Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 15: Start the Violence
Part 2: The Ingathering (Final Revision)
Part 2: The Ingathering (Final Revision)
Hiding in alleyways, abandoned buildings, garbage disposals and anywhere else, the terrorists await their chance to attack: Socialist Revolutionary Organization, Earth Revolutionary Front, Revolutionary Army of the Infant Jesus, Al-Qaeda in America, Black African Revolutionary Front, Free Union of Christian Knights, Screaming Horde of Insane Terrorists, Revolutionary Union of Terrorists, People’s Occupation Party, Citizens United to Nullify Treason and other extremist Patriot factions, even plainclothes special forces from the Property Liberation Army owned by Chinese Corporatist Party (Holdings) Limited. Chief Becket keeps a close eye on them through the provoker agents he has planted; some factions, unknown to themselves, are all police. His father the Secretary calls him from the basement. “Are the terrorists any trouble yet, John?”
“No, father. Are you all right?”
“I’ll recover. Has any trace of Spanner appeared yet?”
Little do they know that hiding among the agents of COPCO and the mobsters Chairman Sparks hired as freelance police, anarchists prepare to divide the house of justice against itself — including the Chairman’s very own son.
Under an umbrella he hopes will stand up to an ever stronger wind, sporting Scotchgarded black trenchcoat and fedora, James Tiberius Sparks feeds the seagulls at Ivar’s, where the KCUF yacht is docked. The Slasher Hunters registered it under their bounty-hunting contract. The rain comes down ever harder. Three dolphin flippers land on the yacht deck. The mermaids have arrived.
The glossolating crowd continues to grow in Westlake Plaza. Will Becket quietly watches the rain pour on them from the stage above the platform while putting on his mask. Brinkman interrupts him. “Will!”
He turns to face him. “Yes, cousin?”
“Don’t be such a chivalrous fool this time.”
Will cocks his head. “You were saying?”
“I know you, Will. We’re not knights in some outlandish fantasy world. We’re revolutionaries. We can’t afford to let sentiments such as mercy weaken us and cloud our minds.”
“What you don’t realize, Walter, is that revolutions have an unfortunate tendency to crash against unchanging human nature.”
“Human nature must change.”
Will nonchalantly dons his helmet. “That’s easy. Just bite.”
Brinkman glares back. “If you weren’t the famous ‘Red Fang,’ I’d kill you for saying that.”
“If Trista finds out you said that, she will be not happy.”
“Just do your duty, soldier.”
“See ya later, Wally.” With a smirk, Will descends with his soldiers.
Offended, Brinkman stares after him. “I told you to stop calling me Wally!”
A hoverboard racer flies overhead. Radica Maxx, perpetual second place behind Loca Fantoma, is on a Challenge. She expects her to pop up out of nowhere any time to steal her glory. She nearly falls off her board when she sees her rival waving from a yacht docked at Ivar’s, stark naked in the rain. She decides the “loca” part is true.
Polly stands next to Shira in a raincoat, looking up. “What’s Radica doing here?”
“Trying to outdo me at something, anything.”
Jennifer follows the girl with the violet eyes up the ladder onto the deck. Polly glares at her. “Well, did you get a nice view?”
The nameless girl leans into her flirtatiously. “I had to reward her somehow.” She winks. Polly returns to the cabin in a huff.
The crewmember from the one city in England’s West Country paces across the deck in tricorner hat and Barbour jacket. “Ahoy, mateys!” declaims captain Simon Remington, waxing Blackbeardian, “let’s give the bloody cunts a taste of what they deserve!”
Polly shouts from the cabin, “People on talk like that in the movies!”
“I’m from Bristol, I talk like that.”
“Three hundred years ago,” Jennifer reminds him, “with an ‘l.’“
His snarky Scouse bandmate Raven Shears yells, ostensibly to Polly, “Aw, he’s only out in the rain for the pretty birds in the buff.”
“Raven!” protests Simon. He storms in after his laughing bandmate.
A sound truck using Alaskan Way as a speedway blares Patriot Metal and revolutionary slogans at deafening volume. Jennifer frowns sourly. “That must be CUNT.”
The nameless girl crosses her arms. “What kind of Conservative would name his militia like that?”
“Well, one’s obsessed with killer whores, the other’s addicted to jailbait.”
Backstage at the plaza, Secretary Becket feels well enough to tower over the king of the Patriot Metal Superstars. Superheroes tend to be quite intimidating in person, but few are as terrifying as the third American Crusader, only intensified by the patriarchal patina of age. “Now don’t you play your old songs of moral depravity, Mr. Nugent. You are here by the grace of Jesus America to sing the glories of Our Nation to the faithful patriots who sustain our dominion over the world. Do you understand?” Not wanting to lose the respect of this too powerful and dangerous man, Nugent nods.
Local black Stylist bodypainter Lefty Lucy (“lefty” meaning both left-handed and lesbian) fondles the nameless girl’s prostrate body while applying the new cloaking formula of video bodypaint. Polly protests, “Don’t let—”
“Let her,” the girl says. “I like it.”
Lucy grins. “Glad you agree.” She kisses her bare behind.
Her bodypaint already dry, Shira holds a deck of cards in front of her. Several cards stick out of the deck. She pushes them back in so that a smaller number of cards emerge out the other side. She repeats until only one card remains: the joker. She smirks cockeyed. Simon asks, “So what’s this ‘Plan Z’ you’ve been talking about?”
She flings the deck so that the cards scatter all over the floor.
“Joker’s wild.” She winks.
The nameless girl asks, “Lucy, ever heard of the Fashion Assassins?”
Lucy caresses her body with her brush. “You one?”
“I’m the best.” She winks.
“Oh great,” Simon moans, “Bunny’s gonna be here.”
“I’m ready for her.”
Christie jealously glares at Bunny Strakeljahn. Oliver smirks. “Sorry, Bunny, only Patriot Metal Superstars allowed on the stage today.”
Bunny snarls, “I’m here to kill Spanner, dummkopf.” She cocks her AK.
He grabs his shovel. “You up to it?”
“Fuck you, loser.”
Christie says contemptuously, “Haven’t gotten over Reno yet, have you.” Oliver barely restrains Bunny from strangling her.
The assembled Americans stand together in defiance of the rain. Collectively they call upon Jesus America to bless their meeting place and curse the city they’re in. With one mind they await their leaders. Some are unable to endure the wait; they swoon and babble in the Unknown Tongue.
Hard rain lashes the crowd. Zeus himself seems to be angry at them. Martin Lansky, Lars Izquierdo, and Connor Blair sneak among them disguised as private security agents and wearing menacing sunglasses. The pilgrims are too preoccupied with their anticipation to notice them.
Amanda Currie breathlessly reports the event atop the ESPNBC News platform nearby. Behind his mirrorshades, Connor flicks a sideling glance her way and smiles. You have no idea just what you’re in for.
Snipers line the roofs of the surrounding buildings, ready to shoot and kill anything that looks suspicious. The strike cop next to Will Becket says, “I sure as hell hope this op goes off without a hitch!”
“Have faith in the terrorists,” Will deadpans, “and they’ll come straight to us. But don’t let your guard down until everything’s over. Until then, anything can happen.”
The helmeted female nudefighters step onto the footbridge over Union Station. They are not quite halfway over when from the Fourth Avenue side a MIB enters followed by armoured enforcers. All the Bremeloes dodge into the side passages and cloak, except the nameless girl, who stands in front of them and takes off her helmet. “Leila!” he shouts, offended at her nudity. “Come with me, or else!”
Shira hacks the mercenaries’ armour to torture them with a loud high-pitched tone; they grab the sides of their heads and scream. The nameless girl kicks her pursuer in the groin, then hits his head with her helmet; she breaks a side panel, grabs the railing, headscissors him from behind, muscles him over the railing, then spins and drops — the armours scream “Traitors! The penalty is death!” and tortures the mercs to death — he tries to pry her legs off his neck, but her hate gives them strength; she squeezes so hard she crushes his windpipe, his eyes pop out of his head, he chokes, his eyes roll up — she drops the corpse onto the tracks below in time for a freight train to speed by and cut it into several pieces. She swings back up onto the footbridge and nonchalantly picks up her helmet.
“How’s the security situation?” asks Simon.
“Wowie zowie,” says Moon Roach, “they got some nasty ICE. Hardware firewalls, sniffers, everything.”
Deth Pussy says, “All that won’t be nothing once we find even one back door.”
“Back Orifice ready,” says Wolveroach.
“Kuang Zeta ready,” says Punisheroach.
“Wait till they’re distracted,” says Alex. “Can’t spoil the surprise.”
Shira peeks out of a garbage disposal in a Pioneer Square alley; no smelly rotting garbage in here, only reams upon reams of unshredded documents the male Bremeloes are removing under the awning above a commandeered truck trailer’s side door, overseen by Sparks with El Kabong and Evil the Cat assisting in COPCO contractors’ spare uniforms. The nameless girl approaches through the pouring rain; her helmet amplies her voice. “Why are you guys going skip-raiding?”
“This, my love,” Shira replies, “is the venerable hacker technique known as ‘trashing.’“
“I don’t see anything worth stealing.”
“You never know what treasures incompetent bureaucrats leave behind.”
Sparks adds, “It could be an identity thief’s wet dream.” He winks.
Security androids walk past, surveillance drones hover by, assuming everything’s legitimate. and see nothing. The computer in Shira’s head transmits augmented reality filters that block her out and transmit through them to other machines with their hardware and OS until she becomes completely invisible to the local security net. A Seattle cop, human this time, approaches Sparks. “What are you doing?”
“Following our CEO’s orders. We’re investigating fraud that could threaten CPMC.”
“Need-to-know, officer. Get back to your job.” The city cop slinks resentfully away.
A bullhorn-equipped camdrone descends toward the nameless girl, apparently recognizing her by her naked body. “Leila!” it roars in Brinkman’s voice. She laughs. “Not funny! This is your last chance. Make your choice now!“
She puts her hands on her hips, faces him full-frontal, shows her contempt with her pose. “You mean the altar, or... the altar?” A copbot walks toward the drone from behind. “This, old fleabag, is my final decision.”
The copbot grabs the camdrone from behind. Quickly the drone finds itself facing the bot’s face; it sees itself drawn toward the mouth, between its teeth — crunch! — blue screen. The control room techs laugh. Brinkman throws his beer at the monitor; the bottle shatters, but the screen is only smeared with foamy beer. He roars, “I should kill the little bitch myself!”
A terrorist bomb explodes. Shira and the nameless girl meet Jennifer there. A SHIT bomb has gone off prematurely. They are quickly surrounded by freelance cops. The token cute female among them recognizes the cinnamon-skinned body below Shira’s helmet. “I think I know you.”
“Well, well, well.” The anarchist girl grins.
“You know these people?” the nameless girl asks.
“Anarchists,” says Jennifer. “What better way to infiltrate than the freelance police?”
The anarchist girl asks, “How come you girls are naked?”
“Nudefighting. We’re hunting terrorists like these.”
Shira adds, “Our bounty hunting license allows it.”
“So you hired on?”
The anarchist girl grins. “What better way to fuck the police?”
No one sees Shira wink. “Plan Z...”
When Sparks finds Shira again, she passes for a white male freelance cop. “Not bad.” She winks.
No sooner than she’s changed than they’re accosted by a richly dressed and perpetually angry Corporate patriarch. Sparks whispers, “Leave him to me.”
“Young officers, you should be glad as I am that we’re bringing God’s Judgement to this accursed Babylon. The white race is dying! We Americans need to keep control of our daughters and marry them to the right men so they will keep their quivers full with many children so our race can reclaim its dominion over the world and conquer the infinite kingdom of space! God bless you, young men.”
“America bless God, sir.” The Corporate departs to deliver his next rant to someone else. “That man could have been Dr. Lars Thorwald. Now do you understand?”
Shira stares in the Corporate’s direction. “She’s just a ‘quiver’ to them?”
“Or a sacrificial lamb.” They stare at each other, then toward where the Corporate disappeared into a crowd of his own kind. “Follow me, Padawan.”
They find themselves surrounded by nobles of the lower ranks bearing names such as Dictel, Nike, Sony, Acme, Pepsi, Roxxon, GENOM, Oracle, Biotron, Yoyodyne, Microsoft, IBM, BCCI, ZikZak, WalMart, ConAgra, TriOptimum, Coca-Cola, General-Motors, General-Electric, Blue-Sun, Black-Mesa, Red-Star, Time-Warner, Weyland-Yutani, Persona-Century, Massive-Dynamic, Spectacular-Optical, MGM-UA, NBC-Universal, Post-Terran-Mining, Haska-Martin-Biochem, Lockheed-Northrop-Boeing-Dynamics; LexCorp, OsCorp, EuroCorp, NovaCorp; RonCo, GeneCo, FrobozzCo, AmCanTransConComCo: easily outranked by a Clayton-Wilder or a Sparks of COPCO, though the merchant princes bearing the coveted title Incorporated universally shun crowds and do their backstabbing in private, only showing solidarity for the cameras backed by Imperial troops so as to intimidate the masses; but still clearly outranking any Guild Professional in a nation that holds hierarchy sacred.
The image on one monitor zooms in on Sparks. Jack suddenly sits bolt upright when he sees Shira behind him. He moves the camdrone to her face, then down to her IDs, and finally back to the agent. “Sparks, you hired her?”
“She proved herself effective against Al-Qaeda and several Klown gangs at once.”
“Don’t you dare trust her. Keep your eye on her at all times.”
“Who said I trusted anybody? They do what I pay ’em to, or they don’t get paid. Bottom line’s all that counts.”
“If I were you, Chief,” Shira adds, “I’d watch out for some of your uniforms. Don’t forget you got moles, and they probably slipped in some of your terrorist friends.”
Nugent gets around Secretary Becket’s ban on his old jailbait songs by playing, with extra patriotism but the same old lust, that new song about that naked girl who killed ten thousand jihadis, who comments, “Now I really wanna kill him.”
“Jen,” asks Alex, “you in position?”
“...my hands on his balls, slowly crushing ’em like a vise...”
“...seeing his eyes pop out when I strangle him...”
A flight of drones passes by a Navy helicopter close enough to make the pilot flinch. “Jesus fuckin’ America!” he exclaims, “I hate those fuckin’ things!”
“Join the club,” says his gunner, Will Becket.
“So how come our own country don’t trust us?”
“The Party’s betting our entire future on Yoyodyne equipment and operators at Lockheed Northrop Boeing Dynamics.”
“You mean those so-called Tech Knights? Fuckin’ posers think they’re better ’n us.”
“Let’s see how good they really are when their weapons get hacked.”
Below, on one of the skyscrapers, Will spots Debbie standing up while other snipers remain low. “Debbie!” he scolds through the copter’s speaker, “get down before you get shot down by drones!”
“She don’t look too smart.”
“She’s headstrong. That’s what gets her in trouble.”
Near the end of his signature tune, “Nuke the Wogs,” Redd Banditt gets into his dry-ice coffin. Guitarist Tom E. Breydon stands on top for a solo. Jennifer says, “I see CUNT fuhrer Frank ‘Mueller’ himself with his fellow pro-rapist Davey the Sim... yeah, they’re threatening to overthrow CPMC if it doesn’t genocide all the natives — wait, are they talking Toymaker?“
Sparks laughs. “Stupid me! I thought he’d be dealing with BARF.”
CUNT militants get into a brawl with their FUCK rivals. Unwilling to end his guitar solo, Breydon dances on Banditt’s coffin long enough to suffocate him, ostensibly because he caught him sleeping with his now deceased wife, but also to use Banditt’s CUNT connections to send a message to Miller and Nugent that his close friend Brinkman intends to fight back like the werewolf he is. Will takes out an AQiA detachment with a missile. Breydon throws Banditt’s frozen corpse into the crowd and says that’s what happens to any fool that touches his wife. The Slasher Hunters assault a BARF position. ERF prepare to unleash the mustard gas. RAIJ prepare to launch their hoverboards. Bram Rodchenko tells SRO and POP, “Prepare to avenge the People!” The Toymaker fondles his detonator in the subway, too full of himself to notice the girl with no name sneaking up behind him, ready to brain him with her helmet.
At last, the moment they're all waiting for: The Beckets come onto the platform, the Central Committee behind them. Supreme Shepherd Oswald T. Mobley approaches the altar. King Patriot comes to the front of the stage. It has begun.
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Copyright © 2013 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
[Revision 4.0, 1/14/13: Condensed from 15.1 and 15.2 in Revision 2 with scenes originally in 15.3 plus new ones for R4 and the terrorist organization names from the Project Notebooks; heavily edited to fit Fourth Revision continuity.]
[Revision 4 Final, 1/24/13: Corrected two name errors.]