Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Spanner 16.3: Pick Up the Pieces

...from previous

Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 16: Don’t Change the Channel
Part 3: Pick Up the Pieces

6 october 2014.
Alex’s apartment.
The official news outlets are calling it the Great Police Robot Riot of 2014. They report the number of casualties and make note of the most important of them: King Patriot. Official cause of death: massive stroke. They don’t make any mention of who caused the stroke and how he did it. They dare not speak the name of Spanner.

“They’re not even bothering to deny anymore,” says Alex.

“They don’t dare,” says Wellspring. “If they deny the king’s death, everyone will know he’s dead. If they even so much as mention the name of Spanner, to affirm or deny, they will make him a folk hero like the outlaws of the Old West. It’s the Law of Plausible Deniability.”

“The Rat Bastard knows it,” says Sparks. “The Becket brothers deny it, but they let our hero embarrass ’em. So Litton’s got ’em by the short ’n’ curlies. So Big Dick’s gotta let him control the spin whether he likes it or not.”

Deth Pussy puts down his grand salami sandwich. “My oh my, we done took out two big gods in two months! At this rate, we’ll be punching out Cthulhu by Christmas after next!”

“I’m afraid Jobs survived by ’borging himself Apple,” says Cyphers, entering with a beer. “Murdoch did the same thing with News. That’s why the lamestream’s gotten so much lamer since the coup.”

“So we got one or two men controlling all the information,” Sparks comments, “and nobody trusts a word they say. How do we get around that?”

Deth takes a bite. “Sounds like you been on the beat too long, officer. If you ain’t devout Party faithful, you listen to the voice of the underground.”

“Underground television?”

Pirate television.”

“Like our very own KCUF,” Cyphers adds.

Sparks gets up, slips on his trench coat, and grins. “I guess you guys owe me a tour of the station.”

Deth rattles the keys. “Then let’s roll out the red carpet in the morning.”

Shira’s bed. Shira wakes up shortly after sundown and finds J.T. sitting beside her. She rolls over, letting the covers fall off her breasts, and smiles at him mischievously. “A cop can go anywhere, huh?”

“Hey, you gave me the keys.”

“Oh yeah.”

He looks at her. “What’s your opinion on... terrorism?”

Shira’s mouth twists in disgust. “Just a fancy word for bullying.”


“The Mafias? Private cops. The terrorists? Religious police. Government needs professional bullies to keep the mudblood herd in line, and bully training begins on the playground. Schoolyard bullies are your future faction enforcers, gangland slashers, and cops. Buy yourself a badge, and you got yourself a license to terrorize.”

“You buy any badges?”

“Dime a dozen on the black market. That’s a full ten bucks in Federal Reserve toilet paper.”

Sparks chuckles. “You’re pretty brazen, saying this in front of a cop.”

“So what’s the cops to you?”

“A dime a dozen on the black market.” They both laugh.

Mudlark House. School is out this Monday, so Team Bremelo assemble in the TV room. Present: Jennifer, Connor, Leila, Rob, Cory, Kio, Brandi, Marina, Seika, Harumi, and Polly. Absent: Shira. They review yesterday’s news coverage online and compare. Brandi shakes her head sadly. “I still can’t believe how surreal Murdoch’s propaganda’s been getting since he ’borged himself to the networks.”

“The principle seems to be, he who controls the media controls your mind,” says Jennifer. “Looks like old ’borg Murdoch has got so complacent about it, he hasn’t even noticed his propaganda flying away from reality.”

“That king looked pretty dead to me,” says Polly. “So how’d you guys manage to kill him?”

“The Corporates have this weird superstition that you can transfer your soul from your body into your public image. So if you destroy the image, you kill the man. It’s very similar to the old barbarian belief that a warrior’s sword contains its wielder’s soul. You can still kill African warriors by breaking their swords. That’s what we did to old Roger Becket’s public image.”

“I almost can’t believe we did it,” Leila muses. “It felt so much like a dream.”

“That’s dream control. Control a person’s dreams, you control the person. Cults work by building a prefab dreamworld so the guru can do your dreaming for you.”

“A second-hand life like that always sounded boring to me,” says Rob.

Leila shoots him a hurt look. “You’ve never been burdened with nightmares, dear brother. Letting someone else dream your dreams for you always sounded to me like a relief.”

Marina adds, “It sounds even better when your whole life’s a nightmare.”

Jennifer says, “Now what happens when you can give people nightmares?” Everybody stares at her. “All those Corpos who took over the city yesterday? None of them lived in the ghetto or a prison or a war zone. They all have stable, prosperous lives. But boy, do they have nightmares. What scares them in their dreams? Their tribe is becoming a minority in its own homeland. Their nation is losing the title of Number One Country. They’ve already lost their economy to the contenders: China, India, Brazil, even Iran. Their egos are completely invested in their tribal, national, and economic supremacy. Promise you’ll put their nightmares to an end, and they’ll worship you forever. Now you know the late King Patriot’s great secret.”

“So what happens now that King Patriot is dead?” asks Seika.

“Here’s the thing. The Conservative Revolutionary Party is not really one party, but two. It’s an alliance between power-hungry Corporate aristocrats and fanatical Church of America militants, similar to the alliance of princes and clerics that held up the Saudi monarchy before the Caliphate conquered it. One faction believes that no limits should be put on economic freedom, while the other believes personal freedom should be placed under the strictest limits. They only tolerate each other because they have a common enemy in the people. The King kept them united by force of personality alone. Now that he’s gone, they’re at the mercy of their fundamental contradiction. For the whole régime is founded on this fatal contradiction.”

“I still don’t see how we can get rid of these guys,” says Kio.

“Yeah! How come they still stick together against us, and we still can’t do anything about it?” asks Polly.

Jennifer smiles mischievously. “What they don’t get is that they’re not fighting against this hero or those terrorists. They’re fighting against entropy.” She winks.

Shira’s bedroom. Shira lies on her back at the edge of her bed so Sparks can take pictures of her cunt with his hacked iPhone. She has synced her AR goggles to it so she can see what his camera sees. She directs him to change lighting, angle, and various camera settings so he can get the best pictures. “You’re so shameless for someone so young,” he says.

“I’m in love with my body. Hell, I am my body. Why should I be ashamed of what I am, especially when I’m beautiful?”

“You know this is highly illegal, don’t you.”

“Law’s what happens when prejudice rapes reality, Jim. Sex, drugs, and racial incorrectness are high crimes and treason in the New World Order, and you’re legally still an infant till you hit eighteen. You sure you got Steve-o’s traitorware turned off?”

“It’s called jailbreaking, sweetheart.”

“Got it.” She turns over onto her stomach, cocks her pelvis back, and opens her legs wide. “Could you move that lamp a little closer?”

“Okay.” He reaches with his left hand and moves it an inch, then resumes taking pictures.


“You’ve certainly got a photogenic cunt. Glad you shaved it. You like taking pictures?”

“I love women’s cunts. I always thought they were so beautiful. I have pictures of all my female friends and relatives stored on one card. Oh, and I no longer shave. Electrolysis.”

“That’s the best way. Must be nice to be bisexual. Me, I was never interested in men.”

“You don’t mind, I hope.”

“No, I’m not a hater, if that’s what you mean. They’re happy doing each other, I’m fine with it. But it never turned me on. I’m just not wired that way.”

Shira shifts onto her left side, brings her right arm up to her head and holds it, and shifts her pelvis so that her cunt becomes visible again. As Sparks repositions his phone, he says, “You’re quite the flexible girl.”

“Hey, I’m a dancer and a martial artist. We know how to get our kicks.” She winks.

“How much do you have sex?”

“As much as possible.”

“How do you get away with it?”

“I have my ways.”

“How far back you got pics?”

“I’ve been taking pictures of myself since I was six, if that’s what you mean.”

He stops taking pictures and stands up. She breaks her pose and sits up at the edge of the bed. “She was six.”

Shira cocks her head and flashes him a cockeyed smile. “Hmmm?”

“Tell me you’re not Rebel Styles.”

“You want me to prove that I’m not?”

“No. That you are.”

Her mischievous smirk grows into a wicked grin. “You asked for it, buster.”

Suddenly she leans back, thrusts her pelvis forward, captures his erect penis with her cunt, and sucks it all the way in. He gasps with audible shock. With her vaginal strength, she yanks him toward the bed along with her; he collapses helplessly on top of her. She captures it all on his iPhone. Then she throws it at the pillow; he jams himself into and out of her, she crushes and crushes him. They lose track of time; the ecstasy lasts a seeming eternity...

Denver. Randolph Grant Litton is the foremost private political consultant in the whole American Empire. He was one of the masterminds of the New Right since the days of Richard Nixon. Unlike a another Nixonian with a similar name, he escaped the Watergate scandal without charges. He achieved stardom in neoconservative circles through his dirty work against Clinton and under Bush II. The Conservative Revolution of 2012 was his supreme triumph. He is a New Yorker, though, so he prefers to place his office in the hated towers of the central city rather than one of the exurban arcologies the Corporates prefer and the Americanists require. His surly New York temperament was never pleasant, but has only gotten worse as he has gotten old. He has fully earned his nickname: “Rat Bastard.”

Richard Becket, his old friend, drops by without an appointment. “What the fuck do you want?” snaps Litton at him. “Another favor?”

“No, a job.”

“I ain’t hirin’.”

“I am. It’s for you.”

“I thought all campaignin’ was over, Dick.”

Chariman Becket smiles mischievously. “This is special, Dolph.”

“Scandal you want me to bury?”

“A terrorist we need you to help us destroy.”

Litton peers at him skeptically. “You mean that ‘monkeywrench’?”


“Tell me “bout “im.”

“Whoever’s behind him is as brilliant as you, whoever he or she is. He or she’s got balls. Probably a prodigy, likely in his or her teens or twenties. But he’s made a fatal mistake. He murdered our father, and the whole world watched. And that, old friend, is where you come in.”

“So you want me to catch this guy, is that it?”

“No, old friend, it’s even better than that.” The Chairman starts to pace. “You see, Spanner’s really just another costume. He’s an image, a meme, no more real than Batman or Spider-Man in the movies and comic books. Do what you will with him. Co-opt him, demonize him, anything you want. He’s all yours if you want him.”

“If this big, I want big money for it.”

“If you accept, we’ll grant you a big advance, in gold.” Becket holds out his hand.

“Deal.” Litton shakes it.

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Copyright © 2011 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
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