Limping away from my afternoon trans-power waterboarding enlightenment session, I stumble on the cold stone steps of the De-radicalization centre, and a purple-wigged tolerance counselour kicks me hard in the back, planting my face into the freezing mud.
“TO THE LINE, BIGOT!” Xhe delivers another set of swift kicks, and the swelling taste of blood disappears in a wash of searing rib pain and blinding wind-driven sleet running salt against my lifted eyes. “SIXTEEN FEET!”
I leave the tattered remains of one rat-hide slipper in the mud as I scramble to escape the blows. “GROW EQUITY! STAY THE SAY!” Half-hobbling, half running, my twisted ankle groaning, xher slogan-teachings fade into the howling wind and swinging chain-lines of the volunteers digging molded potatoes in the St. Floyd Peace Garden. I take my place, fall to my knees, brush away a clump of sod that turns out to be a frozen rat.
Ha! A poisoned rat, a blessing! Left out by last night’s labor-layers, mine, all mine, for me! I spit out a tooth fragment and dig with the three fingers left on my only hand, and muffle the cry of mad laughter gathering in my choked throat, thinking of the new slippers I can make, the stew I can brew or trade for writing sticks or even half a cig, ah, to light a cig and sit back, listening to Joes Ho tell lies on the radio loudspeaker, resting, resting in an easy chair by the warm fire, the fire so warm from the whole world burning...
“Hey.” I snap back from my reverie at the clear sharp voice directly behind my head. “Hey. You there.”
Is it a re-education judge? A unity commissar? A king Chaz? I cower and tremble, afraid to turn and face the new pain, afraid to lose another fleeting moment with my frozen pocketed treasure.
I try to speak but nothing comes out except a hoarse whisper that disgusts me. My MAGA is low, I’m nothing now, a worthless husk left over, with no voice, no gun, no way to make MAGA, discarded here until I to learn to love diversity and accept the cryptobug.
“I want to tell you.” It’s a man’s voice. A man. Not a xir or xhim, or a xirr. The voice is hard, and smooth, like... like a granite countertop, like from before the Bidening, the kind of countertop people used to have in their houses, the big houses with electricity and even heat, and doors to all the rooms.
I turn to face the man’s voice, and the wind suddenly goes quiet against my ears, and the throbbing from my bloody lip is silent.
“I want to tell you that Tucker Carlson is a fucking Cuck.”
Before I can lift my eyes, he has turned, and his figure disappears into the blow. He was dressed like me, another camp guest here, and I never saw his face before, but I know him! I know him, and I push out with all the air in my lungs, over the cracked rib, with all my last MAGA I try and then my voice rises up through my bruised throat and soars passed my bloody lips into the air, to be heard across the whole camp: “Anaconda! Anaconda! They let fags like you in here?”
the year is 2041...
Limping away from my afternoon trans-power waterboarding enlightenment session, I stumble on the cold stone steps of the De-radicalization centre, and a purple-wigged tolerance counselour kicks me hard in the back, planting my face into the freezing mud.
“TO THE LINE, BIGOT!” Xhe delivers another set of swift kicks, and the swelling taste of blood disappears in a wash of searing rib pain and blinding wind-driven sleet running salt against my lifted eyes. “SIXTEEN FEET!”
I leave the tattered remains of one rat-hide slipper in the mud as I scramble to escape the blows. “GROW EQUITY! STAY THE SAY!” Half-hobbling, half running, my twisted ankle groaning, xher slogan-teachings fade into the howling wind and swinging chain-lines of the volunteers digging molded potatoes in the St. Floyd Peace Garden. I take my place, fall to my knees, brush away a clump of sod that turns out to be a frozen rat.
Ha! A poisoned rat, a blessing! Left out by last night’s labor-layers, mine, all mine, for me! I spit out a tooth fragment and dig with the three fingers left on my only hand, and muffle the cry of mad laughter gathering in my choked throat, thinking of the new slippers I can make, the stew I can brew or trade for writing sticks or even half a cig, ah, to light a cig and sit back, listening to Joes Ho tell lies on the radio loudspeaker, resting, resting in an easy chair by the warm fire, the fire so warm from the whole world burning...
“Hey.” I snap back from my reverie at the clear sharp voice directly behind my head. “Hey. You there.”
Is it a re-education judge? A unity commissar? A king Chaz? I cower and tremble, afraid to turn and face the new pain, afraid to lose another fleeting moment with my frozen pocketed treasure.
I try to speak but nothing comes out except a hoarse whisper that disgusts me. My MAGA is low, I’m nothing now, a worthless husk left over, with no voice, no gun, no way to make MAGA, discarded here until I to learn to love diversity and accept the cryptobug.
“I want to tell you.” It’s a man’s voice. A man. Not a xir or xhim, or a xirr. The voice is hard, and smooth, like... like a granite countertop, like from before the Bidening, the kind of countertop people used to have in their houses, the big houses with electricity and even heat, and doors to all the rooms.
I turn to face the man’s voice, and the wind suddenly goes quiet against my ears, and the throbbing from my bloody lip is silent.
“I want to tell you that Tucker Carlson is a fucking Cuck.”
Before I can lift my eyes, he has turned, and his figure disappears into the blow. He was dressed like me, another camp guest here, and I never saw his face before, but I know him! I know him, and I push out with all the air in my lungs, over the cracked rib, with all my last MAGA I try and then my voice rises up through my bruised throat and soars passed my bloody lips into the air, to be heard across the whole camp: “Anaconda! Anaconda! They let fags like you in here?”
What a read.
Hey go away I'm 'batin.
Sounds like the story of the extinction of humanity.