Chapter One

Induction

GOP Week In Review

"This is Biff Mayflower, and you're watching a GOP Week In Review Update.

According to a Secret Service Press release this morning concerning the Ethnic insurrection in Massachusetts last Friday, confirmation of absolutely no Aryan casualties has been conclusively verified, and while the ethnic death toll 'is' considered high, all bodies accounted for have been listed among the subversive gang members, who had been held up in the abandoned Catholic dioceses for Our Ladies of The Watchful Eye when Republican forces turned the tables on their Evil-Doer plot against America.

"Authorities have yet to disclose the names of any ethnics responsible, though the Director Of Ethnic Affairs has expressed his sincerest apologies for allowing such a problem to go unchecked for so long as would obviously allow such a stronghold to take root in the first place. He also wanted to assure everyone in the Republican sectors that he intends to make every possible effort to ensure that nothing of this scale ever happens again.

"And now, back to that family classic, Bedtime For Bonzo . Brought to you by Ultra-Bright-N-White, the bleach that makes your clothing presentable in any Republican household."

By 2097, world travel for the upper crust was no more inconvenient or time-consuming than running down to the local dog track was in the late twentieth century. At least I think they still had dogs back then. But for the remaining eighty-five percent of the low rent, and/or semi-transient population, (myself included) travel of any sort was roughly equivalent to the ancient curse about living in interesting times. On the other hand, life in general was interesting to just about anyone not residing within that fifteenth percentile, so when I overheard a couple of drifters planning to hop a skipper (a skipper is what we used to call the low-orbit textile transports) down to South Texas because they had heard the Mexicans were hiring day-labor to pick citrus, I made for the closest truck stop and stowed away on the first one heading southwest. Twelve days and three skippers later, I found myself in Brownsville.

I suppose I should have at least said goodbye to Pam, but after our last heated conversation, (usually, the only sort we ever had) I didn't suppose she would have been interested in talking, and even if she had, we'd have just ended up fighting again. Besides, I had the feeling she had been seeing someone on the side, because about half the time she shoulda been tending bar, she was instead off who knows where with who knows who doing who knows what, then always returning with the same lame (I had to take care of a sick friend) excuses my sex had been leaning on ever since the first caveman noticed that saucy little Cro-Magnon waitress down at the local bar-n-grill. Besides, I think Pam was a couple years younger than me (didn't know for certain) 'cause, well, there 'was' a certain difference in our maturity. It might not have mattered in a year or two, but right then, I wasn't really up to taking good care of myself, much less a teeny-bopper tagalong.

After landing, then dodging the conductor and his cronies as they checked the entire skipper, (compartment by compartment) I popped my head out of the crate I was hiding in. It had been full of the high-quality condoms popular amongst upper-crusties who are too busy jet-setting to start a family, but still use the overpopulation excuse 'cause it sounds better during any given pickup line. The reason I was in the crate in the first place wasn't because I just needed a place to hide from plain sight, but was also due to the fact that most big companies make their crates scanner proof.

When I was certain the bulls were gone, I snuck my way out of the security area and over to a large number of mostly empty trash bins being picked over by an even larger number of mongrels like myself. Well, maybe I'd check back after the next shift.

I knew of a flophouse just this side of the border. It was called Saint Pesci's Church Of The Hairy Dog. No need checking with your local priest on the existence of an actual saint by that name. Put simply, it was all a big front for a few kind-hearted patrons of humanity, who while endeavoring to help the less fortunate, (much like myself) were still not themselves quite so lofty as to forgo certain tax advantages that go along with the ordained version of the helping hand offered. As for the rest of that saintly yet saintless establishment's moniker, I believe it had to do with the free liquid breakfast, affectionately referred to as 'Alkie-X', and offered to (forced upon) any drunks who took them up on their free sleepover accommodations to the homeless. Their offer was intended to shelter those in need, but they seemed to take it personal when those they helped turned out to have spent prospective donations on booze. Oh, there was alcohol in it all right, but the rest of what went into that evil concoction was enough to bring an Irish wake to its knees. It was rumored to have been what finally put AA out of business.

I first met Holly Warren in the dead-end alley behind the establishment, which had by then, become famous for a beverage that claimed to end alcoholism in a single sip. My intent was to request lodging for the night, then sign up for day-work in the morning. If I was lucky, I might even finagle a meal, but I had decided against partaking in any beverages they might offer. No point in tempting fate. Truth is, I like my alcohol with just about anything that doesn't turn me away from anything fermented.

About halfway down the alley, I suddenly noticed several figures stepping from the shadows in front of me. Of course, being the fearless beast of combat that I was, I immediately turned tail, only to find several more figures emerging from many more shadows. Okay, I may have over-exaggerated the part about being fearless, but as anyone with more scar tissue than tattoos will testify, one should never corner a cowardly beast. It's just plain unhealthy.

I dropkicked the first one as soon as he was within range. Considering the odds, I suppose he must have figured I wouldn't pose a threat. Either that, or he wasn't the boss, and might have hesitated in the absence of instruction. Unfortunately for his reproductive system, the foot of a cornered coward rarely hesitates.

"You lost, Jed?" a woman's voice from further down the alley asked calmly, but with the kind of undertone that tends to raise the hair on the back of my neck.

"Bugger off, Warren!" growled the man directly behind me. "I gots mouts ta feed an dis un's not local, not yers!"

"He was mine the minute he walked down this alley," Holly returned, her voice just loud enough to be understood as long as I really concentrated.

"Pesci's dead!" growled the man behind me, while the woman further back than him, Holly, seemed to be moving to my right. "Died old, feeble, and useless," he spat out.

"I'm sure you have a point, other than the one under your lice-ridden scalp."

"Dis not yer turf no more!"

"Yeah? Well I say it is. So do my friends," Holly whispered, others now shuffling toward us from out of the dark.

A short but profound pause ensued while the cannibal behind me considered his lack of options. The following half a dozen metallic clicks from behind him appeared to eliminate his indecision.

I stood perfectly still as Jed (big guy, greasy hair, bad teeth, smelled almost as bad as he looked) passed me, eyeing me with the scowl of a thwarted hunter while motioning the other cannibals to follow.

"Lucky for you, we don't like people-eaters, boy," a small but squat woman of around fifty with graying hair intoned as she and the others of Holly's church group gathered around me.

"Don't mind Maud," Holly (maybe mid to late-twenties, brunette, nice tan, smile, legs, etcetera, etcetera, and somehow familiar, though I couldn't say why) said as she grinned. "She's just mad 'cause you're broke."

Copyright © 2007 Nathan Cardwell.