Wake up, Brownsville! I'm Artie Garcia, and this is The Morning Mongrel News!

Mark your calendars, boys and girls, because you'll want to tell the grand kiddies it was on August the 12th of 2117 when the folks of D.C. finally got back to the business of good old-fashioned politics. Or at least that's how it seemed yesterday, when the bill to dissolve all Republican sectors hit the floor at The House Of Representatives. In fact, if this were television, I'd show you the bold, black, two-inch high, Washington Post headline I'm looking at that reads, "GRIDLOCK IN THE HOUSE!" Personally, I'd have thought 'hizzie' said it better, but hey, that's just me. Still, after a century, it's good to see politicians up and arguing again. At this rate, you can bet it's only a matter of time before the real entertainment begins. You know, like drugs, sex, under the table payoffs, airline stewardesses hiding in the closets, and everyone's favorite, mud slinging. Heck, we might even have to bring back the Nielsen Ratings!

In other news, it looks like yet another Republican based corporation, which shall apparently remain nameless, was robbed and vandalized this morning. According to the authorities, it happened sometime between the hours of one and three a.m., and as in a number of similar instances, the name 'Diabla Thane' was discovered written in lipstick on the floors, walls, ceiling, and in this case, the foreheads of several rather distraught security guards who had been found bound, gagged, naked, and still suspended above the spotlights of the company logo.

As a reminder for those few who may not have been following it, the Diabla Thane story started back in the summer of 2106, when a shapely stranger in a black hood began singling out numerous Crusty hovercrafts, like the highwaymen of medieval Europe, robbing them, and often kidnapping and ransoming them back to their families and/or corporations. And although Miss Thane and her associates would seem to have graduated to a higher level of profit yielding crime, numerous accounts of accosted Crusties continue to credit Diabla Thane with their substantial losses in personal possessions, as well as the siphoning of personal and corporate credits to unnumbered overseas accounts. Many claim the 'alleged' victims are simply wealthy people who have discovered a new way to successfully file fraudulent insurance claims and to divert corporately debited stock market losses that have quite often turned out to be originally funded by federal trust funds. Others insist Miss Thane is a modern day Robin Hood, taking what the reluctantly reformed government is so slow to provide as relief for those less fortunate ethnics who have yet to feel the positive benefits of our recently evolving society.

Both Conservative and Liberal factions have expressed concern, but as usual, are divided as to the nature of the robberies. Republican leaders feel this is obviously the action of a terrorist organization, while Democrats insist that for a group to be classified as such, evidence must first be established to indicate a political affiliation behind their actions, and some sort of related goal in mind for what has been stolen. Otherwise, they are nothing but common criminals with uncommon skills.

This debacle has been a growing source of tension between the parties for several years, but with the recent emergence of several known terrorist factions attempting to claim the credit, including The World Ethnic Coalition, it would appear little or no progress has been made, despite an ongoing joint effort to engage the Coalition in negotiations. To date, the only reply made by Coalition spokesman, Osjami Castro, is, "Too long, has the stench of the American Capitalist wafted across the globe, unchecked. Too long, have they desecrated the sanctity of all Human Races with their pathetic failures to hinder the rampant abomination of Mongrelism. A new day of purity will soon dawn, and when it comes, so ends the age of the greedy and the impure." Obviously, Osjami doesn't share the 'supposedly' official and well-documented antiracial views of his great-great-great grandfather. And of course, many have had their own speculations on the subject of grandpa Fidel's sincerity when it comes to political posturing versus political activism.

Even so, and regardless of the same tired rhetoric of age-old bigotry, in also claiming responsibility for the break-in, the group that has come to be known only as, "The Dirty Rotten Bastards," duly dubbed by their first corporate victim, has unofficially established their twenty-eighth major raid in less than three years. And following no discernable pattern, other than no State has been hit twice so far, well, at fifty-one States, the authorities would appear to have twenty-three chances left, after which, and considering the rapidly amassing wealth in question, I'd just like to let Miss Thane know, I'm chiefly Latin, with Scottish undertones, just a hint of Bororo Fulani, and enjoy Beethoven, P. Diddy, pina coladas, and long walks on moonlit beaches.

"Hi, I'm Anna Riley! By 2107, everyone--"

"You're not supposed to introduce yourself, you idiot!"

"I'm not an idiot!"

"I knew I should have been the one to do this."

"That's because you're perfect, aren't you? Little miss goodie two--"

"Just shut up and do the monolog!"

"I can't shut up and do the monolog. I mean, I could shut up, or I could--"

"Okay, I'm sorry! Jeez!"

Ahem--By 2107, the year I was born, everyone in the Republican sectors had long since come to realize the sudden drop in Caucasian birth rate was not simply a matter of birth control, or at least no sort of control for which they were in control.

That's when they turned to my grandfather, the now late (died peacefully in his sleep at the ripe age of eighty-seven), Senator William Roosevelt; the man who not only derived an antidote for a virus designed by Arians to wipe out all non-Caucasian humanity, but actually sent a reverse version right back at them, via his daughter, (my mother) Holly Warren. You know, it's really amazing how cooperative self-righteous, genocidal bigots can be, especially when their only other option is identical to the fate they had planned for all us supposedly 'lesser' bipeds. And to be perfectly honest, sympathy for the upper Caucasian crust was at an all time low by the time they wised up. Oh sure, they still controlled the world economy, and even though their military had slowly shrunk to about ten percent of its original grandeur, nuclear weapons were just about the only card left up their expensive little sleeve. So, with the waning of their once formidable intimidation tactics, it wasn't surprising that the remainder of the World (about ninety-five percent Mongrel and proud of it) simply giggled its butt off when they started broadcasting a plea for assistance.

Nevertheless, Grandpa was still willing to help the Crusties (upper crust) out of their little predicament. Of course, there were a few provisos, like the reinstatement of the Democratic party, open elections, the resending of all economic exclusions for anyone below the sacred single Tax Bracket, (which in itself initiated a few more brackets), abolishment of The Heston Act, (a mutilation of The Right to Bare Arms,--don't even get me started on that one), and the restructuring of certain agencies, like Social Security, Medicare, The Department of Human Services, etcetera, and obviously, Dan Quail was immediately denounced as 'Genius Of The Millennia'. In return, he provided them with an antidote, but just as a precaution, he hinted that were they to renege another more powerful version that had already been designed, produced, and was being held by a number of operatives in key locations. At first glance, this might look like a terrorist tactic. On the other hand, if such a tactic is the only thing standing between you and total annihilation, then the whole ethics debate sort of takes a back seat to basic survival. As it turns out, some of the loftier points of morality are just another kind of convenience, like a microwave oven. It's nice and all, but not absolutely required.

Accordingly, the underground network of bogus churches that had been fighting for Human rights for almost the entire past century, finally disband, unexpectedly dropping the national religious population by nine and a quarter percent, according to a very surprised GOP news team. There was that one day (July 4th of 2110) when the entire network came together for the first and only time. My sister and I were too young to attend, but the way Maud tells it, the whole thing sounded a lot like that shindig from about the middle of the twentieth century. I forget what it was called, (Wood Lick? Wind Sock?), but, then again, ancient history's not exactly one of my strong points. Anyways, all the affiliate agents met up in some park in New York, and according to Maud, it was like the biggest fiesta block party in recorded history.

All of that was well and good, but far from the final solution everyone thought it would be. Because, when you get right down to it, there's always someone out there just looking for an opportunity to stir up trouble. As my Papa always said, "We live in interesting times." Well, I'm here to tell ya, 'interesting' on that scale is only fun in movies and books. In reality, it's a bona fide pain in the ass!

"You can't say ass!"

"Uhh, you did."

"Aahheeee!" Maud cried while dancing from atop the bar.

"Señora!" the barman shouted enthusiastically, then tossed a long stemmed rose which Maud absently caught between her teeth, never missing a beat as her hands, clapping above her head, kept time with her heels which struck the polished oak in furiously quick succession as the music's Latin rhythm led her in tight circles about the wide brimmed sombrero.

"C'mon, sis," I nudged Polly in hopes of breaking her out of her academic trance. "You're missing it!"

"Umm,--k. Be through in a sec," she muttered, never taking her eyes off her homework.

"Gimme that!" I barked while yanking the reading glasses right off of her face, (the text yet scrolling down both lenses), jumping out of her reach before she could retrieve them, then leaping from the floor to my stool and hopping over her hand as she 'attempted' to sweep my legs. "You can't go through life like its all just preparation for the next trig test!" I shouted at her just before leaping to join Maud, both of our sweetly executed grins lending a taunting quality to our co-syncopated footwork.

Several intense moments passed as Polly continued to stare daggers at me before she finally softened, matched our grins, and then jumped up on her own stool. "I'll probably regret this," she growled as I danced by, continuing to grin, (Papa says I get my cartoon kissy face from my mother), like a Cheshire cat. Momentarily, her own newly acquired grin spread, and all of the sudden, she jumped in between me and Maud, falling into step with our (more than just a little bit silly) hat dance. Hey, I'm ten! I'm allowed to be silly.

Of course, that's about the time Papa stepped through the saloon's double swinging doors, his expression not wholly dissimilar to that of Joe Kid. You know, right about the point in the movie where he finally confronts the main villain?--Not exactly one of my shinier moments; not to mention Polly's own massive embarrassment at being caught south of the border (at age twelve) in a cantina, by Papa of all people, and just about thirty seconds after she had finally been coerced by yours truly (please note my smirk) into following Maud's bad example.

"I can almost understand Anna!" Papa shouted at Polly while pointing at me. (Actually, Papa shouted a lot while we were growing up.--Mostly at me.) "She's been in trouble since she was old enough to read the number off my credit card!" (So true.--Still smirking) "But you, Polly?"

"Oh, Papa! I'm so sorry!" Polly lamented as she abruptly burst into the earnest tears of the revoltingly good girl she was.

"You had best wipe that expression right off your face, young lady!" he turned unexpectedly, glaring at me with those squinty Eastwood eyes.

"Sorry, Papa," I mouthed indifferently. Unlike my sister, I knew the difference between Papa's bite and bark. That's not to say a certain minimal requisite acquiescence wasn't required, even if the adherence to which wasn't precisely enthusiastic.

"And you!" he turned his glare on Maud.

"Don't you go taking that tone with me, ya jackass! I didn't invite them. They just,--sorta showed up."

"Uh-huh, likely stor--"

"No, Papa. It isn't Aunt Maud's fault," I insisted.

"Don't tell me you're taking the credit."

"Certainly not," I assured him in a 'don't be ridiculous' tone. "It was Polly."

They all three turned to face me, (Oh yeah, I do dig the limelight) and bearing similarly incredulous expressions.

"Oh, c'mon!" I rolled my eyes. "I'm joking!"

"You're grounded!" he proclaimed, emphasizing said proclamation by slamming my door shut before stomping around to the driver's side.

I took it in stride. There's an old cop show (can't remember which) that has a motto. It goes something like, "If you can't do the time, then don't snatch the ChargeItAll card from out your Auntie Maud's purse when you know perfectly well Uncle Charlie has nothing better to do than spy on your every move."--Or, something to that effect. Anyways, my point is, I can do the time. Besides, I don't always get caught. Sometimes, when everything comes together just right, skullduggery can be a downright beautiful thing. Hey! In my family, ten is too young for boys. Actually, I have no interest in boys ... yet. The majority of them smell like wet dog hair, and those who don't, can't be trusted around my Barbie collection. Anyways, between that, an oddball parental group made up of ex-underground anti-crusty agents, and 'Glenda the Good' for a sister, well, I gotta have some kind of outlet, don't I?

Polly's expression softened, though she was shaking her head, as if to tell me, "When will you ever learn."

"Both of you!" Papa intoned, to wit I almost lost control of a rising snicker.

"But Papa!" Polly began as the car lifted.

"But Papa, nothing," he waived dismissively at her impending amnesty efforts. "You didn't have to tag along, now did you?"

"Frank?" Maud began in a tired tone.

"Don't you start with me, you old gorilla bitch!" Papa shouted threateningly as he glared at her via the rearview vid-panel. "My god, Maud! You're pushing seventy! You need to be playing shuffleboard, not traipsing off to cantinas with my kids in tow!"

"Jackass, I'm about to do more than just 'start' with you!" Maud hissed dangerously, and then paused as she and Papa suddenly seemed to realize us children were present. "We'll talk about it later," she finished in a more subdued tone.

"Ya damn right, we will," mumbled Papa, along with several other things I couldn't quite make out, but could easily guess.

"Would it be okay if we stopped at the old church," Polly asked in a small voice, the intended manipulation of which seemed outside both adults' range of comprehension. Actually, having been the recipient of a Rep-Guard attack, (back when there was a Rep-Guard), the old 'church' wasn't much more than a blackened crater with a couple of half standing brick walls. But the adjacent cemetery was perfectly intact.

"-Oh..." Papa stalled, unprepared to downshift to such softer feelings. "You know, we've got a really long flight ahead of us, sweetie. Salt Lake's over two hours from here, and you both have school--" He cut himself short as Maud's vehement expression became visible in the rearview. "Well, maybe just a brief stop," he amended.

Our mother (Holly Warren) died not long after I was born. I know better now of course, but there was a while there, well, I suppose I sort of grew up feeling responsible, her death being so near my birth and all. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't exactly guilt, so much as guilt for myself, mixed with anger at Holly for leaving me,--I mean, us. Anyways, I guess that's what they call ambivalence. But when Papa found out about it, he was quick to set me straight. He explained how Holly had always been obsessed with the Sea mongrel, (a submarine she and Uncle Danny built with their own hands) and had both insisted on personally overseeing the test procedures of certain upgrades themselves, which as it turned out, ended with their deaths. He wouldn't go into greater detail, (actually, I think he was about to break down right in front of me) but said I should never feel her passing was in any way connected to me. But when I asked about the submarine, he wouldn't look at me; just sort of stared at the wall and muttered something about it being dismantled and sold off in pieces.

It's always been something of a sensitive subject, and other than that one time, nobody (other than my sister, who is just as ignorant as I am despite 'any' claims she may have to the contrary) ever seemed to want to talk about it, so I let it go. I was something like two months old at the time, but Polly, two years my senior and always more than happy to remind me of it, soaks up all the Holly Warren tall-tails that spew from every ex-agent who stops by to pay their respects. I'm always like, "Big honkin' deal." It's not as if the woman was ever any part of our lives. Exactly what good are grownups that aren't around to be grownups? Am I right, or am I right?

Papa was always talking about Holly like she's some kind of legend. Polly ate it all up like candy, but personally, I really never got it. I mean, what exactly was the point here? There's no moral lesson to be learned from simple survival tactics. And since all that business happened before my time, then how precisely am I expected to wax nostalgic over crap I didn't witness? Besides, from all the empty eco-bottles (breaks down twenty-four hours after expiration) of beer stacking up in the trash bin, I'd have to say nostalgia wasn't doing that much for Papa either. I guess he figured 'stories' about a mother was better than no mother at all. He was wrong of course, but I still loved him for trying so hard. As far as that goes, I loved my Aunt Maud as well, (even though she's got as many or more 'back in my day' stories as Papa) and I think I speak for sis when I include Charlie, though he's been slowly loosing marbles ever since I can remember. Well, having passed his eightieth birthday, (yep, that was one fiery cake) I reckon he had a perfect right to be shy the occasional marble. Maud told me he used to be what was called a Price Fighter or some such. That's when people used to square off and punch the begeebees out of one another till someone yelled uncle and gave up their purse--Maud used to carry a purse. It was nice, I suppose, but I can't rightly say I'd be willing to give up all my begeebees over it. In any case, I recon after you've lost enough begeebees, you end up spending about half your time loading your diaper and drooling down your chin, and the other half thinking it's forty years ago. That's how it is with Uncle Charlie anyhow.

"Come see!" Polly called. "Someone's put fresh flowers in their vases again.

As the three of us caught up, (I ran, they walked) Maud saw the flowers and shot an expectant glance in Papa's direction, just as he looked away. "Uh-huh," she muttered knowingly.

"Who do you think left them?" Polly asked naively. Yeah, sis got the looks, Holly's midnight black hair and what was turning out to be her bust line, along with the family's trait for book learning. I however, seemed to have inherited Holly's smallish frame, Grandpa's red mane, and Papa's horse sense. I don't much care one way or the other about the rest, but I'll take horse sense over book learning any day. Sis can just keep that absent minded professor jazz. It's not as if it's done anything for her social life ... Well, there is that goofy lookin' Tommy Wu nerd (smoochy-smoochy) who always looks like he's about to sneeze. If that's her idea of the fast lane to social status, then I'd rather take the bus.

"Oh, what a state!" Maud complained as we reached the graves, then immediately dropped to her knees to pull weeds.

Papa looked on for several moments, briefly acted like he was wiping dust from his eyes, and then announced he'd wait for us in the car. I watched as he walked away. Grownups can be so weird. After all those stories of Holly this and Holly that, and Holly did everything but walk on water while roping the moon, you'd think these little visits would be right up his alley.

"Anna?" Maud called me over as she pulled a handkerchief from her blouse. "Take this and go wipe whatever that is off your grandfather's headstone."

"What, you mean the dirt?" I asked incredulously. "Next time it rains--"

"Just do it, ya little hellion!"

"Alright, alright!--Jeez!" I complained while snatching the hankie. Most of the time, Maud was just the sweetest old lady you'd ever hope to know. But I'll tell ya, push the wrong button and look out!

A couple of minutes later, as I was 'dusting' my grandfather's headstone, something caught my attention, like a high pitched whine from either somewhere far off, or possibly everywhere at once. I glanced over at sis, who was just returning with a bunch of freshly picked wildflowers for the stone vases, (apparently, Maud felt the existing 'fresh' flowers needed replacing) when the noise abruptly shifted from a whine to a whistle, the pitch of which was lowering almost as quickly as its volume was increasing.

"Incoming!" Papa shouted while racing back in our direction, at which point I turned just as Maud, with a bewildered Polly in tow, slammed into me with her entire weight (Yes it hurt! Maud's short, but makes up for it in width) and nearly engulfing both mine and Polly's bodies as we all three slammed into the ground just as an unimaginable percussion struck my universe blind, deaf, and dumb, as if God had just dropkicked the planet.

Sometime later, minutes or months, I regained some semblance of consciousness, and though yet somewhat disoriented and thoroughly in the dark, my hearing had begun to return. I gauged this by what sounded like the muffled rumbling of half a dozen of the larger type hover turbines, or possibly several of the smaller class B antigravity skipper engines (skippers are the commercial cargo versions of passenger hovercraft) used mostly by local and interstate transport services. Actually, it sounded a lot like the Guido's Pizza delivery skipper Maud called every Thursday night for as long as I can remember. I remember, because it always sounded like it needed a tune up--putt-putt-putt-putt, Bang! Putt-putt-putt-putt, Bang!

I lifted my yet pounding head, percussion bombs have that effect, expecting the resistance of Maud's considerable weight, but instead discovered resistance in the form of something, rope, I assumed, binding my hands and feet, while it became obvious (via my tactile contact with the surface I lay on, plus the feint engine reverb) that my location was no longer outside the cemetery, but rather somewhere inside, probably some sort of skipper, far larger than any sort of delivery transport, pizza or otherwise. "Papa?" I attempted, managing nothing but a pitifully weak two-syllable muffled moan as my new ensemble apparently included a gag to go with the ropes, and as I thought about it, a 'blindfold' might explain the 'blindness' I was continuing to experience.

Well, I would certainly have preferred to be able to describe the insidiously clever plan of escape I executed at this point. Regrettably, such maneuvers, clever or otherwise, are in short supply when one is trussed up like a piglet in a butcher shop ...--yeah, probably not the best analogy.

"S-Sis?" Polly replied to my muffled attempt at speech.

"Mmfph!" I returned indignantly, which translated means, "Why the heck was I gagged while you weren't!"

"Hang on. I think I can get to you," she offered in a reassuring tone, then sounded as if she were alternating between several confined maneuvers, like scooting, shuffling, nudging, occasionally bumping, frequently scraping, and constantly grunting with the exertion required for all the above until finally traversing what sounded like all of five very arduous feet in distance.

"Okay, stay still," she instructed breathlessly, right after overshooting her final estimated scoot-shuffle-scrape and thus jamming her bony knee into my left eye, and then carefully clamped onto my blindfold with her teeth, pulling it into a position just above my brow.

It took a moment for my vision to adjust, but as the dim light emanating from the lock sequence indicator on the only hatch in the room registered, I quickly recognized the forms of Papa and Maud, both similarly bound, though Maud, now in a sitting position and apparently attempting to wriggle out of her bonds, had obviously regained consciousness, though Papa was sprawled out cold on the deck. This began to worry me, as he had been much closer to the blast. True, percussion bombs were chiefly used for crowd control, but if you're close enough, the initial impact is more than sufficient to turn one into confetti. And how, might you ask, would I know so much on the subject of military munitions? Again, with no shortage of ex-agents streaming through my home with an equally abundant supply of tall-tales about the good old days, one tends to pick up a few tidbits. That, and Maud's idea of proper child rearing includes a full course on basic training. I could disassemble, clean, and reassemble a mark II Pacifier blindfolded before I could cross the street by myself.

Just as Polly managed to yank the gag below my chin, I heard a muffled popping sound and looked up in time to note Maud's pained expression as her arm, now laying unnaturally against her torso in such a contorted way as to literally taper inward at the shoulder, easily allowed the ropes to loosen sufficiently for her to slip right out of them.

"Will you two hurry up already?" she barked as Polly and I continued to gawk unbelievingly. "Come on, we don't have all day! I hit the transponder right before the bomb went off!"

"Are you okay?" one of us asked numbly; --me, I think. I was still trying to wrap my mind around the concept of anyone being okay with, or capable of, intentionally dislocating a part of his or her body.

"Transponder?" Polly queried. "What sort of trans--"

"The emergency transponder that's about to bring the Calvary. --Oh and I'll need some help popping my shoulder back into place."

"Eww, Icky!" I'm pretty sure Polly and I chirped in disgusted unison.

Fortunately, after Maud had managed to untie herself, Polly, being the closest, had been her first choice to assist with the little chiropractic adjustment, for which I am so grateful, and smirking, despite that nasty, icky wet plopping sound that may just haunt me for the remainder of my days.

Matching my smirk with a glare of equal intensity, Polly assisted Maud as they untied my hands, and then left me to untie my own feet as they went to inspect Papa. I joined them quickly, but gasped in horror when Polly was a little too slow to intercede before I caught sight of Papa's right leg.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Maud assured me as Polly grabbed me and hugged me close, while turning half about so as to avoid the gaping wound in his lower calf.

"I'm okay!" I insisted, though momentarily accepted my sister's support until my legs regained enough strength to hold my weight.

"Alright, listen up--" Maud began, but stopped when a hissing noise from the adjacent bulkhead caught her attention. "That'll be Chelsea ... made good time, too," she checked her watch. Then the hissing grew louder as a pinhole of bright light appeared on the steal plate, the plasma torch that had caused it then commencing a slow arc.

"Let's get Frank ready. You two get his arms, and I'll get his legs."

"Ready?" I asked nervously as we each took one of Papa's arms.

"For what?" Polly asked, her wide eyes and knitted brow no doubt a fair facsimile of my own expression.

"I think ... I think we're gonna have to jump," I theorized unhappily.

"What?!"

Now, at this point, a number of things occurred in quick succession, none of which could or even should be expected by such a sweet little girl, or even my sister. In other words, the following is as close an account as I can recall.

First, the hissing stopped when a half-round wedge of bulkhead fell away from the ship as the small compartment was abruptly engulfed in both the light of day and a deafening wind. Then, before anyone had a chance to react, the inner hatch on the opposite wall suddenly burst open as several black uniformed, anonymous faceplate wearing, individuals began filing in. And that's about the time Maud, in full rhino mode, body slammed Polly and myself right through the hole in the bulkhead and into a brief freefall (while several thousand feet up I might add!) until falling through the skylight hatchway of Chelsea MacGregor's BMW SUV, a total skydive of maybe ten feet, at which point I believe I promptly fainted.