Posted by
TH Patriots on Friday, March 30, 2007 8:59:27 PM
by Fletch
The following account was put together in 2036 using transcripts recovered in the retaking of Baltimore and testimonies in the archives of the Last Patriots of Pennsylvania kept now in the John Galt Library. As was customary at the time, members of the resistance used aliases created for online usage both to protect their loved ones and to make themselves know to their compatriots:
A woman’s voice: “Where’s Slabo?”
A man’s: “I dunno. I just got assigned.”
“Probably got tapped for another assignment in economics reeducation. Are the recorders on?”
“Yes.”
“Then wake him up.”
The first sensation Fletch experienced was the sharp, stinging scent of ammonia assaulting his sinuses. He came aware through a fog of fatigue, pain, and discomfort and slowly took in his surroundings. Initially, he could make out little of the figure before him, just a shapeless green coverall and, comically, one of those “Hello! My Name Is” stickers. The man quickly stood up and stepped from view.
The metal and plastic chair was no more comfortable than it had been when he had passed out, his wrists and ankles duct-taped in place, hand-cuffs adding additional security as if it were necessary. The voice that came from behind him was all too familiar: “Are you ready to talk now?”
He smiled ruefully, “Ah, Kimberly, I’ve been talking. You’re just not interested in what I have to say.”
His whole world dissolved in scarlet momentarily with the impact on the back of his skull. Kimberloon had begun carrying around a wooden yard stick like a 1950s Catholic school nun with an attitude or a low rent samurai imitator. She couldn’t possibly grasp how inappropriate taking on a warrior’s guise really was. Fletch couldn’t help himself: “Ooooh, liberal non-violence in action. Maybe you could show me some more compassio—“
This time the yard stick shattered, sending fragments in all directions. The world dissolved into grey fog and optical lightning, and a new sensation resolved into being: the slow trickle of blood onto his neck. A new figure swam into his vision as Kimberly reached down to pick up the shards of her former toy. He snickered under his breath despite the pain, not so much from the impact as from the world-tearing migraine that had plagued him for days. Without his medication, he figured his blood pressure was up to 140 over 140 or so.
Kimberly, of course, misunderstood.
“Oh, you like looking at my butt?”
“Just don’t make me look at the other end.”
This time it was the back of her hand against the side of his face. She was quicker than he anticipated or, perhaps, he was just slower from fatigue. He’d been staring at the same wall for three days now while they tried to find out whether or not he knew where the key members of the resistance were hiding. What was funny was that he didn’t really know. GunnyG, Nee, BrianR, etc. were all competent people with military training. Even if he had known where they were when he was taken, they certainly wouldn’t be there now. What was funnier still was that he didn’t figure his captors really cared.
He took a moment to catch his breath, blood now dripping from his lower lip as well as his scalp. Kimberly disappeared behind him and he heard the pieces of the yardstick in what had become his waste bucket. He could almost visualize Kimberly composing herself. It was unusual that she’d be working alone (this new guy was eerily silent). She usually had Slabo or John or someone else with her who was an active participant. Maybe, John went back to North Carolina….
“Why don’t you just tell me what I want to know? It is unreasonable for you to keep information for the public good to yourself.”
“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with. Without treatment I won’t last forever anyway.”
She was instantly indignant. “You know that we now provide free healthcare to everyone.”
He no longer had the strength to snicker. In the wake of the glorious new beginning, Hillary-Care had instantly been implemented. The only problem was that no one could actually be found to provide sufficient care and pharmaceuticals had all but vanished. New laws were quickly passed allowing the government to buy drugs in bulk from Canada, but the Canadians let that continue for only about a week before deciding that subsidizing prescriptions for their citizens was one thing but doing so for those arrogant neighbors to the south was something else again. Canada had her own problems.
“How soon can I see a doctor, then?”
“The typical wait is only seven weeks now.”
“And if I can’t wait seven weeks?”
“Oh, don’t be selfish. Why should you be first in line? You’re just another heterosexual white guy. You’ve never been homeless. You’ve never been trapped in poverty because society let you down. Others are more deserving.” She paused only for a moment. “You know, Paul Krugman expressed an interest in speaking with you.”
Ah, liberal honesty at its finest! “Kim, you and I both know that Hillary’s chief economic advisor, for all of twelve days, was in New York when the bomb went off and hasn’t been heard from since. Why not say tell me that France – excuse me: the New Caliphate Francais, now – has offered me asylum? It would at least be good for a laugh.”
“Fine! I’m just going to wait here patiently until you have something of value to say. You’re not getting anything to eat or drink until you do so.”
Okay, he thought, we’ll see who can outlast whom.
For a few moments there was simply an uneasy silence punctuated only by Fletch’s labored breathing and slow footfalls as Kimberly paced back and forth. Then, there was a sudden rapping sound and a soft thump as if something had been dropped to the carpet. There was a soft jingling sound that he couldn’t place and, a moment later, the “Hello! My Name Is” sticker was once again hovering before him. Fletch opened his mouth to speak but the silent man quickly put a finger to his lips, then swirled it around to indicate the recorders were still on.
A knife appeared and the tape on his wrists and ankles was expertly severed. The soft jingling was revealed as a set of keys that just as swiftly opened the cuffs on his wrists. Fletch tried to stand too quickly and almost fell to the floor, but his savior quickly put an arm around him and held him up till he could recover himself. Soon they were through the door and the man in the green uniform slowly and silently shut the door.
“It’s soundproof,” he whispered, “but it’s still best to keep our voices down. I’m going to put her keys in the door as if she forgot them. Then, we’re going to go back into the room and you’re going to hit me on the head with this.” A hard polished shaft of wood no more than eight inches long appeared and was placed in the former captive’s hand. “Go out the door at the end of the corridor. Restless Warrior and some other friends are waiting for you. I think they brought half of southern PA.”
“And here, take these.” Two label-free prescription bottles appeared from his pocket. Fletch recognized them immediately as exactly what he needed. Before Fletch could say anything, he turned to reenter the room, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him for a moment, “Who are you?”
The man smiled benevolently and pointed to his name sticker, the final words now easily read in blue magic marker: “Hello! My Name Is Lysander Discord”. He then put his hands over most of the sticker and Fletch’s eyes widened. Before he could do anything more, the man held his finger to his lips once more, entered the room and knelt on the floor anticipating the blow that would preserve his secret.
I’m sorry, my friend, Fletch thought and did what he had to do.
As he approached the exit, he could hear the occasional rattle of gunfire as liberal loyalists and the resistance clashed. Liberals were always ones to promote rules, such as gun control, that invariably applied only to other people, so it wasn’t surprising that a few of them were armed. Fortunately, they could typically shoot as well as they could reason. He turned back for a moment before making his final escape, torn between going forward and going back for the man who had saved him. In the end he thought better of it. After all, who had more experience hiding among them than the man who would obscure enough of a name sticker to identify himself as “LD”?
I never thought I’d have so much respect for someone openly calling himself a Liberal Democrat.
The door to freedom opened with a shove.