Beyond Bowshock, Part Three

Steve Bruyere trudged ahead at his own pace and at this point his captors didn’t really mind. They were tired as well. Marching in the shadow of Cautermonz was indeed a hellish experience, to say the very least. Heat parched and sun bleached, the desert stretched beyond them toward the foothills, to the rear it spread gruelingly toward the Great Brine.
Steve’s bound hands reeked of rot. Infection had dived deep into his bony road wearied wrists and threatened blood poisoning. The tops of his feet were severely sun burned-- they seared all over like alcohol poured on a fresh wound. The bottoms of his feet felt as if they had peeled of in sheets from the heat after the first 10 miles, exposing raw pink dermis. Dirt and small pebbles sunk into his raw flesh as he stepped. Fortunately most of the pain was non existent due to nerve damage from repeated trauma during the torture he endured before the march. He could barely feel the pressure of the ground below his feet and pretended to be floating--he caught himself amused through the mixture of anguish and exhaustion.
As he walked his mind flashed to the past, right before he was taken. He was on a sweep. He stood upon a small metal gangplank, intent on moving on to the next room in the abandoned refinery. The Americans, under orders from the Deserters, stomped through the metal building, ransacking rooms and setting up patrols in the hallways as they advanced on Steve’s position. Looking below, through the wires and the thin, slotted metal scaffold, he saw the US soldiers advancing through the building. He moved on and fell, tumbling into a room filled with surgical steel tables and implements. A security computer beeped in the corner. Steve realized this was his chance and he began to attempt a hack. His weather-worn, soldier's fingers failed repeatedly. The attempt was folly. Though Steve concentrated he simply could not save his own ass. Every time he pushed one of the numbers on the keypad, his fat index finger accidentally pushed another. “Shit, I can’t press those digits with these digits,” he thought as he fumbled at his uniform for a pen or his knife. Intent on protecting him from the Americans, SSA commandos silently advanced on Steve’s position, his transmitter beaming them a directional beacon signal that blinked inside of their visors.
As Steve poured over his uniform for a pen or knife, an off feeling poured over his body. Just as Steve considered pulling his pistol, he was startled at an ear piercing alarm sounding from behind him. Immediately he wet himself. He reeled in embarrassment as all of his military training went by the wayside. “Take him alive!“ was called out as a net was cast over him. He struggled stupidly but it was far too late. He sheepishly stood under the enemy’s net: in his piss soaked uniform, in his pissed filled boots, and in a puddle of his own piss. A smile spread over his face because of the ridiculousness of his capture. A sonic weapon and a net. How demeaning! He had no idea.

§
Steve finally caught sight of the SSA soldiers, just as they were retreating. He cried out to them but they ran, not looking back. A US officer in a black uniform approached him as he attempted to free himself. Then, from their retreating position, SSA snipers opened fire on the Americans, but it did no good. Their sharp shooters missed, and bullets began to bounce about in the small room. The Americans replied with a Chlorine grenade, liquefying the lungs of the snipers. Steve’s would-be rescuers dropped in a few gagging heaps. A couple of disposables stepped up and forced Steve out from under the net at gunpoint. One soldier, he had no gun brandished, stood in front of Steve. The officer, a captain, pulled him close using the buckle of Steve’s belt, so that their faces nearly touched. The other soldier, a corporal, tapped the side of Steve’s head with the barrel of his rifle as Steve stared into the captain’s eyes. The man unclasped Steve’s belt buckle, unzipped his cargos and yanked them down so that they piled up around Steve’s ankles. Promptly the US officer pulled a syringe out of the ether. With a tap on the side and a push of the plunger, a tiny glimmering bubble appeared at the tip of the steely needle. He kicked Steve squarely in the testicles, pushed him flat on the floor and stuck the needle into his bare ass. Steve woke up in haze from the drug, in the midst of a torture session. He passed out from pain and nearly woke up marching.
As Steve marched, the sun soaked Cautermonz looming ahead in the west, he repeated the events at the refinery over and over in his mind. He was now sure to die in the hands of the Deserters and the Americans. He looked further west and saw the great rain machine that looms over the western foothills of the Cautermonz; the clouds billowed up into the sky, eventually becoming the enormous thunderheads which fill The Sweet Water. Occasionally his thoughts turned to the Earthlings. He definitely sympathized with them, he was one himself, but their survivalist aims disgusted him. He saw himself as an ally of the SSA, sure…but moreover he viewed himself as an enemy of the entire human race and their way of thinking. Was his life worth all the bullshit? Certainly the money he makes is worth it, but that was all gone now. No one knew where he was and the only detachment of SSA elites on the ground were dead. "What a failure!" he thought. His only hope was floating around Fen, the SSAAF Augusta, a Fireball. But he knew they weren’t concerned about him. He thought of these things as he marched and was tormented by them.
Steve’s left index finger burst open at the cracks the relentless sun had made, causing it to resemble an over-cooked, over-sized cheese filled hot dog. Blood trickled into the sand as he moved along steadily, ever mindful of his captors and their willingness to torture him at the slightest provocation. He ignored as much of the pain as he could. He still couldn’t help but wince with each step as newer, more deep seated suffering began to surface. The psychological trauma coupled with his anguishing pain was becoming too much to bear. Tears welled.
The Cautermonz is Fen’s largest mountain range (one of two systems really, everything else on Fen is flat and at or below sea level). It’s brown and tan peaks are impassable and dead. No soil clings onto them in the east. From its eastern piedmont the rocky range reaches out at the Great Brine along a plateau of desert and scrub, ending in cliff sides at the sea. Lying near the southern shore of the Sweet Water, the eastern side of the Cautermonz never sees rain. The western side however was a resort for the wealthy at one time. The run-off from the western rains fill numerous small brooks and lakes that lead to the Sweet Water, making that part of the range quite alive and beautiful. Sadly, when the Fennians were driven out it became the gateway to the Deserter’s stronghold, which is where Steve was destined to end up.
Steadily, Steve and the Deserters marched west. Looking behind him Steve could make out the shimmering cooling ponds of the refinery and shiny metal sides of the refinery building itself. They had been marching for hours but the Cautermonz seemed no closer and the refinery seemed stationary as well. He remembered a movie he had seen as a child, the title escaped him, but it was made by the humans. In it a woman ran to the aid of her daughter who was being abducted by a spectral being. She ran through a hallway, but as she did the hallway was rendered longer and longer by the spectre. It seemed as if the woman would never reach her daughter at the end. This is how Steve was beginning to feel. But as he pondered this, the landscape opened into a small crevasse, crags of yellowish-brown striated rock raising up on either side. As time went by the marchers dipped ever downward into the rock, the crevasse giving way to a narrow, deep valley. Spires of desert stone blocked their way, making the march into a climb in some spots. Looking back again, Steve could see nothing but the ramp of dust and sand he had just descended. A guard slapped his face and told him to turn around. Steve nearly fell over from the barbaric force of the slap, he caught himself before he fell and merely stumbled. Suddenly he realized they were getting somewhere, but he also understood for certain that soon he would die.
The American guards were joined at some point by Deserter soldiers dressed all in black, with billowy folds of linen protecting their semitransparent skin from the punishing sun of the Cautermonz. Steve didn’t notice their arrival at first. Only their bright green eyes peered through the silken jet cloth. The Deserter captain made a motion using the fabric of his uniform, flagging every man to halt.
Steve was startled by the order and moaned as the chains around his neck and waist tightened. He was yanked backward, much like an ignorant child does to dog on a leash. Steve’s eyes bulged in their sockets. A couple of guards pushed him forward again. Suddenly another one of the men turned toward Steve, raising his hand up to his helmet to block the sunlight. Seeing this Steve flinched horribly, thinking he was about to be struck, and lost his balance. Down he went, his sun burnt body scratching on the rocks as he slid. Slivers of shale embedded themselves in his chest. The guards all cackled together like hyenas. The captain helped Steve to his feet and ordered two men to carry him the rest of the way.

§

Steve woke to find himself in a bright sunlight courtyard inside of a wooden, bamboo-like cell. The bars surrounded him on all sides but one. On that side there was a adobe-like wall with a spigot that drained into a large basin on the ground. An enormous chunk of soap inside of a little wire cage dangled from a chain. The drain in the basin was clogged up with the humors of the unfortunate souls that resided here before Steve. A plunger covered with dried algae sat beside the basin. On one side, a locked door. The front side of the cage had a cot, a small table and a locker (with nothing in it). On the table was a fresh looking meal and a glass of what seemed to be juice of some type. He tore into the food and drink, barely chewing as he swallowed. He smashed greasy legs of gamy looking meat into his face with gusto, at one point inhaling a little chunk of meat and coughing a mouthful of chewed gristle onto the dirt floor of the cage. Like an over anxious child he poured drink against his lips without opening his mouth and streams of red liquid ran from the corners of his mouth , dousing his filthy, faded uniform and splashing onto the ground as well. His chapped, sun burnt body bled and oozed from the stress of the over excitement. Steve suddenly stopped and dropped his glass, sending the last of it‘s contents spraying soothingly across his badly blistered feet.
“Well, I’m here,” he thought as he glanced around quickly and wiped his mouth. His body unclenched and for the first time in what seemed like weeks Steve Bruyere began to relax.
“GUARD!!” he yelled. No one came.
A speaker in the distance rattled off some fascist styled announcement concerning tidiness, obviously meant for someone other than him. He was filthy.
It was at this moment that Steve surveyed his surroundings for the first time. Red clay walls skyward on either side of the courtyard, perhaps 5 or 6 stories. In the courtyard, scrubby shrubs were backed into each corner. To his immediate right, Steve could see a wall with a large, nicely trimmed opening. On either side of the opening sat a little dried out looking shrub. Inside the opening was an unmanned desk. “The guard must be home with his family, enjoying his children’s company, teasing the family dog.” Clouds passed over the sun, and the courtyard was shaded.
In his frustration Steve slammed a fist against the wall then spun and raked his hand along the wooden bars, grunting. He crossed the cage and sat on the bed. “Errrarrrgh!” he mustered, his face in his hands, before falling onto his side and staring at the red clay wall.

§

Steve woke the next morning to a cat shitting in the dirt in front of his cot. He heard the cat sratching and strained to look over his feet at it.
“Oh for fucks sake! Emmfgh. ” he gagged. Forgetting his painfully sore feet, he bounced up and shooed the cat away. He then used the bottom edge of his glass to dig up the scat and push it clumsily into the bell of the plunger. He stuck it through the bars, flinging the shit through the doorway onto the desk.
“Nice,” he thought.
The cat was obviously a male, it was tall, long and lanky. It’s kind disposition came across to Steve right away.
“Here kitty, pst pst pst.”
The light grey short-haired cat pointed his golden eyes in Steve’s direction, his face clearly showing contempt.
“Come on kitty, don’t be grumpy, “ Steve said while reaching over to his plate of food for a snack for the cat. He pawed at the plate. It was mostly empty. The cat had already ate all the meat.
“You mutherfucker!” Steve exclaimed, accidentally knocking the plate to the floor. The cat ran off in a huff. Its tail was fluffed-up and high in the air as it passed with graceful ease between the bars of Steve’s cage.
All of a sudden the shadow cast by the clouds above gave way to the blazing Cautermonz sun and the courtyard filled with brightness and intense heat again. And that’s when Steve heard them, clattering in a sudden reaction to the cat scampering away. He looked to his left where a wall stood, feet from the edge of his cage. He moved as near to this side as he could, squeezing against the bars. From this angle he peered into a large window about 15 feet up, toward the source of the sounds. He saw what looked like taut white and black leather bags being slid around inside of the window. But it was maniacally done. Something wasn’t right. He saw the first glimpse of their hairy segmented legs at that moment, as the thing spun in the window.
“Wait...those are some sort of giant bugs up there,” Steve muttered aloud. He craned his neck to see a little more and suddenly in the window a face tilted down at him. It was that of a hornet. The face was about two feet wide.
Steve shrank back into his cot and began to shake. In fact he almost convulsed . In that moment he wondered why they had giant hornets stabled in here, so close to him. And in another instant the answer became very clear. It was then that Steve first began to plan an escape.

§

After a few days Steve could stand on his feet without too much pain. While he slept someone was leaving food and water and he was happily eating every bit. He even saved some butter once and smeared it onto his chapped skin. He spent most of his time sitting on his bed, watching the hornets.
This day, when Steve woke up he decided to clean the trap out so he could crap. It took nearly 10 minutes to get it clean enough to accept even a piss or running water. Until now he had been pissing out the side of the cage, attempting to hit the desk inside the cased opening to his right. He finished this chore, flung the scum toward the desk and squatted quite comfortably over the hole. After, he bathed and rinsed off under the spigot.
While Steve finished fastening the upper button on his uniform a young armed soldier marched into the courtyard, narrowly avoiding the various puddles of slop Steve had been throwing into the dirt.
“Good Day, Prisoner!” he said.
“Yes?” Steve said approaching the front of his cage and grasping the bars.
“Please remember the information I am going to give you! Please respond to any questions I ask without hesitation! You will be punished if you do not comply! Do you understand what I have just asked of you!?”
Steve slapped his heels together, nodded his head backward slightly and responded with brass, “Yes.”
“Your name is Etienne Bruyere! Correct!?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You will answer yes, no or I don’t know to ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, Bruyere!”
“Yes, that’s my name,” Steve said.
“There are currently twenty two men and women serving time at Monznaeppa Prison, Bruyere! You make twenty three. So it therefore makes sense that you are from here on to be known as #23! Understood!?”
“Yes, lovely.”
“You were warned #23!”
The guard then unholstered his weapon in a regimented manner, leveled it squarely at Steve's chest and pulled the trigger. A bolt leapt from the pistol and knocked Steve flat. His body seizured. He gagged uncontrollably.
“I know you’ve heard this one before. That was the lowest setting this thing has, DO NOT fuck around with me!” The soldier reholstered the gun and neatened his black and grey uniform. Steve could tell by the colors in his uniform’s decoration and by the gun he fired that this American soldier was working with the Deserters. Steve struggled to his feet, electricity felt as if it still pulsed through him.
“I am Sgt. Newberry. You will refer to me as Sgt. Newbury when you address me. Got it?”
“Yes, Sgt. Newbury,” Steve whimpered.
“#23, tomorrow morning, 25 June 2134, at 0500 hrs you will be awakened by “Revelry”. Immediately upon your rising you are to thoroughly bathe and dress in this uniform. ” Newbury realized at that moment he had forgot the uniform. He walked to the desk beyond the arched opening and came back with a white one-piece jumpsuit. It was cheaply made and really only meant as a covering, it was sheer enough to let everybody see what was happening with your bits and pieces. It was also filthy with brown and grey stains. Apparently I’m not the first owner, thought Steve. Newbury dropped the uniform through the bars into the cage. Steve looked at it with disgust.
“It doesn‘t look like it, but it‘s been sterilized. After you dress you will stand at attention and wait to be escorted to the interrogation room for an interview with Captain Kowalczyk. Then you will be the guest of honor at the Scaphism of #14. Then it'll be back to the interrogation room for a few more hours. When the day is over you will be dining with the rest of the prisoners in the dining hut. Then I will escort you back to your cage. At this point “Taps” will be played and you will be expected to lay down and shut up until you hear ‘Revelry’ again. Is all of that clear?”
“No, Sgt. Newbury. What is a Scaphism and will I be attending it regularly, or just tomorrow?”
“Oh, you’ll find out what it is. And you’ll be going to lots of them, 23 including yours. I trust everything else is clear. Until tomorrow Prisoner Bruyere.”
With that Newberry pivoted and marched out past the desk and out Steve’s line of sight.

§

Steve awoke to blaring trumpets. He opened his eyes and just outside the cage to his right was the kitty. However someone had run kitty through. He stood upright, facing Steve, held up by a metal spike driven into the ground. The perfectly skewered cat stared at Steve with its jeweled golden eyes. The eyes were beginning to glaze and sink into the poor creature’s head. A note was taped to the creatures belly and it read, “No Friends For You.” Immediately Steve rolled off of the cot and landed on his knees at the edge of his cell. He read the note over and over again, as if it might contain some hidden message. He was finally broken and tears began to flow down his cheeks, splashing into the dirt around his knees. He braced himself on the bars of his cage and stood up slowly without taking his eyes off of the dead cat.
Steve took his shower and dressed himself in the stained coverall, all the while being watched by the dead cat. Then he waited. After about an hour of waiting for the guard Steve laid back down on the cot. As soon as his head hit the sewn in pillow a guard stormed into the courtyard.
“#23!! You are not standing at attention,” he bellowed through the door of Steve’s cell.
Steve stood up instantly. The guard had already aimed the same type of electric device as Newbury used the previous night. As Steve moved toward the door the guard fired upon him and own Steve dropped like an electrified sack of potatoes.
The door to the cage sprung open, slamming against Steve’s fresh foot skin. It sent a great wave of pain through his already convulsing body. As he struggled to stop the tremors the guard rolled him onto his stomach and slapped a set of shackles on his hands and feet. Steve, his mouthful of dirt, found himself again face to face with the kitty.
“I see you aren’t allowed to have friends,” the guard whispered into Steve’s ear. He then stood up and pulled Steve to his feet by grabbing and yanking the chain of the shackles. Then with a chuckle he pushed Steve out of the cell and they made their way to Captain Kowalczyk’s office.

Beyond Bowshock, Part Two

Jasper Miller wasn’t a typical cracker kid. His father was a dirt farmer with a terrific drinking problem. He worked the fields year ‘round with the help of Jasper’s slave labor. But when coral reefs died the gulf quickly poured in on the Miller’s fields; consequentially, rolling easements that came as regularly as the tide itself slowly took their toll on the Miller’s arable land. Dad did what he could but at about 5 o’clock every night he’d head 20 minutes away to a local tavern, not only to stay cool in the air conditioning but also to bitch with the local fishermen and forget about the disgusting pig his wife had become. Jasper’s mother, Verna weighed about 400 lbs all told.
A typical day in Verna’s life involved dragging her obese self to the couch every morning. There she would sit as Jasper brought her coffee, bacon and eggs.
“Momma, please try cereal this morning,“ Jasper said once as he carried a bowl of raisin bran to his constantly talking mother.
“Nah-Oh!“ The beast said, making ’No’ into a two syllable word, as she flapped her enormous hand against the underside of the bowl, knocking it free from Jasper‘s grasp and sending milk in every direction. She made a face at Jasper that she thought was cute but to Jasper it looked like a giant pile of melted cheese was smirking at him. Jasper actually slapped her after that, he was very pissed off.
After breakfast the TV went on and Verna’s work day began. Around lunch time she would haul her self up by the handicap bar mounted on the wall next to the couch. Jasper’s dad installed it there as a joke, in an attempt to get a point across, but Verna loved it. She’d make her way into the bathroom, drop a couple of kids off at the pool then have a sponge bath. This was so difficult for Verna that it sounded like she was lifting weights or having rough sex. The rest of the afternoon she would drink pop and eat candy or chips. Jasper would feed her dinner around 6 then she’d waddle back into her bedroom. Jasper’s dad hadn’t slept in the same bed with Verna for 12 years. Often Jasper could hear her sobbing through the almost nightly powerful storms. Eventually she would cry herself to sleep.
Then suddenly Jasper’s parents were killed in the American War. Soon after he was hired in an abrupt manner by a woman named Rosa Adolfsdottir.
“ I traveled with my father quite a lot in my teens and into my twenties,” Rosa stated matter-of-factly, smiling and looking off into the distance. She downshifted in order to pass a late 70s Cadillac. The elderly captain of the big yellow boat glanced over at Jasper as they passed and gave him a sour frown. Jasper bugged out his eyes, made a pouty Mick Jagger face and gave the retiree the finger.
“That’s nice,” Jasper snorted, turning toward Rosa and wiping the back of his hand against the corner of his mouth. “Where did you come across all of this cake--I mean, you’re obviously loaded.”
“Excuse me?”
“Deaf, are ya?” Jasper responded.
“Well,” Rosa cleared her throat, “I am an heiress and an executive of a software firm.”
Jasper burst into manic spurt of laughter. “Lady, that’s great. I‘m glad we crossed paths because I‘m fuckin’ broke.”
Rosa acted as if she didn‘t hear a word Jasper said. Her face was white marble. “My name is Rosa, Jasper. I‘m not old or noble enough to be called lady.”
“Look Rosie, this is all sort of crazy, don’t cha think...”
Rosa interrupted, “No I don’t, I‘m trying not to think.”
Jasper sat silently for a few minutes. He fiddled with the radio, briefly allowing a little BTO play before shutting it off in disgust. A sudden off kilter premonition entered his mind, but a strong one nevertheless. He smiled at Rosa. Her eyes left the road just long enough to smile back, the corners of her eyes crinkled. “Where we goin’ Rosie, really?”
“Rosa. North.”
“I knew you were lyin’ about that Captiva bullshit, damn it...What‘s your,” he made quotes in the air, “ ’business’ in the SSA?”
Rosa looked at Jasper intensely. She noted his greasy but tan complexion. She felt certain he was just concerned for his well-being, which was fair enough.
“Can I trust this kid?” she contemplated.
“I have to stop several times on the way. There are certain people that should not know I am here, especially the people who work at the spaceport. I‘m not exactly, legal.”
“Alright Rosie, my part in this ends here. Stop the car and let me out.” Jasper ordered.
“Oh Jasper, you are fine. Don’t worry, really,” she reassured him as she held onto his arm. “It’s going to be so easy working for me. And besides we’re not in any danger. Don't be afraid of the SSA.”
“I…I gotta,” Jasper sputtered before desperately fumbling at the passenger door for a latch handle but Rosa pressed the child lock. Jasper was trapped.
“You are not going anywhere kiddo, and whether you believe me or not…you’ll be happy right here with me.”
Jasper then gazed out the window at the Floridian countryside, dismayed. He considered knocking Rosa out but as he glanced back at her he realized he couldn’t. He couldn’t hit her, he felt like she was armed. In the distance he saw the smoke of cane fires rising to the heavens. Briefly he thought of himself as the smoke twisting up into the sky amongst the cane vapors. Through the vent he could smell the sweet smoke curling into his nostrils.
His eyes were sore.

Beyond Bowshock, Part One

Men, that is humans, love speed. It’s no wonder since our bodies naturally work at amazing speeds. The particulate from a sneeze for example typically travels at about 100 miles per hour. The act of cumming is blazingly fast as well. Our little genetic messengers shoot forth inside a wad of nutrients at an alarming 28 mph. So therefore, if there is anyway to do it faster, we eventually figure out how. We created jet propulsion aircraft to fly us there faster, carry our goods faster and drop our bombs faster. We created weapons that deploy and destroy faster. Our motorcycles go faster. We sell cars with speedometers that go up to 150 miles per hour, even though it’s illegal to go that fast. We made ferries so that we don’t have to drive around a lake, it’s faster to go through the middle. We weren’t even happy with going just going fast. We invented things like turbo and nitro-injection so that we can force our engines to accelerate faster. We even made and discovered chemicals to make our minds go faster. Caffeine, the most psychoactive substance in the world makes our neurons fire faster, they already fire at mind bending 268 miles per hour. Many people are addicted to the speeding effect, imbibing the drug through drinks and pills on a routine basis. Others aren’t happy with the speed of Caffeine. Crank is like Caffeine’s insane uncle, except with Crank you don’t come down for three or four days. You’re awake the whole time. If you were connected to high speed internet while on Crank you could get your taxes done faster, your shopping done faster, your novel written faster. That’s the beauty of the Internet for tech-savvy people, you can get things done faster but you can do it in a much more relaxed (ah-hmm, lazy) manner. All that verbal communication just slows things down. People love sitting on their ass while robot arms put little maraschino cherries on their éclairs. And not just on one éclair, hundreds of them at once. This is why when the men from Fen arrived everyone got so excited. We could all go faster but we didn’t have to work very hard to achieve it. The Fennians gladly laid inter-galactic travel at our feet.

Realization

Tables are turned, I rule.
Powerless: I made my mother cry.
When its time to raise your parents
the world falls apart and comes together at once.

Legion III

Garrison was rushed by ambulance to Bounty Hospital on the edge of Bounty, the quicker picker upper of cities. In Bounty, everyone has what they need, hence the name. Since they al have what they need, they all watch out for themselves. Anyway, he was rushed via gurney into Bounty's hospital. His fat, lifeless body limply pooled itself across the hard cushion like a puddle of molten bree, his skin the ashen rind. Destination: the ER.

Four nurses congregated around a computer screen, all of them behind a screen designed in such away that anxious patients, their family and their friends couldn't see what the nurses were doing. But these nurses were standing up and laughing, they were on break. Meanwhile, a woman who began vomitting every twenty minute or so about 6 hours earlier, before moving on to dry heaving, began vomitting blood. In a gesture of good will, the nurses had given her a green waste paper container in case she needed to do something other than dry heave. All across the waiting room the other forty or so victims of severe trauma watched as the woman made Christmas.

Garrison's wound was luckily serious enough to merit a free pass to the head of the line. No waiting for Garrison. His throat got slashed. After pumping blood into Garrison and ghouling their way around his body with needles and knives, the doctors had brought him back to life and he lay sprawled across a white sheet, Scrubs at his side.

He woke up four days later.

"Gurpleblurplewurple," he said.

"Don't try talk uhm, mister, Bill."

The doctor tried to stifle his laughter but could not. Garrison moaned in anguish at his predicament and moved his head from side to side, leering uneasily out of the cheaply adorned hospital window. Stiff and dun, the curtains hung, framing the dew as it rose off of Bounty. He was in pain, his doctor was a cretin and it was dawn.

Legion II

James run. He run fast past the veteran's clubhouse and cut a man who was stumbly outside. The man yell, "Anarchist bastard," gurgly sound...he fall down. He choke on sidewalk, with blood. Blood make puddle in c'ment. I saw it first, then I saw James. James come see my mommy. Sirens loud when he came to my step. Mommy and me sat on step, it's bricks. "Hey kid" I looked down when he talked. Mommy was upset with Grammy. Mommy say, "You know James, when you have to raise your parents, the world comes together and falls apart at once. I can make my mother cry, she's powerless..." James say, "I don't know anything about being powerless." Rocks make scratches on brick, I drew James and Mommy talking. Man yelled down alley, say "Anyone see a guy with a knife?" James gave Mommy lots of dollar bills and say "See you in a few weeks." P'lice car at veteran's club, man say "I just had an argument with the guy over politics." Blind man make accident, put stick in blood and splash it around. P'lice man's shoes bloody. That was bad and lots of people cry and yell. On our bricks, little red spiders go around. They make bloody splats when you smoosh 'em, but not as much blood as the gurgly man makes. "Hold on Garrison" says a lady with a rag on her arm, like the kind mommy uses to wipe the cat's eye boogers. Garrison can't hold on, he's going somewhere floaty. Him's not there anymore. Lady crying. P'lice man laughed at Mommy when she said "Why are you doing this?" There was a big bee sound and she got really straight then she slept. I rode in the front seat. The P'lice man put Mommy in back, the door hit her head, but she was sleeping. James hide in weeds by chain fence when we went by. Ambulance take Garrison away now. Lady ride with him and cry. He's dead, she doesn't know.

Pinko in the Legion

"I feel bad for the guys, they're victims," said Garrison

A couple of the men on the other side of the bar shifted uncomfortably in their bar stools. The one to the right of the video lottery machine stared down into his rum and coke and stirred with his cocktail straw. He smirked and looked up at me. I ignored his gaze and just listened while I picked crumbs of black crud from behind the molding on the bar.

"Nah, they choose to fight."

"That might be true in some cases, but they don't know what they're fighting for, that's the sad thing. Now these boys are sold a load of fucking crap about terrorism and freedom, and you know it Pete."

"Fuck that, it's all real, it's not a line of shit...you know what Garrison? People like you piss me off-- how in the fuck did you forget about 9/11?"

"OK, OK Petey boy. Scrubs, give Pete a shot on me, he looks like he might cry."

Scrubs got a bottle of Beam and flipped it up, pouring Pete an exact dram. She slid it in front of him. He emptied it and handed it back to her.

"I didn't forget about 9/11 Pete. It pisses me off just as much as it pisses you off. But I don't see them any different to you or I. We're all victims. Either they got a hold of us directly or we've been affected by the fact that they've got so much control."

"How in the world are they victims just like us? You rarely make sense to me, man."

"And you sound like a conspiracy theorist!" hollered blind Stephen from the far corner of the bar, wobbling in his seat with his grey locks dangling. Garrison nodded and sipped at his pint.

He swallowed hard, squinted and looked up at the TV briefly, then began again.

"You got to realize Pete, the government has most of us convinced they're our protectors, but they're not. It's actually the other way around. They're exploiting each and every one us. American, or otherwise. Now, Al-Qaeda, they're just part of the same sort of system. But they're elusively resisting control by the dominant force, us! It pisses senators and CEOs off when someone can disrupt the traffic like they did on 9/11. And I agree with them, it's not right. But, as usual, the feds have got it all wrong. Rather than try and sell it to us that way, they've got this freedom and evil thing going-- rather than get people on their side using reason, they've resorted into scaring us," Garrison's voice began to boom, "threatening us with imminent destruction!" He drank again. "Just like Al-Qaeda's got them crapping in their pants. The thing that pisses me off is that they lie, Pete."

"Yeah, but our guys are still fighting for the right."

"What the fuck is the right man? We can even agree among ourselves what the right is. How the hell are we going to convince them we're right by peppering them with bombs?"

"He's got a point there, Pete, " said blind Stephen.

"We got to get on the same page, get beyond all this fake shit," Garrison added, "They're not fighting for us Pete, our ideas, our children. They're fighting to keep shipping lanes open, to keep offices from being blown up. They don't give a fuck about our local economy or the fact that they've tricked our kids into fighting and dying so their kids can go to Notre Dame and Princeton."

"I never really considered it that way, Gar, " muttered Pete.

"Shut up Garrison, you're scaring away my tips," said Scrubs.

"You're sounding like one of socialist faggots from Denmark that were in here a few weeks ago, Garrison," said Mick, as he returned from the bathroom, trailing dirt and mud from his boots as he clumped across the dance floor in his Carharts.

"I am part Dane, you asshole. And maybe I do sound like a socialist. We got everyone convinced that watching out for themselves is the answer, while Big Brother and his fucking CEO minions rape our sons and daughters. I think we'd be a lot better off if we started watching out for our own and stopped looking up to the feds, the banks, the CEOs and their armies so much. I mean, we've gotten pretty far since Obama got into office but we didn't all of sudden start planting gardens and singing Kumbaya. We're all still in here on a perfectly beautiful afternoon drowning in the man's brew. we've forgotten about what America is supposed to mean. We need to rethink the American dream and then revamp it. It don't mean fighting and spending money."

"What are you running for office!?" shouted blind Stephen.

"Shut the fuck up Garrison" yelled Scrubs, "or get out. It's not that I don't agree with everything you're saying but I need to make a fucking car payment and pay the babysitter when I get home."

Garrison got up and put his coat on. He pushed in his stool and straightened it for the next customer.

"You had me convinced until you brought up Obama," said Pete, "I don't mind go back to the old ways, everyone knows I believe in them. But being nice to fags, black power, c'mon dude. This progressive stuff is out of control, somethings have got to be sacred."

Garrison looked Pete squarely in the eye.

"That is because you are an old, ignorant redneck fuck Pete. Stuck in your ways. That's fine douchebag, you stay behind while the rest of us move forward. Your boy's over there in the shit, fighting for nothing while you drink and make pronouncements about shit you nothing about."

Garrison walked toward Pete and Pete got out of his stool-- he steadied himself and puffed up his chest. He looked like a big bearded turkey. The folds of his neck fat were trembling, his partially grey goatee and blue bandanna soaked with beer and sweat respectively.

"Be nice guys," Scrubs commanded.

Garrison strolled by Pete, and gave him a derisive look, then at the last minute he reached out his long skinny arm and flipped Pete's ball cap right off of his head.

"You've been uncrowned pal."

And with that Garrison walked out of the Legion for the last time. He opened the door and disappeared in a flash of sunlight and smoke.