A Simple Rebellion

  A SIMPLE REBELLION

  By CHRISTOPHER RYAN

  A SEAMUS AND NUNZIO PRODUCTIONS BOOK

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, elected officials, celebrities, members of the media, and cute Yorkies are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously in service of this great country of ours.

  A SIMPLE REBELLION

  Copyright © 2017 by Christopher Ryan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Political Horror

  Published by Seamus and Nunzio Productions, LLC 508 Windsor Rd., New Milford, NJ 07646

  Follow the author at: Facebook/Christopher Ryan, Author Twitter @chrisryanwrites

  Instagram @chrisryanwrites [email protected]

  ISBN: 978 – 1981802395

  Cover and interior design by Tonia Andrews First print edition, January, 2018

  First ebook edition, January, 2018

  In a future uncomfortably close to our present….

  AA SSIIMMPPLLEE RREEBBEELLLLIIOONN 1

  Chapter 1

  CALIFORNIA WAS FIRST. IT happened less than 48 hours after the president announced his intention to run for a third term, damn the 22nd Amendment. On every platform across the Internet the state’s governor posted, “We’re done,” and attached articles of cessation. California fast became the eighth most robust economy on the planet, so good on them, but Bob Murphy missed thinking of his native country as the

  United States of America.

  Now it was just The States, fractured into pieces. Some were plunged into devastating poverty. Others saw their economy driven into the ground by the one percent of the one percent of the one percent, the rest of its citizens suffering under a greatly reduced standard of living. The areas still clutching former glory were speeding toward economic depression through deficit spending and denial.

  No matter where they subsisted, workers were treated as slaves; job security, pensions, and health benefits were myths from the past. The states in each region served as neo-feudal colonies, with pestilent living conditions ignored by National News.

  That last term bears repeating. National News.

  This was the name of the sole remaining FCC-

  2 Christopher Ryan

  licensed 24-hour news station, fully funded and run by the government. That was another gift from him.

  Correction, president him.

  Bob knew capitalization was supposed to come into play, but he just couldn’t do it, not even in his thoughts.

  That breach of protocol would catch up to him, he acknowledged.

  Everything eventually did these days. God bless America.

  The teenager, a tall, gangly kid sporting a poorly self-made Mohawk and a chip on his shoulder the size of Detroit, dominated the dashboard, repeatedly reaching forward between Bob and his adult son, Jackson, demanding more from the struggling air conditioning, blasting what he insisted was music, demanding Bob appreciate the musicians’ genius even after he identified them as Mute Nostril Agony.

  They sounded like a metal band from Bob’s era doing an acoustic set; lots of lightening fast riffs played really softly as if even head bangers were afraid to draw too much attention to themselves in this era of swift enforcement for perceived offenses.

  Well fed sons of middle class mothers, Wander lost in their father’s dreams, ruined

  Welcome to the party, boys

  Bob was driving west on the straight highway that used to plow through Pennsylvania farm country. Now the fields were gray and fallow, long stretches torn up by fracking, fields barren like the crops had just given up. The benefit was he could see anyone coming for miles. The problem was, if another car did appear where would he go to avoid being seen? The best he could hope for was a dirt road turnoff appearing at the

  right time.

  Bob didn’t like his odds on that.

  His son, Jackson, the dog, and the little girl all slept soundly, the teenager buried himself in the music, and Bob drove, keeping an eye out for any upcoming exit that would return them to the even more deserted back roads offering less chance of capture.

  He drove through the night with his headlights off, and argued with himself over his culpability in all of this.

  Most people were heading to Washington, D.C. because of him. He felt guilty but it wasn’t his fault, not really.

  Bob sighed. Of course it was his fault. Sheriff Merle was the teenager and the little girl’s father; he should have been protecting them, not some former comedian. That put his demise on Bob. And all the other deaths were on his head, too. Every life lost since he’d opened his wiseass mouth was on him.

  And whatever happened to all those people who had listened to him, had followed him into something even he didn’t know he had started, their fates would be on him as well.

  Why were they all going to D.C. anyway? The overlords had abandoned it long ago. Now the nation’s “capital” was exclusively the turf of the lucrative protest industry. Companies charged significant fees to outraged citizens, naïve in their sincerity but willing to pay for the privilege of riding the Resistance Express. Those buses brought loads of law-abiding protestors to the capital so they could march and shout and hold signs and feel they were fighting the good fight for the betterment of their beloved and beleaguered nation.

  It was always recorded for the amusement of those in charge … and so that TASE (the president’s True American Safety Enforcement agency) could run facial recognition programs. The latter generated lists of those to be harassed, partly to stoke fear, partly to create the sense that the resistance was making a difference. This generated more business for the bus companies, which, of course, were owned by the very same people the resistance was resisting.

  Everybody wins.

  Meanwhile, Witchita, Kansas was now the real capital of The United States of True America (TUSOTA), a territory where the murderously rich pulled the strings to create the world they wanted to profit from with almost no recognition of the general populace.

  Real power appears as but a shadow of a shadow and likes it that way.

  Witchita’s primary performance puppet, the president, coined the term “True Americans” to get citizens of TUSOTA to “show loyalty and patriotism” even though its economy was the weakest on the continent. Those who didn’t show loyalty (a term that was defined differently from day to day by president him) became “the enemies of True America” and their hunt and capture was broadcast on the highest rated show on television, Patriotism Live, which was a primary source of capital for the TUSOTA government. That damned show had become another source of guilt. Bob had often found himself pitying the poor suckers who were so bad at playing along with the way things were that they wound up with an entire country turned against them. Now Bob, his son, the kid, the sweet little girl, and even the damned dog were featured

  targets on Patriotism Live as “the biggest threat to freedom this nation has ever faced!”

  Of course, every target of the show was described the same way, but that did not help Bob relax as he drove through the black gloom toward an exit he couldn’t see.

  Chapter 2

  WHEN THE END BEGAN, Bob Murphy thought he was still stuck in the middle….

  A mutated bicycle rolled through the last solitary moments of a suburban night, old supermarket shopping wagons lashed to each side of the rear wheel and laden with bulging plastic bags. On the center of the handlebars sat a padded basket featuring a tiny seatbelt designed to
look like a bandoleer. That bandoleer secured a small Yorkie, his fur blowing in the light breeze.

  Bob Murphy, an older man, hair mostly gray now, glanced with sharp, saddened eyes at the tiny dog and allowed himself a signature wry smile that had once thrilled many millions around the globe. But instead of making the planet echo with laughter, this mismatched pair coasted silently down the tree-lined street in the pleasant predawn darkness. They glided through town, passing picturesque homes embracing sleeping families, aging cars in the driveway, an occasional old tire hanging idle below a thick tree limb.

  Bob whispered, “Pretty nice like this, doncha think?”

  The yorkie responded, “Yip.”

  All else on the streets was quiet. It was the best time for a former comedy icon to move through his

  community without causing a fuss.

  Bob rode to town before the sun came up almost every morning, as he had with Mary Angeline for years. He wore a faded and frayed Bears hoodie and battered Cubs hat as he pedaled through his daily errands, just as he had with Mary Angeline.

  Just him and the dog these days, Bob was reminded for the thousandth time that morning. His smile inverted.

  He preferred to get going early, before people were on their way to work, before kids were heading to school, before crowds were possible, not wanting to disrupt their lives. The quiet time from 4 to 6 a.m. was his sweet spot.

  Mary Angeline had burdened his co-pilot with the name Sasha but Bob usually called him Steve.

  But not during their bike rides.

  The tiny dog wiggled in his bandoleer seatbelt and yipped again.

  “Okay, okay! I’m gonna make the jump to light speed,” the comedian answered. “Chewie, angle the deflector shields!”

  Bob put his legs into it, picking up the pace, the dog leaning into the stronger breeze. Seeing Steve’s enjoyment, Bob pushed himself to go faster.

  They rode two miles to the dump. Budget cuts had ended sanitation pick-up two years ago, so those supermarket wagons bracketing his rear tires carried their refuse from the last few days. He tossed the garbage into the large bin outside the dump’s front gate.

  “Hey, Mac,” Bob said, nodding his chin toward the Keeper of the Crap.

  “Hey, Bob.”

  Steve growled a tiny threat.

  “You’re risking life and limb, Mac. My friend here had fifteen confirmed kills as a Navy SEAL.”

  Bob left Mac laughing, as usual, and rode back about a mile to their next errand, visiting Pop at his store.

  Pop’s Country Emporium offered three short, low aisles of food staples, a handful of refrigeration units half full with milk and butter and, sometimes, soda. The front of the store featured an aging luncheonette counter with stools, a few of which still spun a bit. Pop held court there, fixing up sandwiches and grilling meals including a classic burger when there was beef, all served with a smile and easy, safe small talk.

  Mary Angeline had taken Bob there on one of their first morning rides. Maybe that explained Bob’s loyalty to the place. These days, he ordered most of his supplies from the old couple, everything from groceries to light bulbs to fertilizer to beer.

  “Morning, Pop!”

  “Hey, Mr. Big Stuff, your order came in,” Pop said with a smile, pouring Bob a cup of coffee and then tossing Steve a doggie treat.

  Bob saw that the owner already had two eggs and three strips of turkey bacon on the grill. Not as good as real bacon, but all pork had become a delicacy five years ago.

  Pop raised a bushy white eyebrow. “What’re we toasting today? Rye? Wheat?”

  “English?”

  “With peanut butter?”

  “Peanut butter came in?” Bob broke into a smile. “Who’s better than you?”

  “Sadly, nobody,” the storeowner smiled back, his eyes disappearing amid deep crow’s feet.

  As Pop prepared Bob’s breakfast, the TV mounted in the corner played National News. Finishing the five-day forecast, the Weather Guy announced in his consistently friendly tone, “And remember, it’s National Overtime Appreciation Day. If you’ve been trusted to work a little longer, a bit later, maybe a weekend, today we acknowledge that we’re all in this together. Remember to thank your boss for the privilege of working as a True American. And, if you get OT, well, then, today a gift for your boss is appropriate.”

  Bob watched as the program switched to an impossibly coiffed former jock turned news anchor who spoke meaningfully into the camera. “Fighting continues in the Middle East, with approximately seven neighboring countries battling each other incessantly since the withdrawal of all True American troops…”

  Pop placed the fake bacon and eggs in front of Bob, with a toasted English muffin covered with a modest spread of peanut butter, saying quietly, “The world has been spinning out of control since Statler pulled our troops out of, well, everywheres.”

  Bob dug into the food. “Haven’t been following.” Pop topped off his coffee. “Haven’t been following,

  what, the world?”

  Bob used chewing to avoid answering. He shrugged, glanced back at the screen.

  The anchor continued as, on his left, the screen showed a broad shouldered man with dashing gray hair and sun-bronzed, mature good looks. “The only response from the White House has been President Statler’s tweet.”

  The screen switched to the familiar social media format. The same good looks smiled out from a headshot in the top left corner. The rest of the screen was dominated by the quote.

  @RealPresidentStatler: Sad to see such carnage, but, frankly, this wouldn’t have happened if they had paid their fair share for our troops.

  Pop tossed Steve another treat, murmuring while barely moving his lips. “Middle East is eating itself and this guy wants to get paid.”

  Bob’s mumbled response was a noncommittal, “Yeah.” He drank more coffee and looked around. “Where’s Eleanor?”

  If Pop recognized the strategic subject change he didn’t show it. “She’s across town spoiling our new granddaughter.”

  Bob paused, a forkful of fake bacon in mid-air. “Pictures, please.”

  From his phone, Pop projected a clip of a chubby infant wriggling in a crib.

  Bob’s delight was genuine. “Look at her! Those eyes! She’s adorable,” He offered that trademark smirk, “Can’t blame Eleanor for leaving your wrinkled ass.”

  “Neither can I,” Pop chuckled. “If there was more than one store still open in this town I woulda taken the day myself.”

  They spent the remainder of breakfast focusing on a new local beauty instead of horrors abroad.

  Chapter 3

  AN ADULT WITH A kid’s face and vulture’s eyes confronted Bob on his way out of Pop’s store with four bags of groceries. Late 20s, Ivy League grad, wearing the current version of a power suit, battleship gray, tailored too tight like they did back in the ‘teens, open- collared shirt worn exactly the way StyledMan told him to, a throwback, high-end wristwatch wrapped around the same hand used to grasp the iPhone24, a thumb prodding it incessantly.

  Bob nudged by him, edging the corporate minion away from his bike and into the gutter. He placed the supplies into the baskets, speaking without looking at the intruder. “Jeremy, we spoke about this.”

  The guy was all viper smile and insincere cheer. “Bob! You haven’t been answering my calls, Bob.”

  The former comedy star secured Steve into his bandoleer barely glancing the suit’s way. “In fact, I have.”

  “Bob, burping and hanging up immediately does not qualify as communication, bro.”

  “Seems eloquent to me.”

  Jeremy shook his head at the bike. “Bob, if you need a car, I can hook you up with anything you want, buddy.”

  “I own five cars, but in the morning, Steve and I

  prefer this mode of travel, thank you very much.”

  “The mutt carries weight in your decision making?

  I should’ve brought that little mop top some bacon.” Bob wave
d away the bribe of delicacies and sneered,

  “You trying to kill him?”

  Jeremy made a confused face and then hopped back onto the sidewalk, choosing to drop the subject of bacon in favor of taking another approach. “The 30th anniversary of Monster Cops is coming up.”

  Climbing onto the bike, Bob glanced at the young executive with disdain. “Yep.”

  “We have a massive anniversary edition Blu-Ray coming out.”

  “Why?”

  “To celebrate a comedy classic!”

  Bob scoffed, “More like conning fans who can’t afford it to buy the same damn again.” He shook his head, pushed off, and started pedaling away.

  Jogging backward keeping pace with practiced cool, Jeremy pressed his case. “This edition has over 20 hours of essentially never-seen-before footage and behind-the-scenes extras!”

  “Essentially,” Bob sneered, pedaling a little faster.

  Jeremy ran alongside him, twisting forward awkwardly, eyes on his target. “I booked you on The Tonight Show, Late Night, The Daily Show, and Miller Time.”

  “Booking me without permission is one of your problems.”

  “One? What’s the oth—WHOOFF!” The breath slammed out of Jeremy as he ran into a parking meter. The ancient machine dropped the executive to his knees with minimal effort.

  “Bye, Jeremy,” Bob called pleasantly as he pedaled off into the morning sun.

  Chapter 4

  BOB PUT THE GROCERIES and supplies away exactly how Mary Angeline preferred them, the yorkie following him as he crisscrossed the kitchen. “Steve, why did we buy light bulbs again?”

  Having no idea, Steve made no comment on the issue.

  “Thanks for the insight,” Bob quipped.

  The supplies stored away, the former favorite of millions wandered into the living room and sat on the aging, once elegant couch. Steve hopped up next to him. Bob worked his battered, duct-taped remote controls, turning on a large-screen television and cable box, clicked open the DVR listings, and selected the latest illegal recording of The Amy Brooks Update, already partially watched. As the young Ms. Brooks espoused independent thought, she was not on National News station, and therefore, technically banned. The sheriff’s kid had tampered with the cable box – a process he called “jailbreaking” – allowing Bob to view pirate stations the Feds had been unable to track down. Was recording even one episode a federal offense? Sure, but that’s life on the edge, Bob mocked himself.