sense...largely any previous law on the books. After years of bickering back and forth, the Department of Energy ultimately prevailed with its lawyers using the rationale that cac was good for plants (fertilizer). The speed of the aircraft alone would blast everything into sub-particles, which by the time any of it reached the ground would be so dispersed, most Americans would never take notice of the drizzle. Just the same, the measure had created a mass exodus along the few remaining commercial flight paths, but at the same time had the unforeseen benefit of creating a small windfall from new foreclosures for the agencies ‘Fredrico’s Mea’ and ‘Fredricka’s Mack.’
-----
The bright sun lit up the interior of the doddering schoolhouse, and a gentle wind blew through the chicken-wire screened windows, carrying with it the stench of the patients into the surrounding neighborhood apartments. The occupants of the projects did not seem to mind much, after all, D’HUD, the Department of Housing and Urban Development, had been using “open air” settling ponds for human waste for years...most everyone was now acclimated to the miasma of schiesma everywhere.
The reclamation ponds worked wonders, except for the bouquet, or when they filled up, but otherwise were entirely environmentally friendly and helped save the planet. Waste ponds were also shown by experts to have other beneficial side effects, including helping forestall the depletion of the ozone layer, helping save the gray whales, the polar bears, the snail darters, the grey bats, the spruce-fir moss spiders, the zayante-band winged grasshoppers and thousands upon thousands of other mammals, amphibians, insects, birds, fish, lizards, frogs, clams, plants, snails, rats, mice, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
Settling ponds were a good thing...No! They were a very good thing! Why? Owing to the fact that a consensus of experts in Washington said so...and consensuses of experts were always proven to be consensually right.
Okay, so enough about the ‘cac ponds,’ let us now turn our attention back to Patient No. 112 who was sitting with the first shift of retards...you know that’s honestly not right calling crazy inmates “retards.” I know the neighbors call them “retards,” nevertheless they’re “ignoramuses” themselves. There’s got to be a middle ground...“patients” and “inmates” just isn’t edgy enough. There’s got to be something more gripping and just outside the boundaries of “political correctness.”
“What about just keeping to ‘idiots?’”
“Idiots” is not unique enough sounding.
“Fair enough, what about something from the Urban Dictionary?”
Good idea, let me take a look.
Seconds pass...
The noise of someone slowly pecking at a keyboard, in all likelihood only with their index fingers.
Tic…
Click…
Tic…
More time passed with more slow pecking.
Schiessen (the teller of yarns had made a typographical error).
Click…
Tic…
Click…
Click…
More time passes, more slow pecking.
Click…
Tic…
Schiessen (a further typo).
Click
Tic…tic…
“What’s taking so long!”
How do you spell “dictionary?”
“What?!@, you’re kidding, right?”
No, I’ve almost got it.
“The hell with this! I’ll take a look!”
Tic, tic, tic…click, click, clickity…tic, click, tickity, click…just a few seconds pass.
“Okay, I’m there. Most of the options appear to be fairly obvious: nitwit, stupid, dumbass, douche, dork...wait, here’s one, ‘f*$#!tard!’”
I am of the opinion we would have a bit of a hard time getting a word like that past the “Word Nazis.”
“Word Nazis?”
Yes, basically any person who believes themselves to be smart; was, or is in academia and looks for any excuse to come down hard on another’s literary work. They generally lack intelligence, soul and most will in all likelihood end up as elementary school English teachers…or at the very least have bad marriages and then go to hell.
“Oh, wait! Here’s one more good one, ‘dipptard.’”
I have to admit that does sound darn good.
“No, it sounds perfect! It is a perfect play on words, ‘dip’ like in ‘dip-schiessen’ and ‘tard’ like in ‘retard,’ dipptard!”
Wow, you are right! No one can claim it’s not “politically correct,” it’s not like the Urban Dictionary qualifies as a Webster’s Dictionary, so the ‘Word Nazis’ can’t hold us accountable.
“Darn right!”
How do you spell it?
“Dipptard, d-i-p-p-t-a-r-d, dipptard.”
Good, “dipptard,” “dipptards,” and “dipptarded” are now a part of our repertoire.
“You’re welcome.”
Fine...now let’s return to...
“What, no thanks for the help?”
Jee whiz! All right, thanks, now can I return to the story?
“I’m not sure I like your tone.”
My apologies, it was a late night. That author and his unholy snoring.
“Damn it must be real bad.”
You don’t know the half of it, anyhow let’s get on with this rambling acc
ount, all right? The quicker I can get through this book, the sooner I get to go on that cruise the author has promised me.
“Lucky...sure, go for it.”
So, the professor who thirty-minutes earlier had been led into the former, school gymnasium by a dog leash...I know, I describe the reason for the dog collar and leash in a bit. Anyhow, the professor was one of a third of the inmates who were squeezed into the old gymnasium and pushed onto the benches of the picnic tables. Things were a bit tight, instead of normal eight adults per table, twelve inmates were smooched together inevitably leading to some pushing and shoving. Throughout mealtimes, dozens of inmates would inevitably get nudged off the end of their bench, which would start a chain reaction. For someone glancing in from the outside mealtime would have appeared to be some kind of game with the dipptards imitating what appeared to be a human variation of the ‘Executive Ball Clicker,’ or what some call ‘Newton’s Balls.’
Picking themselves up the fallen patients would force themselves back up onto their perch sending a shockwave through the other five, or so inmates inevitably pushing the dipptard off at the opposite end. The second, fallen crazy person would repeat the actions of the first and the process would repeat itself throughout the duration of meal time...at the dozen, or so tables!
Thankfully Patient No. 112 did not suffer such inconveniences, in reality this professor was something of a celebrity at Grey Hall, not because of what the professor had been, or done, but owing to the fact that he was an antique, the longest, living relic to have been in “the system.”
The kitchen personnel had already made the rounds with their rolling tables carrying steel caldrons ladling the breakfast slop into the feeding troughs that acted as a centerpiece for each picnic table. The employees were now in the process of handing out the plastic spoons when the unmistakable noise of fly swatters swatting filled the air...Whack!...Whack! A couple of patients had gotten over eager and not waited for the spoons. They now paid for their insolence with the unmistakable, reddish mark of a fly swatter branding across their foreheads.
Special cases, like Patient No. 112, had unusual seating assignments. Sure, most had their arms and legs tied to the table and had to be hand fed. Many at Schwartz’s table required that sort of handling. Most were mentally impaired with only their autonomic functions like traipsing, breathing, sneezing, munching, swallowing, doing #1, or #2 their only competence. Two orderlies responsible for feeding these more unique cases, let us call them the ‘Old Hand’ and ‘New Hand,’ were now carrying a bucket of slop from one patient to another shoveling breakfast into each inmate’s mouth.
Soon, it was the former faculty member’s turn.
“Okay Bic, open up,” said the Old Hand.
No reaction, Professor Schwartz just continued staring off into limbo.
Sometimes for inexplicable reasons the ‘intellectual’s protoplasm’ would not agree to the Old Hand’s command, the normal Pavlovian Response to the verbal command would not work, right now appeared to be one of those instances.
“Bic, open up!”
Once more, no reaction.
“Okie dookie, you’d aks’t fo it.” The Old Hand now pinched the academic’s nose close and moments later like magic…
Pop!
The mouth of Patient No. 112 snapped open.
Now that his mouth was open the New Hand shoveled in a spoonful of the delightful, tasting gruel…just enough so the patient would not gag. Then the Old Hand let the veteran dipptard’s nose go. Immediately the professor’s mouth shut like a trap.
Chomp!
“All right Bic, now chew it down real fine,” said the Old Hand.
This was where the primitive part of the academic’s brain automatically took over. Like clockwork the “academic’s body” went through the mechanical motions of chewing...then swallowed.
While the two waited to plug a further spot of joy into “No. 112 body’s mouth” the New Hand axes the question, “Why don’t we let dese idiots dat...”
“Wait just a minute!”
What?
“Didn’t you mean to say ‘ask?’”
No, common expressions in English have morphed, or dropped completely from the scene. Words like “ask” have become terms like “aks,” or “ack,” “business” has become “bit’ness” and if there were any libraries still around “library” would now be called “lie-berry.” “Axe” in this case is completely within the guidelines of Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish; the tense is correct and usage in that sentence is perfectly fine.
“‘Axe’ is the same thing as saying ‘ask?’”
Yes, “axe” is the same thing as “ask” for all twenty-five iterations of Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish. You could also get away with using expressions like “aks,” or “ack” in place of “ask,” those would also work. I know what you’re contemplating and yes writing in this new, national dialect can be a bit confusing in as much as the whole ball of wax is spelled and written...phonetically. You could end up with several dozen different ways of spelling terms like “ask.” All to say, these subtle innovations in how expressions and sentence structure are composed to arrive at a perfunctory result are very tremendous things with “artsy fartsy” coming to mind when trying to describe the national language: Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish, a truly super-duper advancement over the aged, might as well be Latin, English.
“Enthralling…I understand; nevertheless, you, I mean the author, is writing this book in English, right?”
What’s your point?
“So, why use the phonetic spelling ‘axed’? In all likelihood ‘axe’ and possibly ‘axing’ in place of ‘ask,’ probably ‘asked’ and possibly ‘asking’...now?”
Hmmm....
I don’t know the answer to that. I guess I am going to have to ask the author a further question? Be right back.
Once more, the noise of footsteps moving off into the background...Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump…tap.
Again, the creaking of a door opening…
Frank…[Narrator]
Silence, no answer.
Frankenstein…
Again, all was quiet and no reaction.
Hey, Frankie…!
Continued tranquility, again with no comeback. This time, however, the exchange taking place in the next room can be heard; there is no longer any mumbling.
What in tarnation are you doing?
“Uh, uh yes... I’m sorry, I must have been taking a nap,” responds the voice of the author...
A nap! Are you kidding? At his hour!
“Why, what...what time is it?”
It’s daylight...you fool! If you were awake you’d know that! Why don’t you sleep when it’s dark out like most normal seniors your age?
“But, I do?”
You realize that does not sound very good, don’t you? Some guys may conclude you’re one of those carbohydrate-addicted slobs who do diddly-squat all day except lay around eating potato chips, drinking high-calorie sodas, gaping at the ‘Jerry’s Bastard Junior Show,’ or the ‘Opie’s Adopted Daughters’ Network,’ or waiting for the opportunity to screw any woman: plain, ugly, fat, would not matter; that might darken your doorway.
“I did not realize that. Hey!...I take offense to your comment about plain, ugly, fat women. They could end up reading this...this ‘series novel.’”
I, in point of fact, doubt that, this is strictly a ‘man’s read!’ You can’t tell me you really believe a woman, any woman, dyke, or otherwise would ever pick this up and actually read it? Just look at the cover! The cover looks nothing like a Harlequin Romance novel!
“What’s your point?”
All I’m saying is you better wake up and “smell the leather.” Males...most males buy and read books by other guys...real men, not phonies that take naps...capishe!
“Jeez, I thought everyone my age was doing the same thing. I judged naps were just part of getting up in one’s years. I suppose...”
&n
bsp; Wait a minute! You, in point of fact, sound like you could be one of those slobs who lays around all day ingesting potato chips, downing high-calorie sodas and the like…while I’m busting my ass narrating this “non hit” of yours. Are you overweight?
“Well, maybe a little.”
What’s a little?
Hmmm…
“Possibly, twenty-five...”
Pounds! How...how tall are you?
“Perhaps five, eight.”
Do you know what that means? Your body-mass-index is off the charts! Now, I know you’ve got a real “macho” image problem. Not only the napping part, but you’re obese to boot! If you genuinely want real men to pick this up and read the series, you’re going to have to adjust your image.
The noise of crickets...
Are you listening to me?
“Yes, I’m just a little speechless.”
You should be, so do us both a favor…some dudes might actually want to read this thing; nevertheless, they won’t if they get a look at you!
“Damn, don’t get so upset.”
Are you still listening to me?
“Yes, I’m listening.”
Good, now look into my eyeballs…I’m serious, look into my eyes!
Okay, now repeat after me...
I promise...
“Is this honestly necessary?”
Repeat after me, I promise...
“Okay, I promise...” comes the author’s voice with little enthusiasm.
I won’t take any more naps...
“I won’t take any more naps...”
When the teller of tales is yarn spinning.
“When the narrator is narrating.”
Are we good?
“Yeah, I suppose we’re good.”
Good! Now to the reason I woke you up. Come with me...get off the sofa! Look, your one and only client is waiting for some answers.
The creaking of a door closing shut…
Thud!
The noise of two sets of approaching footsteps. Thump-thump…tap-tap, thump-thump, tap-tap, thump-thump, tap-tap.
The narrator and writer are now in the same room.
I know you can’t see him; nevertheless, this is the author. He sure can write one infernal book can’t he?
You, of course, have not decided if this character does in reality know what he’s doing when it comes to writing, so you withhold a response, but you now cordially ask…
“Isn’t the author going to say ‘Hi,’ or something?”
Don’t just stand there, say something!
“Hello mister, misses, or missus ‘reader.’ So, you’re one of the lucky ones to have found this packed-full book of revelations of mine,” responds the author.
You are very likely put off by the author’s comment. So what if he wrote a book! “A simple hello would have sufficed.”
Huh! The yarn spinner senses hostility brewing. What’s going on here? Are they fighting already?
Wait a second! I’d say we’ve had enough of the pleasantries for the moment, so let’s get to “the reader’s” questions.
The person reading your novel and I would like to know why the schiessen you’re using “axed,” possibly “axe” and in all likelihood “axing” in place of “ask,” possibly “asked” and probably “asking”...in this book?
The self-taught, untrained novelist responds, “Well, first of all this is a ‘series novel’, not just a book, and the reason I’ve included the new terms in the script is in view of the actuality that I believe it’s important today’s Americans embark upon making the transition to our peachy future now, so they won’t get blindsided, so they will be ahead of the game, so to speak.”
Well, that certainly makes sense to me.
“I’d say that depends, what’s the probability the United States will become what’s described in this book?”
“‘Series novel,’” restates the author. “It is a ‘series novel.’”
“Don’t you mean ‘serial novel?’”
“‘Serial novel?’ That certainly sounds the same as ‘series novel’ to me.”
“I am of the opinion that the real question is if ‘series novel’ is even a real term. Did you look it up?”
“Uh...no,” replies the author, “it sounded right.”
The noise of fast keyboard typing.
Tickity, clickity, tic, tic, click, click, tickity…click.
“I just did an internet search and zippo comes up for ‘series novel.’”
What about ‘serial novel’?
“Just one moment.”
A moment passes...more fast typing.
Tic, click, tic, tic, click, click, tickity…clickity.
“Yes, ‘serial novel’ comes up all over the place. Here is one definition: serial novel…a serial novel is a publishing format whereby a single, large story is presented in contiguous, typically chronological installments...numbers, parts, or fascicles.”
There you have it! sites the Narrator.
A stillness descends upon the setting...tension is in the air, that is up to the time the author apparently remembers the person now reading the novel could very well be the only person to ever read the thing.
Of course, the writer has already forgotten the original question, so breaks the chill in the air with, “You said you had some questions for me?”
What’s the answer...what’s your answer to “the reader’s” original question about probability?
“Hmmm...that’s indubitably hard to say with any accuracy. Nevertheless given all that’s happening today: the fifty percent of Americans on the government dole, double-digit unemployment, liberals’ control over the education system, the media and pretty much all of Washington...I’d say ninety percent.”
“Ninety percent!”
“Both you and whoever is reading this masterpiece need to keep in mind this adventure takes place...let’s see 2050 minus 2013 is thirty-seven years out. In that time what’s described herein is an easily doable putt.”
“Hey, don’t be despondent; you two should look at this more positively. You’ll have plenty of time to either make the necessary adjustments...or move overseas.”
The sound of more crickets...
“I guess you two are in a little shock, but believe me, you will get over it. One more thing, you may see other terms like ‘aax,’ or ‘axd’ thrown into the mix, so don’t be confused; they mean exactly the same thing.”
Thanks.
“So, do you need anything else from me?”
No, I think we are both hunky-dory.”
“Good, then I am off to take...I mean to do some pushups.”
The noise of footsteps moving off into the background...
Thump, tap, thump, tap, thump…tap.
The creaking of a door opening…and closing shut.
Thud!
What sounds like the door being locked.
Click!
Now, nothing except the muted sound of crickets...
More crickets...
“I bet he’s going back for some more nap time.”
Or...hit the refrigerator, the fatso. Hey, wait a second, how did you know?
“You two weren’t exactly whispering earlier.”
Then you heard the whole kit and caboodle? The “scent of leather” part and all?
“Yes, but, so what.”
Of course, you’re right. Let us move on with this fairytale. I’ll berate the author later if he’s not taking my advice. I mean would you pick up a book from an author that did not have machismo?
“I read a woman’s novel once.”
So, you’re telling me image doesn’t matter?
“No, I believe you’re right, but why are we spending so much time on this topic?”
You’re right, the hell with this matter…back to the moronicist.
Remember that the former scholar was being assisted by two orderlies, the Old Hand and the New Hand, with his breakfast. That was when
the New Hand aax, “Whay don’t we's jus let des mo’ons datt can’t feed themselves starve?”
“A'cuz, ya' honkyfool, we wants' de vegetable types. Dose unruly ones, even wid de ho'se tranqs, kin be real hard t'manage. Some is even waaay downright dangewous,” answered the Old Hand.
“Shit, I mean schiessen! What on earth did all that mean?”
I have not got a clue, but luckily the author has included a translation of these new fangled conversations in Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish. There’s also a note from the novelist.
“To whom it may concern. As a courtesy, an English rendering will accompany all exchanges, at least up to the juncture where your average everyday, high-school student should have a working grasp of the future, magical, inspiring language and can transcribe things for themselves.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
You’re not leaving that up to me are you?
“If you want me to read this thing, yes.”
Gulp...Wait a second. I will just find the author when I need something translated! Brilliant, right?
“Whatever you have to do, all I know is I’m not going to learn, never mind attempt to translate, this...this near, meaningless bilge.”
No problem, I’ve got this conversion thing covered. For now, let’s continue with the dialog...and transcriptions.
Now, we are at the point where the Old Hand has said the following, “A'cuz, ya' honky fool, we wants' de vege’ble kndes. Dose unruly ones, even wid de ho'se tranqs, kin be real hard t'manage. Some is even waaay downright dangewous.”
[This roughly translates to, “Cuz you naive boy, we want the easygoing dipptards. Those unruly ones, even with the sedatives, can be very hard to manage. Some are even downright dangerous.”]
“Dange’ros?”
“Yeah Dog, dangewous…Ah’ saw one dude dig some piece uh his ear bit off once weh tey be too clos weh munch’in. Anoda' time, Marty lost his too’f when one uh dose mo'ons bonkie’d some fo'ken hed in hed mss’n hed…Dog!”
[Yes, dangerous…I saw one person get a piece of his ear bit off once when he got too close to one of the knuckleheads when he was eating. Another time, Marty (another orderly) lost his front tooth when one of those morons accidentally butted him in the noggin with his noodle]!”
“Gaut all mighty, Dog!”
“Yea, dat’s right, Dog!” [Yea, that’s right!]
By the way, it should be noted at this juncture that “dog,” “bitch” and “bitches” are expressions used extensively by the multitude of the future. Dog, or dogs, is used in place of terms like man, or men; male, or males; boy, or boys; dad, or dads; father, or fathers; et cetera, et cetera. Likewise, the expressions, woman, female, girl, girlfriend, wife, spouse, daughter, sister, mother, aunt, et cetera, et cetera have been replaced by “bitch” in the singular...and “bitches” in the plural. Calling everyone dog, bitch and bitches might seem absurd today, but they do have some meritorious qualities, which we will discuss later.
“Now ya' see dat one upside dere” [Now you see that one over there], said the Old Hand pointing at another human wreck sitting a couple of picnic tables away, facing them with a couple of his front teeth missing.
“De one miss’in his fwont tee’f [The one missing his front teeth]?”
“Yea Dog, eye fow and eye...a too’f fow a too’f.” [Yea Dog, eye for an eye...a tooth for a tooth].
“Yea, but he’s missin' uh his front too’fs, looks mo'e likes ‘eye fow and eye...a too’f fow a too’fs’.” [Yea, but he’s missing a couple of his front teeth; looks more like eye for an eye...some teeth for a tooth].
“Yea Dog, Mawty mighta gotten cawwied away.” [Yes, Marty might have gotten carried away].
“But-tom wine, you’ve to make suwe these nut-basket mo’ons eat this crap, othewwise they can a’be wil’ becames vio’ent stoop’ids, WORD!” [Bottom line, you’ve got to make sure these patients eat this cac, otherwise they can and will become violent dipptards, capishe!]
The Old Hand now noticed Patient No. 112 had swallowed its first mouthful of gruel and the primitive mind had learned its lesson and opened “Schwartz’s mouth” without any prompting.
“Okay, Bic’s ready f' anodeh.”
It took a few minutes for the “intellectual’s mouth” to finish up breakfast. The two orderlies moved on to the next patient and a half-hour later another whistle blew.
Tweet!
The Old Hand yelled out, “Hey yo' mo'ons!” [Hey, everybody listen to me]!
“It’s time t'git outside.” [It’s time to get outside].
“It is a right purdy day junts.” [It is a beautiful day].
“Yer a-gonna love it.” [You are going to love it].
“Now, git gwine.” [Now, let’s get hoofing!]
Now, the orderlies began to knock their charges off the picnic benches to get things in motion, and before long the floor was covered in heavily sedated inmates. A half hour later with a lot of whistle blowing, shouting and fly swatter action, most of the nuts were on their feet and shuffling their way at the staff’s insistence to a pair of double doors that led to the playground. Some were still moving too slowly for the Old Hand’s patience.
Tweet!
The Old Hand blew his whistle once more.
Tweet!
...and added, “Ah said, git th' fuk Out yo' stoop…ids!” [Please everyone, please pick up the pace people!]
Another whistle blew out in the hallway.
Tweet!
Someone could be heard yelling, “Okay id’iots, time fo' bustfast! Git a move on!” [Okay everyone, time for breakfast, so hurry up and get a move on]!
Tweet!
One of the high points for the patients at Grey Hall was walking, or standing around on the playground all day. The grounds were a little over an acre in size and wrapped around the former schoolhouse on all four sides. There was a long, clay-dirt driveway that led up to the steps of the main entrance once it passed through the chain-link front gate. The front gate was electrically operated by the guard in the guard shack just inside the fence.
On the north-facing side of the school, obscured from the view of the guard in the guard shack, the herd of zombies descended the steps as they emerged from the double doors. The direction they walked depended on the direction an insane person on horse tranquilizers was pushed. It was remarkable how each patient eventually moved off to every point of the compass, save for those first few to get penned against the security fence around the garbage just to the right of the exit.
Some dipptards would inevitably get turned around in the chaos, ended up facing the way they had come and tried to saunter back into the cafeteria. They were greeted with kind expressions and a little nudge.
Another whistle blew...
Tweet!
“Turn back aroun' yo' fools an' hoof it in a diffrunt direckshun befo'e ah git pissed as a weasel in a blender off!” [Please, please turn back around you ingrates and go for a walk in another direction. Please listen to me, else I might genuinely get mad, and you really do not want to get me upset!]
“Fry mah hide [I’ll be damned]!”
“Okay, ah warned yo’…take thet yo' stoopid, idiota mo’ons!” [Okay, I warned you…take that you impudent humans!]
One crazy, drooling, cross-eyed patient got whacked on the noggin with a fly swatter; one more dipptard to the butt by a sandaled foot; a further drugged out insane character back on the noodle with another fly swatter. Even plants respond to harsh treatment and these walking vegetables were no different. Eventually, all were turned around to face another point of the compass, off to wander about the less-than-scenic landscape for the rest of the day...in an utter fog.
You might axe, “What happens when a patient runs out of real estate? Most, after all, only strolled in straight lines.”
The answer is, if it was not too hot out, most of the zombies would mosey up to the security fence and simply stand there peering off with blank stares into
the wall of shrubbery up to the time some movement caught their eye...a bird perhaps, maybe a bee, a rock from one of the neighborhood kids...or the flies which never looked as if they would go away.
On piping-hot days, or when it rained torrentially, the inmates would congregate like cattle under the cover of several oak trees that had grown up outside the security fence. The zombies would stand there for hours grunting, moaning, drooling and every thing else. The only thing to break the monotony and their combined noise making, that did in reality sound a lot like cows mooing, would be the late afternoon whistle calling them back into the schoolhouse for a further round of porridge...or the occasional lightning strike. Those lightning strikes were nature’s way of culling the herd and giving those that survived a little added elbow room at the picnic-table benches.
Some of the dipptards, however, became what the staffers called “pinballs.” Pinballs were the patients who wore doggie collars, like Professor Schwartz, and were led around on leashes. Otherwise, they would walk and amble and tromp around all day long. Once the restraints came off, pinballs would take off on one of their endless treks. Any time a pinball came up against an obstacle like the enclosure, or the red brick wall of the timeworn schoolhouse, or the two basketball posts with no backboards, or the one swing set with no swings, or the guard shack where the guard slept; they would switch directions. It unquestionably would have been a marvelous, wondrous thing to see film footage of those pinballs slogging around all day...say in fast motion...say on national television. It was an idea that had almost made it to the “Big Time.”
The Food and Drug Administration had its own television network and was constantly on the lookout for something new and engrossing to air. Come to think of it, all the federal government agencies had their own television networks and most spent their budgets on programs that appealed to the majority of Americans, illiterates with Intelligence Quotients of sixty-five, or below.
To be fair there was no way to test the IQs of most Americans; those tests relied upon written and verbal exams that were designed for a populace with at least a 6th grade education and who used some sort of ordinary, boring language like Spanish, French, German, and yes, English. Today’s citizens could barely read, never mind write in anything ordinary, and the education system was not going to be a lot of help what with it appearing more like a coed, K-12 penitentiary with drugs, gangs, and the teachers acting the part of prison guards. Besides, most of today’s youth would drop out before they reached 3rd grade to join their parents and fellow amigos, embarking upon pursuits of hedonistic pleasures...and rioting.
“Rioting?”
Yes, rioting and looting.
By 2050, rioting had become akin to a national pastime, that and something resembling professional football with hockey sticks. For your average, everyday American, rioting was so common an event that they ignored them completely unless, of course, they were caught in the path of one. Most, however, were lucky, never finding themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time thanks to the NMASA, the National Mob Alert System Agency, the hurricane tracking system for mobs of rioters.
Like on the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration Channel, the NMASA had twenty-four hour coverage of the changing nature and progress of lawlessness just like the weather across North America. The NMASA even used similar terminology like “Cone of Destruction” on account of both resembled the ruination wrought by both natural and man-made phenomena.
In the early days, peace-loving Americans had no answer for the chaos. ‘Potluck’ was what kept them from driving down the wrong street, walking around the wrong corner, or taking the wrong mass-transit service to get wherever they were going. Sure, Americans had no problems with riots in their own neighborhoods; they knew through their local ‘community organizers’ when and where their own free-for-alls were going to take place. The “what for” never appeared to matter; nevertheless, it could range from having your pooch run over by an ambulance to just having the need to blow off some steam at your fellow citizens’ expense.
The “race card” was no longer a driving matter and had been completely taken off the table when the liberals opened the floodgates to every third-world nation south of the border to get more Democrat voters. Yesterday’s minorities had become today’s majority; they were the ones calling the shots. They were the ones running the show from “el Presidente” down.
“What happened to all the liberal elitists, the prodigy who helped create this awe-inspiring, fab ‘New, Future America?’”
Before I answer that I have a question for you.
“Go, ahead.”
How many times would you guess the novelist has plugged some variation of “liberal” into this novel?
“Twenty, or thirty times.”
Try three-hundred and fifty-six.
“What the f@#&!?”
I know because I counted them last night. Now, for what reason would we give progressives free billing? I mean, the liberals already have the entire spectrum of the media pitching their crap twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
“What are you suggesting?”
Do you still have the Urban Dictionary open?
“You want some options for ‘liberal?’”
That sure would be nice. I’ll throw up, otherwise.
“This should take just a moment.”
Tic, tic, tic…click, click, clickity…
“This could be fun.”
Tic, click, tickity, click…
“Okay, here are some of the options: ‘liberoner,’ ‘liboner,’ ‘libtarded,’ ‘libturded’ and ‘libtwerp’...”
Do they all have to have “lib” somewhere in the spelling?
“Give me a moment to check, no, no, no...Yes! Here are a few that show up that look propitious. Something called a ‘goofnad,’ then there’s a ‘moonbat,’ an ‘asshat,’ and ‘assclown.’”
Those sound promising. What’s the definition for each? That may help with our selection.
“I’m paraphrasing here, but a ‘goofnad’ appears to be a derogatory play on words equating liberals to being goofballs, ‘goof’ short for ‘goofy.’ ‘Nads’ is an abbreviation for “gonads,” so I suppose we’re supposed to draw the conclusion that a ‘goofnad’ is a ‘goofy nut.’”
“Goofnad,” that certainly sounds relevant.
“Next is ‘assclown.’ An ‘assclown’ is someone who, through the fault of their parents giving birth, is considered a skid-mark in society's collective underwear.”
Darn, that sounds auspicious, too!
“Then there’s ‘asshat’ which is a close cousin of assclown and is a person whose behavior is so uninformed, arrogant and obnoxious that you wished someone would make them wear their own asses for hats.”
Schiessen, that term sounds superb, too!
“Last, but not least, the ‘moonbat’ is someone who is not endowed with the power of reason, is probably mentally unstable, and has decidedly, strong affiliations with any extreme leftist cause. Wow! I’d say that describes what I’ve seen of liberals on television pretty well.”
“I know my vote would be for the last one, ‘moonbat.’”
You know, I don’t have a problem with using all of them: “goofnad,” “moonbat,” “asshat” and “assclown” in lieu of “liberal,” or “progressive.” The definitions fit perfectly with the stereotypes of what people on ‘the left’ are...I think we should use them all!
“All of them? Won’t using those kind of derogatory terms unsettle most readers?”
Hey, it isn’t like the novel has been composed for mass appeal, and besides, the only people who might get upset would be those wishy-washy moderates, or some flakey ‘goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown,’ both of whom aren’t likely to make it past the dedication section. No, the only way a ‘goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown’ would ever thumb through this novel would be if the writer paid them to edit the blasted thing. Since, Frankie isn’t likely to win a
‘writer’s lottery,’ chances are one of those unemployed, liberal stooges, with their degrees in English, will never edit, or see themselves being referred to as a ‘goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclowns’ in this serial.
“Yes, and even if a ‘goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown’ did see himself or herself being called a ‘goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown,’ who cares, right?”
Darn right, I could care less what some ‘goofnad-moonbat-asshat-assclown’ thinks. So, we’re both agreed; all four terms will be used.
“Yes, I’m even feeling happier now.”
Me, too...so, let us get back to the answer to your question. What happened to all the moonbat elitists who helped create this high-minded, delightful, heaven on earth. The answer is, those that could, jumped off the sinking ship did so and were now living in France. Those that stayed behind either moved to Canada, or one of the “Free Zones” I will discuss later.
Back to the bedlam...local throngs of civil disobedience could, of course, be avoided, but the schedule and paths of metro-wide, or national free-for-alls were always a grey area. It was not until Congress was ordered by the “Forever President” to create the new agency that the godsend came into being.
“A ‘Forever President?’ You’ve used that reference twice, what are you talking about, a dictator?”
In essence, yes. Once things began to metamorphose demographically speaking, one of the first things the assclowns did was abolish the 22nd Amendment, you know, the part of the U.S. Constitution that limited a President to two terms. Fidel Castro’s great grandson was serving as Commander in Chief at the time and quite naturally became a permanent fixture in the White House, in all likelihood forever, hence the title “Forever President.”
“Fidel Castro’s great grandson?”
Fidel Castro, IV.
“How is that possible?”
We can thank the news media, Hollywood and moonbats in general for the Castro dictatorship. Those touchy-feely, irrational, well-meaning, nevertheless unrealistic, reformers quickly threw their lot in with the Cuban probably on account of they were blinded by the name “Castro.”
The goofnad establishment, no matter what they said in public, always secretly loved, envied and idolized the original numskull dictator, even wishing they too could one day follow in his footsteps. Needless to say, it did not take much for the fools, I mean assclowns, to throw their lot in behind one of Castro’s namesakes; no matter how inexperienced, inane, or stupid his descendant was...the Cuban was still a “Castro” and that was all that counted for ‘the Left.’
“That’s a terrifying thought. So, what was the reason behind the ‘Forever President’s’ actions?”
Seems one of Fidel’s bastard sons, number twenty-something, had been caught up in one of those unpredicted tempests with his pants down in a brothel and was ruffed up a bit. That was what spawned the call for the emergency legislation by the national leader and thus the National Mob Alert System Agency was created!
Today, if you were not close to a television set, or listening to the radio, you could always listen for the NMASA sirens giving their audible warning. Much like air-raid sirens of Britain in World War II, or the United States during the Cuban Missile Crisis (more than a little ironic), the alerts from NMASA loudspeakers could be heard across the land, filling the air with their wailing...
NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE..NAA!
Filling the air with the warning cries...
“War’in'! War’in'! Oh wriott be gonad de haided yo' way!” [Warning! Warning! An angry pack of upset proletariats are coming this way! Clear off the streets! Run for your life to the hills! Hide!]”
“Wor’in'! Wor’in'! Ah ry’it be had youse way!” [Warning! Warning! An angry pack of upset neighbors are coming this way! Clear off the streets! Head for the housing projects! Lock your doors!]
Followed by added wailing...
NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!
...more warning cries.
“Warm’in'! Warm’in'! A byot be hamm’ined yo' way!” [Warning! Warning! An angry pack of upset degenerates is coming this way! Clear off the roads! Head for a hiding place! Lock your cellar doors!]
“But, what about Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish? Don’t the vibrant, magical utterances have regional variations?”
Of course, you are right, but the NMASA planners had thought of that, too! Notice the subtle differences in the un-translated warnings above.
A riot warning like, “Warnin' dogs e’ bitches, a riot be haided yo' way,” would be understood in communities like Harlem, or Oakland, but not in other parts of America. That’s why the warning message was specifically tailored to each particular region and dialectal variation.
Along the southern border the warning had less of an Ebonic edge to it and more of a Latino ring.
NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!
“Warn’io! Warn’io! Un riotesea e head’io yo’ way’o! Warn’io! Warn’io! Un riotesea e head’io yo’ way’o!” [Warning! Warning! A fuk’in pack of angry amigos are coming! Get the ficken off the dirt tracks and into the fields!]
By the way, you can learn more about the Latino American vernacular in the glossary section.
No response...
In the Northeast the warning had a more metropolitan, “Streetish” flare.
NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!
“War’in, yo’! War’in, yo! Raa'ots, de a cum’n, schiessen-za yo!” [You’re in for it now! You’re in for it now! A big, fuk’ing group from the projects is coming this way! Get the schiessen off the boulevards! Lock your doors! Shutter you windows!]
“War’in, yo’! War’in, yo! Raa'ots, de a cum’n, yo’!” [You’re in for it now! You’re in for it now! A big, fuk’ing throng of goons is coming this way! Get the hell off the streets! Lock up your homes! Hide in the attics!]
You can also learn more about both New Yorker and Bostonian-American vernacular Ebangish-Egangish-Edangish in the glossary section.
No response...
In the Appalachian Mountains region the warning had a more “earthy tone.”
NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!
“Wawning ya’ll! Wawning ya’ll! A wiot be haided youw way! Wawning ya’ll! Wawning ya’ll! A wiot be haided youw way!” [Revenuers are coming! Revenuers are coming! Run for the hills! Run for the hills! Hide!]
The Appalachian American vernacular is also in the glossary...
“Okay...okay I get it.”
I just thought you would like to know there is some absorbing history surrounding each dialect and they’re all in the glossary.
In all there were twenty-five variations of the NMASA warning message, so all the bases were theoretically covered. Many Americans were theoretically safer and through the diligence of the agency their property and lives were safer, too. No longer were everyday citizens subject to the laws of Murphy, no longer did everyone have to rely upon potluck.
NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA...NEE...NAA!
The NMASA, a sophisticated, scientific and proven early warning system with ninety-two percent more efficiency in preventing...
“What...what about English? It was still being used, right?”
English was still out there; nevertheless, it had become a shadow of its former self. When the writing on the wall became apparent to most English-speaking Americans, who also happened to be the vast preponderance of taxpayers, that they were going to lose the United States, most departed to a better climate, for the most part Australia and New Zealand. The exodus had been so massive, the movement of wealth so vast, Australia followed closely by New Zealand, and they quickly became the two wealthiest nations in the world. Not unlike the American Revolution, once the Yanks showed up in the tens of millions, one of their first moves was to cut the strings to the financial leeches back in England, while at the same time giving the Queen of England the middle finger. The Yanks quickly reformed Australia into a true democracy and were
now calling themselves ‘Ausmericans’ of the United States of Australia. Further, that completely monotonous sport of soccer, mistakenly referred to as ‘football’ by the rest of the world, and its close cousin, rugby, were ditched in favor of ‘real’ football! Sounds like my kind of place to live.
“You can’t be serious. Every English-speaking American citizen took off for Australia, New Zealand, or France?”
You know, you’re right! Those Americans that remained behind did originally speak English, but in less than a generation, they were assimilated into the culture and dialects of the ‘new majority.’
Any more questions?
Silence...
Getting any ideas?
“I’m going to have to check my bank account before I answer that, but please continue.”
Back to what I was saying moments ago...the NMASA, was a sophisticated, scientifically designed and proven early warning system with ninety-two percent more efficiency in preventing loss of life than the nation’s police and military combined. Designed by the Swiss, manufactured by the Germans and installed by the Norwegians, the NMASA watched from space the human torrents that descended upon the American landscape.
One stationary satellite orbited overhead collecting and transmitting data to the underground NMASA headquarters in Waycross, Georgia. Sophisticated computer algorithms projected the “Cones of Destruction” rioters would take. The air-raid sirens were then triggered by NMASA employees in the field, all to save lives, some homes, but sadly few cars. It was a marvel of engineering and the cost, a pittance!
“Wait a minute, I thought you said the American economy had tanked, and it was broke. That would mean the currency was basically worthless, too. So how did Washington pay for the NMASA?”
America’s trade with international partners had evolved into a system long used by humanity, dating back to before recorded time, largely disappearing after the ‘Dark Ages.’ Bartering and its stablemate auctions were reintroduced into the market and had become the bedrock behind the American economy...a truly, great and marvelous thing.
“Bartering...auctions...those do seem like a childish, almost a simpleton’s means of trade. So, what did Washington have to exchange, or auction off for the NMASA?”
Not much when you look at the bigger picture: the American Virgin Islands, the Hawaiian Island of Maui, Charleston and Seattle.
???
“So, were the multitudes in those bartered-away regions in any way unsettled by the government actions?”
No, actually it was just the opposite; they were elated that they had been so lucky. I mentioned “Free Zones” earlier. Free Zones were former parts of the United States that were free from the “Flat Tax” you will hear about later, and the gibberish-speaking bureaucrats who were forever trying to control everyone’s lives, but back to my original point...
The ‘outstandingness’ that came out of the exchange was a real benefit for most Americans. No longer need U.S. citizens despair about going outside their residences, no longer need they rely on potluck to stay out of the path of human chaos. The cadence of their ordinary lives could return, except for those unlucky enough to be caught in one of those “Cones of Destruction.”
Americans were generally safer, for the most part from robbery, from physical violence, from the threat of death at the hands of their fellow citizens. Polling showed the National Fear Index surrounding everyday anarchy was dropping slightly for most Americans. Nevertheless the trend was unmistakably there. Perhaps, one day the jitters over lawlessness would become a distant memory, perhaps disappear completely! The consensus among experts said terror in the streets would one day go away. The scientists were always proven by other consensus’s of scientists to be right, ergo this consensus among the experts had to be correct. All Americans had to do was wait...wait to see that their predictions had come true...hopefully within their lifetimes.
Did I already mention autos were still being torched, retail stores ransacked, property pillaged and burned to the ground? If I did I am sorry for repeating myself. The point is, overall rioting took a turn for the better...thanks to the negotiating skills of the “Forever President,” his administration and the NMASA!
The National Mob Alert System Agency: PROUD, STRONG and a KEY