Spanner 25.6: Terrorists vs. Gangsters

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Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 25: The Public Be Damned
Part 6: Terrorists vs. Gangsters

10 november 2014.
CPMC headquarters. Brinkman stares at the line of grotesque cyborg mercenaries standing before him. “You paid for this?”

Litton grins. “The most dangerous hitmen money can buy. You’re looking at expensive enforcers, Wally. Can’t find any better on the open market.”

“These are grotesque.”

“No more than you are, wolfman.”

Brinkman storms into his face and yells, “At least I’m only a monster part of the time! These are abominations!”

“And that’s exactly what you need to put down this cesspool of commie faggot traitors that persist in denying our God-given dominion over them. They don’t surrender unconditionally, we got them.” Litton gestures toward the mercs. “And if that don’t work, we got drones and nukes. Remember, Wally, we got a revolution to save. The rabble’s our enemy. We gotta put ’em down, starting with their leaders.”

“That would mean the whole Consortium, starting with the Wilder Foundation. That’s a lot of companies, and their unions. We might as well lob nukes.”

“Try nationalizing ’em, Wally. Don’t forget that public management corporations have the legal right to seize any and all property for any or no reason, and that includes entire corporations. If their leaders give us any shit, we’ll send these agents to take ’em out, then COPCO will seize their assets and give ’em to us.”

“Sounds like a clever plan. But we can’t forget the enemy’s got some formidable Players of their own: Thurston Wilder, Philip Reston, Hope Reston, Willa Richter-Thomas, Shira Thomas. They’ve got plans of their own, and we need to make sure we can counter ’em. They beat us on the election. You got that, Litton?”

“I’ll try and keep that in mind. Meanwhile, we got ours.”

11 november 2014.
Bangor squats. On the border with the subdivisions, there is an abandoned Dictel worker housing complex of seven huge apartment buildings now occupied by warring gangs. Officially, one of the high holy days of the cult of Jesus America, Veterans’s Day, is beginning. But at the stroke of midnight, the Socialist Revolutionary Organization show their contempt for America’s imperial war efforts by declaring war on the gangs. The time bombs mark their gambit.

The entire complex blows up in a massive fireball that can be seen across Hood Canal and even in Seattle.

The timers were disposable cellphones; the detonators were Radio Shack parts; the bombs belonged to the gangs themselves.

Bram Rodchenko:
[The SRO commander, his beard flecked with white, speaks in an obviously Seattle accent.]

Attention, narcoterror syndicates. Your reign of terror is about to end. Everybody knows that Wally Brinkman and his Wall Street owners paid you to massacre the people of the city for rejecting the tyranny of Corporatism. We had to strike first. We will strike again, and again and again until you’re zeroed.

We are not terrorists. We are counterterrorists. The police are corrupt and useless. COPCO has no purpose other than defending the tyranny of the ultra-rich against the people. We are GK.

Harborside Commons. Team Bremelo and a few friends watch the news and Rodchenko’s communiqué on the screens in the food court. Debbie marvels, “How the hell did they take out all those Slashers in one blow?”

Shira sighs. “Maybe I’ll have to give you a lesson in elemental military strategy. Take out the enemy base, and you cripple the enemy. Hackers call it a single point of vulnerability. Here you had seven gangs in an abandoned barracks, seven big buildings arranged around their battlefield, all playing war nonstop. The Army would have used massed drone bombers; the SRO used stealth agents. Same result.”

“But ain’t the Army got bases? Ain’t that the same thing?”

“They also have jet fighters and weapons emplacements to defend ’em. It’s hard to do that when you’ve got seven gangs squatting one abandoned barracks. You’re actually trained to do what my sister, her husband, and their leader just did.”

“You’re saying, the terrorists are soldiers?”

“Not entirely. Not all the terrorists are soldiers, but all the elite ones are combat veterans, some of ’em decorated, all of whom feel they got screwed by Jesus America. Bram Rodchenko was even part of the SEAL raid on Abbottabad, helping your Uncle Will sink his fangs into the Evil One’s neck. Their quest for revenge is entirely separate from the Populist movement, though they try to hijack it and twist it to their purposes.”

“The enemy of our enemy, in other words, is not necessarily our friend,” Jennifer adds. “You probably know some Conservative Revolutionary youth leaders who don’t realize that, the ones who put their blind faith in the Party and Jesus America rather than their faction and leaders.”

“My infallible gaydar says you have a longtime unrequited crush on one.” Shira leans seductively toward Debbie, making her blush. “Too bad she’s stuck on me, hmm?”

A banana hits the side of Shira’s head; she catches it as it bounces off, then turns to the direction it came from to see an angry Charmian storm up to her. “Shira Thomas, I’m not your girlfriend!”

Leila drapes herself seductively on Charmian and purrs, “Of course you aren’t. I am.”

“Ew! Get off me!” Charmian struggles to escape Leila’s embrace, then stares at the ironically smiling beauty.

Polly points at the screens. “Uh-oh! Spanner’s on!” The now familiar eight-bit Eight-Man-clone avatar appears on every monitor.

Spanner:
Dear Corpos: Don’t you like the Veterans’ Day gift the terrorists just gave you? Just think: the illegal terrorist corporations that profit by selling the morally unforgivable merchandise you have vowed to prohibit forever are getting smashed by the terrorist factions set up by enraged veterans to get revenge against you. They’re mad as hell and refuse to take your shit anymore, and they’re patriotic enough to show their appreciation for you on this holy day created to honor the lives so many working class warriors sacrificed for the sake of our corporate owners’ infinite profits. How do you like them apples?

On a trivial note, “Tory” is Gaelic for thief. Happy Veterans’ Day, Conservatives.

Will Becket stands intimidatingly over the Team Bremelo table. “Is it true that ‘Tory’ means thief?”

Leila replies, “As a Gaelic speaker, I can confidently tell you that tóire is indeed Gaelic for thief. The labelling of the Conservative Party as tóiridh is indeed accurate, and always has been.”

“I see. Watch out for Rodchenko and his men, ladies. He’s a master of counterterror.”

“I’m afraid counterterror is all he knows,” says Jennifer. “Professional counterterrorists like Rodchenko don’t know people. That’s why they so often alienate the people by turning terrorist against them.”

“How are you so sure there’s any difference among our nation’s enemies?”

“Think of it in Wild West terms, Commander,” says Shira. “The SRO are the posse come to the God-forsaken frontier town of Bangor to purge it of bandits. That’s exactly how Conservative Revolutionaries see themselves. But the Socialist Revolutionaries see the Conservative Revolutionaries as nothing more than bandits themselves, in the employ of Rockefeller, Harriman, and Pinkerton. All too often, the posses turn into bandits or, what’s even worse, tyrants. It’s happened all over the West. The people get caught in the middle and find themselves forced to defend themselves against both sides if they wanna survive. Populism’s always been about the little guys getting justice for themselves when the big guys run roughshod over ’em. In fact, Populism gave Cascadia and its predecessors their democratic constitutions intended to keep the big guys in check. That’s your lesson in civilian politics for today, soldier.”

Will crosses his arms. “I thought the Revolution was intended to do away with politics.”

“All it did was replace democratic politics with archaic court politics. That’s why the factions and syndicates are celebrating this Veterans’ Day with a bang.”

Downtown Bangor. Through the wide streets and vast parking lots of the strip-mall district the city of Bangor’s founders were proud to call a downtown, biker punks rampage unchecked. The remaining businesses are closed, the civilians have fled for their lives, gangsters blaming their rivals for the bombing shoot at each other and kill several.

The SRO militants have not left. As soon as they detonated the gang hangouts, they took positions on the downtown roofs. They emerge at the building edges to lob bombs and fire rockets at the warring gangs. Some gangsters are lucky or well positioned enough to get away; others aren’t.

Sparks and Kowalczyk watch the battle from the protection of their COPCO van hidden at the edge of the battlefield. Kowalczyk marvels, “I never thought I’d see terrorists go vigilante.”

“You keep forgetting this is America. The posse’s come to Dodge to clean out the bandits. Classic Wild West. Better yet, they’re back from fighting Indians, and in this day and age I don’t mean Native Americans.”

Someone taps on the driver’s side window. Sparks turns to find Talia pointing a rifle at him. Kowalczyk whistles. Sparks rolls down the window.

“What are you doing here?” she demands.

“Just watching you soldiers do to the bandidos what we lawmen ain’t. Since lawmen are useless in this situation, we decided we’d just sit back and watch. Who knows, we might even learn something.”

“Just don’t interfere.”

“No problem, soldier.” He rolls his windows back up. Talia takes a few steps back, then turns to run back to the battlefield.

“What’s with her?” asks Kowalczyk.

“You haven’t seen Sergeant Espinoza’s file yet? Her unit just beat the Taliban when the Revolution happened and they found they had to answer to Dictel and the mining cartel. She was just one of many soldiers who got dishonorably discharged for insubordination, right in the middle of the Afghan winter. A lot of ’em turned guerrilla. The SRO explained.”

“They do cyberterror?”

“No, they’re strictly military minded. They got nothing to do with Anonymous, or the Russian and Chinese cyberagents.”

“Nice to know.”

They watch as the SRO crusade against the criminal gangs of the Bangor slums the same way they battled the Islamist guerrillas of Afghanistan. “Watch carefully, Stu,” says Sparks. “This is exactly what the Party, wielding Dictel and COPCO as its weapons, want to do to the people of the state of Cascadia.”

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Spanner 25.5: Hate Disease

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Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 25: The Public Be Damned
Part 5: Hate Disease

10 november 2014.
Bremerton High. Walking on the way to the college, Shira and Jennifer suddenly notice someone among the portable classrooms. Then smoke starts to rise above one of them. They stare at each other. “Stan,” says Jennifer.

“Shit!” exclaims Shira. They climb onto the fence, leap over it, and run to the source of the fire to confront the Terrorist.

Stan leaps back when he sees the two angry girls suddenly block his way. Jennifer sneers, “I assume this is your way of saying that ignorance is bliss, right, Terrorist?”

Shira says to her, “Stupid is as stupid does, cuz.”

“I always marvel how stupidity gets so militant these days.”

“I thought militancy made people stupid. Just take a look at the creationists trying to lynch scientists.”

Stan rushes them screaming “Shut up!” They cut him off and double-flip him into the air; he lands hard on his back with his head audibly bouncing off the pavement. As he curls into fetal position, holds the back of his head, and groans, reinforcements rush in to help him. Jennifer kicks one Moral Enforcer into another; Shira pulls one into another’s punch and then spin-kicks the other, leaving Vince Corson. But Vince knows he’s still weak from his latest resurrection, in no condition to take on two teenage Amazons who have hardly even broken a sweat. Jennifer punches him out anyway.

Shira whips out her phone, calls the fire department, and shows the fire to them on her phonecam. Soon the sirens get closer as the trucks speed in and the firefighters take over.

Olympic College. Across the street from the high school, the college campus is filled with frustrated students angry that they cannot return to class because of the legal wrangling over the Cascadian public school systems. They silently and not so silently curse Governor Brinkman, his Attorney General son Marshall, and CPMC for ruining their education with their petty legal battles. Jennifer and Shira stop in front of the library entrance. They look inside; none of the lights are on, and neither presumably is the heating system on this cold and drizzly November day. Just to express her frustration, Jennifer grabs a door handle, rattles the door, and growls.

A faceless security guard hurries over to snap at her. “No tresspassing allowed! No one is allowed inside any of the buildings! That’s the Governor’s direct order! Obey his orders, or you’ll be punished!”

Shira and Jennifer trade scornful looks. Jennifer asks, “Why do these rent-a-cops always have to be so touchy?”

Shira replies, “Because that’s the way Governor Wally is. What you did just wounded his ego.”

“Like I said, touchy.” They glare at the guard. He sensibly backs off and returns to the job the Governor hired him to do, harassing students.

Soon enough, Los Punkz bikers swarm in from one side and Moral Enforcers from the other. Students flee the inevitable fight screaming. The cousins plunge into the heart of the chaos: Jennifer to rescue trapped students, Shira to misdirect the assailants.

One Punk flees with his girlfriend. Jennifer knocks him down with a hard left hook. “Leave her alone!”

Shira snarls, “No girl huntin’ on our watch, Slasher!”

“Hey!” the Punk protests. “I only wanted you to help me.”

Shira plants her foot on his head. “As long as you’re in gang colors, you’re beyond help. The definition of ‘gang’ is ‘pack of serial killers,’ meaning you’re still out to get everybody, Slasher.”

Jennifer points down at him. “You’re not a human being, Slasher. You’re a modular biological weapons platform, owned and operated by Anticristo. You’re not a man, you’re a gun.”

His girlfriend pounds futilely on Shira. “Stop it! He’s not what you think—”

Shira and Jennifer beat her up. When she hits the ground, Shira pulls her back up by the hair and glares into her eyes. “Serial killer groupies,” she snarls, “they make me sick.” She jujitsu-throws her — “Grievous harm with a body!” — right onto her boyfriend.

The cousins wipe their hands on their skirts. Jennifer says, “So how do you save one of these hopeless cases that actually want to be saved?”

“The only way is to cripple it. That way you take it out of play.”

They look toward the heart of the campus, where the Moral Enforcers and Los Punkz beat each other to a pulp. Content that the thugs are taking each other out, they walk away.

Harborside Commons. After an exhausting day, they’re back in the food court and decide to take it easy for dinner: Shira, Jennifer, Leila, Polly, Debbie, Schuyler, and Courtney. “Does every day have to be like this?” sighs Polly.

Jennifer puts her arm around Polly’s shoulder and draws her close. “Yes, Polly darling, as long as the people in control remain out of control, every day will have to be like this.”

“I don’t think it does, Jen,” Schuyler says.

“Sky, I clearly said ‘as long as the people in control remain out of control.’ For one thing, school’s out indefinitely due to legal problems, remember?”

“Fine by me,” says Debbie. “They don’t teach nothing at school anyway.”

Charmian storms up to the table. ”Did you girls ever realize that there’s actual human beings inside those gang uniforms?”

Debbie laughs at her. Jennifer stands up and crosses her arms. “Excuse me, Charmian, but no. Legally and strategically, there are no actual human beings inside gang uniforms. It cannot be otherwise. There is only one actual being in the gang, and it is the gang itself, a collectivized ego. All its members are but extensions of it, like the exobodies of a multibot. To assume otherwise is strategic suicide. You above all should know that, Lieutenant.”

Shira stands up. “Charms, you obviously don&rsquo't know how a Player thinks. Gangsters, like all soldiers, aren’t people, they’re gamepieces. Players who truly believe in the Game, such as the men of your family, have only one objective, and that is supremacy, the closest you’ll ever get to victory in the Tournament that never ends. Every other Player is an opponent. His men are gamepieces. One way of defeating other Players is by either eliminating or capturing their gamepieces. Human pieces are equivalent to inanimate pieces in Tournament. Basically, they’re weapons. As for civilians, or mundanes as they’re also called, they too are considered pieces suitable for either capture or elimination. So in Tournament, there’s no such thing as people, only Players and pieces. All gangsters think that way. That’s why you show mercy to a gangster by crippling ’em. It’s the only way to eliminate an active human gamepiece without killing the person.”

Leila adds, “The same thing goes for cults and terrorist groups. Individuals don’t even exist within ’em. There’s only the group and, well, its pieces. Sometimes the holy MacGuffin is more of a person than the cultist. You get such bizarre situations whenever you give up your own power, something I still will never let you do no matter how much you try, Charmian.”

Charmian stares at them in disbelief. “This is insane.”

Everybody at the table nods in enthusiastic agreement. Jennifer says, “It’s the very definition of collective insanity.”

dreamspace. Five lucid dreamers and a shaman take on a dream monster created by Jack Becket out of his own rage and sent to kill Locke Holmes. It got distracted when it saw Shira in her goddess form; because the one-eyed man hates Shira even worse, his monster decides to take her out as well.

Accompanying her are Jennifer, Leila, Polly, and Karen. Behind them, Ariel spreads out her black angel wings and prepares to do battle. Shira looks back and says, “Don’t bother. We’ve got it all taken care of.”

Polly slaps her. “We can’t take on a giant hate monster by ourselves!”

Jennifer shoots a Don’t be stupid look at her. “Pretend we’re in an RPG, where revive spells and phoenix down kill zombies.”

She and Shira look at Karen. “Polly, we’ve got a powerful love mage with us,” says Shira. “Love does to hate monsters what revive dies to zombies. So let’s get our Care Bare Stare on!”

Karen puts a love spell on all the girls just as the hate monster begins its Burning Resentment attack. The girls fix it with a powerful love stare.

The monster screams with pain, attempts its Jihad Explosion suicide attack, fails to hurt them, gradually shrinks until its substance vanishes and then its scream’s final echoes fall silent.

After their victory, Ariel retracts her wings. “I’ve been wondering why so many game players win so easily in dream wars.”

Jennifer replies, “Some skills can be transferred between realities. That’s why both visualization and simulators improve real-world skills so well.”

“Does that mean lucid dreaming skills work in the real world too?” asks Leila.

“They should,” says Ariel. “Most people in the real world are sleepwalkers. Lucidity is freedom.”

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Spanner 25.4: Bogon Flux

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Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 25: The Public Be Damned
Part 4: Bogon Flux

10 november 2014.
Shira’s apartment. It would have been school lunch time right now had not the district’s legal problems it might as well not exist. So five young women sit together on Shira’s living room couch: Shira and Jennifer on the left, Debbie on the right, and their mutual cousins Courtney and Schuyler between them, eating a Big Boss pizza Shira flew in from Pizza Mafia and watching some anonymous CMPC flack spin the company’s recent disaster into a certain glorious future. To the business press reporters, he says, “The recent disorder is just a glitch. We are implementing ways to bring the social disorder under control, make this state worthy of our great Nation, and bring our stock prices back up to where they were before. We owe it to our investors.”

Jennifer shouts, “Bogon flux is rising, rising!”

“What the—” blurts a confused Debbie.

Schuyler leans over Shira. “What language are you speaking this time, Jen?”

“Oh, just my usual tech speak.” Jennifer peers over the other girls and smiles at Debbie. “Say, Debbie, you know what a ‘shit detector’ is?”

Debbie stares back at her blankly. “Uh, some gadget that detects shit?”

Jennifer narrows her eyes. “I see critical thinking is not an educational priority in the House of Becket. ‘Shit detector’ is the street name for the a notional machine that detects lies. That’s a metaphor for the ability to think critically. We geeks prefer to call it a ‘bogometer.’ How ’bout I teach you how to build one?”

“Uh, okay.”

Jennifer stands up proudly before them, raises her finger, and proclaims, “Introduction to Quantum Bogodynamics!”

Debbie’s jaw drops at the indigestible words. “What?”

“Oh, you’ll understand what I mean once this short lesson is finished.” Jennifer winks. “I’m sure you’ve heard the word ‘bogus.’ Literally it means ‘counterfeit,’ like the funny money printed by the Federal Reserve, and in this case the fake currency is truth and the gang that counterfeits it is the Party. Bogosity is the noun, the bogon is the alleged subatomic particle carrying the force of bogosity the way electrons carry electricity, and bogon flux is the bogosity field emitted by a speaker or institution or their memes. Got it?”

“I guess so.”

“Good! You’ve heard of quantum physics, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Quantum electrodynamics is the branch of quantum physics that deals with electromagnetism. By analogy, quantum bogodynamics deals with bogosity fields. Politics deals with how people collectively manage their affairs. Corporatism is based on a specific political system called technocracy, in which people are governed from above by a hierarchy of experts, similar to the hierarchy of priests in a religious institution and the hierarchy of officers in an army or navy. The top commanding officer of a hierarchy is generally called a ’ruler.’ Political scientists generally class hierarchical systems under the term ‘authoritarianism.’ Democracy is the opposite, the governed collectively governing themselves, taking the ruler’s place. Naturally, it avoids hierarchy not just like the plague, but as one. Hierarchical power, you see, is built on a pyramid-like structure in which each level of command isolates the levels above from those below. If rulers and bureaucrats are so clueless, this is why. They are isolated from society, some say even from reality. Some people like to say they live in reality bubbles or pocket universes. Quantum bogodynamics says they emit bogosity fields. Bogon flux, or bogosity levels, can be measured by a mental device similar to a Geiger counter called a bogometer.”

“A shit detector.”

“To build this machine, first you need to know a little logic. I can get into the basic mechanics of reasoning when we have more time. First, let’s learn a few fallacies, or types of false arguments. Some of these are doozies. First off, we have the argument from force, whose form is, ‘This is true, or I’ll beat you up.’ Whatever bogus truth requires police or vigilante violence to make one believe falls under this fallacy. Because they take the same form, religious doctrines you are required to believe if you want to avoid going to Hell are bogus in the same way. As an example, how about this: You shall believe that is true that liberals are evil devil-worshipping commie faggot traitors, or you are an evil devil-worhsipping commie faggot traitor. The argument from force. Got it?”

“Wow! Seems pretty obvious to me now that you mention it.”

“Excellent! The next one’s another classic. Its famous Latin name is argumentum ad hominem, meaning argument against the person. Its form is: ‘You suck, therefore your argument is false.’ Whenever you hear the word ‘liberal,’ this fallacy is about to be committed. Other catchwords signifying ad hominem include ‘traitor,’ ‘terrorist,’ ‘homosexual,’ and ‘girl.’ Those last two relate to the official Party doctrine that women, homosexuals, nonwhites, and other Party non-members, like animals, have no souls and are incapable of reason. ‘Materialist’ is another, meaning that people in touch with reality, such as scientists, deny that the real world is false and the imaginary world is real. But the real meaning of all those insult words is ‘you suck,’ and they always take the logical form ‘you suck, therefore you’re wrong,” the argument against the person.”

Debbie’s face lights up with dawning realization. But Jennifer notices that Courtney and Schuyler’s jaws have dropped. Schuyler says, “You mean all the Party truths are based on these fallacies?”

“Just like all those religious doctrines that scientific understanding left in the dust long ago. Speaking of which, one fallacy the American Religion relies on every bit as much as any cult is the appeal to authority: it’s true because God, my guru, the great leader of the nation, or that celebrity spokeswhore on TV said it is. Then there’s the argument from conformity: it’s true because everybody else believes it’s true. Finally, and this ends our first lesson, there’s the circular argument, also known as begging the question: it’s true because it’s true. Is your bogometer working yet, Debbie?”

Debbie frowns. “You mean everything I was taught to believe, everything we’re being said is true, is actually false? How could it be?”

“Because the Party and the House of Becket use all these fallacies for one and only one reason: to increase their power over us by clouding our minds. That’s why critical thinking is so important. The bogometer is a weapon that kills fascists. That’s why the government banned it.”

Shira adds, “They want to deny what you see, that the emperor’s completely naked. If necessary, they’ll use brute force to make you deny the obvious.”

“What we just saw on TV was Uncle Wally’s professional liars emitting a bogosity field so strong it hurts most people. He pinned the gauge on my bogometer. Flacks do that to me. Those without bogometers equipped, better known as the blindly faithful and the gullible, can absorb huge amounts of bogosity, sometimes so much that they can then emit strong bogosity fields themselves. Those whose energy fields are entirely bogus are themselves called ‘bogons,’ like the particles. Bogosity is the Party’s entire source of power. Now do you understand, Debbie? Hmmm?” Jennifer underlines her question with a smile.

Everybody stares at Debbie. Her face goes red, her eyes go wide, terror slowly overcomes her as she realizes Jennifer has just planted a bomb in her mind. She giggles nervously. “Uh, you think they’ll find out?”

“Just think of it this way,” Jennifer replies. “The course of the Conservative Revolution has disappointed a lot of people. The more they justify their doctrines and policies with false reasoning and brute force, that is, the stronger the collective bogosity field they project, the more minds they lose because they see through the lies. The more minds they lose, the stronger the bogosity they feel they have to project to compensate. The result is social entropy, which leads to the decay of hierarchical systems such as the Imperial government. The masters of the Empire are complete bogons themselves because they deny that the Empire is in such an advanced state of decay that it’s on the verge of collapse no matter what they do. The more they deny the reality, the more they rely on lies. Then when the lies fail to work, they resort to force. The psychological mechanism that produces bogosity fields is evasion. You see now?”

Now Debbie stares ahead, torn by a war inside her mind. One voice says, reason is treason; the other says, Denial is suicide. Suddenly she stands up in panic and blurts, “Oh no I gotta go home.”

Schuyler and Courtney, fearing for her, get up and grab her arms. “Please don’t go home,” says Schuyler.

“You can spend the night with us,” says Courtney.

Debbie lets out a huge smile and lets her body go limp in their grasp. “Okay, I guess I don’t really have to go home.”

Her delighted cousins lock her in a double hug. “Great!” says Schuyler. She kisses Debbie on the cheek.

The CPMC flack onscreen continues to evade the business reporters’ questions, no matter how softball.

technosphere. The naked victim struggling helplessly against the ropes tying her to the bed is recognizable by her long wavy blond hair as videogame star Marisa Kirisame. The equally nude brown-skinned woman standing above her and contemplating the horrors she will inflict on the poor adorable witch looks like Shira but with straight hair and pointy ears: Aya Shibata, most depraved of evil dark elves and superstar of fighting games, dance games, and Vocaloid music videos. The super-deformed graffiti-art avatar of the Debaser pops in behind her, arms crossed, staring at her skeptically. “What the hell are you up to this time, Shira?” asks Sparks.

Shira looks over her shoulder to grin at him. “You’re in Aya’s Love Hotel now. I’m just having a little fun while boosting my rep among the yuri otaku. Now sit back and watch like everybody else. Option! Strap on!”

Her all-purpose construct zips over to her and starts forming the virtual version of Shira’s infamous strap-on — but stops halfway. Its mon detector suddenly activates. Now Sparks grins. “Well!”

The door flings open and Option rushes out. Shira and Sparks run out after it. Standing before them is a node of random data. Shira gasps; Sparks blurts out, “What the—”

AEGIS appears on Shira’s shoulder. “It’s a Glitch, the rarest and most coveted of all the mons in the Technosphere!”

Shira says, “I heard about ’em, but I never thought one would seek me out.”

Sparks says, “I heard if you capture one, you can equip it with any power or any combination.”

“But if you do,” AEGIS warns, “you risk erasing everything. At best, you would have to start all over at Level 1. But if you’re connected directly via brain-computer interface, it could kill you.”

“I’ll risk it,” says Shira. “Option! Capture the Glitch!” Option zips over to the Glitch, engulfs it, absorbs it, and files it away in her MonDex.

As they walk back in, Sparks says, “You think you can use that thing?”

“Why not?” says Shira. “I’m the Chaos type. It’s compatible.”

They look at Marisa. She stares at her tormentor in horror. Shira and Sparks look at each other. “I think she knows.”

“Fun’s over, yuri otaku! For now, anyway. Option! Let’s out!” Option forms a hoverboard, Shira hops on and pulls Sparks on behind her, and they fly out the door.

Marisa shakes off her fear paralysis enough to scream, “Tasuketeeeee!”

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Spanner Chapter 25: The Public Be Damned

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Chaos Angel Spanner — Book 2: Rage of the Prophets
Chapter 25: The Public Be Damned

Some call it the consent of the governed. Some call it the sanction of the victim. Whatever it’s called, the people of the state of Cascadia decided to withdraw it on Election Day 2014. Their defiance drove the share prices of the Cascadia Public Management Corporation down to penny-stock levels and obliterated the Seattle Public Education Corporation.

The commissars of the American government’s ruling Conservative Revolutionary Party are not about to take the withdrawal of their victims’ sanction lying down. They intend to keep their power absolute by any means necessary. They have the weapons. They have the entitlement mentality, the divine right, and the sense of having evolved beyond humanity. They are the chosen ones of Jesus America, the one true God (because all the other “one true Gods” are false by definition).

The government declares war against the People. The reign of terror is at hand. The prophets and crusaders give themselves over to holy hatred. Republic? What republic?

But what can rage and absolute power do against an Angel of Chaos?

Table of Contents:

1. Zombie Republic (December 6, 2011)
2. Money Changes Everything (December 7, 2011)
3. Tyranny for You (December 8, 2011)
4. Bogon Flux (December 9, 2011)
5. Hate Disease (December 10, 2011)
6. Terrorists vs. Gangsters (December 11, 2011)
7. Interlude 13: Six Degrees of Keenan Sasser (December 12, 2011)

Chapter 26 →

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Spanner 25.3: Tyranny for You

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Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 25: The Public Be Damned
Part 3: Tyranny for You

10 november 2014.
Harborside Commons. The interchangeable blonde presenter du jour who is not Amanda Currie parrots the official Party line like an unnaturally coiffed robot. As video of a tax protest being ruthlessly crushed by armoured COPCO strike agents wielding shields, truncheons, and sound cannons plays, she announces, “Today yet another demand for unearned subsidies was put down with righteousness and justice by the heroic police agents of COPCO, defending the Homeland from terrorists and moochers since the Revolution. COPCO, Jesus America thanks you!”

Most of the people in the food court either struggle to tune it out or groan at the annoying gratuitous advertising that the Party’s Corporatist policy has made so inescapable. Shira, however, laughs. The friends at her table (and Leila’s aunt Ariel) stare at her.

“What’s so funny?” demands Debbie.

Shira replies, “Merely the way the lamestream network robo-Barbies keep flubbing their reports in the exact same way, that’s all.”

Leila sashays up to her and flirtatiously hip-bumps her. “Don’t forget, girlfriend, that this is the actual cultural standard. The entire Corporate society really is like that.”

“Only it don’t play too well outside Corporate circles. It’s like Barney Dinosaur, only justified.”

Polly throws her hands up and sighs in despair. “Why do they keep treating people like they were terrorists when all they want to do is put food on the table?”

Ariel explains, “You cannot understand unless you think like a Corporate. To Corporates, money is not a physical thing at all. It’s metaphysical. It’s not a reward for hard work, nor for prosperity consciousness.”

“It’s their blood,” Shira adds. ”Their real blood, that is.”

Polly crosses her arms. “That’s impossible!”

“Not if you think of Corporatism as a cult. Unlike us mundanes, to use the Gnostic fundamentalist term, a Corporate’s soul is in the public image, not the body, making money not just their blood but their life force. That’s why Corporates are so paranoid and bigoted: they think everybody below ’em in the hierarchy are out to raise themselves at their expense by stealing their money. They think we’re vampires!”

“Polly,” adds Leila, “I’ve been around Corporates long enough to know that Shira is exactly right. The richer you are and the higher up you are in the Party hierarchy, the more likely you are to believe this superstition. It’s worst among the bankers and oilmen, and it goes double for those princeling heirs of theirs who never had to actually earn money even once in their lives.”

Debbie snarls, “And I assume you actually earned money, Miss Expert?”

“Rob and I actually had to work our way up from the bottom tier of Pretty City models.”

“Lemme guess. Y’all were too lazy to handle the work, so you quit.”

“Oh, we could handle the work just fine, Debbie, which is why our fellow Corporates look down on us. It’s just that we were too sensitive to handle the constant humiliation the Fashion-Industrial Complex inflict on its models as a matter of policy. Which is also why Corporates look down on us.”

“You weren’t too sensitive to chop off that devil man’s head.”

“He deserved it. Ollie had backup clones, but I needed to piss off my grandfather into granting my wish for a pre-emptive divorce.”

Jennifer interjects, “That’s another reason why Corporates look down on ‘mundanes.’ Thanks to the miracle of Cold War defense technology, they’re now able to buy themselves immortality. They can afford to live without a conscience now. They’re even social-engineering the social animal out of human nature. I won’t be surprised to find them developing the custom of killing each other as a way of saying hello, like Formic hive minds in Card.”

A small detachment of COPCO agents enters the food court to enforce the Party ban on social gatherings, which are considered inherently subversive to Party dictatorship. “Uh-oh,” says Polly, “I think we’d better split up.” The girls divide into three teams (Shira and Debbie, Jennifer and Polly, Leila and Ariel), silently agree to reassemble at their next meeting place, and leave by three different entrances.

Bremerton High. They join the rest of Team Bremelo on the Ohio Avenue sidewalk overlooking the parking lot crammed with portable classroom trailers. Polly is surprised to find they’re empty. “Isn’t there supposed to be school today?”

Cory answers, “Yeah, but not while CPMC’s suing the Consortium for control of the District. They can’t hire teachers while the suit’s going on, and Boss Wally’s gonna be suing for a long time. Therefore, no school.”

“The Party was always against quote-unquote ‘edjamacayshun’ anyway,” says Jennifer bitterly. “Shutting down the schools was actually one of their primary goals. Ignorance makes obedience blinder, after all.”

Zac Finney, the head custodian, joins them. He says in his charming hillbilly accent, “You know what’s even better than that? They won’t even let the custodians clean up the school. They talk about filthy rednecks? Y’all oughta see the huge messes the Corporates like to make outta entire states.”

“And to suppress the truth, they hire their mercenary COPCO agents to bash heads. Is it any wonder nobody likes ’em?”

“They don’t care whether anybody likes ’em,” says Ariel. “They’re superhuman now, or so they believe. Humans are an inferior species. The old cur actually comes out and says it.” She turns to Zac. “The twins’ mother and I happen to be the Governor’s prodigal children. We know him better than anyone else. Our mother stayed behind in Europe when he left during their divorce to keep him from turning werewolf and eating us alive in public.”

“That’s one reason why they insist on cracking down on us. Their entire superhuman society is based on fear of the threat from below. Right, Debbie?”

Jennifer’s mention of her name catches Debbie off guard. “Wha—”

“I just think everybody not already bought off by the Party resents being kept down by the Party,” Shira says. “If we actually had an actually free society, there wouldn’t be near as much resentment. But the Corporates and quote-unquote ‘Real Amurricans’ gotta indulge their entitlement mentality in the most authoritarian ways, then project it onto their victims, a.k.a. mooching vampires who only wanna mooch off the deserving rich people who are only ‘deserving’ by definition.”

Jennifer adds, “And because the Corporate notion of ‘freedom’ strongly implies the antisocial nature of their posthuman species, they express it in the form of Tournament: a society based on dominance hierarchy, social advancement through treachery and backstabbing, and, above all, tyranny. It’s their nature, and it goes completely against ours. We being mere puny humans, of course. Keeping us down is the Party’s entire purpose, after all.”

Debbie half-whispers in half-panic, “Don’t say it where they can hear! They’ll torture us for it! Remember?”

“So when did you develop a conscience, Becket?” asks Leila scornfully.

Shira answers for her. “Since her own mother outed her as a lesbian sex criminal and caste-slash-species traitor, and she had to find friends to turn to. Meaning us, love. So be nice to her now. She needs us.” She goes over to Debbie, hugs her, and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

Debbie blushes. “Oh, thank you, Shira. I love you.” Leila stares at them with a pang of jealousy. Debbie sees the look on Leila’s face; fearing that she could unleash her power in a jealous rage, she rushes over to Leila to give her a hug and a kiss. Leila sighs.

Zac’ phone rings. He looks at the on-screen caller ID. “Deth.”

Shira says, “Switch to speakerphone mode.”

“Gotcha.” He taps the screen to switch the audio mode. “Hey, kitty, what’ goin’ on?”

“Dude!” exclaims Deth Pussy’s voice over the phone. “You gotta see the Moral Enforcer riot goin’ on downtown! Scofield’s bringin’ ’em in from out of state, Homeland holy warriors venting their holy hatred unto big bad Babylon. They’re torturing everybody they can get their claws on, slingin’ tear gas and pepper spray, wreckin’ everything in sight—”

Shira laughs. “And the Consortium’s got no agents yet, and they can’t rely on COPCO, which no doubt is enabling the wreckers. Byron, darling, you want a gang war? I’ll give you one!”

Scofield:
Man was not meant to build Babylons and build their towers into the heavens to challenge God. Man was commanded by God to obey Him and offer himself up in sacrifice to Him. I have vowed unto God to dedicate my life to purging the Nation to restore unto Him its glory! The tyranny of the Lord must be restored and made absolute!

I am his chosen one, the agent he has commanded to do his work. I shall purge Babylon from this earth, and the evil ones who serve the dominion of demons over it, as the Lord commandeth! I shall not fail!

Bangor squats. Talia’s phone rings. It’s Shira. “What do you want, you little brat?”

“I love you too, big sis. You and your vigilante friends got a counterterror plan against Scofield yet? You know you need one.”

“That’s none of your business, Shira, and you know it.”

“Ohhh, but it is my business, and always has been. I just told all the gang bosses that Scofield’s out to conquer their turf, steal their loot, and declare himself king of kings. Fortunately, they aren’t taking the news too well. Gangland terror against Moral Enforcer terror. Nice day to be a guerrilla warrior, ain’t it.”

“Okay then, if it really is your business, then you’d better spring that do-gooder cousin of yours and her friends. Stan Green and his goons are probably raping ’em as we speak.”

“The Terrorist. Figures. Can’t get enough o’ them knuckle sandwiches, can he. We’re already on it. ’Bye, sis, love ya!”

COPCO Bremerton. The local police headquarters has been hijacked by Stan Green and his Moral Enforcer militia. Team Bremelo lurk behind a nearby apartment house. “Looks like the Party’s havin’ a party,” says Rob.

“On our faces, no less.” Shira adds.

Debbie looks at Shira. “So we’re gonna crash the Party’s party, right?”

“That’s the idea.” Shira winks.

Suddenly a bomb goes off at the entrance. Shira says, “That must be big sis and her boyfriend.”

“Terrorists?”

“Yep. The Socialist Revolutionary Organization, vigilante posse of the revolution. But they’re not alone. Here come the gangsters to punish our good fiend the Terrorist for disrespectin’ ’em, something he’s quite good at.”

The loud sound of souped-up chopshop Harleys approaches from the hill above: Los Punkz. Hot-rod vans approach from downtown: the Klownz. They lob rockets at the police station; the Moral Enforcers shoot back.

Taking advantage of the chaos, three disgruntled COPCO lead out prisoners, some of them helping others who have been injured, accompanied by Amanda and Scope. J.T. Sparks, Stu Kowalczyk, and Lavette Perry urge the escapees across the street, through yards, to the vans waiting in the alley between Burwell and Fourth, where Lars Izquierdo, Arisa Saionji, and John Peck of the Slasher Hunters are ready to whisk them away from the hot zone. The Bremeloes meet them in the alley once the vans take the prisoners away. “That was one slick misdirection, redhead,” says Sparks.

“Made the operation so much easier,” Perry says. “How’d you manage to tip off the gangs?”

Shira shrugs. “I insulted ’em. Called ’em girls for letting the Terrorist insult ’em. Works like a charm on those gangster egos.”

Jennifer adds, “We didn’t notify the terrorists, of course. They were already decided long before. You were counting on this, of course.”

“We should go join the others,” says Leila. “I’m sure our rescued prisoners have a lot to tell us.”

Bangor squats. In the abandoned ministorage the Slasher Hunters use as their headquarters, they have set up an impromptu medic station. One rescued political prisoner says, “They were crazy! Completely irrational! Anything we said or did would set ’em off. You couldn’t reason with ’em.”

Another prisoner: “Their leader said they were punishing us for being un-American, whatever that is. They were like some crazy cult, like this was North Korea or something.”

Charlie is the one who set up the medic station with some of her fellow nurses and Willa as the attending physician (since she’s an M.D. as well as a Ph.D.). While Willa directs the nurses around as the injured prisoners need them, Charlie attends to her injured cousin Karen. “It’s amazing how much they have it in for you.”

Karen smiles. “We won’t back down, we won’t give in, we won’t let ’em beat us. Right, Colette?”

“I’m beginning to have second thoughts about this, Karen,” says Colette woozily.

“Peaceful nonresistance requires tough people, Shira.” Karen winks.

Shira winks back. “Hacking the Party hierarchy takes smart people, Karen. We gotta use our brains wherever we need ’em.”

“Especially against those who would force a moratorium on brains,” Jennifer adds. ”Wherever they’re weak, we need to strike.”

Sparks says, “And their weakest point is right up there at the top. The single point of vulnerability.”

Shira puts her arm around him. “And what is tyranny but centralizing all power in the single point of vulnerability at the top? Nobody seems to learn the lesson of the Soviet Union, that central planning of everything never works.”

“Of anything, more like.”

telesphere. Amanda Currie sends in her report from the field.

Amanda:
New Chief Shepherd Byron Scofield’s latest attempt to seize complete control over Metropolitan Seattle was foiled by the angry response of rival factions and criminal gangs. He has vowed to crush all rivals to his power, including the Seattle Consortium, Acting Mayor Hope Reston, COPCO Section Chief Locke Holmes, and CPMC vice president Peter Ross. Everyone we’ve talked to expects the struggle for power to continue indefinitely.

technosphere. Debaser asks Anonymous to avoid taking credit for the Moral Enforcers’ latest destructive failure. A certain Angel of Chaos with the standard Windows robot voice must get his word in, however:

Spanner:
The Moral Enforcers are just another gang. Byron Scofield is just another crime lord. His crime, however, is not black-market contraband sales, or the trade in slaves or whores or sexbots. It is tyranny, crime made political.

Everything the Party believes in is just an excuse. It was power lust, and that alone, that created the Conservative Revolution. The Corporates and the Americanists are so consumed by power lust they’ve gone paranoid. Just look at their conspiracy theories about we the people. They’re junkies tweaking on the ultimate drug. They’re so high on power and money, they’re incapable of seeing that we’re mad as hell and won’t take their shit anymore.

We have no choice but to take away their drug. We have no choice if we want to survive. I know I do. But do you? Your mission is to prove it.

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Spanner 25.2: Money Changes Everything

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Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 25: The Public Be Damned
Part 2: Money Changes Everything

10 november 2014.
City of London. Once it was the headquarters of the Bank of England. The Conservative Revolution made it the seat of power for the economic dictatorship established over first the United Kingdom, then the entire British Commonwealth; in effect, the Bank of England overthrew Parliament and usurped its theoretical power of absolute monarchy. Quickly it consolidated with the European Central Bank, and then the United States Federal Reserve System. Finally, it merged with the World Bank.

The architect of this consolidation, of the economic dictatorship, of the entire Conservative Revolution sits in the executive chair that serves as the throne of the world. Lord Richard Becket, President of the World Bank and Chairman of the United Corporations, stares with contempt across his desk and lectures the free-market economist standing before him. He assures himself that he is teaching the economist a lesson. The economist senses that he is actually on trial for heresy. For to Lord Becket, economics is not science but theology. His many enemies grumble that he is the pope of the new dark age.

The economy tries to speak. Lord Becket rises from his throne to shout “Silence!” One of the heavily armed Interpol agents grabs him from behind and puts his gauntlet over the man’s mouth. Becket sits back down and speaks down more calmly. “I don’t understand you free-market types. You assume the primacy of material reality. You do not realize that it is not real at all, but pure corruption. Hence your fixation on gold. Which is, from the proper spiritual perspective, mere metal, no more valuable than lead or iron.

He leans forward and wags his index finger like a professor’s pointer. “The truth is otherwise. Money is not mere wampum, whether of gold metal or cowrie shells. It is not exchange value. It is blood — the blood of the new gods who have manifested on earth to replace Man. The blood of the Corporations. It is ichor. Men are but vampires drinking it.

“Your foolish idea of freedom is no longer the way the world works. It is merely license for glorified monkeys to do as they please. You have not the intelligence of the gods, nor the lifespan, nor the spiritual perspective. The future has moved away from exchange value among puny little beasts that falsely believe themselves intelligent. The future has moved away from the material world of corruption. The gods are free at last from their dependence on mere human faith. They have found new flesh and are manifest in new incarnations. At last, we are conquering the world of corruption and placing it once again under the eternal dominion of spirit.

“Science! You mere humans make a fetish out of the alleged objectivity of corruption. There is no science in matter. The true science is that of eternity. The only objective world is that of pure spirit. There is no other. Even I debase myself in order to lead the revolution of eternity against corruption. Your race are but phantoms, easily dispelled.” Lord Becket blows his palm as if dispelling sand. “That is all. Guards! Take him away.”

Red House. Shira hides behind an open doorway to listen as Thurston Wilder throws a stack of letters onto the living room table. “The Foundation’s been receiving demands from our good friend Mr Becket demanding we pay money or swear fealty, preferably both.”

Ric laughs. “He wants us to pay tribute for the privilege of him letting us exist.”

Hope sighs. “Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with those people.”

“They think wishes are horses, darling. They’re magicians, not economists. They’re in the job of magicking money into existence. That’s why they call it ‘fiat’ money. The Latin word basically means ‘abracadabra.’ Once they’ve magicked the stuff out of government debt and our hides, they grant their magic to whoever and whatever will give them the most power.”

“You’re saying Becket and his cabal are really black magicians,” says Thurston, “right?”

Ariel walks into the room eating a handful of strawberries. “That’s exactly right. It really is magic to them.” The others look at her as she joins them at the table.

Willa says, “You sound like my mother, Ariel.”

“You’re familiar, of course, with the conspiracy theories surrounding the Illuminati. They’re right, but only in a sense. The important thing is not what they control, but what they believe.”

“What they are,” adds Ric, “is Gnostic fundamentalists.”

“The fundamentalist doctrine is called ‘Nicolaitanism.’ The Nicolaitans are almost as old as Gnosticism, the same way the Khawarij and their Salafi doctrine sprang up almost as soon as the Prophet Muhammad died. The word means ‘victors over the people’ and designates the elitist strain of Gnosticism, which in Hellenistic and Roman times had more than a trace of elitism from the beginning with its division of people into knowers and sleepers. Nicolaitanism is unlike any other Gnostic school in that it teaches that the sleepers can never be awakened to true knowledge. It is from this assumption that the reigning political doctrine of Synarchism derives: if the sleepers can never be awakened, the awakened few therefore possess the divine right to rule over them with absolute power.”

“You mean Dick Becket believes this stuff?” asks Thurston.

“With absolute faith.”

Ric says, “The notorious neocon contempt for reality? That’s Platonic at minimum and Nicolaitan at worst. The Beckets were never known for their realism, to understate it severely. Consider their black-magic economics.”

Thurston asks, “And that’s why they shoot thunderbolts at anybody showing favor to a gold standard.”

“There’s no better anchor to reality than a precious-metal currency. The proper term for black-magic economics, by the way, is counterfeiting. Greenbacks are no more valuable than Monopoly money unless Lord Chancellor Dick magically transubstantiates ’em like a Catholic priest of Mammon.”

Shira shows herself and shifts all attention to her. “One black magician controls the entire world money supply? That makes the World Bank the ultimate single point of vulnerability.”

Thurston tries to control his surprise. “What do you mean, Shira?”

“Lord Dick’s magical devices, the printing presses, are controlled from a central computer. That makes it very hackable. But we don’t even need to hack the Imperial Mint system. Any hacker can counterfeit funny money. You got the computer and the link, you can download all kinds of money-maker software from the Darknet, and voilà: instant electronic greenbacks.”

“Giving Anonymous its own nuclear option...”

“Electronically counterfeit enough money to flood the system, and we can kill the dollar.”

Ric grins. “And the whole fucking Empire with it.”

“Leaving nothing left but gold,” says Thurston. “Does Lord Dick know about this?”

“Of course he does,” Shira replies. “That’s why the Imperial Mint’s so encrusted with ICE, and why he’s cut off the system from the Darknet.”

Hope says, “That would also give any terrorist the means with which to bring down the system.”

“But most terrorists don’t dare because what they really wanna do is take it over and make it their own weapon. They believe in magic, too.”

“Just don’t get yourself in trouble trying it.”

“Don’t? We’re already in trouble, Mom. The whole world is. Saving it requires a weapon. Better yet, why not take his?”

Jennifer’s car. “You guys talk about anything interesting?” asks Jennifer.

“Oh, nothing,” Shira answers, “only how to fight back when almighty Lord Dick tries to use black magic to get around his unpopularity and save his ill-gotten power.”

“Black magic?”

“That’s what Dad says Unca Dick uses to ‘magic’ fiat money out of nothing, using government debt and the magical power of transubstantiation. I said any hacker with a money-maker program can do the same thing. What I didn’t say is it gives me a bludgeon to hit Unca Dick back with.”

A traffic cop turns on his lights and siren. “Uh-oh, speed trap.” Jennifer pulls over and pulls out her driver’s license and smartcard. “Time to shake our money makers.” She rolls down the window. As the grinning traffic cop walks toward the car in an “intimidating” way, Jennifer and Shira can see the greed in his eyes. They know what he doesn’t: all greenbacks are bogus. The scammer will never know he has been scammed.

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Spanner 25.1: Zombie Republic

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Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 25: The Public Be Damned
Part 1: Zombie Republic

To every problem, there exists a solution
that is simple, elegant, and wrong.
H. L. Mencken

9 november 2014.
Church of America Seattle. Shepherd Byron Scofield is not happy to find out he is not automatically Mayor as well. In his infinite self-regard, he does not realize that killing his predecessor in order to steal both his positions may not have been a good idea.

Scofield:
Brothers, this is a travesty! Do the men of the Consortium not realize that I am the only bulwark defending the moral purity of this city? They made a non-American their mayor! This is an unforgivable insult against America!

I hereby declare a holy crusade against the traitors of the Consortium! We must take this city back and put it back under Jesus America’s dominion. If it resists, then we must destroy it!

The Conservative Revolution must continue! America bless God!

Municipal Building. Mayor Hope Reston sends out her response to Scofield’s declaration of holy war against her. Her stepdaughter Charlie Richter-Thomas acts as her bodyguard and stands protectively behind her.

Hope:
Men with such power shouldn’t be putting out hit contracts on public officials like mob bosses. Many of us suspect the Party’s alliance with the Minuteman militias and the anti-Mexican drug gangs allied with them during the Revolution has corrupted them. If the Church of America is acting like a mafia, is the Party of CPMC no better? They have become a mirror of the Caliphate they crusade against.

Just more proof that we cannot trust our self-appointed masters. Any threat Scofield or Brinkman makes against me is a threat against all of us. We the people must stand together against their jihad. We must never back down for even one second. We can’t let these gangsters win.

CPMC headquarters. CEO J. Walter Brinkman is angry at both Hope’s appointment and Scofield’s call to terrorist action. “We need to get Reston out of the way, but we also need to teach Drusilla’s pit bull a lesson.”

“I can take care of the rabid dog,” says Litton. “As for Reston? The hard part’s dealing with her employer. It won’t be easy trying to take on every single damn business in the city. Personally, I think that Consortium bit’s a brilliant idea. You don’t like the state being run by one company? Team up fifty thousand. And you know what? It gets even better.”

Brinkman sighs. “How in the hell could it get any worse?”

“One, instead of giving each member the vote proportional to its size, the Roman way I personally prefer, Reston has the Consortium giving each member one equal vote. Small businesses demand an equal vote, she says, so give it to ’em if you don’t wanna be accused of conspiring with bad old CPMC.”

“What the hell?”

“That’s right, Wally, she’s using us as her blunt instrument. Two, she’s got ’em to add the unions and neighbourhood councils. Next it’s the worker councils and activist groups. Before long, she’ll have ’em give all those dirty city people an equal vote, and then we’ll be right back where we started, with the democracy we fought the Revolution to put a stop to, right back on the liberal road to socialism. You should be very scared, Wally. I sure as fuck am.”

Brinkman pounds his desk. “Damn! You’re right, R.J., I am scared. This is exactly what I was afraid of. The filthy rabble deserve nothing! I say we help Mr Scofield terrorize them. That should teach the dirty pigs a lesson.”

Litton smiles triumphantly. “I’ve got just the men to help you put the rabble back in line.”

Underground City. Night beneath the streets of Pioneer Square. Three blocks down from the techGothic, in a sleazy brothel run by Russkies and protected by paid-off COPCO agents, a screaming naked prostitute runs into the main room, bleeding profusely from the nipples. Her customer strides in, grinning wickedly as he chews the nipples he bit off. He is a Corporate princeling like Oliver Thorwald. The Law decrees that it is perfectly legal to kill sex criminals, including lowly whores. But where Thorwald took advantage of this legal loophole to wage a vigilante war against the whores and their pimps, this man simply murders his victims for fun and then welshes on his fees, citing the Law. Thorwald wanted his righteousness and his fun too. This man is only in it for fun.

He is Frank Becket, son of the former Cascadia section chief of COPCO. The dying sex slave’s owner, mobster Vitaly Rodchenko, points his revolver in his face. “You’re costing me money, pretty boy. Pay up or I’ll have my collection agents make you.”

Frank laughs. “You can afford it, Russky. Have your men clean it up. I’m untouchable, you see. I’m under Party protection.”

“Your daddy’s not COPCO chief anymore, Frankie. There’s a new chief in town, and he don’t like you. Pay up, or I might just let him have you.”

“Funny, I just met him today. He’s awful pretty. Too bad he’s a total bitch. He knows I got him by the short and curlies over the Alabaster case. Raping that invisible girl was a bad, bad idea. You’re paying, Vitaly. I had my fun. I gotta go now. Go clean up your mess. ’Bye.” Frank walks away, out onto the street, not paying.

Vitaly’s lieutenant Stanek says, “I hate those Corporate creeps.”

“It’s that stuck-up entitlement mentality of theirs, Boris,” says Vitaly. “They think the world owes ’em everything. They owe us their revolution. They couldn’t have done it if we hadn’t taken out their liberals. They keep treating us like this, it’s gonna come back to bite ’em in the ass.” He stares at the still body of the dead whore, lying in a pool of blood, bled out through the breasts off which Frank Becket ate her nipples. “The Corpos owe us, Boris. One of these days, we’re gonna collect.”

Mudlark House. After they take turns in Willa’s big bathtub, they dry themselves off and do not put their clothes back on. Present: Willa, Jennifer, and Connor; Hope and Shira; exchange students Anna St. Cyr, Régine Coury, and Bobby Visser; and children Ayla and Lucie. They meet in the living room. Anna and Régine let the children sit on their laps and shower them with affection. Bobby flirts with an interested Tansie.

“America doesn’t seem very civilized these days,” Régine sighs.

Willa says, “One of the marks of civilization is peaceful cities not being destroyed by terrorists.”

“There’s other markers that make it even easier to tell if a society is fully civilized,” Jennifer adds. “Acceptance of ethnic minorities, acceptance of gays and lesbians, generally an easy tolerance of diversity. Anna, are the Americans cracking down on public nudity in Germany yet?”

“Cracking down?” sighs Anna. “They seem to be trying to establish some kind of Sharia. Believe it or not, they’re asking us why we hate Hitler so much. Apparently they won’t take ‘the little shit destroyed our country’ for an answer.”

“Figures. You’ll be pleased, so to speak, to find out that Nazi drug gangsters helped the banksters overthrow American democracy two years ago. They wanted to keep their turf free of Mexicans, you see. The Party helps them keep a monopoly over the meth trade.”

“The so-called ‘Real Amurricans’ pride themselves on not being civilized,” Shira says. “It must be some sort of redneck thing. They don’t even shower or take baths out of fear of being called girls.”

“Don’t forget, Shira. All civilized people are sodomites by definition.”

“That’s what they say in the Caliphate.”

Hope interrupts. “The question is, how do we keep these self-described enemies of civilization from destroying ours?”

“Plenty of ways, Mom. One just came to me right now.”

Everybody stares at Shira, including Tansie.

“I’ve got a few friends I want Byron to meet. If you know what I mean by... friends.”

Seattle streets. As his chauffeur drives the bombproof black stretch Hummer, Scofield stares through the tinted bulletproof windows at the city and does not like what he sees. He cannot help but think of what kinds of horrible sins go on behind the scaffolded walls of the city buildings now under repair. He prays once again for God to deal to all cities the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Four armed men in decadent-looking business-type suits make themselves visible as the Hummer passes them. They wear wraparound shades in defiance of the darkness of night. They stare at the Hummer; silently they speak to him and warn him to fear them. He can tell they are Russkies, mobsters connected with the ultra-rich oligarchs obsessed with resurrecting the lost glory and dominion of the Russian Empire. They warn him that they will not make his crusade easy.

Scofield stares back at the mobsters. He is no girl. They will not take him down or even distract him from the holy mission commanded unto him by Jesus America. His glare answers theirs.

The stretch Hummer leaves the Russkies behind. He snorts and adjusts his top hat.

telesphere. Chairman Richard Becket delivers his closed-circuit message to the men of the United Corporations.

Chairman Becket:
Last week the insolent rabble of the traitorous liberal state of Cascadia decided to defy us. They defy the natural order of things. God established Nature as the strictest hierarchy, on earth as in heaven.

We must not treat this as an isolated thing. We must remind them all that we are the chosen ones of God and they are nothing. I will order the Imperial government to double all taxes on mass consumption. This will double our revenues, and put the fear of God into them. If they do not obey, I will order them to use maximum force.

We cannot allow the authority given us by God himself to pass out of our hands. Our Revolution is in danger. We must defend it to the death. Theirs.

KCUF studio. “And they call this a republic?” marvels Deth Pussy as he watches the intercepted video.

“They use ‘republic’ to distinguish their system from democracy,” Desiree replies. “Their problem is that, like the dinosaur corporations of their Cartel, their precious republic is a zombie. One good push, and the whole house of cards will all fall down.”

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Copyright © 2011 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.

[Revision 1, 12/6/11.]

Spanner 24.6: No More Miss Nice Guy

Now that the technical difficulties and my recovery from NaNoWriMo victory are over, NaNoFiMo is here and I can concentrate on Spanner Book 2 again. The madness resumes, once again on a daily basis.

So I drafted one Locke Holmes, boy detective turned infamous manga villain based on Professor Moriarty? But remember the “high concepts” behind the characters of Diana Shockley and her brother Will Becket back in 1992: she is “Deunan Knute as a villain” (I will forever hate Deunan for killing Chiffon in Appleseed book 1); he is Char Aznable, American. Likewise, their archenemy Arvid Shield was the long-haired “Evil Bishounen” of horror anime (particularly Apep in Seraphic Feather), at least until he picked up some of the characterization of Ayn Rand’s hero Francisco d’Anconia. And of course the Beckets stab each other in the back like the Royal House of Torumekia. But these are just the starting points. What I learned after I created those three characters is that eventually, everything changes — something they themselves will find out the hard way. And this Locke Holmes is also part Lelouch from Code Geass...

← ...from previous

Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 24: Every Silver Lining Has a Cloud
Part 6: No More Miss Nice Guy

9 november 2014.
CPMC headquarters. “What?!” Brinkman spits his coffee all over his huge executive desk and chokes.

“I said,” Litton repeats, “the new Seattle Public Management Consortium hired Hope Reston.”

“Those fools! Don’t they realize they’re only enabling treason in their midst?”

“You think that’s interesting, listen to this. The consortium head just delivered us a series of left-handed compliments, to wit: ‘Thank you, CRP and CPMC, for giving America the benefits of economic stagnation and a Third World economy. We congratulate you for making unprecedented profits selling out our country to Chinese and Russian corporate raiders. You know exactly what makes America great.’ That kinda shit. I think they have it in for you, Wally.”

Brinkman slams his fist down on the desk. “They call themselves men of business? They don’t know what capitalism is! They’re defying the natural order of things! This must be stopped!”

Westlake Center. Hope Reston accepts the position of acting mayor of Metropolitan Seattle to the thunderous acclaim of the multitudes in the plaza. “Thank you! Now let’s get down to the first order of business. The Consortium board has voted to allow all locally based businesses, large or small, to buy an ownership share in the Consortium. Outside companies, domestic or foreign, are not invited. Our goal is to keep the city running. To this end, the board has also voted to eliminate all protectionist regulation currently on the books in all jurisdictions within the Metropolitan District. Small businesses are the creators of jobs and the generators of growth. We need as many as we can get. We are striking the first blow against Corporatism.”

The crowd erupts into even louder cheers.

“Corporatism is nothing more than Soviet Communism for ultra-rich parasites who can’t tell the difference between production in a free economy and parasitic finance. The nomenklatura of the so-called Revolutionary Party is sucking America dry. We call it corporate welfare. We call it un-American. From now on, corporate Communism has no place in this city. The commissars of CPMC have no place in a free country. Together, we must take back our state.

“We are holding all-city elections next year. If you are a thirty-day resident of the Metropolitan District, please make sure to register to vote, and then make your voiced heard. We must move away from ownership back to citizenship! Join me, and together we’ll take our city back!”

COPCO Bremerton. The last thing Shira remembers is becoming dizzy all of a sudden and blacking out. Now she finds herself back in the interrogation room, facing not just her number one hater in the FBI, Diana Shockley, but a new man. It takes her a while to focus her eyes again. But then she recognizes the cold blue eyes, the weak chin, the cowlick. Her eyes and mouth slowly go open as she recognizes him; she takes a long deep breath. Then she grins. “Well, well, well. I never figured I’d have an audience with Inspector Moriarty.”

His eyes go wide; his lips go tight; his shoulders go tense and make his head sway; he snorts and blows his cowlick. John Locke Holmes, COPCO’s new Cascadia section chief, hisses in a fading English accent that could be the fading Boston accent of a Becket, “We’re onto you, Shira Thomas. You and your democratic rabble. We’ll stop you from destroying the natural order of things. Now tell me who your leaders are, and I might let you off easy.”

Shira laughs. “You forget you’re not dealing with the Invisible Maniac now. Leaders? You must be thinking the election was some kinda military operation like you people do. Clearly y’all don’t live in the twenty-first century. The beauty of this operation is that masses of people pulled it off without leaders.”

“You people clearly have no understanding of the nature of things. Where there is action, there is command and control.

“Obviously you don’t understand the meaning of the word ‘anarchy.’ It doesn’t mean ‘battle royal of the central planners’ the way you people think it does. It means the complete absence of central planning authority. ‘Archon’ means central planner. The problem with central planning is that it doesn’t work. It forces you central planners to deny all reality outside the central planning hierarchy. It wasn’t really America that brought down Nazi Germany and Communist Russia. It was central planning. Corporatist America is doomed for the same reason. So stop playing games and face up to reality, okay?’

“I should warn you, Miss Thomas. Unlike Dr Becket, I don’t play games.”

Languidly, Shira plants her elbows on the table, clasps her hands, and leans forward to rest her chin on them. “You say you’re Locke Holmes, super detective? Or are you really Lochlan Macbeth, superhero of the Conservative Revolution, with the chimera army swiped from Biotron? You forget the first rule of Tournament, your much beloved ‘Law of Social Darwinism.’ You’re not only playing the game, you’re trapped in it. Your mentor knows it. You don’t seem to.”

He puts on his sunglasses — to hide his intentions behind a poker face, or in a futile attempt to shield himself from her own unnerving stare? “Doesn’t matter. All your games are over for good. I shall see to that.”

“I like a man who lies to himself. You just told me that the real game has begun. Face it: you just tossed me the Challenge of a lifetime. And if you and the Doctor decide to tag-team it, I’ve already got the right partner. She’ll be more than happy to take you on — in court.”

Mudlark House. “You’re late,” says Jennifer as Shira slams the front door. “What took you?”

“Oh, I was, how you say, inconvenienced. World’s greatest detective? Lousy interrogator is more like it. He’s so arrogant, he makes even mean old Doc Becket look humble and considerate.”

Jennifer frowns. “Locke Holmes, you mean.”

“You can’t mistake that combination of forelock and Moriarty stare.”

“Sounds like the old Doctor’s decided to step up his game.”

“Big Daddy Sparks, more like it. He came out of the dugout with the hook and yanked Ol’ One-Eye off the mound. Holmes must be his newly acquired ace reliever. He just threw me his big pitch. All that’s left for me to do is hit it right outta the park.”

A mischievous smirk grows onto Jennifer’s face. “Speaking of Ol’ One-Eye, why don’t we introduce our new friend to his prodigal son.”

Shira answers with a cockeyed smirk of her own. “Anticipate my move, why don’tcha.”

Jennifer takes her cousin into her arms. “The more I know you, the more I understand you. And I’ve known you longer than anyone else in the world.” She kisses Shira on the lips.

Skeever property. You want games? reads the note in Shira’s beautiful handwriting. I cordially invite you to the canine gladiatorial games at the House of Skeever, where there’s someone I’m dying for you to meet. The note gives the address.

Holmes is at the address, outside the jerry-rigged stadium with which the Skeever brothers replaced the one Team Spanner burned down during the pre-election riots while Oliver Thorwald still owned it before he re-enlisted in the Army to get away from Leila Shelley. He is here because John Becket failed to suppress the riots. Shira told him the one-eyed incompetent’s depraved son Frank is coming. He’s prettier than you, and he came by his sense of entitlement honestly, by being born to it. I think you’ll like him.

“Tell me about your nephew Frank,” he tells Diana.

“One, he’s completely amoral and in it only for himself. Two, he’s a hero to the Corporate élite precisely because he’s only in it for himself. Three, he’s prettier than you, and twice as vain. I’d smack him again, but I gave up when I found out he liked it. Fortunately, he knows what’s good for him, because if he gets too close to my daughter, I’ll tear him to pieces with my bare hands.”

“You think you could actually do that?”

“For as long as you’ve worked with my father, you clearly don’t understand my family. We’d sooner stab one another in the back than say hello.”

“I shall try to remember that whenever I am forced to deal with them.”

Frank Becket surprises them from behind. “You must be that ‘world’s greatest detective’ old man Sparks hired to replace my dad. You think you can take on the insurgent rabble by yourself, world’s greatest detective? You didn’t handle that one invisible super soldier too well, now did you.”

“Shira Thomas did say you were a pretty boy. Blond, too. I wonder how you fend off all those steroid-maddened gangsters trying to rape you.”

“You don’t look to bad yourself, Holmes. But don’t forget who put you back together after the invisible soldier tore you apart.”

Holmes crosses his arms and frowns deeply. “I am fully capable of destroying you by other than superheroic means. If I wanted, I could rape your pretty corpse myself and get away with it.”

Frank laughs. “The world’s greatest detective can’t resist my charm! And no, Aunt Diana, I didn’t touch Belle. I didn’t even go near her. But if I do, it’ll be to save her from that creature Shira Thomas. You know what she does to pretty girls. You should see what she’s been doing to that little Jap loli of hers.”

Holmes says, “And she probably bought the ownership Exception to do her with. Shame about Ollie Thorwald, though.”

“Him? He can kill all he wants in Siberia, but he can’t handle one pretty girl. Mind you, that beauty’s a beast. Leila Renata Shelley’s her name, and she’s already tried to kill me twice. I think she likes me. Did you know she bit off Johnny-Johnny Johnson’s johnson? Not with her teeth. The otheer teeth, down below. She and the creature are doin’ each other now. Go figure.”

“And you’re not a criminal? You think you’re not the kettle calling the pot black?”

“You think I’m a criminal? At least I don’t do sexcrime, not with lads or lolis. And I don’t do intellectual property rape. Or at least I don’t have a Wilder Foundation to get in Lady Mendelson’s way, or something like that. Not since One-Eyed Daddy disowned me and called me a whore. And who’s a whore? One-Eyed Jack ain’t the one to ask. You have my permission to call him that, Chief. Because he hates it. By the way, you’d better get back in disguise. The owners are coming.”

When the Skeevers return, they find among the howling crowd in the stands two strangely calm people, a blond man who looks like Frank and a pretty young woman with short black cowlicked hair and a strong resemblance to an untattooed Taylor Brinkman. Johnny grabs Frank and growls, “You sure that ain’t your Uncle Will? ’Cuz if it is him, we’re fucked, and so are you.”

Frank grins. “No, Johnny, that’s his big sister, Agent Shockley. Don’t mess with Aunt Diana, or you’re fucked.

Eddie sneaks up on the the black-haired girl from behind and starts fondling her. “Looks like Frankie brung hisself a tenderoni. I’m gonna have me a bite.” He licks her neck.

She grabs his tongue hard enough to make him scream in pain and says in a male voice, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Eddie.” Holmes lets go. The Skeever Brothers stare at him in disbeliefe.

Johnny slaps his forehead. “Great. The fucking world’s greatest detective thinks he’s gonna pick on us in drag. Well, mess with us, world’s greatest detective, and we’re fucking well gonna mess with you.”

Holmes flashes them a pretty smile. “Your funeral. Ta.” He turns and slowly walks away. Shockley follows him, keeping her eyes on the Skeevers and her hand near her service pistol.

Shira’s apartment. Henry Becket, Will Becket, Walter Brinkman, Peter Ross, Byron Scofield, Brendan Sparks, John Locke Holmes, Drusilla Becket AMERICA!, the Rat Bastard. All of them have one thing in common: they refuse to recognize the loss of their victims’ sanction. They are not men but gods, and their victims’ fear and faith is their food. They will do anything to get it back, anything they feel necessary, even turn the entire State of Cascadia into a radioactive wasteland.

The Team Spanner core meet in the living room. Present: Shira, Jennifer, Connor, Leila, Rob, Cory, Kio, Polly, and Colette from Team Bremelo; Alex, Sparks, Deth Pussy, and Moon Roach from the Wrecking Krewe. Shira says, “Sorry, I love you to pieces, Jen, but I say we won round one. It wasn’t no knockout, ’cuz we didn’t knock the Man out. He’s back up and swingin’, meaner than ever, and this time he’s going for the KO.”

Jennifer says, “Apology accepted, darling. But let’s think team sports. They lost some players, but they’ve got a deep bench. Some of the subs are mean like Colonel Green; others are diabolically clever like new chief inquisitor Locke Holmes. Both of ’em are masters, but you gotta play ’em differently.”

Sparks smirks. “John Holmes. Isn’t that a dead porn star’s name?”

“Wrong Holmes. This one’s related to No-Shit Sherlock, not Johnny Wadd.” Sparks loses his smile and sighs.

Leila stares at Sparks’ face. “Are you really sure I took your face, that this John Holmes didn’t take it and replace it with his own? You look an awful lot like him.”

“That must be your ingenious disguise. I must admit, your new face looks a lot prettier. Girls like that.” Shira winks.

“But the real Locke Holmes is here now. That’s bad news indeed.”

“Think: what do bad guys do when they lose the first round? They up their game. They ain’t been cheating so far? They will. So we up our game too. It’s time for us to tell the bad guys: no more Miss Nice Guy.”

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Copyright © 2011 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.

[Revision 1, 12/5/11: First entry written and posted during NaNoFiMo.]