Glenn sighed with delight as he stepped through the doors of the learning center’s library. God, what a special place this was. What a wonderful, beautiful place to study the truth about America and the Founders and learn about the blessings of liberty. Here was proof that the people didn’t need expensive degrees from Ivy League schools to learn. Here, people from all across the world could educate themselves just as he had – by reading great books, all for free. And Glenn had personally ensured that all of the books in Independence’s library were great - every title considered had to pass muster with Glenn himself before it could be included in the collection. Every patron could be assured that each volume met Glenn’s own personal standards of decency and informativeness. As Glenn crossed the grand chamber to the reference desk, his heart swelled with pride.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Beck,” the librarian smiled politely in greeting. “Are you here to pick up your reserved books?”

“You bet I am.” Glenn leaned against the desk and surveyed the room as the chubby young brunette walked over to the nearby reserve shelves. As she scanned the reserve copies, Glenn frowned as he realized something.

“Aren’t there any other people here?” he asked the librarian.

“Well, Mr. Jewett and the apprentices are restoring some of the letters in the rare book room,” she said, “but other than that, you and I are the only ones here right now, I’m afraid.”

“How can that be? I would have thought that more people would want to come here and learn about America!”

“Well, I can’t imagine why more people wouldn’t want to come here,” the librarian said, avoiding Glenn’s gaze. She found what she had been looking for – a set of books bound together with a rubber band – and brought it back to the desk where he was standing. Glenn could see a glossy strip of paper reading BECK, GLENN sticking out from one of the books’ pages.

“Here we are,” she said. “The Federalist Papers, Anthem, and The Five Thousand Year Leap.”

“Can’t argue with the classics, huh?”

“Sure can’t.” The smile on the librarian’s face was almost too placid. “They’re all due back in three weeks. That will be six dollars, Mr. Beck.”

“W-what?” Glenn sputtered in surprise. “But this is a library!”

“And books cost money, Mr. Beck. What, did you expect us to give people access to all of our services for free?” The librarian’s polite tone was gone, replaced with an iciness that Glenn had rarely encountered.

“Well, of course! That’s what a library’s for!”

“But a free library just isn’t feasible here – certainly not a free library that collects everything you want us to get. It’s not as if the people of Independence are all that generous with their money. Now, if you could force them to give us some more, then things would be different, but –“

“That would only be a betrayal of everything that Independence stands for,” Glenn scoffed. “I can’t believe that the people wouldn’t be willing to sacrifice just a little bit for the sake of – of the grand vision that Independence represents.”

“I wouldn’t. Not for the crappy books you picked out.”

“What did you say?

“You heard me. I’ve never swallowed any of the Objectivist swill you’re trying to push. I just needed the money - not that you’re offering me enough to put up with your bullshit.”

“You … little … pinhead!” Glenn’s face was red with rage. “You’re fired!”

“Good! Great! You deserve to rot here anyway!”

Glenn couldn’t bring himself to respond. The anger that coursed through him was too strong to even articulate. He scooped up his books and started storming off towards the exit.

“That will be six dollars!” the librarian yelled at Glenn’s retreating back.

Glenn threw the books on the ground. He couldn’t believe the gall of this fat little bitch – this parasite – who lacked the vision and insight to even understand what he was trying to do. Well, he’d show her and everyone like her. He would take a principled stand. He would never compromise, ever.

“Flurp” By Blurry Gray Thing

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411598762&forumid=1

If I had to describe my daily commute through Independence in one word, the word would be "Flurp."

That's the sound you get when you step onto a near-empty juice box. They're everywhere in this town. I stick the traveled paths, where dozens, hundreds, thousands of shoes have turned the boxes into a soft, nearly even papier-mâché mat over the sidewalk, but, sooner or later, a fresh one ends up underfoot. It always does. This one spits a tiny stream of fermented apple-extract up through its straw, soaking my pant-leg, and I know from experience that the smell will stay with me for at least a week. Flurp.

I hear noise coming from the Marketplace plaza. There's always noise at the Marketplace, but this time, it's louder. People are screaming at one another, shouting slogans, or just shouting that they're hungry. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. The Outsiders are back. My stomach rumbles, and, for a second, I wonder if it wouldn't be worth it to risk it, to dive into the crowd, to try and fight my way over to the food trucks before the riot breaks out.

No. Bad idea. Very bad. I know what happened the last time the Patriots tried to force the outsiders out. Even if the whole mess doesn't explode, it's risky. If I don't take off my Patriot armband - it's a counterfeit, but it's a damn good one, and getting things yourself is what being a Patriot is all about - I'll get knifed half-way to the truck. If I don't, I'm liable to get shot by a Patriot on the way out.

I duck my head and trudge past the Patriot cordon, trying to think invisible thoughts. I pass behind the stage where a Pundit Superior stands screaming, his crimson robes flapping in the wind. A Turtle turns its head, tracking my movement. The gun turret on its shell twitches and turns - and my stomach leaps up into my throat, even though I know it's just keeping me covered while it assesses what I am. Rheumy, ancient eyes study me for an endless second - then the reptile blinks and turns away. I'm not a threat.

"Sir! Patriot! Wait!"

I keep walking. Footsteps sound behind me, hurried and light and muffled by the carpet of refuse, thicker and flatter here in the market than anywhere else. Behind me, someone lets out a gasp and slips on something decidedly moist. For once, the noise is not a Flurp. It's more of a Quish. I turn and see a scrawny boy in ragged red burlap scrambling up off the ground.

"You alright, kid?" I don't hold out a hand. I stop myself just in time. Kindness is the worst insult you can give an Apprentice Pundit.

"Y-yes sir," he stammers. He lowers his head. His right foot is covered by something thick and slimy and clearly rotting. He looks at it with hungry eyes. "I wish to ask why you are not helping your fellow patriots protest this travesty. Sir."

"I've got to get to work, kid," I say. My voice sounds too loud. Who else is listening? "I don't want to get involved."

"Sir! Everyone is already involved. These foreigners are undermining our very way of life. It is the duty of every good Patriot to cast them from our city - and punish those freeloaders taking their poisoned gifts and betraying our ways by accepting this Charity!"

"Look, the foreigners are giving out food to anyone who can grab it. Can't blame people for taking advantage of those foreign idiots and seizing an opportunity. Right?"

Why did I just say that? What the hell is wrong with me? The boy stares at me with his too-big eyes. Odds are he's thinking the same thing.

"I'm sorry, sir," he says. "I am not yet learned enough to explain why you are wrong in this matter. I apologize for failing you."

He gives me a bow. I can see his hands shake.

"What are you talking about, kid?"

"I know you are wrong, sir," he mumbles. He's still bowing, eyes once again on the ground. "But I do not yet know why, and can offer no rebuttal. It is clear that I must return to my training."

He trudges back towards the rally. His shoulders are shaking now, too. I turn away. I don't want to know what, exactly, I just caused - what his failure will lead to. Maybe his Master Pundit is a kind, forgiving man who thinks mistakes are something to learn from. Maybe.

I feel the eyes and gun-barrels of a half-dozen Turtles on me as I leave. The yells from Ellis fall behind me. The yells of Opportunity Lane engulf me.

"Help wanted - test suuubject!" shouts a man in a stained lab coat.

"Stable-haaand! A growing field! Staaable-hand needed!"

I pull out my sign - 'Manure Technician Needed' - and search for an empty spot to stand in.

I work for Ranch Five-B. Mostly as a recruiter, which means I hardly ever see the Ranch itself - thank you, merciful Beck. The last cow in Independence died three years ago, but Five-B still has plenty of manure to get rid of. Plenty. We're short-handed, too. Three of our Manure Technicians died of... something just the other week. No one is sure what. We burned their corpses in the same pit we use for the cow cadavers we dig out.

"You! Sir! I see you have no Job Sigil!" says a thin, oily-haired recruiter to a tired man with a large suitcase. "Just came through Ellis, I'll bet! How would you like to join the Extreme Rodeo!? A great honor! A great opportunity! Everyone watches the Extreme Rodeo!"

Yes. That's true enough. There are no bulls around anymore - but they do not use bulls.

Three men wearing Patriot armbands appear behind the fresh immigrant. He mumbles something - and the biggest of the three shoves him hard.

"Don't you dare turn down this opportunity, you slug! Don't you dare!"

I step around the man as he whimpers on the ground. The three Patriots work him over. One of them - a boy barely out of apprenticeship - kicks so hard that he hurts him own ankle. He stumbles - takes a hopping half-step backwards. A juice-box goes Flurp underfoot.

“More Blood” By PHIZ KALIFA

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411613784&forumid=1

It wasn't just a fire, it was a sacrificial fire. Holy. What I had wrought was too pure for this world, too sacred to allow the unclean to tarnish it. I knew, somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, that it would come to this, but I had hoped, against the urgings of my "friends", that I could at least show the world what was possible, for a little while.

Mad, oh certainly, they will call me mad. Even now I hear the approaching sirens of the state's men-made-shackles, come to sweep up the ashes of what I pulled out of this bleak and blasted earth with my own two hands. They will call me murderer. But they will not call me wrong.

The propane tanks hidden in the tower explode, my tower, my library, the All-Seeing Eye and All-Knowing Heart of Independence, scattering books and tables into the reflecting pool. The women and children who dove into the pool to escape the heat scream, some are crushed by debrits, the muddied waters growing darker with the blood they should have spilled into the soil if they were even half as devoted to this idea as I, no, no, they are. . . Were, weak, and their weakness pollutes what I alone made great, and with a curl of my lip I bitterly make note that, when next I work my will upon the world, I shall have to pick untainted soil.

Its integrity compromised, the glass-paneled eyes of the tower loom above me, leering like some orange-irised beast, mad with pain and hunger. Razor-edged shards of glass rain down around me as entire stacks of books plow through the windows, knowledge that shall remain lost to the ages blurring, like tears through mascara, in the putrid waters of my once great pool. I wonder if the barbarians who sacked the library at Alexandria knew, with the stunning clarity that I know, what priceless knowledge they stole from future generations.

Do not think me a hypocrite! While those bastards stole our heritage from us, I, I pose a challenge to our children! What was lost here was nothing so much as pure and universal truth! Truths you, alone, must wrest from the empty throne of a false and unjust universe! Truths held in the dead clutches of false kings! Truths locked in every heart and mind that yearns the free and joyous use of their unfettered limbs! Till this cursed and blighted land, pull truths from the unwilling soil! I lay before you a momentous task! LEARN FROM OUR ERRORS! FOR ONLY THEN WILL YOU BE ABLE TO SAVE THIS VERY WORLD!

I feel the cracks in my tower's foundation widen, shatter, I feel earth and steel give way beneath me, it sways, it sways, I close my eyes in sacred rapture, waiting for it to claim me as well-

It collapses, broken, on the island at the center that I built for it, as fitting a tomb as even God himself could build. The dust cloud rushes out, leaving only silence in its wake, and I, still living, the only man amongst the many who deserves to draw breath. No, the tower says, No, God says, this is not your time, there is still so much work to be done. I find a wrench in my hands, and the wimperings of those meek and cowardly survivors still assails my ears. More blood must be let, to grease these wheels of commerce, to feed the idiot raging bull at the center of my glorious Independence. More blood, more blood, more blood.

“PFC Menendez, personal log, December 1, 2025” By Tempest815

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That fucking stench. Christ, I can smell that shit all the way in the bay of the Osprey. Brass said this was a "Humanitarian" mission but we haven't left the continental US. I thought that aide work inside the US was FEMA's gig, but I don't ask fucking questions here. Nothing feels right about this op; there's more guns than food, we're geared out like its a fucking combat drop and we're taking a bird into a city we could easily fucking drive to. Problem is the highway leading up to it has apparently been taken over by hostiles calling themselves the Patriot Division, with armed tolls like this is fucking Mogadishu. You believe that shit?

Anyway, the smell. You ever smelled the New Jersey Turnpike? That putrid mix of petroleum refineries, the Meadowlands and the stinking hellhole that is Staten Island when the wind shifts. Not to mention all that illegal dumping from the City. It's like that, if you wrapped it in a diaper from a baby you fed curry to and then baked that for hours. I'm wearing basic MOP gear and it STILL seeps in! For fuck's sake, if the UAVs hadn't pinpointed the source I'd believe it was a god damn gas attack. But no, it's the fucking garbage fire they have going. It's big enough you can see it at night, 4 miles out. Just this sick, ugly, evil glow on the horizon. The guys joke that we're headed into Mordor or some shit, I'm not sure. But it is so vile that we had to run basic respirators for this mission. Rumor is that they're actually burning bodies in that fire now, and that they have some sort of nasty ass epidemic that brass isn't sure is purged by the fire. Jones, our medic, says there's only one thing that withstands that kind of shit and it has his ass spooked. It's pretty hard to spook a medic, but he just said one word before he clammed the fuck up and started with the stare: "Prion".

I'm not exactly a smart guy here. Hell, I joined the fucking Marines! Pay for my college, and we don't actually have a fucking active war on? Shit, I'll play soldier for a few years. Jones is doing the same shit, said he wants to my a PA when he gets out. I say that he's a gonna be a glorified nurse, boy that pisses him off. But, I had to look up this "prion" shit on my datapad. I can see why he was spooked. Shits mad cow disease in humans! Like what the fuck are they doing down there in Independence? Whole unit went back and forth on that once I flicked the data over to their pads. Some guys think that the "NO FDA!" shit bit em in the ass and all ate tainted meat. One of the other guys thinks its, get this, fucking cannibalism and they're out of food. I'm hoping for the first, because I ain't paid enough to deal with fellow Americans running at me like I'm a snack pack. Guess that's all true when you go and set out to make your own civilization from the ground up, and have no idea what the fuck you're doing.

We've finally come over the edge of the city, and it looks like a god damn war zone. You ever seen a movie where the world ended? It looks a lot like that, their massive reflecting pool looks brown from here. In the center is the only god damn clean thing IN this city and it's a massive statue of their leader. They just call him the "Blind Prophet" now, but we know him in civilization as Glen Beck. He started this mess. Their "Libertarian Utopia" looks like the combat videos from Somalia that we watched in basic. Only its right here in the US. I double check my mags, make sure they're loaded up and won't jam on me down there if shit pops off. And after seeing this hellhole? I'm beginning to understand why there's more ammo than food here. Looks like it's not a peace keeping op, and more of a pacification op. Fuckin perfect.

Pilot says there's no LZ, and that the land is too unstable to make a touch down on, so we're fast roping down. That's when I realize: everyone here is fucking armed, and we're looking like invaders. We had better do this drop fucking quick and find cover or we're all gonna be meat on a rope. I hook up to my line, do my checks, and double check my rifle just in case. There's a crowd gathering below, and I can hear them chanting their slogans. "A = A! GOVERNMENT PARASITES! FUCK YOU GOT MINE!". Man they are worked up. Fortunately they have the sense to keep clear a bit. Green light. We pile out of the bird and get ready for land fall.

“The Shit We’re In” By Frozen Horse

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411669054&forumid=1

And you could have it all
My empire of shit
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

Amarillo... shit; I'm still only in Amarillo... Every time I think I'm gonna wake up back in the jungle. When I was home after my first tour, it was worse.

Damn mosquitoes.

When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the city. I'm here a week now... waiting for a mission... getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room, I get weaker, and every minute Galt squats in his city, he gets stronger. Each time I looked around the walls moved in a little tighter.

I was going to the worst place in the world and I thought I knew its depths. Weeks away and hundreds of miles down a river that snaked through the war like a main circuit cable plugged straight into Beck. It is inadvisable to try to ascend this river from below the city, not unless you have a peculiar interest in dioxin-laden fecal lasagne. It was no accident that I got to be the caretaker of CEO Glenn Beck's memory any more than being back in Amarillo was an accident. There is no way to tell his story without telling my own. And if his story really is a confession, then so is mine. Everyone gets everything he wants sooner or later. I wanted a mission, and for my sins, they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service. It was a real choice mission, and when it was over, I never wanted another.

I met with the briefing officers, my contacts to the world; a colonel, a general, and this guy in a suit so smooth he comes off as sketchy.

The colonel spoke "Your mission is to proceed down the Red River in a Navy patrol boat. Infiltrate Beck's camp at Independence, follow it and learn what you can along the way. When you find this CEO, gain his confidence by whatever means available and liquidate his company."

I asked, "Liquidate the CEO?"

The general replied, "He's out there operating without any decent restraint, totally beyond the pale of any acceptable human conduct, let alone OSHA, EPA, or the thirteenth amendment. And he is still in that city commanding employees."

The civilian clarified with oily smoothness, "Liquidate with extreme prejudice."

With a chill to his voice, the colonel went on, "You understand, Captain, that this mission does not exist, nor will it ever exist..."

We cast off into the slow-moving, silty water as dawn broke. No time for dallying, Galt didn't get much paid time off. He was dug in too deep or moving too fast. His idea of great R&R was cold rice and a little rat meat. He had only two retirement plans: death, or victory. We were an eclectic bunch of riverine mariners. The machinist, the one they called Chef, was from New Orleans. He was wrapped too tight for Texas; probably wrapped too tight for New Orleans.

Lance, on the forward .50s, was a famous surfer from the beaches south of LA. One look at him and you wouldn't believe he ever fired a weapon in his whole life. Clean... Mr. Clean... was from some South Bronx shithole and the light and space of Texas really put the zap on his head. Then there was Phillips, the Chief. It might have been my mission, but it sure as shit was the Chief's boat!

Part of me was afraid of what I would find and what I would do when I got there. I knew the risks, or imagined I knew. But the thing I felt the most, much stronger than fear, was the desire to confront him. I had read the dossier, gotten a glimpse into Beck's mind. It was a strange place:

In commerce there are few moments for compassion and tender action. There are many moments for ruthless action - what is often called ruthless - what may in many circumstances be only clarity, seeing clearly what there is to be done and doing it, directly, quickly, awake, looking at it.

As for the charges against me, I am unconcerned. I am beyond their timid lying morality, and so I am beyond caring.

I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream; that's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor... and surviving.

How many people had I already killed? There were those six that I knew about for sure. Close enough to blow their last breath in my face. But this time, it was an American and a captain of industry. That wasn't supposed to make any difference to me, but it did. Shit... charging a man with murderous exploitation in this place was like handing out speeding tickets in the Indy 500. I took the mission. What the hell else was I gonna do?

The infiltration was tricky, until we found out that we could just buy our way in with unused MRE heaters. On the river, I thought that the minute I looked at him, I'd know what to do, but it didn't happen. I was in there with him for days, not under guard; I was free, but he knew I wasn't going anywhere. He knew more about what I was going to do than I did. If the generals back in Wichita could see what I saw, would they still want me to kill him? More than ever, probably.

And what would his people back home want if they ever learned just how far from them he'd really gone? He broke from them, and then he broke from himself. I'd never seen a man so broken up and ripped apart. Everybody wanted me to do it, him most of all. I felt like he was up there, waiting for me to take the pain away. He just wanted to go out like a tycoon, standing up, not like some poor, wasted, rag-assed renegade. Even the market wanted him dead, and that's who he really took his orders from anyway.

The truest perspective came from the video-blogger who hung around me during my sojourn in the city. As we walked through the reeking streets, he exclaimed into his iPad, its touchpad starred with cracks, "This is the way the fucking world ends! Look at this fucking shit we're in, man!" And indeed, we were standing in it.

“No-Mercy-For-Parasites” By HEGEL SMOKE A J

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411669069&forumid=1

No-Mercy-For-Parasites Sparrow trotted along the low embankment next to the vast and stagnant lake. He got to go to school today! That was good, since Mom was usually too tired to do homeschooling with him or Self-Sufficiency and Emeline, his sisters. Emeline was older than N.M.P. or Self-Sufficiency, and that was why she had a funny name. She was born before they left the Bad Place. Sometimes the other kids made fun of her. But N.M.P came later, he was eight, and Self-Sufficiency was four. They were going to have another brother or sister, but then Mom got sick so they didn't. She was sick a lot. Whom God loveth He chastiseth.

When Mom was sick and they didn't have money, Emeline, No-Mercy-For-Parasites, and Self-Sufficiency wouldn't have school. Sometimes Emeline read the Bible or Beck to them, but most of the time they just hung around. Mom lay down in her room in the dark. Last week, No-Mercy-For-Parasites went all the way down to the Marketplace plaza where he saw a man get hung! Emeline said it was "hanged," but Emeline smells, so who wants to listen to her. The dead man had listened to the Outsiders. This was bad, because enemies are everywhere. Enemies outside breed enemies inside.

No-Mercy-For-Parasites liked the sound of that, so he muttered it to himself as he walked. Then he started shouting it. He hopped along to his own rhythm, small bare feet thudding into the cracked concrete ledge. He saw a thin, springy stick floating in the dark water--some piece of plastic, there was very little growing in the courtyard--so he fished it out, trying not to touch the liquid, to wave it around as he shouted and hopped.

Today Dad had money, so he got to go to school. But nobody said how fast he had to get there. Enemies outside, enemies inside. Jump, jump.

He was worried about Mom and Dad. Sometimes he could hear them talking when they thought he was asleep. I don't know if we made the right decision, Marissa. And Jonathan, I thought that everything would get better once we implemented true libertarian principles, got out from under the government yoke. How could this happen? I mean, the Ranch...

"The Ranch" was bad. That was where Dad used to work and then he quit. Quitting was bad because if you had jobs and then quit more than three times you were a freeloader and we all know what happens then. But Dad only quit once, because something at work made him scared. He was a "behavioral geneticist." Emeline said that meant that he could change the way an animal acted by going into the little things that made it what it was and changing them around. She said Dad could make a cow that did tricks like a dog if he wanted. Then he quit. He had been a behavior a-neat-o-piss but now he was nothing.

Worst of all: "I managed to get a letter from Barbara." "What, your ex? I thought she was dating women now?" "She is. That's not the point. She started working for the CDC. If we can establish some kind of regular communication, maybe we could--"

No-Mercy-For-Parasites had no idea what a ceedeecee was, but that was real bad. Enemies outside... Suddenly the song wasn't fun anymore. The boy tossed the stick into the water. Even though it was cold, his fingers were sweaty as he gripped the cash in his pocket. He guessed it was time to get to school now. He jumped off the embankment and walked slowly across the plaza. Not a lot was going on right now--there were only a few people at the far end of the empty plaza, job-hawkers, bent figures under the bright but chilly light with blankets spread in front of them. There were things to sell there. Once, N.M.P. had met a man selling a real old cell phone, which still beeped and lit up when you pushed the buttons! But since he wasn't going to buy it, the man had thrown a pebble at him and he ran away.

The Learning Center was on a big island in the middle of the lake. It was where people went to learn the truth of the ideals that created the country, and that was called school. There used to be a monorail over the bridge from the plaza to the lake, but it broke a few years ago, so No-Mercy-For-Parasites trudged alongside the silent rails, thumb out. After a few minutes a woman came along in a jitney. People made these vehicles out of old cars and trucks; this one had been a hatchback in a former life, but its owner had welded a small woodburning steam engine into where the gasoline engine used to be. There were pipes everywhere, and the whole thing rattled and coughed alarmingly, but the wood smoke actually smelled kind of nice. It made M.N.P. think of barbecue, and his stomach growled. The woman--more of a girl, really, only a few years older than Emaline--was heading into the archives, so she gave the boy a ride into the complex for a dollar.

The boy trembled as he walked through the vast complex, dusty girders extending above him through the halflight. The way this place was built, the walls and everything, always made him feel too small, like the building was looking down on him. It was too...echoey. But Miss Rose's room was decorated with bright bits of cloth and construction paper, with Chinese screens to make it seem less big and empty, and a space heater in the winter. She even had her own little lamp she brought from home instead of the building's lights, far overhead. And when the kids made art, she'd tape it to the walls so they could see it every day--even No-Mercy-For-Parasites, whose dad didn't have much money.

The boy stopped at Miss Rose's door. His stomach roiled because he knew that he was going to have to do something hard. Heroes do hard things, he told himself. To save the people they love. Like Andrew Jackson. He swallowed, and opened the door.

"Hello, No Mercy!" called the old woman. Her face was so friendly. "It's great to see you again! What...what's wrong, darling?"

The boy swallowed hard. He felt like he was going to cry, and everything went too hot all of a sudden. "Oh Miss Rose," he finally got out, "It's my parents. I...I have to tell a Pundit Superior."

“A Cure Too Far” By anonumos

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411669656&forumid=1

I left the Learning Center at a quick pace. It wouldn't do to appear casual. No siree. Under my arm: salvation for Molls. My sweet Molly, riddled with the teeb, coughing pink mist all over our contracts. The book I carried, almost certainly banned by name, described a dirty way of making something called an antibiotic. The cover was shredded, but the chapters were marked with stylized A's, crudely circled. Definitely outlawed.

It doesn't faze me anymore, this shit hole. I grew up just blocks from the reflecting pond and its oily mirror-image of an unsightly tower that some called the Bastille. No one explains the joke, but I can tell it's a doozy. Nobody guards the place anymore. I've slipped in and out whenever I pleased, though I try to visit in the middle of a shift when the streets are ghostly and empty.

The Learning Center was crammed with books. Only the rooms near the entrance were neat and orderly, waiting for customers that never came. Eventually the curators were impressed to one of the Ranches, because they could not rent enough books to provide for themselves. The only people with the leisure to even consider Learning these days were us prostitutes and the wealthy, though most of my co-workers were too tired after servicing the wealthy in their drugged up stupors. And the rich bastards had everything they needed. Why would they bother learning anything new?

In every other room of the tower, tattered cardboard boxes teetered 8-high. They were filled with cockroach nests and the cheapest bulk-order books you could find. For decades I've scurried through the box-lined aisles unmolested, a giant water-bug for all anyone cared. Since before I could talk, I've been digging for treasure like hapless pirates in one of the forgotten novels on level 27 that I read in my teens. I have my aunt, Emily, to thank for that. In my youth, she never bought into the established mindset of this city. She wanted me to work smart, not hard.

Some of the books weren't even books. There were more than a few slugs with pretty leather bindings...well, they were leather once. The pretty books all had blank pages. They were for show or something, bought in bulk for the undiscerning cheapskate to decorate useless shelves. When Auntie Em died, I'd seen something like them in my pedophile clients' homes. The slugs provided a colorful backdrop to glittering trophies, razor sharp hunting knives, wavy-grey katanas, and gold-plated Desert Eagles.

Now the solution to my most pressing problem! The entire book tantalized me with the liberation of drug-making (what another cover-less tome called "worker ownership of the means of production"). Not the sporting kind of drug. We could all make poppers and jenkem, unless we found better employment contracts. Being a gigolo was better, believe me...

The other kind of drug--I check one of the bookmarked pages--"pharmaceuticals". My new collector’s item tells a fantastic story about the first cure for TB, a chemical that can be harvested from specially handled dirt. It looked simple enough. A cure made and sold by one of the parasites at Rutgers University.

I have no idea how much PS-AU it cost, since the book assumes we're using fiat from the 1950s, not the "pure strain" that is so hard to come by 90 years later. Still, piecing together some of the other chapters makes me think that sick people could line up and be cured with the government's stolen scrip.

I couldn't dare voice this opinion, but that sounded like a fine solution to me. More aunties around. Babies that survived the winter months. Stronger, more productive contractors. Prettier prostitutes. Gigolos with muscles instead of shrunken chests and beady eyes. I'd have thought that would be a good thing, compared to the pandemics. Some neighborhoods in the Silver Quarter were still empty, houses held by the banks until someone stripped the walls bare and torched them.

Molly. I'm going to cure my baby. When she's better, she and I can serve a higher class of client. We even had an offer from one of Beck's own grandchildren. Half-blind as he was, he could still get it up, until Molls started spitting blood around the ball-gag. I paused in the shadow of a tin shack to savor our eventual success: we're going to buy out Moll's contract from Icharo, get married, and ship our asses out of Independence City. Once the team was presentable again, we'd be rolling in 'pshaws'.

Hitching up my hot pants, I hoofed it quickly through the juice boxes to the hotel where our future almost died. "Never fear! Underdog is here!" I whispered triumphantly. Glancing around for a Pundit, I even dared to hum a few bars of the Overture. Yes. We were going to make it. To hell with this place.

That's when the Marines landed...

“PFC Menendez, Personal Log, 0800 December 1, 2025” By Tempest815

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411670202&forumid=1

There is no god. I know my gramma is gonna kill me for writing that, hard core catholic she is, but there sure as shit ain't no loving man in the sky based on what I've seen here. Been walkin round here for few hours now and I still haven't seen solid ground. Just this thick layer of shit brown juice boxes or some shit. It's surreal, THIS is America? These people think THIS is the American Dream? I saw a guy, some dude in a robe or some shit, toss a newborn fuckin baby in a garbage pile! A fuckin baby! What kind of sick shit IS this place? I did a tour when Pyongyang fell, similar peace keeping op. I thought that was bad, but I mean those motherfuckers was so glad to just have food that all their "American Imperialist" saber rattlin was gone the second I pulled a god damn Hershey's bar out. But this is worse than any devil dog's worst PTSD fever induced nightmare.

You ever seen that old ass flick, Blade Runner? And not that remake bullshit, the ORIGINAL. With the fucking random pillars just shooting flames, and the city all fuckin dirty for no real reason? That's what this place looks like, only everyone's fuckin wonderbread as hell. At least I think they are, its hard to tell under that layer of filth they all have. And there's definitely a famine on here, because everyone looks like they fell right out of my high school history books, from the chapter on the holocaust. The worst is the kids, man.

So, alright, from what we gathered the place works like this: I had to read this boring ass book for senior year English class, Oliver Twist. You read that shit? How all the kids work in factories and are all covered in black soot and shit? It's the same thing here. Its like, the Patriot Council decided that was a ballin ass idea and said "Lets do THAT. Lets do EXACTLY THAT!" because you know, not having basic services that a civilized society has is a grand fucking idea. We came across a kid, couldn't have been older than 8 years old. But with how fucking malnourished these kids are little bastard coulda been thirty. But, that was when I realized why half my ruck is full of fucking chocolate bars. So I went to hand the kid one, and he just looked at it like I just handed him the keys to his own space ship. I have little cousins, I've seen em at Halloween. This kid ate that faster than I ever seen anyone eat anything, ever. I tried to warn him, "Whoa, slow down little man!" and he just looked at me with this smug fucking look, and said "Heh, LIEbral parasite! I had chocolate and you got nothing in return! Time for my shift!" and took the fuck off. Like, what the fuck?

Anyway, we managed to secure a beachhead here near the square. We got a team checking out that gross ass lake, boys in the unit got a pool going on "Most Abundant Shit That's Polluting It". I have my money on lead. Gallows humor, man.

We just got the rest of our mission brief. Ain't that a bitch? Just like brass to drop us in this hell hole and THEN tell us why. Apparently, this place is in a big ass violation of the 13th Amendment. I had to look that one up. That's the one that banned slavery. As I'm writing this, it just dawned on me why we're here and I don't like it none. Slavery? Kids working? And there's just not enough in the way of manufacturing (Its one fucking city!) to keep ALL these kids employed. Nah, looks like there's a fuckton of sex slavery here. Child sex slavery.

I'm suddenly not sure we have enough ammo.

“Book of Beck: Beginnings” By Paxicon

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411670890&forumid=1

1:1 In the beginning there was Jesus
And Jesus moved over the Freedom and from it rose his bride
Her name was America

1:2 And America begat her daughter, Miss Market
And the Market was good and just
But there came a great horror

1:3 For the Market was beset by parasites
Their hair was black and curly
And their skin like oil
And they worshipped Mohammad who was a pedophile bigamist terrorist
And they sucked Freedom

1:4 And so Jesus sacrificed himself to beget his True Son Beck
And Beck built a great tower he called Independence
And from it he banished the Parasite

1:5 And Beck said: Let us be independent while receiving federal infrastructure subsidies
And Miss Market was free
And together they dwelt in Independence, firing AR-16s at the ebony Parasites
And it was good

"The Diary of Nathan Bedford Washington" By Venusian Weasel

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411676332&forumid=1

“Inside Perspectives on Independence USA, Anita Lang, p. 44-46”

Excerpt From the Diaries of Nathan Bedford Washington, Age 14

[Nathan Washington lived in the infamous Block 12. This sector of Independence was located just downwind of the low-stack lead smelter, ammunition and fluorescent light factories. Upon the final collapse of Independence in 2025, CDC workers discovered levels of atmospheric lead approaching 2 micrograms per cubic meter and mercury on the order of 20 ppb in the drinking water. Families living in Block 12 were a source of concern to the Cabinet-level Independence Public Relations Board, who feared that knowledge of the high miscarriage rates, common kidney and heart problems, and widespread mental disability in children would make Independence less appealing to newcomers. Consequently, travel into and out of Block 12 was heavily restricted, even among Independence residents. The discovery of Nathan Washington's diary provides a rare first-hand glimpse into life in Block 12.]

Desember 6 [2020]

today mommy and daddy was fighting agin. mommy told daddy I couldnt have a brother or a sister becuz of all the led in the air. daddy sed that Beck had sed that led wasnt a cause of nathans problems and that there was no scientific pruuf that led was toxic. mommy started crying but said she would keep trying. mommy seems cunvinced that led is the problem so I will throw out all my pencils tonite and write with a pen instead. mommy is realy scared of the led.

Desember 8

sorry diary I couldnt get a pen until today when mommy was realy nice too me at the grocery store. I saw daddy look at me with his weird look. it scares me. it looks like anger and hatred. I dont no why daddy is so angry with me and why he doesnt play with me like all the other kids daddys. I want daddy to love me. I gave daddy a hug and his look went away but he still seems kind of sad. maybe hes sad becuze I have no brother or sister to play with.

Desember 9

today I played with patrick henry from down the street. he said his mommy and daddy were afraid of the led too and were thinking about leaving Independence. I sed to him that his parents must be traitors or sumthing and he agreed but he kind of wanted to see outside of Independence. he swore me not to tell anyone and i sed ok. daddy was angry again and didnt eat dinner with me and mommy.

[...]

Desmeber 13

today at sunday school we talked about how George Washington prayed while he was fighting the British. our teechur told us that if holy men like George Washington will have his prayers anserd by God then if we are holy too then God will anser are prayers too. before I go too bed tonite I will pray for mommy and daddy to be happy again and that I can have a sister I can take care of. I hope I am holy enuff.

Desember 15

today daddy hit mommy and left the house. mommy said we were going to leave Independence tonite when it was dark. she told me not to tell anyone what we were doing. I wonder if patrick henry would like to come too but I wont tell him were leaving. I will miss him. he is my best friend. mommy says I have to leave diary here too. i will miss you too.

Desember 23

mommy has still not come home from the police station. the police station is scary. police keeped asking me how long mommy was planning to leave Independence. I told them that mommy only told me she was leaving that nite but I dont know if they believed me. daddy said something about sending her to the detention center. I hope she doesnt have detention for long, detention is boring. daddy told the police he would keep me safe and told me mommy would be home in time for Christmas.

Desember 25

mommy did not come home today and daddy said that mommy would not come home for a long time. I started crying but he hit me and told me real men dont cry. I told him yessir but I am still kind of mad at him. I will pray tonite for mommy to come home, and hopefully on the way back she can stop by the storks place and pick up a baby sister. Since Jesus was born today I think he wood be happy to let mommy out and give her a baby too.

“John Adeldare” By Blue spy

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411677529&forumid=1

*Begin Recording*

My name is John Adeldare; if you’re reading this you have probably discovered my bloated, lead contaminated, shit-smeared corpse. It isn’t a pleasant sight but if you’re still alive to hear this I am assuming that this is the National Guard, or somebody FEMA, Marines... Hell even the fucking European Union is fine with me.

*Loud groaning noises are heard followed by the sounds of running and heavy panting*

I don’t know what they are or what is out there but they’re human you can almost make out the eyes behind a veneer of shit, dirt, and blood. I don’t know what is keeping them alive most of them are missing limbs, eyes, toenails, and fingers. It started when I first arrived I was transferred by my company a small farming & land consultant our boss he called himself a libertarian and claimed of this paradise under the guidance of some whack job named Glen Beck; we hastily agreed with the old coot hardly any of us had families to care, if only we knew.

We arrived at the city beset upon by a thick cloud of smog and dust it was like stepping out of an airport in Dubai for the first time it became difficult to take in oxygen and left a horrible metallic after-taste.

When we reached the local city border-control or for better words a group of thugs in leather jackets brandishing assault rifles we handed our papers and were ushered inside.

Months passed and my condition deteriorated probably from all of the secret police ‘Q&R’ sessions, the local factory I worked for GlenCO was the local producer of fertiliser and plant-feed for whatever fucking farming community this shithole actually had. I still remember the motto ‘A bag full of Liberty’ if you can call the sixteen hour shifts we worked under no labour law and minimum wage liberty.

Every day without fail I would be witness to young children from the poorer districts herded into some kind of sealed chamber surrounded by concrete with, I was told that this was some kind of community internship project but that was fucking bullshit. They killed them, all of them they exposed them to whatever fucking chemical was being made below ground in sector #2 and the only thing left was some kind of white powder that we were to reprocess into plant feed. Everybody knew what it was; where it came from and none of them gave a shit some claimed that it was the children’s own personal choice.

And here I am, I crawled through the sewage pipes that began at the local shit-filled reflecting pool to the perimeter of the city. The waste disposal system was solely used by the corporations that profit from this to dump whatever injustice they may have created inside of buried laboratories and factories.

And by that I mean clambering over the corpses of political opponents and whistleblowers just dumped down here beneath sewer grates I don’t think anybody even cares that they are down here besides the rats that have completely gutted some of them for refuge from this toxic sludge. When I exited the sewers I was greeted to a backdrop of the city flickering lights beneath a blanket of smoke.

I know that whatever I caught is going to kill me slowly and painfully, but I need to get the truth out and not lost forever in the depths of the sewers or a corporate internment camp. There is something in the air, a filth, sickness, disease.

Call it whatever you want it’s spreading to all of the districts, it was rumored to be a by-product of the lead but I would never know every fucking factory in that shithole was producing something illegal and dangerous for all I know they probably mixed together in the reflecting pool that has long since been filled with fecal matter and body parts. If you’re still alive you need to send word to congress, the president, Russia for all I care this city needs to be wiped off the map before whatever the fuck is festering inside of here breaks loose on the rest of the world.

Good luck,

John.

*End Recording*

“The Day Liberty Fell” By Giant Enemy Cliché

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411679015&forumid=1

"Mr. Governor, it's time."

Harold's eyes darted over his glasses toward the doorway. The mouse-like secretary stood between the frames with a concerned expression that only troubled Harold further. The details of today's meeting were secret, but she knew; she had to know. What was her name? He couldn't remember. With a nod he stood behind his worn desk and turned to the window.

Across the desk were months of satellite photo's and intelligence reports. Reading them had only made real what he and others already knew. Fifty years ago, when Harold was still just a kid, the city had both been at once a spectacle and a joke. A libertarian paradise and a true representation of capitalist ideals. Most people laughed. That it would ever get built, let alone survive for more than a year or two, was considered impossible. But it happened. And those who didn't laugh flocked to the city. His predecessor fifty years ago saw it as harmless. Why would he turn down a multi-billion dollar investment in his state? Besides, he had some personal interest in seeing their goals come to fruition, fiscal conservative and proud patriot as he was. He had no idea what he had done.

Harold sighed deeply and stood back from the window with a caution that betrayed his age. He looked to his desk, through the mess of maps, photos, memos and reports and took his favorite pen. He waved it idly before placing it in his pocket and, fumbling, he began to fill his tattered briefcase. To the secretary, he thought, he must have looked very old.

"Mr. Governor..."

"I'm almost ready....Just... Give me a moment."

What was her name? He couldn't remember. He flicked close the faux brass locks on the briefcase, and straightened his fading red tie. His back hurt, but he couldn't appear weak, not today. He was shaking, not visibly, but he knew you didn't have to see it. With a deep breath he stood upright, and through a long outward breath he put on his calmest face and strode towards the door.

The hallway looked curiously long as he left his office and it felt unnaturally like a descent. He remembered a dream he had last night. He was groping around, lost in the dark and ahead of him was a hole that ran deep through the earth. He was compelled forward and couldn't turn back.

“Governor, the briefing room is prepared and the President is waiting for you to join her. The General is available by video link.”

For the last fifty years Liberty had festered. In its first year, the population of the project grew enormously. People from across the USA packed up their belongings to take part in their ideal vision of liberation. Information and statistics from this era are relatively easy to obtain. It was in the interest of Liberty to show the world that it was a flourishing bastion of the free market. About five years in, the information slowed to only a trickle. Calls for intervention had been met with intense backlash and eventually the Liberty problem became un-discussable and then mostly forgotten.

Harold reached the end of the hallway and faced the briefing room door. He hadn't felt like this since the children's hospital hostage crisis. He knew he'd made the right decision... but still. Then the whole world was watching, today no one would see until it was done. Locals avoided the area surrounding Liberty with good reason. Drug traffickers who used the decaying city for their protection were well known for hijacking and kidnapping, the numbers were low but consistent. Intended to insight fear but not provoke action. Thankfully, because of this the press hadn't caught wind of what happened to the Red Cross volunteers. Well not yet any way.

For a time the Red Cross were given relatively free access to Liberty although their charity ethos was shunned. Basic medical supplies were in such shortage, that they were often used as barter tokens. Insulin was worth more than its weight in Pure Strain. The trickle of medical supplies from the Red Cross had kept the volunteers safe. Safe, until one of the Gangs caught the volunteers leaking information to the Government. That was a week ago.

His hand reached out for the brass handle but fell limply to his side. He breathed another deep breath, collected himself and then pushed open the surprisingly ornate door briskly as though he had never stopped walking.

“Mrs. President”

“Governor”

She was nearly twenty years his junior and projected a calm and collected image from the dark leather seat she occupied. Even so, two years into her term she was not as youthful as she had been when she was elected. Her once auburn hair was now beginning to grey, being president will do that. Harold knew what public office was like. He took the smaller seat to her left and placed his briefcase on the old oak table, trying and failing not to make too much noise.

“Mrs. President, are you sure this is the correct course of action?” Harold gripped the arm of his glasses and moved them firmly back into place.

“With all due respect Harold, I can call you Harold right?”

It was not all right, but he nodded politely.

“Harold, with all due respect. If we don't act now the press will find out what we already know is going on in there... and then...Well, those volunteers won’t be the only people swinging in the wind.”

Harold looked nervously around the room. He never liked it much. It always seemed a little too long to be brief about anything in. He looked back to the President. Of course, she was correct. If what was truly happening in Liberty was to get out to the public before action was taken, any illusion of control would be shattered. Public outcry would demand intervention. The same thing would happen, but with more eyes watching.

“You've seen the photo's Harold. You've seen the reports. We both know how many American citizens are in liberty, right now, in slavery. We've both seen the statistics Harold. Do you remember what percentage of child pornography made in the USA, comes from within Liberty?”

“...Nearly 80%.”

The President had a way of looking through people. She knew he was afraid, but she knew he agreed. It had to happen. From the day he entered office, the shadow of Liberty had loomed over him as it had loomed over every Governor for 50 years. He didn't want to accept it, but he had no choice. Harold was about to become the man who declared war his own citizens. It had to happen now.

He lifted his favorite pen from his pocket and nervously twirled it, as a man in uniform appeared on a screen.

Today was the day, finally, when Liberty fell.

“The Scriptorium” By Pththya-lyi

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411682364&forumid=1

Abigail brought the tip of her pen to her lips and began to check her work, her rich brown eyes darting over the page. She read over the letter four times: twice to make sure she’d copied down her master’s words properly, twice again to make sure her cursive matched the charts. Once she was satisfied with her work, Abigail signed the paper with a practiced hand:

She got up from her copy desk – her chair scraping against the hardwood floor with a sound that made the other apprentices wince – and marched up to the master’s desk at the front of the room to place her handiwork before him. “That’s the last of my letters, Mr. Jewett!”

“Is that so, Miss Freeman? And so quickly, too!” Her master swung his legs off the desk’s mahogany surface and picked up his half-moon spectacles. Now it was his turn to check Abigail’s work, his green eyes taking in every detail. The gangly eleven-year-old watched carefully, alert for any sign of disapproval, as the master inspected the letter. All of the apprentices knew what it meant to anger Mr. Jewett. If you were lucky, the master would just hurt you – and he knew just how to do it without leaving any marks. Abigail had gotten her arm twisted enough to learn to be careful when Mr. Jewett was concerned. But he could do much, much worse. Abigail shuddered to remember what the master had done to Henry. Images flashed through Abigail’s mind – the black oily ink spreading over the copies on the desk, Mr. Jewett’s white knuckles as he lifted Henry into the air, the boy’s face twisted with fear. Henry was only eight years old.

“Miss Freeman.” Mr. Jewett removed his spectacles and fixed his gaze on Abigail. His eyes are like a snake’s eyes, she thought – not for the first time – bright and glinting and hard. She caught her breath, waiting for her master to unleash his wrath, but Mr. Jewett smiled instead.

“Miss Freeman, I do believe this one of the finest Jeffersons I have ever seen.” He chuckled to see the girl still tensed in front of him. “Be proud of yourself. You have a real talent for this sort of thing.”

“I – I – I –“ Abigail stammered.

“I believe the words you’re looking for are ‘Thank you, Mr. Jewett.’” The master leaned back in his chair, grinning at Abigail.

“I – Thank you, Mr. Jewett!” Abigail couldn’t help but shout. “Thank you so much!”

“Just keep up the good work, Miss Freeman. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, so you’ll be refreshed and ready to work hard tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!” Abigail felt like a balloon of happiness was swelling inside of her chest. She ran to her desk to clear away her things. “Thank you again, sir!” She went to the door of the copy room and was about to open it when the door flew open, revealing a chubby, brown-haired woman with slumped shoulders and runny mascara.

“Miss Keith!” Abigail was shocked to see the Learning Center’s reference librarian so upset. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Abigail,” Miss Keith sighed, enveloping Abigail in a near-smothering embrace. “I’ve been fired!” Abigail was flabbergasted. Miss Keith was one of the nicest, smartest, sweetest people Abigail had ever known! Why on Earth would anyone fire her?

Miss Keith pulled back from Abigail, smiling and shaking her head. “It’s all because I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut,” she said, as if she’d read Abigail’s mind. Miss Keith stood up and crossed the room to Mr. Jewett’s desk, looking at each of the children in turn. “I’m afraid I’ll have to pack up my things and leave,” she said, “and I just wanted to wish you all a very fond farewell. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, Mr. Jewett.” Miss Keith turned her head and fixed her sad smile on the master. “I know you hate outsiders coming into your space, but saying goodbye to everyone was just too important to me.”

“I…see. Yes, I understand,” Mr. Jewett said. Abigail saw his jaw tighten as he extended his hand to Miss Keith. “Charlotte, allow me to wish you luck in all your future endeavors.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Jewett. I can’t tell you how much –“ Miss Keith had been about to take Mr. Jewett’s hand, but had stopped herself. Abigail’s blood froze when she saw that Miss Keith was looking at the letter on the desk, the Jefferson that Abigail had just finished.

“This is a Jefferson letter? But it looks so – oh.” The color drained from Miss Keith’s face as she picked up the sheet in a trembling hand. “I thought some of those ‘original documents’ in the displays looked off. It’s because you made them, isn’t it? You and your apprentices.”

“Mr. Beck wants to showcase the truth about the Founders.” Mr. Jewett said smoothly, reaching for the top drawer of his desk. “I simply create that truth.”

“You won’t get away with this. You know I’ll –“

But Mr. Jewett had already pulled out his pistol. He fired just once, causing the top of the woman’s head to explode in a cloud of pink mist. Some of the other apprentices screamed as Miss Keith’s body fell to the floor, but Abigail couldn’t scream, couldn’t move, couldn’t even think.

“Be quiet!” Mr. Jewett yelled. “Now, you’re all going to go to the toilets and wash up, and I’m going to take care of this.”

“Wh-what are you going to do with her?” Eddie Rutledge, the freckle-faced nine-year old who sat behind Abigail, piped up.

“I said I’ll take care of this,” Mr. Jewett said in a quiet, careful, controlled voice. “And if you say anything about it –“ he turned the gun on Eddie, causing the children closest to him to scoot their chairs away – “ I’ll take care of you, too. Now move it!" The master raised his voice again. "Chop chop!”

Abigail lingered on the way out the door. Her Jefferson, all stained with blood, was still clutched in Miss Keith’s hand.

“Beachhead” By anonumos

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411682604&forumid=1

There had been many raids in the past by the mainlanders, going back to the first declaration of war in 2025. As the smog swirled overhead, twisted into nightmare shapes by the twin rotors of the bird of prey hovering above the square outside of Molls’ room, I recollected the failure of the Texas National Guard’s first assault.

Patriots and Pundits celebrated the day the traitorous governor bent to the will of the parasites in Washington. To them it was when Independence truly became free. Some of their first propaganda pieces still hung in the atrium of the Learning Center. A few of the newer books, shelved in the old Pundit Superior’s office, tell how the mainlanders debated using nuclear weapons. That was before Paul Beck obtained his own arsenal and initiated a standoff.

The first invasion suffered. Even debilitated by disease and malnutrition, the First Patriots held off the might of the entire world. There had been enough guns and ammo in Independence City to put up one hell of an insurgency, and the poorest freedom fighters threw themselves onto the bug helmeted soldiers with knives and forks. There being 25 starving Patriots for every soldier, even ballistic armor was no protection.

Later invasions suffered worse fates. Like Martians, the imperialists often fell ill within minutes, puking pink-green slime through the tightest respirators. Even in the few short years before Governor Harold Perry penned the death of Liberty, smog and viruses circled Independence City in a shield impenetrable by any but those who were born to it.

Lately soldiers have been dropping in full space suits, and I heard that the Parasites were experimenting with new materials on Venus, designed to withstand the harshest environments. I hocked a loogy against a nearby wall at the thought of anyone but a Patriot surviving the 100 square miles of No-Man’s Land around Independence. In the back of my mind, I knew Molls and I would have a hell of a time getting out, even with buckets of pure strain. But we had to try.

Now, the jump jets were firing overhead. I was cut off from the hotel. And I knew the square was about to become a crossfire of lasers and rockets. Blurry shapes were already spilling out of the alleys to attack the clean white ghosts drifting down from the orange sky. No more time to reminisce.

I ducked onto Cooper’s Lane and dove for a sewer grate as the first hiss of propellant rocketed up at the copter that was now surging vainly back into the air above Independence. As a small mushroom bloomed against the side of the vehicle, the Marines gazed up briefly before leveling plasma rifles at the attacking crowds. From every direction black frocked Pundits screamed shrill incantations against Parasites and Imperialists. Some denounced Agenda 21 and the Space Program that trained the attackers.

I didn’t want to see anymore. I hoped Molls could crawl to the basement before someone leveled the hotel, but there was nothing I could do to help her right now. Sadly, I glanced at my fishnets and the dirty water seeping over the top of my boots. Boots that cost us four appointments with the district commander of the Patriots. They were easily worth fourteen more, given the tastes of our customers. Things were looking pretty grim.

As I squelched into the knee deep sludge of the sewer, I made damned sure to tuck the book of cures into my mesh shirt, hoping the pages didn’t crumble like cheese in the fetid air.

“Beckboy17” By cult_hero

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411682961&forumid=1

Excerpted from source documents cited in Liberty: the Stillborn Dream, The Media and Legacy of The United States' Most Notorious Social Experiment. Cambridge Press, 2d ed. 2056.

[transcripts of “YourTube” videos of user Beckboy17]

Beckboy17: Hey, I uh don't know if anyone will ever be watching this, but my shrink recommended that I keep a journal or something so I can keep track of my goals. I've never been much for writing, so I thought I'd give this a try. [speaker moves toward the camera and a few seconds of blackness ensue. When the image returns, a lamp has been moved from behind the individual and the speaker appears better lit.]

Beckboy17: So I guess I should start from the beginning. I came here with my parents when I was like five, guess that would be '18 or '19 I think. This place was awesome back then, everything was shiny, the streets were clean, they even had ducks in big muck. Well, it wasn't the big muck back then I guess, but the "reflecting pool". My mom said I used to love to go feed the ducks. Haven't seen any ducks in a while though... [the speaker appears sullen and ceases speaking for a few seconds before the image jumps forward]

Beckboy17: I grew up pretty normal I guess, I went to school for a few years and learned how to run a tractor. Once I hit 12, I decided screw everything else, it's time to make some monnaaay, and got a job at one of AG's [ed. note: AG being liberty vernacular for Applied Genetics, one of several large agricultural concerns existing in early Liberty] bigger farmops helping to run the auto-combines. Been there 'bout 5 years now. It's tough work and you really need to watch your hands, as I learned early on. [Speaker holds up his left hand which is missing the distal and medial joints of the little finger and distal joint of the ring finger]

Beckboy17: But it's not like I'm gonna be there forever you know. I'm saving up enough to get some ownership one day soon. Saw some shares of Liberarms and KKR going for pretty cheap. I was readin' on the net that analysts expect them to double within the next two years. [ed note: Liberty Arms and Kallister and Kallister Reclamation #KKR# were an arms manufacturer and salvage company, respectively, which played a substantial role in early Liberty, but by 2030 had lost much of their value and became the subjects of multiple corporate looting scams and bankruptcies] If I can turn a quick profit off those, I should be well on my way toward true freedom.

Beckboy17: Guess that's it for now, I'll hope to put a few more of these on-line in the future. Maybe even let my shrink see 'em when I get enough scratch up to see her again. In the meantime, this video brought to you by Franklin Brand Juice Boxes, as close to the tree as the Lord allows. [Ed. note: YourTube was a free video hosting service subsisting upon advertisement revenue. As part of their terms of service, all user videos were required to contain an endorsement of an approved product or company.]

Entry 3:

Beckboy17: Only 12 hours today, it's nice to have a little free time. I'm almost there to get a KKR share. It's actually gotten a little cheaper than when I last checked, means I'm just a little closer...

Beckboy17: So I was looking over this contract here with AG, anyone know anything about this "arbitration" thing? [speaker holds a piece of paper up to the camera with an arbitration clause highlighted.] I talked with my boss today about how much longer until I get promoted to full operator. When I first signed on, the recruiter guy said three years max, guaranteed. He even said that "guaranteed". My boss just laughed and said that guarantee doesn't mean shit if it's not in the contract. Said the only way to get to full operator is to apply for it once the contract expires, but there haven't been any openings for the job in months. I'm sure one will open up soon, just need to keep working hard. Hard work is the key to success right? Can't rely on luck to pull up your bootstraps. [speaker sighs resignedly and looks down].

Beckboy17: [smiling and happier] Brought to you by Smith's Beef Tacos, made right here in downtown Liberty!

Entry 6:

Beckboy17: Check this out: [speaker holds up a piece of paper bearing a gold seal and lettering entitling the bearer to one share of Liberty Arms Manufacturing Consortium, Inc.] I am now, officially a shareholder. Boo yah! Who's a taker now dad? Anyone know how much I can expect in dividends? Hit me up in the comments so I can know when to expect my monnay! Yeah! This is exciting!

Beckboy17: Want to say thanks to my 16 followers. In the interest of Self Interest, this week's entry brought to you by Liberty Arms with the re-released classic Obamawhacker Assault Rifle. Get some! [Screen fades to black only to have speaker reappear a second later]

Beckboy17: Apparently Liberarms isn't an approved sponsor for YourTube, so this week's entry is brought to you by Spectra House Paint. These colors don't run.

Entry 10:

Beckboy17: Let me start out by saying: fuck this. Fuck all of this. Goddamn AG is docking my pay to fix their crappy old broke down combine. It wasn't even my fault! I'm not in charge of maintenance on the damn things. But apparently my contract says [speaker clears throat] "Employee agrees to reimburse AG for all damages incurred to AG property under the Employee's control regardless of source." Bull. Shit. The damn thing stopped working because it's old and rusted. Why in their Goddamn Boozed up cokehead brains do they think that I should be responsible for this shit. Fuck it. I am done. [speaker stares into the camera for approximately 4 minutes, breathing heavily with his arms crossed.]

Beckboy17: At least I still get paid. They made me sign an addendum to my contract stating that I would continue to provide the contracted services until the debt is repaid. 27 months at the rate of payment to pay for the damage [speaker holds up fingers in "air quotations"]. Christ. [speaker drops head to the desk with an audible thud.]

Beckboy17: [speaker appears on screen wearing a different shirt and appearing as if he hasn't shaved in several days] Brought to you this week by Liberty Loans, when you need cash now, don't let the opportunity pass you by.

Entry 12:

Beckboy17: Called Liberarms investor relations about this check I received for 2.5 PD [Ed note: PD refers to Patriot Dollars, one of several forms of currency used during the initial growth of Liberty]. Apparently "Liberty Arms Manufacturing Consortium, Inc." has gone bankrupt and re-organized. I have no fucking idea what re-organized means, but apparently it means I was required to sell my share back for a price determined by the creditors. This is fucking stupid. I tried to argue with that dumb bitch, but she kept throwing all this bullshit about mergers, and proxy voting, and the investor's agreement at me. 1300 bucks lost. [video jumps ahead]

Beckboy17: [appearing calmer] It's just a setback. That's all. Just a setback. Bootstraps, bootstraps. Make, don't take. I'll get through it.

Beckboy17: Brought to you by, and it is approved, I checked, Bear Arms with the new .50 caliber S-97 Kaiser long range rifle. The only sniper rifle on the market with patented stay-true #tm# stabilization.

“Independence 2301 A.D.” By Paxicon

ttp://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411684134&forumid=1

Beyond Independence there is only parasitism.

The shaman sings softly next to the fire on the ruined high-rise rooftop. The tribesmen huddle for warmth. Some stroke their ancestral katanas or rifles with greasy cloths salvaged from ancient Gap shirts left by the Parasites.

Look upon the stars, says the Shaman in his blonde wig of finest pig hair and the tribesmen duly turn their gaze above. The shaman drags his white nail across the shattered green shard of blackboard and elaborates. Why would anyone pay to journey there? Why would they take MY WEALTH.

MY WEALTH!!

The cry goes up and crude weapons are hefted to the sky. No-one wants to admit it, but there hasn't been a serviceable live-round since the Thunder Day. The rifles are clubs, but clubs of symbolic power.

Only the Truly Free may hold these clubs.

The nail drags a crude pattern that, were it chalk, might spell out "NASA". His ceremonial suit crumples as he moves and the white (Grey) shirt underneath can be seen from a thousand holes.

Long ago, the Parasite left this world for others!' the shaman intones and a quick "->" is drawn and the word is scratched in ominous large letters. ISLAM.

The tribe chants "Obama. Obama. Obama." and the air seems to electrify with excitement. The shamans fingertips dance furiously across the blackboard, drawing patterns within patterns. Socialists. Fluoridated water. Welfare-Queens. Healthcare reform! Arrows within arrows, words underlined dozens of times. The chanting grows more and more intense "Obama! Obama! Not my president! Not my president!"

The shaman breaks down into tears and his pig-red skin paint runs down his cheeks as he pleads for the parasites to wake up and lifts the ceremonial bootstrap rattler. The screaming excitement grows louder and louder, until finally it ends with a heavy thud.
A rifle butt hits a random child in the back of the head and the victim falls to the ground. While the mother screams and struggles against her brother-husbands, the shaman kneels and carefully wraps the bootstraps around the boy’s neck.

All it takes is a minute and the struggle ceases. The tribesmen descend with katana and stone axes drawn high for the butchering of the sacrifice. The ritual is complete.

The tribe has once more pulled itself up by its bootstraps.

“A Boy's Life in Beckistan, Part 1” By Vienna Circlejerk

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411684316&forumid=1

I was born and raised in Independence, USA. That's really the first thing anybody should know about me. Growing up in Glen Beck's libertarian fantasyland in its heyday does things to a kid, or at least it did to me and pretty much everyone I knew, that make normal life for us just a little surreal, and can make us a little weird to be around.

It's not that we're fanatics or followers anymore. I mean, that's pretty obvious, right? America was going through a weird time and our parents believed in some weird things, but times changed and people changed, clearly for the better. It's just that when you grow up in what's basically an ideologically driven tourist trap, you wind up with a pretty skewed view of the world. Gaps in your knowledge about the outside world get filled in with kid logic and scraps of information about things the rest of the world regards as common knowledge.

Like the time when I believed in fairies. All my friends did. We knew they were real because we'd seen them, even talked to them.

Oh, I know most children believe in fairies at some point, and maybe even think they see them. But in my case, my belief in fairies was the result of observation and deduction, resulting from an investigation into observable but unexplained phenomena.

You see, Independence was never meant to actually be a self-sustaining community, or even a viable community. It was intended from the very moment it was conceived to be a tourist trap for the true believers in the conservative and libertarian politics of the early 21st century. These were people, all across the country, who were ready, willing, and eager to be sold one thing: evidence. Evidence that it could work, that they were right. Evidence they could point to, visit, and gloat about to anybody they'd ever had arguments with. Evidence they could use to quell those nagging doubts. And Glen Beck was no idiot; he knew that true believers would pay top dollar to keep on believing.

So imagine being a kid growing up in a town that was actually a Hollywood set, only nobody ever says, "Cut!" and the actors are never out of character. But nobody has actually told you this. You might ask why the walls are held up by ropes or why the rain is caused by some guy with a hose, only to have people act like they don't know what you're talking about and look at you like you're crazy. That's what it was like sometimes, growing up in Independence.

One day, after some tourists came through our neighborhood to watch our local homeschool group's play about the signing of the Declaration of Independence in the park, I noticed all the empty juice boxes laying around where the audience had been. I'd thought back to all the times I'd seen garbage left in the park, and how it never seemed to accumulate.

I turned to my dad and asked him, "Dad, what happens to the juice boxes when we leave? Does the wind just blow them away?"

"Well, some of them, son," he replied. "But the free market is efficient at allocating resources, and letting juice boxes blow all over town would be a terrible waste of resources. I'm sure there are some hard working businessmen in town who take these juice boxes and make something out of them."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Well, I don't know for sure, son. That's the great thing about capitalism. You don't have to know how something gets done for it to get done. The market makes sure that the right man for the job will come along and do his part, and all the parts fit together like they were guided by a great invisible hand."

"Oh, like the story of the pencil we read for homeschool!"

"Yes, son, just like that."

I was satisfied for a time, but that night as I lay in my bed I got the feeling that I was missing something. What would they make out of old juice boxes? And how did the grass get cut at the park? My dad had to cut the grass at least once a week at home, but who did it at the park? I never saw anyone, or heard a lawnmower on days when my friends and I were given money for park tickets. There were always tourists in the park, so it would probably be pretty hard to work around them. For that matter, when do they collect the juice boxes? I'd never seen it happen. Did the businessman who picked up the juice boxes have to buy a park ticket, or did they let him in for free since he was doing something nice for them? Or did they charge him for the juice boxes and the park ticket?

I was starting to think that owning a park might be a really good way to make money.

The next day, after Bible lessons, my friend Jimmy and I were playing in his yard and I asked him if he knew who cut the grass and picked up the juice boxes in the park.

"Maybe the brownies do it," he said.

"Brownies?" The only brownies I knew about were the ones my mom made.

"Yeah, the brown people who come out at night. Maybe they clean up the park."

"You mean like black people?" We'd read about black people in homeschool. They used to be slaves but now lived on welfare in the big cities, we were told. They certainly didn't sound like the kind of people who would clean up the park at night.

"No, brown, kind of like mud. They take the garbage after you put it out. I saw one of them do it once, when I woke up at night. My mom told me not to tell anyone I knew about them, so, uh, don't tell anyone I told you. She said they're like fairies and they'll go away if too many people know about them. My dad calls them 'goddamn brownies.' He doesn't like them a whole lot."

"Why not, if they take the garbage for him? You're making this up!" I said, accusingly.

"I am not! Just see for yourself if you don't believe me. If you can stay up that late," he taunted.

Oh, I could, I assured him, and I did. And he was right.

That night, when I saw my dad take the garbage and set it out by the road, I knew I would be up until sunrise if I had to be. My window even faced the front yard, so I had a perfect view. I could even see the garbage bag sitting at the end of the sidewalk.

After my parents wished me good night, I quietly crept over to the window and stared. I was a little frightened. What if the brownies caught me watching them? Would they be angry that I had found out their secret? I guessed that my parents knew about them, but something told me not to ask, at least not yet. Besides, I wanted to see for myself if Jimmy was pulling my leg, and make sure he knew I could stay up late enough to see the brownies.

Leaning against the wall, I had started to drift off a bit when movement caught my eye. There was a full moon and the porch light was on, so I could see pretty well. An old man came walking along the sidewalk, quietly pushing a cart. His skin was darker than mine, but otherwise he didn't look much different from my granddad. Behind him, I could see a smaller figure following along, somewhat obscured in shadow.

The man stopped in front of our house, picked up the garbage bag, and quietly put it in the cart. When he started moving again, the porch light fell on the figure behind him and my eyes widened. It was a boy about my age, with dark skin and dark hair, carrying a small toy airplane. Just at that moment, he dropped the plane, and bent down to pick it up while the old man pushed the cart out of my sight beyond the corner of the house. I saw an opportunity.

Quickly, I lifted the window about an inch. "Hey!" I said in a loud whisper. The boy looked up. "Hey!" I said again. The boy looked toward me. "My name's Matt!" I whispered as loud as I could. The boy's eyes widened, and he looked frightened. "What's your name?" I asked, hoping my parents wouldn't hear me but risking the loudest whisper I could manage. The boy looked around and started to run in the direction the old man went with the cart. "Obbwaylow!" he called out in a strange voice as he disappeared around the corner. Then I heard a loud "Shhh!" and whispered scolding.

Obbwaylow. Was that his name? It was hard to make out; he was obviously trying not to be heard. But it wasn't like any name I'd ever heard. Obb Waylow? Or…maybe Rob? I knew some kids who still had trouble with their Rs, and his voice did sound kind of funny. Yes, that had to be it. Rob Waylow.

I hoped he wasn't in much trouble. I wanted to see him again, to make friends with this brownie boy, Rob Waylow, this mysterious brown boy who helped take the garbage and possibly gathered juice boxes in the park for the businessmen. I wanted to know everything I could about these wonderful, magical brown people who came out only at night (maybe that was why they were so dark) and did helpful things for us. I had discovered a wonderful, magical, secret world, so different from my own world, which suddenly seemed very boring.

Carefully, I closed the window and crept back to bed. As I snuggled down deep into the covers, I felt happier than I remembered ever feeling before. Rob Waylow. My new friend. I tried to remember exactly how his faced looked. I was sure we would be friends right away, if I could just find a way to talk to him, and he would tell me all of the secrets of the brownies and I could help him gather juice boxes in the park at night. Maybe Jimmy could sneak out and come with us.

Rob Waylow. My new friend from another world. Smiling, I went to sleep.

“Wings of Liberty” By StandardVC10

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411684429&forumid=1

Even when you knew a lot about Independence, you didn’t know much. You could be an expert about one sector of the sprawl, but not another- Freedom City’s people didn’t tell you anything about Reagantown’s people and Reagantown’s people didn’t tell you anything about the Library District, and the Library District- well, they had it fine, but why would they worry about the rest of town? Sure, the place did have a television station operating in it, but its reporters were focused on the idea of Independence still, after all this time; they broadcast not into the city, but from it, encouraging people to move in.

That’s what they said. I didn’t believe them- how could this place be so far gone that you couldn’t get from one side of it to the other, or hear about people who did? But the stories were closer to the truth than you might think. Sure, some of the more powerful people who left Independence did so with a grudge, and shrieked to the heavens about every awful rumor to come out of the place. However, that Beck founded the place around people who didn’t want to hear things that they disagreed with- maybe it’s not such a big surprise that they didn’t want to see or talk to people they disagreed with either. Residents, even former ones, don’t say that straight up, they blame a neighbor who put up a taller fence, or they say they wanted to live in the armed, sectioned camps from the beginning, but the implications are clear in things like “that sort of person just shouldn’t be allowed in” or “we needed a wall high enough that an illegal couldn’t jump it.”

It didn’t have to be that way, even in a place with Independence’s inhabitants, but the big road operators charge you twenty dollars for anything remotely still useable, and once Gold Top Taxi went under, the rest of the cab companies just raised their rates through the roof rather than add many new cars and drivers. One guy tried digging a subway, all on his own without asking anybody. I think he must have had a screw loose, and anyone with any experience in construction knew that he didn’t have the expertise or equipment to make it happen. Still, it took a fracking accident to put a stop to that. Happened on my first visit, a while ago now, something like Year 14 in that stupid calendar the Library District brain trust tried to foist on everybody.

My story was this. The main gun factory in town, Patriot Nine-Twelve LLC, were pissed at the rest of Independence because no one was allowing them to either buy land for a new wing of the factory, or build a new road to carry some of their goods out of town (despite the widespread cheers around the parts of the town that knew when the company got a large international sale. Finally, validation for the Independence way of life!) The Nine-Twelve reps told me that they’d like to build an airfield to lift them out instead. I asked them why; they said one of their bigwigs was feeling spiteful, but still couldn’t find any labor cheaper than Independence, not even in Mexico.

They told me they had negotiated their way to a decent sized parcel of land next to their main building, and wanted me to make sure that the instrument approach and runway length would be safe for “a 1969 Boeing 727-21C with a 32-seat VIP interior.” I told them that sounded oddly specific, and they spent some time mumbling amongst themselves. It was a couple of years later that I learned their CEO owned such an aircraft personally.

When the company limo finally got me to the site from Lubbock airport (five hour drive, three and a half of that within Independence) they had, it appeared, just finished demolishing the properties within the area they wished to build. Workers were still carting away cheap bricks and broken stucco in wheelbarrows. I still remember looking into their sweaty faces. None of them talked to me, but their eyes said they weren’t comfortable with what they had gotten into. I noticed that there were a lot of shell casings in the dirt, and a section of intact wall being taken down showed what appeared to be bullet holes. I noticed that many of the workers had to suddenly stop jackhammering and call over a superior, who was usually accompanied by a couple of private security guards with dark glasses and Remingtons. At the time, the whole site seemed very shady, especially the means by which it was procured, but as my business with Independence continued, I learned that the “evidence” of wrongdoing I had perceived in my head was by no means extraordinary.

Patriot Nine-Twelve had the land now though, that was the important part. They had even received some tepid support from Library District executives and business owners from nearby neighborhoods like Rand Fountain, though I could seldom visit the neighborhoods myself to confirm this, especially not the ones that had been founded as gated communities to begin with. Even so, the lesser captains of industry in the closest neighborhoods like Paul Street were very upset, saying they didn’t want noisy jets over their heads at all hours, and thought that if too many passenger flights were allowed in, the parasites and freeloaders might start visiting too often. I never really got a straight answer from Patriot Nine-Twelve regarding whether they actually wanted to allow any- seems their story changed depending on who they were pitching it to. That part wasn’t my business- my job was just installing and certifying the equipment for commercial airliner navigation.

That only got difficult when it became necessary to put some of it off-site. The parcel now in possession of Patriot Nine-Twelve wasn’t that big- not a problem in itself, but it meant some of the glide slope beacons and a weather radar had to be put elsewhere. The beacons would be in line with the runway, stretching ahead of it or behind it depending on direction. The radar would be on a low hill about a mile from the factory building. I would have to leave the reservation.

It was about six months after my first visit to the site that I had to make my first trip out, to the planned radar site. It seemed simple enough to walk, but Patriot Nine-Twelve insisted on sending me out of their compound with a bodyguard. He called himself Barry, and carried a nine-millimeter automatic pistol, its magazine protruding an inch from the bottom of its grip. The two of us signed some company paperwork at the main gate, Barry stepping into the street first, eyes high.

“It’s not really necessary to look for snipers right now,” he told me, “now that the Reagantown boys say they have the perpetrator in custody and nothing’s been reported for the last couple of days.” He waited for me as I picked myself up from slipping on the contents of a discarded can of peaches. I hadn’t hit the ground, just badly lost my balance.

“But it’s force of habit, and you can’t be too careful outside the factory grounds,” he finished.

“Reagantown boys?” I asked, not knowing how literally to take him.

“That neighborhood’s militia. Every able-bodied male, or so they say. A more honest bunch than some, so I think I can trust them on that at least. They’re somewhere down that street to the left, behind the concrete wall,” Barry explained as we walked.

The rest of our conversation was pretty banal, I don’t remember a lot. I think Barry was mostly telling me about the neighborhood we were walking through, low-rise apartments mostly for gun factory workers- it was one of the first businesses in Independence, and the housing was reportedly fairly decent, although the fracking earthquake from my previous visit had apparently been causing as-yet-unresolved issues with power and plumbing. Apparently the place was named Minuteman Corner.

I do remember reaching its gates, though. The apartments suddenly gave way to a block wall. The street Barry and I were on was blocked with a gate of chain-link fence and a guardhouse constructed mostly of corrugated metal. Beyond it we could see two rows of razor wire, a ten-yard gap, then what appeared to be a trench in the bare dirt, beyond which was another wall. Barry exchanged some words with the two men in the guardhouse, both of whom were carrying rifles, though I wasn’t close enough to see what kind. He returned to where I was waiting shortly, saying “Don’t worry, they’re cool.”

The gate opened and as we strolled out he added, “Only thing is to be back by nightfall. Wilkes up there has spotlights and everything but he doesn’t like visitors after dark, he says some Mexicans have been acting a bit inquisitive on the other side.”

However, we then had to clear the gate immediately opposed to the one we had just left. Painted upon this second gate were the words “Now Entering Jurisdiction of Coughlin Homeowner’s Association – Have Proof of Citizenship Ready.” The gate swung open and a late-twenties man holding a bolt-action rifle came forward to speak to us. Behind him were four more people, three men (all with shaved heads, although the first guard just had a short haircut) and one visibly pregnant woman. They seemed to be trying to get some sort of common uniform going- they were wearing the same shade of gray on their jackets, though the rest of their clothing varied, and the shape of their helmets- it was then that I realized I needed to get to my proposed site through the neo-Nazi neighborhood. It took some persuading, and finally a bribe of an old gold ring from a former marriage, to convince them that I was both passing through on worthwhile economic business, and that I was, in fact, “White” going back three generations.

Compounding the unpleasant nature of the neighborhood was that this section was apparently newer than Minuteman Corner and hadn’t been built to nearly as high a standard. Against the neighborhood wall was piled several years’ worth of garbage, and it seemed as if only some of their sewage pipes actually led anywhere. Barry and I passed what must have once passed for a local park; instead, all of the grass was brown, and there was permanent standing water from poorly maintained septic tanks underneath. I remember Barry choosing that moment to re-apply mosquito spray.

Thankfully, my site was not actually within this particular section of Independence. After lowering his StG44 and clicking his heels, the guard on the other side of Coughlin informed us with some trepidation that he didn’t know who lived there, only that he often got some kind of chemical smell, and that the rumors within his neighborhood told only of dark skin and amazing deals on off-brand pharmaceuticals.

As it turned out, this was Freedom City, and it seemed that this particular group of Independence residents didn’t have as big a shared objective as some of the others (Coughlin were Nazis, Rand Fountain was apparently mostly virtual currency miners, the Library District pretended to have the functions of Beck’s civic order…) but it was the cheapest to live in owing to the presence of some natural gas wells and distribution lines. I finally began knocking on doors and trying to persuade people to sell enough land to build the weather radar. While the buildings in this part of town were clearly constructed in haste with no particular regard to code, one constant was a large, heavy door, and getting residents’ attention was difficult for this among other reasons. The first two knocks took five minutes each for an answer, the first time because the resident was strung out on something, and the other because the resident was fighting a fire in his basement methamphetamine lab. The third building we investigated was owned by a pornography studio, and they said they needed the property because so many other neighborhoods were suspicious of interracial couples. My luck got a bit better in four and five who said they’d consider the offer, though the fifth resident said he would only accept payment in human teeth. It was getting late though, and with no public streetlights, staying out in the dark was trouble.

I made many such trips. At first, Barry was okay, but then he tried to rob me, and I had to hire a bodyguard from outside of Independence. I learned that it was easier to ensure my safety if I brought something Independence residents would either have in higher demand than the rest of Texas, or were forbidden from getting by their neighborhood. Occasionally the neighborhood big shots would get upset at me for this, but appealing to their own avarice was quite effective, and if not I could scare them in other ways, such as threatening to report them to the Patriot Nine-Twelve company as subversives or obstructionists. I never actually did- I wasn’t sure if the gun company’s men would be totally ineffective, or ruthlessly lethal towards people who had done me no harm, or both at the same time.

When it came time to test the approach patterns and calibrate them, it required making practice flights, in a Cessna small jet. This was normally the FAA’s job, but after asking around, the Nine-Twelve boys decided that an airplane marked as belonging to a federal agency would be in grave danger when close to the airport; instead, they formed a shell company to charter a calibration aircraft for the task, with identifying marks largely removed. Of course, that didn’t stop the chemtrail people, but then, what did?

"Made in the USA" By happyhippy

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411684790&forumid=1

It was when the Foundministrator shot Zach that I finally decided to get out.

Zach was the hardest worker I've ever seen, probably because he was a 'frosty'. The slang had changed over the years, frosty = frosty snowman = first noman = 1st gen non-man. A non-man, like the rest of us, but we were at least 2nd or 3rd generation in. We were used to the pain and work from birth, but he was liberated and then declared non-man barely in his teens.

All that work and none of it mattered, he stumbled and mixed up the two first names of our original glorious founders and that was that.

The Foundministrator didn't catch a glimpse of what was rushing through my mind as I recited one of our founder’s speeches to everyone afterwards. They knew I had everything memorized since I was young, even down to the tear drop roll at each climatic end. I even had the head bobs and hand gestures down to perfection. On rare occasions one would jokingly shout to get a blackboard and some chalk. They didn't even know that that tear actually meant something for the first time ever.

I don't remember much about the transport journey back to our beds, not even the usual delay for the loading of the female nomans as some of the guards weren't finished with them. It was a supposed blessing to be selected by a Foundministrator and used, it earned extra mandollars (as the manta goes 'Mandollars - for only real free men'). Thankfully there are very few homosexual Foundministrators as you never volunteered for it just selected. And lucky to get all your clothes back at the end.

I earned enough mandollars from normal work to earn an eight hour sleep, but I spent most of it staring at Zach's bunk. During the last hour or so, a plan bubbled in my mind but it only slotted into place while I was eating second shift breakfast (-29 mandollars for that pleasure). Then directly afterwards at Assembly I was hoping they would select me for the usual Truth tests, and they did. Asking me for a recital as usual I decided to give them the full TRUTH. It was one of the original truth sermons, the powerful 'A man is only a man if he is declared a man.' I even paused for the full 30 seconds to let the tear roll down as our Leader did. As usual there was just silence after it, just moved onto the next person. When this was over I approached the Work Desk and asked to be placed on 'Infrastructure Expansion' duty instead of normal factory work. The Founderclerk instantly approved it as it was rare for volunteers for what was basically scavenging the Rubbish Ruins. Mere minutes later I was off.

The Rubbish Ruins surrounded us, the barriers between the outside terrorists and the only True freedom that ever existed. Doubt anyone believes that these days though. The ruins were basically the houses and dumps that our ancestors lived in mere decades ago, before they were killed, enslaved, or did the enslaving and killing. And it was easier to die out here, not by anything living out here, but by your own fault. Cut yourself badly on some jagged edge or break a bone and didn't have enough mandollars to buy help, you would be at the mercy of the Foundministators. And a bullet is sometimes cheaper than the bother helping.

The work was simple, scour the ruins and dumps for anything useful, anything that could be melted, smelted, reworked, rewoven, even could replace anything else and you would earn extra mandollars. IF you found an actual working whole item, say a watch or full cigarette lighter you got bonus mandollars. However this itself was a dangerous incentive, as more often than not the Foundministrators would just kill you and keep it for themselves. My father once told me he saw a transport return with a third less workers and all the Foundministrators wearing ancient musical listening devices. It was the first non-truth music he heard since he was a boy he said. But I had to come here, it was the only way to get what I needed. I will just be extra vigilant and not make them suspicious.

The day went slowly at first, obediently following orders where to search, circling around a massive mound that half looked like a collapsed building. Rumor was the original Leader and his only True followers were buried out here, after the first purge started and they locked themselves into the Council of Elders. The well known joke is that if you find the council you will become a Man instantly, even more than the current Founders. Then again they say His ghost still gives Truth sermons to this day, waiting for one of us to find and bring in another age of Man. But alas there was no sign of the Council, maybe another day.

Mid work period a shout went up from another work mate, he found a group of skeletons in rubble. This was a good indicator, as more than one corpse together equals hideout, which equals possible supplies stocked! We were all instructed to go help clear it, and so for the next hour we cleared stones and dirt. It was a decent find in the end, a busted electronic device, a few custom made weapons that looked like they were dangerous to be behind it instead of in front of when firing, several buckets, wads of paper that may have something useful on them or could be repulped, and about three dozen empty cans. At least the Foundministrator's won't be angry we didn't find anything today.

It was nearly work period over, and I was starting to think I will have to come back another day, until I spotted a small propped gap in a nearby mound. It looked like a doorway frame, and I asked if I could dig into it to see if it led to any room. I was allowed. So I managed to quickly clear the crap around the entrance to it, enough to squeeze into it. My thoughts were right that it lead into a hallway of sorts. This must have been a house or building once upon a time. Just a few meters into it was another propped doorway, it too was collapsed and barely half a meter high but it was entirely free of rubble. So I carefully worked my way to it, and into the next room.

It wasn't much of a room, barely enough to get into. But there were loads of items in here, it was another cache of long lost items. And there it was, what I wanted.

It said the four words I wanted badly to see on any small item I could hide on myself, the rest of the room the Founders could have.

“News” By Trouble Man

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411685598&forumid=1

I wish they'd stop showing footage from Independence. Every night they do, there's a riot, guaranteed. Whether it's looking for goods from Independence to burn, or just plain looking for libertarians to beat up, something about that place just makes people go crazy.

“Freedom is Free” By HEGEL SMOKE A J

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411686339&forumid=1

Long ago.

“Aunt Emily, Aunt Emily!” called the boy, skinny arms raised. It was Friday afternoon and he was stoked as heck. Every month he got to spend a weekend or even more with Aunt Em, his favorite person in the whole world.

The tall, aquiline woman smiled down at the child. “It’s good to see you, kiddo,” she said, tousling his dark hair. “But my name is Emiline, remember? Em-ah-lean-ah. Your grandmother had a German roommate in college with this name, and she thought it was pretty.”

“OK,” said the child, picking at a scab on his arm. He was thin, too thin. Em would have to talk to some people on the black market about No-Mercy‘s children. “What’s German?”

Emeline Sparrow raised both eyebrows at that, and sucked in her lips. She had no idea even where to begin with that one. So she didn’t say anything while she accompanied the boy to the elevator--once a freight elevator when this had been an office building, now the only elevator in the building, kept running by a frightening rig of weights and pulleys and the crazed ingenuity of Lower-Taxes Smith, self-ordained apartment manager. “Stand back,” she said, holding the boy well to the rear, which she always did: the contraption had lost its doors decades ago. The floors fell away beneath them, light-dark-light, and she sighed.

Aunt Em was always a quiet person, reserved you might say, but she was uncharacteristically grave as she brought the child into the complex of rooms she and her special friend Ann-Coulter Berkowitz shared with four other families, as she helped him unpack his little satchel, clear a place in their corner of the main room (marked off with plastic sheeting hung from the ceiling) and lay down blankets to sleep on. (She would never tell him this, but she had no others: as long as her nephew was staying with them, Em and Ann-Coulter would sleep with their coats and sweaters on.)

She was heating the cans of pork and beans over the camp stove for their snack when she decided what she was going to say. “Jackson, what does independence mean?”

The boy giggled: his aunt was playing a game, obviously. “‘S where we live.”

“Yes, but what does the word mean? What...is...independence?”

“Freedom. No taxes.” This was starting to get boring and he had no idea what she was going on about. Adults were always interested in weird stuff.

“All right. Independence means freedom. Our ancestors named our city this because freedom is the most important thing in the world. The most important. But...but it’s not just about how we don’t pay taxes or how we all get to have guns, it’s about our minds, it’s...” She was losing him. How could you tell an eleven-year-old that he was being brainwashed, and why would he care? Maybe she was bad at this: despite the lack of regulations elsewhere, the legal system of Independence was very specific about the part where she and Ann-Coulter would never be allowed to raise children, and she worried that she had no idea how Jackson thought.

Let’s try something else. “J.J, how would you like to help me and Ann-Coulter look for treasure?”

The child leaned forward, snack forgotten. Yes! “Treasure?”

“Ann-Coulter and I work in a place full of treasure, you know. We and Mr. Jewett and the rest of the librarians find treasure all...the...purestrain...time. And if you want, you can come with us tomorrow and you can look for treasure with us.”

“What kind of treasure?”

“Secret documents, like in your pirate stories. They’ll tell you things that nobody else knows. Like...like what Germany is. That it’s a place across the ocean where they speak another language, which was why my name is different, and...”

The bathos of her aim struck Emeline: here she was, fifty years old and crouching in a dark and filthy apartment that used to be some kind of call center back when outside businesses would even touch this place, eating pork and beans out of the can with a spoon her apartment manager machined from scrap metal in his basement because in their world, in their brave new fucking world, you can’t, apparently, even get spoons without making some giant fucking deal out of it, and she was trying to tell a fucking eleven-year-old that there were more countries in the world than two, the evil one his grandparents had left and the land of promise in which they currently scrounged for canned goods. God’s country. She could have cried.

But something must have resonated, because Jackson’s eyes got huge and he said “There’s more than one language? Purestrain!”

“Yes, it’s all in the books we keep. There are hundreds of thousands in the Learning Center, and even more in the lower levels, where hardly anyone goes.”

“Can I read about languages in them?”

“Sure, if that’s what you want.”

“How many languages are there?”

“More than three thousand, I think.”

And at that, Jackson’s eyes got really big, and he just goggled at her for a bit. “Can we go now? I want to go now!”

“Finish eating first, and we can see if we know anyone who’s heading that way tonight, hitch a ride.”

The boy wolfed down his food in big, hasty gulps. Emeline sighed. “Look, kid. I’m going to tell you something and I want you to remember it. Independence means you’re free. That’s the ideal, the...the goal of everyone’s life. But real freedom isn’t about your money or your guns. And real freedom...it’s for free.”

That perked his head up; the idea that there was something in the world that didn’t cost money, up to and including the salvation of one’s immortal soul, was just beyond credibility.

“No, really. Real freedom is right here,” and she touched her nephew in the middle of his grimy forehead with one shaking finger. “It’s in your mind. It’s what you can learn and what you know. It is the most valuable thing. Never, never forget that.”

“History Lessons” By anonumos

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411688247&forumid=1

One quiet night in June, a boy pointed up to the sky of Luna through the plexi dome. "Mommy. Mommy. Ma. Mom. Mah!"

“What's that?" he asked.

Judith ne-Cheney shaded her eyes from the OLED streetlights at the edge of the park and peered through the faint reflections of a mother and her son. Earth hung like a blue and white jewel set in dark velvet. "What are you looking at, hon?"

"Is Earf on fire?!"

"Oh," Judith sighed. "That's just Independence, USA."

"It's bright! What's indie pen dance?"

Judith sighed again. "You learned about this in History class. It's the town founded by an early 21st century libertarian televangelist. Remember?"

"Beckistan?"

"Yes," his mother sighed for a third time. She didn't want to talk about it, but it was something every child of Luna should know. "Those are the trash fires: the only human disaster that you can see from space."

"Wooooooh," the boy intoned, full of wonder. "What happened? Was it like The Simpsons?"

"No, sweetie, that's a cartoon. Independence is all too real. So is Ganymede, way out near Jupiter. Both places are run by men and women who think only for themselves. Not like us here on the Moon. Luna is good, clean, and cooperative." She sensed that she was losing his attention for a moment, and scrambled for some interesting factoid to bring him back to the conversation.

"Back before the Hurricane Center lifted their Terraforming satellites into space, the smoke from those fires covered half the earth. Imagine that, honey: a band of smoke wrapped twice around the planet." She couldn't suppress a shudder at the imagery in the adult documentaries of citizens in Europe and Asia literally melting from the fumes. Thankfully she didn't have to tell her son about that for many years.

"Did it really?" he exclaimed. He gazed up at Earth-rise, trying to picture the white clouds turned black and brown and curled around Home like a pig's tail. "Yep. Now the scrubbers clean the air, but nothing we have can put out the fires that cover a full third of what used to be Texas."

Judith's HUD pinged the 8 o'clock hour. She picked her son's hand out of the air and began to lead him along the clean path out of Thurgood Park. As they walked to the monorail station, her son continued babbling about the selfish non-citizens of "Beckistan". For him it was only a curiosity, but soon he'd be old enough for his first Scouting field trip to the space port outside of Liberty City. Then the horror of Independence would be all too real...

“Marching Song” By Pththya-lyi

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411687277&forumid=1

When you're wounded and left on Glenbeckistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Galt like a soldier.

“Time is Money” By TerminalSaint

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411688383&forumid=1

"Geez William, your hand is wedged in there tight." Amos said, peering into the dark recesses of the machine. "What were you doing reaching in there, anyway?"

"My wrench fell in. I can't work without it. " William growled, shifting his weight. If he held himself in just right position the pain was bearable. "What does it matter anyway?"

"Can't very well work without your arm either. You're damn lucky the emergency stop even works on this thing. I thought they'd all been bypassed to cut down on downtime."

Shifting his worklight Amos was able to get a clear look at William's hand. It was bloody and the middle and ring fingers were bent the wrong way, but it was all in one peice. Better than most machine accidents he'd seen. He'd probably still be able to use most of it.

"Next time get an apprentice to grab it. They've got small hands, less likely to get caught." Amos added.

"Yeah, fine. Will you just get it out? Do you have any idea how much trouble I'm gonna' get in if the foreman sees this thing stopped? My numbers are already low this week. With Esther sick I can barely afford to feed Grace and Eli as it is."

"Don't worry, Will. I'll just need to unbolt the retaining plate. Then I can pull the rollers and your hand should fit past..."

Before he could finish, the shop foreman stormed up, a guard at his side, and bellowed "Why the hell isn't this machine running!?"

"S-Sorry sir." Amos stammered. "It's William, he got his hand caught. His sleeve got wrapped around the rollers and it pulled his hand into the main axle. If we didn't stop it he probably would have lost his arm."

The foreman glared down at Amos and William, averting their eys while they kneeled in the filth covering the shop floor.

"Do you have any idea how much every second of downtime costs us? Your incompetence is damned expensive. In the time I've already wasted talking to you, that machine being off has cost the company more than William's weekly salary. " the foreman spat. "Why should I care about an indentured laborer anyway? Yank him out of there and get this thing running."

"It's no good sir, my arm is suck." William exclaimed.

"He's stuck." Amos repeated "But it'll just take me a minute to open it up and pull the rollers and we can get his arm free."

"I'm not willing to risk letting you damage that machine." The foreman said, as he signaled to the company guard at his side. The guard stepped toward Amos. "It may be the most important one in the shop."

Amos turned and started up to get away. The guard grabbed him roughly by the collar and brought his club down on Amos' head, knocking him senseless.

"Time is money." said the foreman, ignoring William's screams as he reached for the 'START' button. "Time is money."

The machine lurched to life with a violent shudder. American flag lapel pins once again started trickling out on to the conveyer belt.

“hot pants and fishnets” by HEGEL SMOKE A J

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411689184&forumid=1

"OK, get this. But first, buy me a beer."

"What? Buy your own beer, you cheap fuck."

"Bro, I already bought you two, remember? Plus, you wanted to hear stories, right? So beer me."

"All right, all right..."

"Anyway, the thing about this that you have to understand is that Master Sergeant Akgemorwot is black. Really black."

"Well, you're..."

"I'm brownish. Burnt sienna. This motherfucker is black black. He absorbs light."

"You're making me kind of uncomfortable here."

"And, plus, there's the accent."

"Right."

"I mean, he is obviously not from here. And as far as Beckistan is concerned, you are either one hundred percent whitebread or you are Not From Here and probably Evil too."

"Right."

"So anyway, here we were, only a few days in. Chaos everywhere, shit on fire, and whatnot. And this dude walks out of this shitstorm wearing, get this, hot pants and fishnets."

"What?"

"Yeah, he was some kept boy or something. And we couldn't tell, because all of them look really old and really young at the same time, right? It's because they're starving. But it turns out he was, like, seventeen."

"Gross."

"Been, um...on the job a while by then, too."

"Gross."

"No, there's more. He had, in his hands, a biology textbook from the nineteen-goddamn-sixties and a bucket. A plastic five gallon bucket."

"A bucket."

"He was going to brew penicillin in it. He had written, by hand, in the margins of this fucking thing, directions to himself for how to make it out of dirt or some shit."

"What, to sell?"

"Well, yeah, it's Beckistan, but also his girlfriend was sick and he was going to save her life."

"With dirt stew in a bucket."

"Doc Brauman said it might have worked. I don't know. So this dude walks out of some janky-ass pile of rubble, walks right up to Akgemorwot, grabs his hand, and starts shaking it. And get this. Do you want to guess what he said?"

"Not really, no."

"No, get this. I had an MSF chick from, like, Austria write it down on a piece of fucking paper which I carry around with me for just this sort of occasion: Meine hochwohlgeborene Heer. Es freut mich sehr, ihre Streitmacht zu sehen. Aber meine Braut ist sehr krank. Könnten Sie mich helfen, diesen Medicament zu machen?"

"What the living hell. That's German."

"Yeah, I know."

"How did he learn German?"

"I have no idea, but turns out, he had heard about Germany somewhere when he was a kid. And as far as he was concerned, you were either from Beckistan or you were a foreigner, right? I guess he just thought that all foreigners were German. And Akgemorwot is, you gotta admit, pretty fucking foreign."

"What the Christ. Hey, beer's here."

"Sweet. So anyway, there we were, and..."

“News of the Feeding Pit” by ChaosSamusX

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411689359&forumid=1

"General!"; the man took a sip of his drink and turned around to face the woman approaching him. He didn't like the way she spoke; when a civilian speaks to an officer in that tone of voice it usually means some kind of trouble. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Leo McGarry would like to introduce you to an old friend of his." Damn - he hated being right. The two began walking down the hall while talking to each other in a typical Sorkinesque fashion. "Sit Room?" the General asked. The woman simply nodded.

"I don't understand; this place has existed how long?" "Twenty-five years, sir-" "What is basically a giant Waco has existed right under our noses for a quarter of a decade and we're only acting on it now?" The President stood up in agitation, causing the rest of the room to stand up with him. "Sir," began the Joint Chief "with all due respect, Independence has been written off for the past few administrations. The community has maintained total isolationism until..." The officer paused while some images were broadcast on the main screen. "Until?" the Chief of Staff probed.

"These images were taken by civilians on a highway just twelve clicks away from the compound. The man spotted in this picture was taking pot-shots at passing traffic." The atmosphere in the room tensed up considerably. "Any casualties?" continued the Chief of Staff. "Fortunately, none, unless you count a dent in the back bumper of a Dodge pickup. A quarantine was established by the Idaho National Guard just under an hour ago and they're expected to have the compound surrounded by an entire Regiment by 0800 hours. In addition, a pair of MH-60 Black Hawk helicopters have been surveying the compound and broadcasting live data for the past 30 minutes." "What will they do then?" The President briefly looked up from the paperwork on his desk detailing grisly violations of national and international law, but started shuffling through some photographs as he received his reply.

"Sir, I have served in the armed forces for fifty years and... With what we've been seeing for the past half hour..." The President stared at a picture of what was ostensibly a human child eating garbage out of a smoldering trench - no, not garbage - it was eating out of a mass grave. "It will take a lot more than the Idaho National Guard and two helicopters to get anyone out of that hellhole alive." As the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs spoke the last few words, background music started welling up heralding the beginning of the opening sequence, after which there would be a much more light-hearted segment wherein Josh and Toby fail to convince a trio of senators to support an environmental reform bill.

“BETTER DEAD THAN RED AND DEAD” By I am the MOON

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411690777&forumid=1

I walk the narrow streets of Independence after a long days work. I have a long walk back to my home. I look at the sky, it is a yellowish-brown color, like snake venom. An Outsider might think this a bad omen, but these conditions are preferable. Normally the skies are strangled by clouds of smoke from the furnaces and the coal plants and the factories, but today the wind is blowing, giving us a rare view of the sun. The wind is so generous today, I don't even need my inhaler!

I made a detour to the market to pick up some food. I gotta say, after going 18 hours without a meal, some fried pork just takes you to heaven. As i turn onto Reagan street, I hear a gunshot, followed by several more. I waste no time in drawing my .45 magnum. A moment later I see two men in uniform dragging a mutilated corpse out of an alley.

They wear black coats with white stripes on their sleeves, a patch on the right shoulder depicting a red stopwatch gives away who they are. The minute-men, a private law-enforcement group who patrolled this part of Independence. I quickly holster my pistol.

"You there," one of the minutemen shouts to me, the two drop the corpse and walk towards me, "you are out late, got any business around here?"

"Just runnin' some err'nds 'fore goin' home fer the night," I answer,"Had to work late just teh make 'nuff cash teh git some beef". I look at the corpse,"who's the crim'nal?"

"Oh, him? Just another fucking Commie. Caught him handing out stolen medicine to a bunch of parasites. We rounded them up, but this son of a bitch tried to bolt. We have been trying to catch him since noon."

I nod, it was only right that the man died, his actions could have lost the Med companies a small fortune. "So what yeh gunna do wiff the rest of 'em?" I ask.

"The baron of this district wants an execution in two hours at Crusader Park. You should go see it, front row seats are only two tiles*. They'll be selling food as always and I hear Baron Booth** is ordering napalm for this one."

"NAPALM!?" I shout, as excited as a kid hearing an Ice cream truck. "You bet yer ass I'll be thar!"

-------------

I was lucky to get a seat in the fifth row, almost half the district was here. The criminals were lined up on the stage 100 feet away from me. There were six of them. The audience begins to cheer as a tall, hooded man wearing a black fire suit marches onto the stage. In his hands is an old Vietnam era flamethrower.

One of the criminals begins to beg and is swiftly silenced with a boot to the face as the crowd roars with laughter.

Another man on the stage raises the flag of Independence over his head, signalling the beginning of the ceremony. The people quiet down. At that moment, a voice booms from the park's PA system.

"Greetings, my fellow Patriots, true sons and daughters of the American way! I, President Beck, have been asked to speak on this occasion by the noble Baron Booth." Our glorious founder spoke with the same charisma and brilliance as he did on TV. They say he gets better at it with every year. Hell, he didn't even need his chalkboards anymore!

"I have worked so hard to keep this nation pure, true, and American. Yet every day, these communist bastards seek to take our freedoms, and leech off of the success of hard-working AMERICANS! We will not stand for this. As your President, I condemn these criminals to burn RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW."

At that moment, the executioner turned and unleashed a raging storm of flame. The screams of the traitors could not be heard over the cheers of the audience. Putrid black smoke rose from the stage as the executioner fired again. People in the front rows surge onto the stage and begin to beat the screaming parasites with hammers and bats and crowbars.

I wept a single tear, tonight was a good night to be a true American.

-------------

Finally, I curl up in my bed, safe and sound in the small shack I called home. I can still hear the people celebrating in the distance. As I begin to fall asleep, I hear the rats squeaking as they search for food. Lucky for them, I am in a good mood tonight.

I'll shoot them in the morning.

--NOTES—

*Tiles are small pieces of metal with gold mixed into them.

**as in John Wilkes Booth

“The Beckian Job, Pt. 1” By Venusian Weasel

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411691072&forumid=1

They knew how to operate, that's for sure. The operational grace of the KGB, the brutal lethality of Mossad. Twenty-four dead, 3 critically injured. Probably wouldn't make it to morning, those poor bastards. The cargo truck had been rended open and was laying on its side. The gold, of course, was missing. The Paulite calling card was there, in big red letters on the wall. END THE FED.

I spoke into my cuff. “This is Johnson. We didn't get the goods out quickly enough. Commence recovery operations.” I looked down at one of the dead men. Heart ripped out of his chest and jammed in his mouth. Intestines tied around his neck. Charlie Manson would be proud of the monsters. I shivered, sympathetic for the poor agents assigned to track the murderers down.

The Chik-fil-A semi sped out of Topeka down the vast stretch of Kansas Turnpike towards Wichita. In the faux refrigerated trailer, the tired crew had washed up and gotten some rest; the realization that they'd pulled off the impossible was just now setting in. Months of practice had paid off. Cory was on the network, reporting in their success.

“Holy shit, HOLY SHIT. That was like clockwork.” Elliot said. He was only a 20-something, but his parents had managed to buy him a place within the elite membership of the Beckistani Secret Services. His inexperience was showing.

“That was the easy part,” Nina replied. “We've got 2700 lbs of hot gold on board and the puppets of the Fed breathing down our backs. In the words of the great John Paul Jones, 'I have not yet begun to fight.' Getting the loot back to Independence isn't gonna be easy, they know it's going to be us or the Paulites in Houston.”

Cory set down his gear and walked over to Lieutenant Wilkow's makeshift office at the front of the trailer. Both men conferred for a moment before Wilkow stepped out to address the agents. Before the Beckistani independence campaign, he'd been a square-jawed young man with a slightly receding hairline. Now heavy lines etched his face, no hair covered his head. The toll of running the Secret Service had been immense, but the blood, sweat and tears he had invested were now paying out at a rate of 7% a week. When Wilkow appeared from his office, every agent stood and saluted. Yes, he'd raised these men and women well. He grimaced, facial muscles unable to make a true smile after 14 years of toil.

“At ease. Independence has declared the first phase of our operation a success. We have escaped the security corridor around Kansas City, and our disinformation tactics seem to have been successful. There have been reports of FBI raids on Paulite compounds in eastern Texas. However, we must remain vigilant until we have safely delivered the goods to Independence. We have received permission to proceed with phase two.”

The statement set off a flurry of activity. The ten agents riding along in the back of the car opened the food service boxes stuffed in the corner and began packing. Two bars to a box, disguised with paper and a layer of Chik-fil-A nugget boxes. Fifty boxes in total, neatly packed near the end of the trailer.

Once packed, the agents began breaking down their mobile headquarters. Non-sensitive office goods were dumped in the front end of the trailer with their bloodstained raiding gear. Those would burn with the trailer later. Cory was busy bootnuking their digital hardware, but extra precautions would have to be taken to maintain operational security. They would be hidden among their illicit cargo, to be shipped back to Independence at a later date. The batteries were packed separately, ensuring they would not be turned back on. From here out, the operation would depend on rote memorization of the plan.

They would have to offload the goods in Wichita. Traveling further with the semi would mean stopping at a weigh station, and in the post-raid atmosphere that risked an inspection. Once the goods were offloaded, the semi would head up I-35 towards Salida. Somewhere along the way the driver would swap with a Paulite agent who had no briefing on the details of the mission. The FBI would find the evidence on him, but no way to find the true culprit.

The squeal of airbrakes let them know that they were nearing their destination, a Chik-fil-A restaurant. The agents adjusted their Chik-fil-A uniforms and prepared for the offload. The boxes would be taken to the freezer where the gold would be reboxed in grease-soaked packages and smuggled out of the restaurant in a different guise. Each agent would be responsible for approximately 270 lbs of gold in total; multiple trips through the drive-thru would be necessary this evening. Tomorrow morning, the agents would split up with their haul and head southwest. South of Dallas, west of Austin. Their homeland. Independence, USA.

(To be continued...)

“The Picture Factory” By King Doom

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411691649&forumid=1

It's difficult to know where to start, really.

I mean, everyone knows the place failed, and not quickly or big or anything that would've made any of the movies they made afterwards worth watching or anything, just a long, slow miserable decline into something very much like hell on Earth.

Now, FEMA had been building up to deal with the place for years, stockpiling resources and supplies and plans and the place finally collapsed in on itself and the rescue attempts just foundered under the sheer amount of misery and insanity within the first week anyway, that's when the UN offers to assist and the joint US/UN crisis response starts to make headway and they liberate the factories and start to get the refugees out.

I suppose if you've seen that movie 'Freedom' about the woman and her two kids who escaped you might have an idea what I get to deal with, especially if you remember the part where she sneaks her kids out of the factory they were working at. 'Working'.

See, I work for a charity that helps immigrants acclimatize to the UK, helps people with stuff like mobility issues or new parents without a lot of cash get the safety stuff they need without spending a ton of cash, or playgroups set up for people who might not have anywhere else to go socialize. Everything our friend Beck hates, basically. We get a call saying some of the few thousand refugees the UK agreed to take (mostly for publicity, it has to be said) are being placed in our catchment area and will be attending some of our playgroups and events.

This is kinda the part where me rambling on about background details finishes. I get to meet some of the citizens of libertopia. The first thing you notice is just how small the kids are. Turns out long term exposure to high levels of lead and a near starvation diet does that. I honestly thought they were all roughly five years younger than they actually were.

The thing that sticks in my mind though, the thing that sticks out most, is what they did. We provide activities in all the playgroups and that day we already had a table set up so the kids could paint pictures. They don't look at the toys, they don't go play, they just slowly and very, very painfully move over to the table, not one of them making a sound and they just wait.

We aren't really sure what to make of it at this point, so I go over and sit down and I notice not one of the kids will look up. That's okay, new place and I'm a guy, sometimes that spooks kids sometimes. I pick up a brush and make a few marks on the paper, talking to myself about it 'Oh, I like green, I think it'll look good if I do a square here' (gotta emphasize colours and shapes, helps kids learn the basics). The kids start painting too, slowly but they are doing something and the kids primary carers have wandered over and everyone is starting to think okay, this wont be so bad, we've worked with kids with developmental difficulties before and that's when I realise every single one of the six kids has tried to paint the exact same green square I have.

We give the kids a new sheet of paper (big no-no, gotta let the kids decide when something is finished themselves, builds confidence) and things get even more disturbing when they just paint that same green square again. Right then we decide maybe we can try this again later and the kids carers lead them off to the toys we have set out.

They just stare.

And one by one they slowly and shakily stagger back to the table and start trying to paint again, that same green square.

We kept trying to catch their interest with other stuff, toys, games, we even got out the slideyride, and that's been hidden for months because the kids will fight for the chance to make the little wooden cars go back and forth down that little track and nothing would make them look up.

They just keep on doing what the man showed them, over and over.

Afterwards we had a pretty big argument about the 'pictures'. We are supposed to display the artwork the kids do on the walls. We've got rows of them now, and they are slowly, ever so slowly starting to change, less regular, less mechanical.

It's gotten better, but not quickly. They won’t ever be normal, but they've started to understand they don't have to do the same thing over and over, they can do things they like and they wont be punished for it. I'm hoping one day one of them will choose a different colour or paint a different shape. I used to hope they'd paint a smiley face or a racecar or something, but after being raised as apprentices in one of the factories in libertopia I don't think they'll ever be able to.

“Slow Rescue” By Loxbourne

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411692081&forumid=1

From the journals of Doctor Robert Brauman, as collected in Liberty: the Stillborn Dream, The Media and Legacy of The United States' Most Notorious Social Experiment. Cambridge Press, 2d ed. 2056

Medicins Sans Frontiers (MSF-USA Branch); Independence, Texas.
April 17th, 2043

"I look at the pylons following the road as I ride down the highway towards our staging site, well back from the line of demolished "up and coming" housing the compound uses as an outer wall - and safely out of sight and rifle range.

That goddamned tower comes into sight over the horizon, glimmering in the heat haze at morning, and I turn off the highway onto the road down to the camp. The wheels on my bike crump-crump over the disinfectant trenches, and again I see the little plastic bridges holding the cables from our generator to cross the trench line, and I reflect the power company's the reason we're here.

There's a furtive young couple at one end of the trench, in filthy and ragged clothes with a faded Beck Cross. I kill the engine and slide off my bike, lingering with my back to them to give them privacy. The trenches are a trick we use in refugee camps, learned in places like Biafra and Sierra Lione. Helps with infection...and as an emergency toilet. The sick fact is, our trenches are the best plumbing for twenty miles. People sneak out of that hellhole just to have somewhere clean to defecate. Some of them stay, some of them go back and tell themselves what foolish lieberals we are, to let them piss for free.

We have a whole block of portable toilets. It's a good sign when an escapee uses them, it means they've overcome the propaganda that says they're prison cells and we rape people in there.

But I digress. Back to the power thing.

Time was, you could look out over that muddy field-studded plain and see that big gatehouse of theirs, "Ellis Island" Beck called it, lit up with huge signs and lights. They had a huge 40-foot Old Glory picked out in neon, with a cross above it. One nation under God, although after a while the statues of benevolent God started looking a lot like Benevolent Beck.

Behind that you'd see that marketplace and sick joke of a farm strip, with a huge floodlit road leading up to the lake. Media centre on the lake with that huge statue on top of it. Hey, even the marketplace had metered sockets for stallholders at the start, although it was about a week before some cheery entrepreneur dug up a cable and shoved in a tap. And then another week before someone else hauled his charred corpse out and remembered you need insulating gloves.

Floodlights around the lake, the lake bigger than Disneyland. Floodlights on the bridge leading up to the tower, and damn that tower. You could see it for miles and miles at night. Then that "immersion experience" science centre Beck wanted, which might have been used for science once maybe, but was a distillery and meth lab within six months. Grow farms too.

You know what we're missing from this equation?

Our generator's diesel engine splutters and cuts out as the PV panels pass the threshold to take the load. I take a moment to admire the dawn on the horizon, the one that isn't full of decrepit buildings and acrid smoke, and I remember that stuff Beck used to say about how the churches and the tower would "collect sunlight". How he didn't want wind turbines on the hills because they pissed him off. How all the sunlight was for illuminating his glorious library; his church; his theatre with its cowboys-and-indians plays.

The couple at the trench are gone, whether back to their haven of capitalism or into one of the receiving tents I don't know.

I hear from my patients, as I treat them for rickets and beri-beri and malnutrition and goddamn scurvy that a petrol or even a bicycle generator is now worth roughly a thousand slaves. It also marks you as a massive target to the various militias and mobs, and you've gotta use most of those slaves to take and hold fuel. Not a single tree stands within the compound walls. Men die daily for coal, and I know one of the tunnels out of the compound can operate because the owner pretends to have set up a mine.

So they went out and ran those taps into the power lines. Hey, socialism right? If they don't guard their power, then they can't complain when the market finds a better use for it!

Except they can. The boys at the power plant must have thought a substation had exploded when their breakers went haywire. Turns out that was about five people incinerating themselves when they tried to climb up the tower and splice the cables by hand. Now I hear the plant workers have to dug up a tap on underground cables every few weeks, and they go armed. We used to get about five or six rescues from those gigs until the power barons realized an indentured guard had little reason to stay at his post. It was those poor souls talking that made the Feds realize just how bad it had gotten in there.

Every so often we get Army medics rushing through using our stuff and the helipad; it's half the reason we got the green light to set up here, cynically. They have a dressing station for casualties from their food drops, and for the other aid agency guys whose asses they have to bail out every so often. I wonder if they're being shot at for being agents of the oppressor, or just for their cellphone batteries.

I enter the reception tent to give a nod to Ramone - a brave man. He's so obviously Hispanic the nutjobs will shoot him as a spy if he ever falls into their hands. He points me to the couple I saw earlier, shaking quietly on the rows of plastic seats. A quick glance and I diagnose the man with iodine deficiency from that goiter, and I hope that growth on his partner's neck isn't a skin cancer. They're both too scared to talk at first, perhaps fearing I will sell them to the blacks like they've been told.

He opens his mouth and I see the rotted teeth. Christ. His first words are an apology that he cannot pay and offer of his wife's services if I will treat him. I explain MSF don't work that way. He blinks but, thank God, he isn't one of the ones who instantly goes for a gun. Perhaps we'll have two more out of that hellhole today."

“A Boy's Life in Beckistan, Part Two” By Vienna Circlejerk

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411692258&forumid=1

The next morning, I awoke and wondered--only briefly--if I'd been dreaming.

No, I was sure I hadn't. I had seen a brown old man and a brown boy the night before. The old man took the trash, just like Jimmy said he would. The boy had said "Rob Waylow" or at least "Obb Waylow" as he was running away, after I'd asked him his name through my open window. Brownies are real, I thought. I had to talk to Jimmy!

At breakfast, I wondered if I should ask Mom about the brownies. Dad was the one I usually asked about things I didn't understand, but he had already left for the gun factory. Mom was in charge of homeschool but she didn't seem to like questions that didn't have answers in the Beck homeschool books or at least in the Bible. Besides, this seemed like the sort of question that was more likely to get me in trouble than get me information. What if my parents' answer was to tell me not to talk to the brownies? What if I got Rob Waylow in trouble somehow? I'd better keep quiet.

"This morning you have math lessons with Eric," Mom told me as she put my plate down.

All right! I thought. Eric was the best math teacher and almost all the kids in the neighborhood went to him for lessons instead of their moms. His lessons were really fun. The best part was that he was still a kid! Well, a teenager. He was turning 14 this year and would start his apprenticeship soon. His family was pretty poor so he helped them out by giving math lessons to the neighborhood kids for a few Golden Blessings here and there. I wolfed down my bacon and sausage, grabbed a 5GB bill from Mom, and ran out the door. Jimmy would have to wait.

Eric's family lived in a little house behind the gun factory foreman's home. His dad did tech support for the factory's office computers, a skill set that, back in those days, was basically a dime a dozen in Independence. Most computer guys lived in the apartments closer to the center of town, but Eric's mom was a nanny for the foreman's children so they were able to rent the foreman's guest house. I didn't know the details at the time, I just knew that Eric tutored math for money and gave most of it to his family.

Eric's sister, Jenny, let me in the kitchen door. She was a year younger than me and always smiled at me a lot. I hated her. Eric was sitting in the dining room, staring so intently at some drawing he'd made on one of his chalkboards (his family let him keep two of them there for tutoring) that he didn't even hear me come in.

"Um, hey, Eric."

"Oh, hey there, Matt," he answered, snapping out of it. "Ready to do some math?"

You bet I was. The homeschool math book, Return to Traditional Math--the title alone is enough to give me a headache even now--was full of nothing but boring arithmetic drills. Eric could somehow take those same lessons and turn them into games and puzzles that I couldn't get enough of. And it wasn't just me; every kid on the block loved lessons with Eric. He glanced back at the drawing he'd been staring at and said, "I've been thinking about rectangles today. Let's do some puzzles with area and perimeter."

We worked until the clock chimed the next hour. As I was gathering up my things to leave, it suddenly occurred to me that Eric, being older, might know something about the brownies, but being a kid still, was probably safe to ask.

"Um, Eric?" I asked as I handed him the 5 Golden Blessings my mom had given me. "Do you know anything about the people who come out at night and take the trash?"

Eric frowned at me as he folded the bill and put it in his pocket. "I don't think you should tell stories like that," he said. I got the feeling I had stepped in something. Quickly, I decided to change the subject.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to the drawing on the chalkboard that we hadn't been using.

"Oh," he laughed, seeming to forget my previous question. "That's a little something I've been thinking about. Sometimes I like to give myself puzzles, the way I give you kids puzzles. Except I don't really have a way to check the answers." He shrugged. "Anyhow, like I said, I've been thinking about rectangles. Here, I was thinking if you have a weird shape like this curvy thing I drew, you could almost figure out its area by filling it with rectangles and adding all their areas together. If you make the rectangles narrower, then you get closer to the actual area of the shape."

It hurt my head, but I could kind of see what he was saying. At least he seemed to have forgotten about me asking about the brownies. "Well, when you figure it out, maybe you could show me. Maybe next time!"

Eric started to nod and then sighed. "Oh, yeah, I forgot. This will probably be our last lesson. Next week's my birthday and I'm starting an apprenticeship at the gun factory. It's twelve hour shifts so I probably won't have any more time for lessons, or even to think about things like this, really."

"Oh," I said. It was weird thinking about Eric growing up like that, and even weirder to think about him not having time for math. It was also a little scary. Everybody knew how dangerous the factory was for beginning apprentices.

"At least they'll just have me doing inventory in the warehouse," said Eric. "Pretty safe work, and not too hard. One of the benefits of being good with numbers. So keep working on your math, okay?" He smiled, then shooed me out the door.

I left with a bit of a lump in my throat, and a bit of dread for returning to Return to Traditional Math, but then I cheered up as I realized I could probably make it over to Jimmy's before lunch. Maybe his mom would let him out of Bible lessons a bit early and we'd have time to talk. Careful to keep a safe distance from the electric fence that surrounded the foreman's yard, I ran quickly along the street toward Jimmy's.

“The Cost of Doing Business” By StandardVC10

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411692530&forumid=1

Once the airfield project was finished, I tried my best to stay out of Independence for a while. People knew I had done business there, and were curious, because on the one hand, even fairly early on people knew the city was a very different, even dangerous place, and that most often you needed someone powerful inside to do business with, or various local interests would get suspicious, occasionally on a murderous level. On the other hand, Independence was able to pretend that there was nothing wrong on a collective scale for a pretty long time. They couldn’t deny that their environment produced violent lunatics, but their ideological backers in the Library District could still pretend that they were handling it themselves, with that prided self-sufficiency. I didn’t believe that was the case, and I tried to steer people away from that place, unless I figured on them being the kind of straight-up hardass that could catch bullets in their teeth or whatever.

It was about nineteen years after Independence broke ground when I encountered such a person. A pilot I worked with on occasion, ex-Marine or something. Name was Aaron, and he said he needed some excitement in his life. He heard through some rumors that Independence was having problems with its nutrition. Specifically, its liquid nutrition, and this fellow made a fine home-brew if I say so myself.

So on a warm August day, we made the drive out from Dallas, with two cases of Aaron’s beer in the trunk of my car. The trip took seven and a half hours; not only did we have to get through county police checkpoints attempting to verify smuggling out of Independence, we also had to deal with the “highway companies” that charged on the roads in, and even when you had the fare, they tended to ask a lot of questions and waste a lot of time with their somewhat improvised toll booths. Texas is a large state by any measure, but this didn’t help.

Aaron asked me, “Does it get better when they get to recognize you?”

I replied as best I could, “Well, usually, but there are enough, well, changes in ownership of the popular roads that the same checkpoint may swing you a deal one day, but not the next.”

As we pulled away from one station, we heard gunshots as the barricade receded into the distance. Could be some more enthusiastic hunters, or perhaps one of the changes of ownership was taking place as we drove that day.

You got closer to Independence, it got dirtier. There weren’t too many huge industries, even of the sort that would benefit from the city’s much touted economic advantage, but on a small to medium scale, labor-intensive and highly polluting businesses could sometimes make a case for producing in Independence, even as its decline became plain to see. And if you weren’t on the straight and narrow, the rat’s nest nature of Independence’s largely unplanned and unmonitored power grid, for example, made certain arrangements much easier than they would be, although even the grow farms in the affluent parts of the city like the library district had trouble getting a reliable supply of clean water. It became quite clear to Aaron that whatever the appeal of liquor here, local production probably wasn’t an option.

The first problem for Aaron was where to set up shop. There were quite a few Mormons and quite a few with an itchy trigger finger. Aaron had no objection to the latter, he told me he’d do most of his business behind bulletproof glass anyway, but that it wasn’t great to give them first dibs either. Reagantown was located on one of the better roads, but also had Independence’s uncertified mental health clinic. Rand Fountain had a ready vacancy, but the bitcoin miners were even happier than most to steal your electricity supply. We decided, after some thought, to try and find a storefront near the red light district- I never found out whether Gingrich Row was its official name- as they probably sold most of the alcoholic beverages available in the city already.

Immediately however, there was a problem. When I had worked on the airfield, I usually hadn’t had to park a car anywhere. It wasn’t often wholesale theft, but Independence, they liked their metal. Any kind, really, as long as you could pass it off as something more valuable later. The standard practice in Independence if you owned a car, as I understood it, was to booby-trap as much of it as possible with the various available weaponry, and hope they only took your hubcaps and hood ornaments, or that the local militiaman you hired was honest. For the moment, I discharged Aaron next to a ramshackle house at the end of the block by the guardhouse that had claimed to have a vacancy, while I put the car in park and loaded six bullets into a Colt Python. If it’s good enough for Dirty Harry, it’s good enough for me.

Aaron returned and said that for the low price of $250 dirty US fiat dollars, eight ounces of gold, and sixteen rounds of .38 Super, he had secured a small storefront and one room in the quarters above it. Furthermore, in exchange for a cut of his beer, some other local residents had agreed to vouch for him and assist in moving a few supplies in over the next couple of days- I guess it was the good stuff after all.

He had said that he didn’t want to take too long in Independence- he didn’t think the place would last- but I was surprised just how quickly he wanted out. Two weeks later, he said he had experienced several acute medical symptoms- strange patches in his skin, shortness of breath, trouble digesting food. Apparently, he collapsed on the mud outside his store one evening. Found by a passer-by, he requested some assistance to the nearest clinic, or at least Canadian pill dispensary. The bystander said he could get a private ambulance over to him, for a “finder’s fee.”

This having been done, Aaron related to me a horror story of poor medical hygiene, desperate pleas for everything from colloidal silver to aspirin in the waiting room, and a literal auction to decide who the doctor would see next. The winner, it seems, was a man who had inflicted upon himself some dire crotch-related injury in one of the brothels, possibly because the story he related made much of the rest of the clinic cross its legs without immediately realizing.

Upon eventually making a winning bid (apparently a quantity of live sheep had been involved, somehow) Aaron did get to see a physician, who immediately decided that he could not safely treat the toxins in his bloodstream in Independence- whether this was due to laziness or lack of the relevant supply didn’t really matter, because Aaron claimed, “Jackass’ medical license was as fake as a three dollar bill anyway.” He could however arrange for a transfer out of the city via helicopter, charging a hefty fee for the service (we later found out that the doctor was a co-owner of the helicopter company.) With his last six Liberty Dollars as well as a fair bit of additional fiat currency Aaron accomplished this.

However, approaching Independence, the medical helicopter drew a full 30-round clip of ground fire- the pilot kept it steady long enough to extract Aaron and a few other customers, but that was the last medical evacuation ever conducted in the city until the federal government stepped in. Apparently the hospital and life flight decals on the helicopter had been mistaken for some international organization, and a resident had opened fire in order to head off the incipient New World Order conspiracy. This perpetrator was never found.

When Aaron’s results got back, a further two weeks later, the doctors found that he had been living in a site which contained harmful levels of lead, mercury, cadmium, arsenic, various exotic sulfur compounds, a variety of radioactive isotopes of more common elements (“I always did wonder why the local crickets had an extra set of legs,”) and even some biological compounds- evidently someone nearby had been making some kind of testosterone supplement, to say nothing of the ammunition plant that had gone under a few years before due to market saturation, or the power plant of sorts at the edge of the neighborhood, which had been known to burn used plastic and biological matter when gas, oil, or coal weren’t available.

The beer had been a hit, of course, but when all was told and tallied up, Aaron found that the profits he had made were largely delivered to him in currencies of dubious use. He figured that perhaps he could start his own libertarian racket and use it to convert the bitcoin and company scrip back into dollars, and after living there for a little while he had the greyish skin that probably lent him some credibility with the sort of person who would invest. We fell out of touch, and I don’t know if he ever went through with it. I do hope he remembered to avoid any internationally recognized symbols in his marketing literature if he did.

“Free Market” By Trouble Man

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411692962&forumid=1

“So I knew a guy who got rich dealing with Independence. Like, serious one percenter rich. How? Oh, he set up a company that bought expired food at a massive discount and sold it into Independence. Totally upfront about it, too. And they thought they were ripping him off! I think he expanded into all sorts of rejects and castoffs in the end - they'd basically buy anything that didn't have regulatory approval. I think he knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help himself - these people would literally spit at him with glee because they'd tricked him into accepting a hundred thousand worthless fiat dollars for a shipment of half-rotten beans that wasn't worth anything back in the world.

“Him? Oh, he shot himself after the videos of the Feeding Pit came out. Sad story.”

“We Made It” By Livingtrope

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411693174&forumid=1

From the Diary of Alexander Jackson, Captain of the F.S.S Mayflower, November 22nd, 2153

We made it.

It's been two and a half years since we escaped Earth. As I speak, the red dot of Mars hangs in space, blood-red and waiting for us. The crew and I had a celebratory party in the main kitchen. They've been dismissed to the hibernation deck, waiting for their loved ones to wake up so they can start a new life.

Not me. I'm back on the Command Deck. The Captain's chair is nice, powerful even, but its burden is so large, so terrible. Even now I am chained, not by duty or honor or any bullshit like that but by memories. Why can't I forget, she's smiling at me she knows I've been awake so long and I want to sleep and her eyes are looking at me oh god oh god WHY WHY WHY

(at this point the manuscript becomes unreadable, returning to legibility after a few paragraphs)

You're going to wonder why I did it. I know. Everyone wants answers, everyone needs closure, I get that. Really I do. So here you go, hope it makes you fucking happy.

Independence was an anomaly. Nobody reads histories anymore, nobody tries to figure out what went wrong, nobody cares about how it started except me. I read it all. I watched videos. None of you know, none of you have seen the children as anything but feral beasts. It wasn't always like that, you know. There was a time...

It started in the early 20th century, about 150 years ago. Independence, Land of the Free. Some mocked it, called it Libertopia or Beckistan. The government stood by, letting them start their little feudal state. They could have stopped it, they could have saved us, could have saved lives, could have saved the Earth, even. But no, they sat in their glass houses, staring at the horror, letting it grow until it was too late.

By the year 2056, it was obvious it was going to hell. Fifty percent of the population was estimated to be children under the age of 13, another twenty percent ages 13 to 21. They worked in factories and as prostitutes, mostly, the adults of the place either working with them or living in decadence. Captains of Industry my ass, they had money their fathers had had, and nothing else. Is it any surprise they couldn't contain the fury? They worked the children hard and long as Independence became the polluted wasteland we know it today as.

As the 22nd Century started, Independence broke. The population figures are unable to truly be determined, but it is estimated that 95% of them were under 21 years of age. The children were tired of working, tired of slavery, and so they rioted. The shots and explosions were heard long into the night, I remember it well. The children won, but at a terrible cost. They knew nothing of society or law so when the walls of Independence fell, they did the only thing they could.

They went to war with the world.

The President didn't know what to do. As the mob started engulfing nearby cities, her aides tried telling her to do something. Send the military they said and so she did. But the military was swamped beneath the sheer volume of people it faced, for a horrifying truth became soon apparent. All the years of slavery and toil had taught them something, after all. Bullets and explosives were being created at a pace unmatched by any other country in the world. By the time they stormed Washington, it's estimated that there were over 100 guns for every original child from Independence. The children won the war. America became theirs.

We escaped in the year 2113 on June 4th. The ship to Russia was called the U.S.S. Enchantment. It had enough room for 2000 people and our family (which only consisted of my mother and me, my father having died before my birth) had been one of the lucky few to be let on. The crowds had to be pushed back by armed forces, a panicked mass only wanting to be free from them. I remember periodic bursts of fire into the crowd, anything to keep them at bay. Our car was surround by jeeps, so I didn't get to see the people to well, until that moment.

We had just entered the gates. Through Chain-link fencing desperate faces looked at us, pleading for a chance to escape. As we walked to the boarding area, a cry let out a terrible warning.

"They're here!"

Through the screams and yelling an animal's roar was sounding. The children had come. The crowds made a mad dash to the boat, the fencing collapsing under their collective weight. The army tried to fend them off, but only so much could be done. The crowds approach to the boat was only stopped by the gunshots the children made. The children cut a swath through the crowd, bodies falling quickly in the summer heat. My mother and I ran, trying to outpace the children, reaching the small bridge to salvation with the children right on our heels.

I crossed the bridge and made it to the deck, panting heavily from the effort. The army men protecting this end of the bridge looked grim, but I noticed that their gaze was behind me, so I turned around.

My mother was in the middle of the bridge. Her back was against the side; I'm unsure, but I think she must have twisted her ankle. The children were too close for anyone to save her, though I heard the shots from soldiers trying anyway. As they came upon her, hands reaching for her, pulling her into their collective, I saw her turn her head and look at me. Tears were streaming down from her bright green eyes, her auburn hair in a mess, and she was smiling. God dammit she was smiling.

The army cut the bridge. My mother and the children surrounding her plummeted into the sea and the entire time she looked at me, that smile radiant and clear.

Forty years ago that happened. As clear now as it was back then. I went to school, got a degree in physics and eventually went on to get this terrible job I have now. We know how it ended up, as the children tore down forests and made crude boats, crossing the Bering Strait into Russia, killing anything in their way. We know about the cannibalism and sacrifices they make to Glenn Beck, a name they don't know the significance of. Hell, I doubt they even know what he did, except as some myth from a time none of them can remember. The ones currently alive wouldn't remember the boat or Washington or anything like that. Eventually, they will have torn down every building and killed every animal. The Earth is dead, make no mistake, that is why we had to escape.

I remember seeing pictures of Earth from Space, taken many years ago. It is called the blue marble and it is a majestic picture, though only two colors dominate its palette.

Do you know what I saw when I was in this same room two years ago, watching the Earth float away behind us? The black expanse of space, a perfect frame for the greyish-green cancer spot that Earth has become. A sick miasma engulfs the surface of a once pristine world. I hope to god we don't do that to our new home.

We made it.

(Captain Alexander Jackson was found sitting in his chair with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the temple, his diary on the console beside him. He had no family. His was the first grave to be marked on Mars)

“Help Wanted (Part 1)” By SurreptitiousMuffin

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411693204&forumid=1

WANTED: Disease Control Specialist
must supply own equipment

Part 1

During the summer of my freshman year, I got a job cleaning public toilets in San Jose. It's not as terrible as it sounds, if you're willing to put up with bad smells and boredom. It takes a week or two to get the rhythm down but after that you can just put your headphones in and tune out for a few hours. That was- shit, ten years ago? Long enough that even I'd forgotten about it.
Anyway, me and Jorge were out camping in the desert, right? Drop some acid, have a 'spirit journey' in another man's asshole under the light of a beautiful full moon and the spirits of dust and wind and all that shit. I woke up blind.

I screamed and screamed until someone pulled the bag off my head and that's when the panic really kicked in. Jorge's not there, just four guys in camo with all-too-pristine hunting rifles. I wasn't sure what capital-P Patriots would do to a race-traitor faggot druggie they found in the desert but I could guess. “I'm a doctor, CDC,” I tried to say but my mouth was a dustbowl. We thought for years that they'd been working on bioweapons from all the interesting new diseases coming out of their patch but recent recon had shown the city was just that fucking filthy. Kept us on our toes, at least. We'd managed to quickly shut down three actual bioweapon attacks from the outside thanks to the practice we'd got from Independence.

I got nothing out of them. The drive took close to two hours and they just glared at me in the back of the stinking-hot van. The whole journey I had no idea whether a clinic or a noose awaited me. We slowed down for a checkpoint of some sort and one of them finally deigned to look at me. “So,” he said, “know your way around a shaft then?” He laughed. There was no humour in it. The others just stared blankly and pretended not to hear. Their uniforms were identical, right down to the white, stitched outline of a fist on their left breast.

The van started moving again. It was bouncing and jerking all over the place and suddenly I knew exactly which border we just crossed. “I need gloves and a mask, maybe some disinfectant” I said. I tried to hide my panic. Dick-joke grinned at me. “You'll get them when you arrive, princess,” he said. Princess. Well, in for a dime- I took a deep breath. “What did you do with my boyfriend?” I asked. The van went deadly silent. The boys suddenly forgot their trigger discipline.

After an age or two, the stone-faced man at the back piped up. He had a squeaky, boy's voice. “we sent him home,” he said. He sounded disappointed. “Why?” I asked. “Didn't need him,” said another. His tone made it clear there would be no more questions. Inside, I almost cried with joy. I sat in silence for the rest of the journey. My unease grew as the roads became rougher but it couldn't wash away the knowing that Jorge got out ok, and that they had something less than a gibbet planned for me.

We slowed down a second time and I felt the engines cut out. As a Patriot unlocked the van door, I took one last deep breath of fresh air and steeled myself. I was happy, despite it all. Jorge was always the practical one; by now he'd have called the FBI and there'd be black helicopters screaming through the desert night chill towards me. Even if they failed, I knew Jorge was safe. Not even Independence could take that away from me.

“A Boy's Life in Beckistan, Part Three” By Vienna Circlejerk

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411694588&forumid=1

Jimmy's house was between the park and the gun factory, so there were always tour groups passing through. Just my luck to get caught out when one was coming by. I had to hide; being seen out when you're supposed to be in homeschool inevitably made some tourist ask, "Why isn't that child in school?", which was a little awkward. Inevitably, your parents found out, and you got in trouble, big time. I dove behind a bush and hoped for the best.

As the tour group passed by on their scooters, heading toward the gun factory, I overheard the tour guide talking about the factory's superb safety record. I wondered how that could be true, when I knew of so many people who'd been hurt in it, but mostly I just occupied myself with pretending to be part of the landscaping. Luckily the yard I was hiding in didn't seem to have any kind of lawn alarms or automatic pellet gun systems for animals.

When I got to Jimmy's, he was just finishing up his Bible lesson. He got more than most, usually morning and afternoon, and hardly ever got to go do math with Eric. I asked if he could come have lunch at my house so he and I could talk out of earshot on the way back. Jimmy was always welcome at our house because his dad was my dad's supervisor, so I knew Mom wouldn't mind me bringing him over.

"I saw them!" I told him as we headed by to my house, keeping an eye out for tour groups. Usually they weren't moving much around lunch time. "An old man and a boy. Are those the ones you saw?"

"Nah," he said. "Mine was some lady. She was pushing a big cart with trash bags in it."

I wondered if they had different places they took care of, or if different ones came every night. I wondered a lot of things. "Where do they go in the daytime?" I asked Jimmy.

"I dunno. I never really thought about it," he said. "I mean, who cares, right? They just clean up after us. Nobody cares about those people. My dad said they shouldn't even be here."

I frowned. How could he not think this was the most interesting thing in the world? How could he not want to know more about these strange, nighttime people? I thought about Rob Waylow, his dark face and dark hair, looking back at me, seemingly afraid, turning, running away. A kid like me, but also very different from me. And maybe scared of me. Suddenly, I wasn't so sure I wanted to talk to Jimmy about him anymore. Suddenly, I wondered if Jimmy was the one who was really different from me.

"Yeah, I guess. Well, anyway, you were right."

"Just don't tell anybody I told you," he said. "Don't talk about them at all. I don't want to get in trouble. Dad will beat my ass."

"I won't," I promised. But I knew I wasn't going to be able to let this go.

“The Example of the Saints” By Etherwind

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411694969&forumid=1

My eyes were lingering on the fresco of St. Paul in the vestibule when the boy found me. I could see at once he was distressed: his habit was in disarray, tricolours stained and his holy icon not worn upon his bosom. I deduced at once that he had dressed quickly and - in his haste - donned yesterday's garment.

"What is the matter, Novice?" My tone was not unkind.

"Father Abbot, I am troubled by a demon."

I stared at him across the bridge of my glasses. "What is your name?"

"Peter." He seemed to feel that something more was needed. "Though I hope to take William as my confirmation name when I make my vows."

"That is for the future. Peter, you understand that this is a serious thing to say?"

"I do, Father Abbot. But I turned to scripture, and it fell open..." His eyes closed as he concentrated on the verse, and he surprised me with an accurate repetition. "If you know my work, you might have figured out that I am not a philosopher or a dreamer. I do not live in a theoretical world or gain insights by attempting to read the thoughts of others."

"Book of the Bold, one-four, verses four to five. Very good. Why did you not take the prescribe course of action in verse six?"

"I did. It was why I ran so quickly."

I nodded thoughtfully. The boy showed promise. "Let us go to the side chapel. I feel His great example will help you convey what troubles you."

The candles had guttered from the night before, but it pleased me to see that another Novice had replaced the largest, the constant symbol of His covenant with the faithful. Soft light flickered on the gold foil, illuminating His kindly smile and the twinkle in His eyes as we genuflected. I often wondered what they saw when they looked on us; whether He would approve from His throne in the last, great frontier.

"Tell me of this demon, and let us see if we can disabuse you of it," I told the novice as we sat.

The pew creaked as he shifted, and it was clear he was unsure. "It came to me in a dream."

"Not all dreams are evil incarnate, my son. Most are but temptations."

"It did tempt me."

My interest piqued. "How?"

He blushed as he spoke: "I dreamed of a man with long, strong arms, spread wide around me. He held me close against his chest, and he whispered words that I had only read quoted in anger. They took on a meaning I cannot quite understand."

I began to understand, but kept my counsel.

"We did things, Father Abbot, and when I woke I found myself soiled and impure in the eyes of our Lord."

Reaching out, I traced his cheek with the back of my hand, surprising him. "Ah, Peter, you are misguided."

"Father... what do you mean?"

"You have no doubt read the accounts of His punishment against the accursed homosexual, and the plagues that savaged them when they turned from His right hand?"

He looked puzzled, but inclined his head.

"And no doubt you think such punishment may befall you?"

"I... I don't know."

"My son," I said with a swell of joy, "you have not been taught Theology, and so you could not know this. The homosexuals were not condemned for their acts: as the great prophet said, Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man. It was for that reason that they were afflicted and denied by our Lord, for they used their mouths to speak of their ways and demand what ought remain in the dark be seen by all.

His confusion seemed worsened. "I don't understand."

"You know of St. Larry, and his trials? He spoke proudly of his wide stance, but he was gifted with the tongue of angels, and used allusion when he went out in public. For this reason he was blessed by the Great Communicator, and weathered the storm of controversy called up by the unbelievers."

He was silent as I continued, "You must understand, my son, that there is nothing wrong with your dreams. You must choose carefully how to act before the faithful, but in private," I slid my hand lower, "it would not be unbecoming for you to seek the instruction of an older and wiser man, as you have today."

"But Father Abbot, you don't understand: he was coloured!"

I withdrew my hand, sighed. "Such thoughts are common, and yes, detestable for their implied approval of mixing the blood, but they do not damn you. Dreams are beyond your control. My advice would be to redirect your efforts-"

"You don't-"

"Do not interrupt me!" My voice was not raised, but my cheeks were flushed. He bowed his head in silence, and I took a moment to recover my composure. The temper of St. William is strong in me. Eventually I bade him speak.

"Father Abbot, I apologise for interrupting you, but I have not... I did not explain. I did not lie with the man as a woman."

I hesitated. "What did you do with this man?"

"We went among the poor and sick, and gave them our riches, buying food and water for them when they were hungry and offering them clothes when they were-"

"Be silent again! Do not desecrate this place!" I was on my feet, legs trembling, heart like ice. Three steps carried me to the tall candle, and I raised it high, a torch of liberty. "Novice Peter, a great and terrible demon has seized you, and it must be purged. Kneel before Lord Regan and repent your sins."

As I said the Prayer of Allegiance I dripped the wax upon his forehead, and in his screams I almost heard the mocking laughter of the Great Deceiver, the demon prince whose name dare not be spoken. Hours passed, and when at last it went out of him I saw its mark scalded upon his virgin flesh:

A perfect circle.

“The End of a Dream” By I am the MOON

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411695701&forumid=1

The fire reaches out to me like the hand of a murderer. I drag myself across the hot ashes that cover the ground. I taste blood, I smell death, I see darkness in my peripheral vision.

I climb to my feet and walk slowly. A loud shriek fills the air, followed by a powerful thud that shakes the ground. I want to duck for cover, but I can not. I must stay ahead of the fire.

I am desperate to escape as the city collapses. Even now, I make my way through the burning slums that occupy what was once Crusader Park. I see shadows up ahead, and hide behind some debris. I look and see people in gasmasks dragging people away, kicking and screaming. They throw them in a truck and drive off.

The companies that exploited the free market of Independence had once controlled all who lived here. Now that the city was burning, and there was no more profit to be made, they were taking their assets and leaving. These assets included the people. How many would end up as slaves today?

I continue to move through the slums, navigating like a rat in a maze. Being caught between the riots, the slavers, and the crime lords, one wrong turn would be the end for me.

Finally, I reach the edge of the park, I have less than one mile to get out of Independence. I make my way across the street and into the neighborhood across from the park. Just as I reach the sidewalk, I freeze in my tracks as I hear a loud crack. I turn and see the library, the tallest building in Independence, crumble like a game of Jenga. For a moment I think that I can hear the screams from here, only to realize that they are my own.

I am haunted by what I have seen today. I was just two blocks from the library when the madness began. Bombs shook the ground, buildings collapsed, a firestorm broke out in city square. I can still see the people getting stuck in the street as the pavement melted from the heat, unable to escape from the inferno. I can still hear the bombs, and feel the heat. I am certain that I had been shot at least twice today.

What hope was left here? The currency had become worthless, the government was raving mad, and the companies couldn't care less. I had enough. The dream was over, and I am beginning to think that it had never been anything more than a dream.

I begin to run. No more thinking, no more feeling, just RUN. I have no idea what is going on around me anymore. All that matters it getting away from this hell. Before long, I see the border.

I am no longer running, but it doesn't matter, I am seconds away anyways.

I look up and to my surprise, I see a man--no--several men standing at the border. They are dressed in desert camouflage, wearing bullet-proof vests and combat helmets. One of their number, a colored man, approaches me and offers his hand. I take it and he helps me over to a Humvee parked just a few yards away."Don't worry sir. I am Captain Williams with the US National Guard, you are safe now."

"National guard?" I ask."What are you doing here?"

"We are here to run damage control. Our orders are to ensure that the violence does not spread beyond this city and to assist victims if possible. So far, you are the first one to make it out of there alive."

The soldiers escorted me to a refugee tent for medical assistance. Feelings of regret well up in me. I once had a life in the US. It wasn't all that special. I worked long hours and made only enough to get by, but I was safe. Now, I had nothing. I gave it all up on a dream.

“Journal of a Tunnel Rat” By AnxiousSloth

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411697429&forumid=1

The following is excerpts from a journal recovered by a UN Peacekeeping team while doing a sweep of the tunnels beneath Independence U.S.A. The journal chronicles imprisonment of a Carter Jones during the early days of Independence U.S.A.

May 12th
I am sick of this country. We’ve gone too far from what our Founding Fathers originally wanted for us. Even here in coal country Pennsylvania I can see the tendrils of liberalism creeping in. I’ve been thinking about it long and hard, and as much as I believe my daughter should grow up on the land her family fought to keep free for generations it just isn’t the same place. Some of the guys at work keep mentioning the last bastion of freedom. Independence U.S.A.

I’ve listened to Beck since the foreign born usurper cheated his way into office, but I never really thought about moving to Independence. I’ll talk it over with Victoria and see what she thinks. She always did talk about starting over, maybe this is our big chance.

September 11th
We’re starting to pack up, surprisingly we got approved right away when we applied for a house in Independence. Neither of us have great credit, and we were sure they wouldn’t accept us. We decided to leave the house to my good for nothing, liberal brother. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when we comes and visits us in Independence. The way the country should be. God, guns, and no government. Just as the Founding Fathers wanted. No more liberals, no more Obummer, just my wife, my daughter and our freedom. I can’t wait.

October 13th
I am beginning to feel like my wife and I made a mistake coming here. I haven't seen Victoria since we walked in the gate with our daughter Stacy. Some men in leather jackets came to me and said that I would be reporting to special training duty and took me to my new room. They said that I would have to work in the tunnels for a month then I would be a full resident in Independence. They barely let me grab my backpack and some clothes before they dragged me away. I’m glad my journal and some pencils were in there or I wouldn’t have much to do at night.

They threw me in a room with another guy named Gary who said he had been there for three weeks. Gary is a big fella with a thick southern accent and tree trunk arms. Said he was looking forward to seeing his wife Maria again. The room is barely big enough for one person, let alone two full grown men. Its just for a month though, and maybe they'll let me have the room to myself when Gary's time is up. Sucks that there is no window though, my eyes never have been good with that fluorescent crap.

Every morning we get woken up to the sounds of Beck’s radio show he broadcasts to the world telling them about his libertarian utopia. They seem different than his normal show somehow. Then they round us up and give us jobs for the day in the tunnels. The lucky ones get to go do landscaping and other above the surface stuff, the rest of us work in the tunnels. Its only been a few days but I can't wait for this month to be over.

October 20th
Today is Gary's last day working in the tunnels. He seems so excited, it admittedly has felt like forever away from my family even though it has only been about a week. The guys and I have been planning a party once all of us get out. We're all pretty jealous of Gary, since he'll be the first to actually get to see his family. Lucky bastard, I'll have to give him shit today.

They put up some posters of Beck today. They are posters of the covers of his books, the guards said they are to remind us of why we're here.

October 22nd
Something is up, Gary is still down here with us. He has been asking about when he gets to see his family and the guards have just been laughing at him. Gary began to yell at them, but they pointed their AR15s in his face until he backed down. Everyone stopped working and tried to calm the guards down, but Gary wouldn't back down. One of the guards fired shots into the workers. I felt the bullet wiz by my head.One of the new guys, Stan, got hit in the shoulder. He began to squeal like the pigs on my father's farm. The guards took Stan and Gary away and moved the rest of us back to our rooms. No dinner that night.

October 30th
Gary came back last night, I could barely recognize his face after what they had done to him. He wouldn't even talk to me just sat in his bunk clutching something in his beaten and bloody hands. I can tell from whats left of his eyes that they did something unspeakable to him. This isn't the shit we signed up for. Why wouldn't they let him go back to his family? What the fuck happened to my family? I need to escape and find them, I just need to figure out how.

November 15th
Gary passed away last night, when the guards called for him he wouldn't respond. They beat him harder than I've ever seen a guard hit someone, but he never moved, not an inch. When the guards realized they'd been beating a dead man they began to cackle, it was the most inhuman laugh I've ever heard. With how hard they've been working us I haven't remembered to pray, but tonight I will remember to pray to Gary and pray for my family and I to escape this nightmare.

November 16th
There are no words for what I discovered last night after coming back from my shift. Tucked down into Gary's bunk was a crumpled picture of a Hispanic woman and a young girl. There was a gun barrel pressed to their temples, their faces covered in tears. I can only assume it was a picture of the Maria and his daughter he never stopped talking about. God, I need to get out of here.

December 25th
Merry Christmas...

I got a new bunkmate yesterday, his name is Tim. I hate Tim already. Too happy too filled with hope. He won't last long down here.

The guard brought me a box, his crooked smile made me mad. I will open the box tomorrow, for now I must sleep.

December 26th
Oh God what have I done to deserve this punishment you've laid upon me and my family. Inside the box, oh god the box. I haven't stopped crying since morning, what did I do? I was always a good worker, are they just fucking with me? Tim threw up after he looked in the box, tough to discover the truth on the second day down here, isn't it? Maybe if I am lucky they will do what they did to my wife what they did to me so I won't have to hear that fucking propaganda they pump into our cells every morning.

February 13th
The guards have taken down all the posters of Beck except that smug fucking picture of him on Arguing With Idiots. Somehow Beck dressed as a Nazi seems a lot more fucking appropriate. For some reason the lights went out today. The other guys keep talking about some sort of incident above surface but the guards won't say a word. Fuck, they threaten to beat us if we so much as look at them. The only lighting is from infrared lights. At least it doesn't hurt my eyes as much, makes it easier to sleep too. That is if Tim would ever stop crying, fucking baby.

March 3rd
Rats. Somehow rats keep finding their way into our cell. I miss my wife, I miss my daughter its her birthday today. I just have to keep my head in the game. There are whispers of a way to get out of these fucking tunnels. God, I haven't seen the sun for months.

March 10th
I think something’s wrong with the air, every time I breath it feels like I am sucking on an exhaust pipe, my skin feels like it wants to fall off my muscles. What the hell are they feeding us, when they do remember that is. I can feel Beck’s eyes on me even as I sit here in the dark.

April 20th
Rick said that tomorrow night is the night, we will take to the tunnels like the rats take to our cells. We know these tunnels like the back of our hands. We can do this, I know God is on our side. Maybe I'll even let Tim know.

April 30th
Somehow the guards found out, they lined us up against the wall and shot half of us. Rick, Mark, and Frank they're all dead. They told us that if we ever tried that again it would be everyone. Then they beat us.

July 1st
It was Tim, I know it was Tim, that stupid bastard. It had to be him. I should have never trusted him, it MUST have been Tim. He will get his, he was never one of us he must have been a fucking spy sent by the guards. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I have to hide this journal, THEY can't find it, Tim will tell them about my plans. I need to silence Tim. Rick and Gary would have wanted it this way.

July 20th
I did it, I killed that little rat Tim. You should have seen the look in his eyes as my hands closed around his neck. Oh how he struggled, looking up at me with such a surprised expression in his eyes. The best part was I told him how I knew what he did as I squeezed the last life from his body. Tomorrow will be the day, when they come in to claim the traitor’s body. That is when I will escape. I will see you again Victoria, your husband is coming home.

“Rite and Right” By Etherwind

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411697577&forumid=1

It was late in my abbacy before I had occasion to visit one of the fabled Wealth Creators. The reason for my journey was obscure: a request came in for Trial by Examination, so rare a rite that I had to retire to my study and read the notes left to me by my many predecessors. Slowly I began to piece together the substance of the ritual and the requirements for its proper performance, all the while growing curious to uncover what crime could require such an archaic and convoluted effort. Was the court of public opinion not enough? Could justice not be administered by the richer - and so more virtuous - man?

With these questions on my mind I arrived in the town, making my way along the potholed spaces between the buildings. I found it quite amusing to consider some of the annotations I had studied in the old journals, which spoke of how, in early years, such spaces were deemed "streets". What an unnecessary word! It is quite enough to remember the name of a town and the building one seeks, let alone the cramped areas between. That the wicked government used to appropriate the earnings of honest folk for their upkeep speaks to the excesses of the gilded age.

After barely an hour I located the building, low and squat against the keep of the local Capitalist. Had I better understood the function of the place I would have known to look there to begin with, but my studies were always more sublime. The Saints had no need for knowledge, especially not of fiscal matters, and as always I let their example guide me. It was in their name that I entered through the front door and was met at once by the manager.

"Can I help you, priest?" He hefted a large club, the elephant upon its tip marking it as the symbol of his office. I was impressed with his diligence: not a drop of blood remained on it.

"Forgive me, my son." Removing my cloak to reveal my cassock, I indicated the holy icon on my left breast.

He leaned closer to study its stars and stripes, and espied the crying eagle beneath. "Forgive me, reverend father! I was told to expect you a week ago."

"And here I am. The Invisible Hand brings each man to his proper place at the proper time."

He nodded thoughtfully, lowering his club to his belt. "I can show you direct to the girl and have this over with. Will you be wanting your fee first?"

"Actually, my son," I admitted with a smile, "I was hoping for a tour of this place. I am eager to learn of the good work you do."

He seemed uneasy, wiping his hands on the dirty apron. "We charge for tours, father."

"As well you should. Offset it against my fee, and lead on."

With a shrug he produced a key from his belt and unlocked the inner door, leaning against it as he readied the club. I could tell he was skilled at his work by how little he had to use it when we passed into the space beyond, beating back the small crowd of idle workers with little more than a growl and a slap around the face. In little time he had them back in line, though I wondered long and hard at the young woman he let pass through the door before he relocked it. Favouritism? I had to hope so.

Charity was unconscionable.

"This is the counting room," he informed me as we walked among the benches. The stench of sweat and stale urine was less offensive than I had expected. "These ones are good at counting up, and we have a system in place to mark their numbers for later."

"How is it done?"

"The first row count up using the row of symbols on the far wall. The oldest work here: poor eyesight. See the young boy? He moves from desk to desk as each hits a certain step, and when he does the man at the front puts a tally on the board. Later, the tallies can be broken down again into numbers, by those with the skill."

"What of the later rows? Why are the younger ones closer to the front?"

"Aye, that confused me, my first months. Each row beyond the first needs to know the symbols by heart, and know the rules of when one follows the other. The ones close to the front need to work quicker - I don't know how, but it seems right - and the ones at the back work slower. The very last row changes symbols maybe once a day."

"So how are numbers made?"

"See the woman carrying the Blessed Flag? When she raises it, the number is done. They finish the marking and begin again."

"How does she know when it is done?"

I could tell I tested the limits of his knowledge, for he studied the darkness of the ceiling for some moments. "I think... aye, when the person beside her changes symbols, father."

I struggled to take it all in as he led me to the next room, and nothing had prepared me for what I saw. Row upon row of small children were sat at sunken desks with rails between them, squashed together so tightly that one could not stand without the whole row moving. I marvelled at the efficiency, missing the beginning of his explanation.

"...Passes the wooden chips left or right, based on the rule taught them."

"What are the chips?"

"The tallies, father. Each is handed over on a pattern I do not know. George, he keeps it right. Only made one mistake in ten years."

"A skilled man, then." We began to walk across the desks, taking care not to tread on their small fingers.

"Too soft on the kids. He lets them break whenever the front room does, not just when they finish their work. Says it keeps them focused." He gave me a look of discontent that at once reaffirmed him in my esteem. "Still, when the process is done they pass the tallies over to the next room, where we keep the elites."

I nearly lost my balance as we stepped over the rows. "You have elites? Here?"

"Great expense, but we need them."

The final room had fewer desks, and the children were older, each working through a pile of chips using a strange device of clicking beads. I had seen an elite only once before, and the uncanny skill with which they worked the profane devices made me distinctly uncomfortable. There were so many of them!

"Father, here I have to say, I don't know how they do it. All I know is that each works on their pile until it is done, then passes the results back one row. The back rows pass theirs forward. Eventually they each come to a result, and tell whether the number be good or bad."

"All of this is fascinating. Disturbing, but fascinating." I leaned closer to one of the desks, watched a young man with spectacles of his own working feverishly, his fingers calloused. I turned away, asking, "And how does this relate to wealth?"

"If the number is good, the town gets richer. The Capitalist knows the means."

"How often are good numbers found?"

He shrugged. "Once a year. The next day is given off."

My head hurt from tying it all together. "So this is how wealth is made?"

"Aye. The coin is stored as chips, and traded in whole or part. More elites are needed, some coming from abroad, but the Capitalist keeps them at honest work."

"I thought it was enough to count up the vegetables in the abbey garden." He inhaled suddenly, and I could tell I had made him uncertain with my show of knowledge. "Rest easy, my son. We do such things rarely, and only to keep sharp our skills, that we can better interpret scripture and use it against the evils shown by the likes of these."

He was wary, but nodded. "Be time for the girl, then."

We left the horrendous clicking and made our way below the building, to where a young and keen-eyed man kept watch on the gaol. He immediately knew me for my office, and addressed me "Father Abbot. I was worried you would not arrive before she perished."

I inclined my head, said nothing as he unlocked the door. The pitiful specimen was no older then twelve, all skin and bones, naked but for long and dirty hair. Faeces caked the floor of her cell.

"This is the one who invoked the rite," said the manager, his voice hot with contempt. "The Capitalist wanted her sold for what she done, but we couldn't. He's keen to see her dispensed with."

"How did she know to ask?" I watched him closely.

I was caught by surprise by the gaoler, who answered "I told her to, father."

I rounded on him. "Why? Why did you do such a thing, and how did you know of the rite?"

He laughed once, dryly, and scratched at the stubble on his chin. He looked tired, in ways spiritual as well as temporal. "I'll answer that last first, if it pleases you. I was once a Novice, and it was my duty to study under the transcriptionists, recording the spoken works for future years. From there I learned the old ways."

"A keen study. Then why did you not take your vows?"

"Over time, I grew interested in the works of the Saints, rather than their words. I wanted to put the wisdom to use, not record it."

My stomach clenched at his insolence. "You think yourself great enough to emulate them?"

"We all do, father, in one way or another. I was taught that on the first day."

I looked back to the girl, better to keep my cool. "And of her? Why show her kindness?"

"Not kindness, father. I was taught to believe in the Flag and the Constitution, and as a Novice I learned how they were reconciled."

"Another motive, then. Do you seek to marry her?" She was old enough to enter into a binding legal agreement, and if not, her parents would likely pledge her, though I worried for her soul in the care of that man.

"No. I maintain my vow of celibacy."

Stunned, I reappraised the man. Celibacy had not been a necessary vow since the great reformation under St. Gingrich, and here was a man who followed it not just in seeming, but in action. "Why?"

"Because I believe she meant no harm, and still follows the way of patriots."

"I meant..." Annoyed at myself, I quelled my embarrassment, let the issue lie. The manager looked up as I approached him. "What crime is she charged with?"

He tapped his club. "Theft of property, father."

"A thief! What did she steal?"

"A number, father."

The very idea was painful. Seeing my expression, he hurried on "The Capitalist told us that Inte... Intal... Mind Property can be stolen just like regular things, father, and that she had done it."

"How?"

"She made a copy of the number." He seemed satisfied that this proved her guilt.

I looked back to the former Novice. "Do you dispute this?"

"No." He seemed serene.

"Then how do you attest her innocence?"

"On three counts, Father Abbot." He enumerated them with his fingers as he spoke, and the manager tightened his hand around his club. "First, the copy she made was not with intent to steal. She is an elite, and while that makes it harder for her to approach Lord Regan in humility, it also excuses much strange behaviour. She copied the number because she found it pleasing, not because she wished to steal."

His argument was not entirely convincing, but I was willing to hear it. "Pray, continue."

"Second, even if her theft had been intended, her procurement of the number was not itself procurement of capital. The number is not wealth in and of itself."

I looked at the manager. "Is this true?"

"The Capitalist said it didn't matter."

"But is it true, my son?"

He shifted uneasily, and I knew it was so.

"And third," said the gaoler, more confident, "even if she committed a theft, it is not necessarily worthy of sanction." He raised his hands, pleading calm. "Consider: she had not yet been paid for her services that day, nor paid since, and so the exchange of goods had not been completed. As she was in sole retention of the number, it was her property, to give up, retain or copy as she chose. Even if you accept she stole the initial symbols given her, absconding with them for her own purposes can be interpreted as a means of correcting market inefficiencies, in which she showed due diligence."

"What are you saying, gaoler? Speak plainly!"

"I assert she showed Capitalist spirit."

I rocked back on my heels, smiled as I mused on it. "Well now! A girl who meant no harm showed the finest tradition..."

"Just because it is a contradiction, it does not mean it is false."

"Indeed. Saint William spoke on such things." I sighed, shook my head. "You have presented me quite the problem."

"A worthy one, I hope."

"Quite. It shall have to be resolved."

The manager spoke up then, stepping forward. "How? Shall I bash her head in?"

"No, good man." I drew myself to full height. "The girl is under my protection until the rite is complete. I will send out the call: we must convene a Circle of Pundits."

“The Last Librarian” By Vagueabond

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411699131&forumid=1

Nobody comes to the library anymore. I think I last sold a book...two years ago? That sounds about right.

Here, let me back up. My Independence name is Liberty-Bell Smith, and I tend the books at The Library in Independence, USA.

Back in those halcyon days, it was the National Archive. A shining tower of learning and education. Beck, I’ll admit I got sucked in. I’d just finished my Master’s program in Library Science, and I was lured in by the promise of getting to change things. Imagine, a rare books section, a library to run. I had no real experience - of course I was swayed by the offer. I’d set it up, spend a year or two there, then come back to the real world with a hell of a resumé.

I knew then that there were some other things going on, but the plans I was shown seemed nice enough, and I’d have my own apartment in what’s now known as the Library District. In those days, freshly built, the library shone.

It still shines, but there’s a thick layer of grime that’s settled over the formerly daunting building. The skylights--those few that aren't broken--dustily try, and fail, to illuminate the half-empty shelves. I had had such ideas! I’d come up with a special Independence USA colon classification system, designed to be both comprehensive and easy to teach. Doesn't do much good when the books have all been stolen for kindling, but the point is I’d had ideas.

Before the barricades went up, I used to read the children stories, show them the world through the pages of a book. I've always had a fondness for tales about pirates and other rascals, so I read quite a few of those. Sometimes I wonder if I egged anything on, if I’m partially to blame. You know, with the looting. Sometimes I wonder if I've lost my mind, and if so, when.

Like I said, nobody comes to the library anymore. Which is why I was so startled when a red-cloaked Pundit and a small retinue of slaves walked through my doors. Founders Bless You, Patriot. The Rare Books Collection, absolutely. Right this way.

The District is a safe place, I think. No harm will come to me today. Surely he only wants some text, Beck knows why.

Still, that’s probably what Virtue-of-Labour thought, too, and she’s been dead for years now. She was a good Apprentice Librarian; she grew up here in Independence, the child of factory workers, but she took a shining to the Library and I took her on as an Apprentice, to save her from her parents’ fate. Still had all her fingers by the age of eighteen. Not many girls here can boast that.

As we climb down the stairs to where the more precious volumes are kept, I caution the Pundit to stay behind me and follow exactly in my footsteps. “There are traps, you see...” I begin to explain.

He bridles at the outrage, but seems to bottle it down for now. I deftly step only on each third cobblestone, the kerosene lantern that is the only light down here in one hand and my ledgers in the other. I’m in my late fifties now, and not as agile as I used to be, but I insert an old, weathered key into an equally antique lock, and open the door to the Learning Centre.

In the beginning, when it was just the library and not The Library, the empty shelves down here were a project I’d planned to spearhead: I could break ground on esoteric matters of scholarship, create an oasis of knowledge in a desert of the mundane. Those plans were dashed rather quickly once we the walls went up, but there were still the books the room had been built to house. Assorted papers, and books in need of rebinding.

Old Beckian diaries, writings of the Founders. The Pundit has been silent on what he’s here for, but now he speaks.

“There are some texts here that have been declared antithetical to the Effort. I will need the diaries and texts of all Founders save those of President Jones.” He seemed unimpressed that he’d been sent on such a menial task.

I begin to correct him, that No-Place-for-Handouts Jones is merely on the Council, but realize just in time how incredibly stupid that would be. Nobody corrects a Pundit.

As I gather the texts I've been asked for, the oppressive silence grows. The Pundit, previously tight-lipped, begins to talk in earnest. There is to be a ceremony tomorrow, I learn. The bile that has corrupted Independence will be cleansed, and a new, holy, order will rise from the ashes, for the good of the city.

Ashes. Good God, there’s going to be a book-burning. I’m gathering books for a book burning, I think. But why is he telling me this? With a sickening horror, I realize he’s not worried about me telling anyone. I’m going to die here.

He must notice I've paused, because suddenly he stops talking. All eyes in the room are fixed on me now.

There’s only one thing I can do. My kerosene lantern, recently filled, is in my hand. Around the room, so much dry paper and wooden shelves.

They call me Liberty-Bell here, but my name is Ann Smith. I am the only remaining librarian in Independence, perhaps the last one this hellish town will ever see.

If it’s a book burning they want, it’s a book burning they’ll get.

“A Good Captain” By anonumos

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411702893&forumid=1

As was usual for him, David Wellers awoke in an instant. Pushing aside the silk sheets, careful not to disturb the pregnant form beside him, he reached for his Goggles. He clipped the tiny dongle to his ear lobe as he stood and stalked quietly out of the bedroom. Instantly the days weather and itinerary projected itself in the air before his left eye.

A cup of coffee was already brewed by the HomeGoggles app. He cradled the warm mug, flicking through the night's news. He paused at the headline "LIBERTY CITY ENGINEER TO DEBUT NEW POWER GENERATOR". Smiling, a little pleased with himself, he commanded the wall projector to begin showing a video attached to the story. Seeing his own tanned face in front of the newscasters' wands made his smile grow to an outright grin.

His mood buoyed by his notoriety, Dave sucked down the last of his coffee and returned to the bedroom to see Angela beginning to squirm; she always woke up more slowly, greeting the day with a growing cheer compared to his immediately effervescent verve.

Dave left her to struggle to consciousness, ducking into the bathroom. He stripped (removed his ear dongle) and stepped into the shower. The warm water helped shake off last night's champagne and cocktails, while the shower wall projected information about the day. Dave stood under the spray with his head against the cool tile for a moment, free associating thoughts and ideas.

Finally, Dave stood up straight and whispered the command to turn off the shower. The stall became a wind tunnel and he spread his arms wide to enjoy the warm breeze. After brushing his teeth he wrapped a towel around his waist and retrieved his earpiece. Passing through the bedroom again, he could see Angela was still clutching the sheets around her shoulders, fighting for every minute of sleep. He knew instinctively to walk as quietly as he could, as ever future father of twins does.

Another mug was steaming on the counter, but Dave drained a bottle of water first then picked up his second cup of coffee. Still in his towel he walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the Jewel of Texas: Independence, USA. In the distance he could see the Reflecting Pool and The Learning Center. The pre-dawn light limned the offices and condos that surrounded the Pool. The entire complex looked like the future, and he was pleased to know that no other building but his had such a nice view of downtown Indie.

He stood there gazing out over the city he helped build until his Goggles chimed 45 minutes till departure. He called softly into the bedroom, "Honey, it's time to get up." A soft footstep made him turn and look to see his wife already dressed to kill in a blue pantsuit.

Angela laughed and pointed to Dave's towel. "I hope you don't intend to wear that to the ceremony. Come on, get moving, buster!"

-----

The crowd was still trickling in as the unveiling neared. Sitting on-stage David Wellers paused in reviewing his speech notes. He looked out over the crowd and recounted the days leading up to this moment. He smiled for the spectators as meetings with investors and endless hours pouring through scientific articles filled his head.

Today was The Day.

His new power pile was set to go online and begin providing power to the entire continental US, plus Canada and parts of Central America. Then, in six months the microwave emitters would be built, ready to beam power to the Jefferson Space Station, now in orbit near the [i]Internationale B&B[/i] (the ISS had been re-purposed as a bed-and-breakfast after the GSS was completed; NASA and CNES had been too glad to sell the ISS for funding to focus on the Luna Moon Base).

Dave hoped everything went smoothly. The only thing that worried him now was the resistance of the man seated in the front row of the amphitheater: "General" Ed Snowe, an obstinate nuclear power mogul. Ed had refused every offer of partnership, unlike the other power plant operators throughout the world. Ed sneered at him over the negotiating table, seemingly intent on fighting a battle of the markets that old fashioned fission simply could not win.

No, the power pile was the future. Cold fusion, coupled with uncountable advancements in electronics and conductive materials research. The other energy barons signed on with absolute joy. But not Ed.

Dave shifted uneasily as he recalled Ed's pointed questions about terrorism and malfunctions. Even his secretary, Brooke, could have explained how safe fusion was; there were no combustible materials, no self-feeding reactions. But Ed kept pushing for information about safety systems and cooling towers (as if the power pile even needed them). Ed seemed stuck in the nuclear mentality, even as his competitors all worked to retool their coal and oil plants to producing industrial goods from fossil fuels rather than electricity. The only thing that seemed to please Ed was Dave's assurance that the only damage to Independence would be the attack itself; to cause a disaster, theoretical terrorists would have to cause it themselves. For some reason this seemed to please Ed.

He flicked over to the clock on his Goggles and waited patiently for the ushers to seat the late arriving politicians and their families. He was silently glad the President had chosen not to come. As modern as it was, Independence could not have handled the security detail of half of the sitting Congress AND the First Family. As it was, every hotel in the five districts was packed, including that hulking replica of the Ryugyong Hotel...done right this time, Dave hoped.

As the moment arrived, he glanced at "General" Snowe. The made radiated smugness. That bothered Dave; he could sense plans afoot, a skill that placed him at the head of RandTek in the first place. Now, he shifted uneasily and flicked through the security data channels on Goggles. Everything looked good, without even a Yellow Flag report. Despite the clear danger coming from Ed Snowe in waves, the presentation hall looked to be safe and secure.

Still, Dave sent manual overrides to the security team requesting additional patrols around the Prime Complex containing his full-sized power pile. Reassured that nothing was amiss, he leaned back and gave Angela a quick kiss. Ed can go pound a fuel rod, for all he cared. But a corner of his mind was still worried.

-----

Dave could only watch as the Prime Complex crumbled. Ed's dirty bomb had done the trick. That the "General" lay dead at his feat was no solace. Angela and his twins were dead. Only a dozen or so Senators and almost no Representatives survived the attack. The head of the Secret Service detail was still weeping, and Dave was glad he had commandeered the man's sidearm.

All around him, the future lay dead or dying. He looked around and saw a few black suited SS guards. They gathered around their crying boss and looked out over the disaster with Dave. The SS deputy said, "The CIA is going to hang for this." She continued: "They gave us no warning, and a PMC operation of this size should have left footprints."

Dave shrugged it off. The CIA didn't matter. The Private Military Corps didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Goggles had reported raids on all of his research facilities before his connection to Google's servers was cut. In the middle of the action, Google had sent a pre-recorded message to say Cloud services had been lost. "Lost." Dave supposed the operation had targeted their storage facilities, too. The only remaining record of cold fusion was in his own head, and the blood leaking from two gunshots in his back would soon take that from the world, too.

He finally allowed himself to sit, though it was more like the gradual collapse of the Prime Complex. The SS deputy tried to catch him before he fell, but winced at the pressure on her broken arm. The last thing David Wellers saw of this world was her blood lined face, tragedy etched and as close to tears as her boss.

"Angela!" he cried and he tried to touch the SS agent's face, but his hand never reached.

-----

Johnny Snowe was suddenly a very wealthy man. The only nuclear operator in most of the civilized world. Without the Power Pile, America was in shambles. The Parasites had long ago used up the shale oil, and Prudoe Bay wasn't producing enough to cover New Alaska's heating needs, much less electricity for the country's electric vehicles. It was all down to Nuclear. Clean, safe. Profitable.

MONEY!

With the blame placed squarely on his dead father's shoulders, Johnny was the hero of the Free Market. The Pundits and Patriots knew they needed him. The reclusive heir to Glen Beck's media empire even come to party with him. The world belonged to Johnny. As he snorted another line of blow off his boy's ass, he made plans to demolish the so-called "gentleman's agreement" about heavy industry in Independence. Independence was his. He would do as he pleased with it.

"Stop your coughing you ugly slut!" he shouted at the boy's "dancing partner". Maybe it was time to find new entertainment...the slums didn't breed them as they used to.

“A Haiku” By Sion

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411706615&forumid=1

Oh, Glenn Beck, our lord.
You who showed us all the way
always in our hearts.

“Independent Reviews: Independence” By A Terrible Person

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411707253&forumid=1

"A great place to learn!"

★★★★☆ Reviewed March 16, 2017

Independence was the single greatest learning experience of my life! and it was amazingly fun too! Seeing the live filming of Glenn's show was a real eye-opener and the exhibition at the Learning Center taught me more in an hour than any other park could teach me in a lifetime. My one complaint is that the Capital Pass for lines…

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"Fun For The Whole Family"

★★★★★ Reviewed March 23, 2017

This is the only park resort I have ever been to that used so many child actors in regular roles. It was refreshing to have the kids able to interact with performers their age and learn something about independant living ‘from the mouth of babes.’ We will definitely come again!

"beck bucks!?"

★★☆☆☆ Reviewed March 23, 2017

im use to fast pases, tickets, pricy food, ect at amusemint parks, whats up with the beck buck they use here tho? i planned on payinbig to get in and go on rides (wat rides? lol)but i swear it was $2 for every buck going in, but 4 bukcs fpr a dollar on the way out. a real scam!

Hilariously Bad

★★★★☆ Reviewed April 4, 2017

Beckistan’s the single most hilarious place I’ve ever been. It’s expensive, crowded, tacky, and full of whackjobs who can’t get enough of the propaganda coming out of the loudspeakers. The selling point is watching tourists who think they bought access to Libertarian Mecca; they’re the real entertainment! Don’t eat anything, though. I saw animal feed trucks unloading at the snack…

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Imagineers have nothing on Dreamers!

★★★★☆ Reviewed April 5, 2017

Disney Imagineers may be ahead of the game making rides, but Independence’s American Dreamers have a knack for advances in real marketplaces. I can’t believe the things they come up with! Some might not like signing nondisclosure agreements before going in, but it’s worth seeing these guys work. All praise aside, it was weird that a park has a weapons…

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I WANT MY DAUGHTER BACK!!

★☆☆☆☆ Reviewed April 12, 2017

INDEPENDANCE IS CRIMINAL! I GOT SEPERATED FROM MY DAUGHTER AT THE BEGINNING OF OUR TRIP AND NOONE COULD FIND HER FOR 3 DAYS! 3 DAYS!! WHEN I THREATENED TO GET THE COPS INVOLVED I WAS TOLD SHE HAD CHOSEN TO STAY AND HAD EMANCIPATED HERSELF! SHE'S ONLY 12! THEY DIDN’T LET ME SEE HER AND THREATENED TO SUE ME FOR…

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Best Souvenirs a Beck Buck Can Buy

★★★★★ Reviewed April 18, 2017

The market district was a real hoot with all the people working an honest trade. Some might look down on the fact that they're making merchandise for 1971 Supply, but them making and marketing it themselves is amazing. The odd mistake in each item is testament to the handmade nature, especially jokes like occassional six-point stars or “help me” on…

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“A Boy's Life in Beckistan, Part Four” By Vienna Circlejerk

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411710374&forumid=1

It was late afternoon and I was on my way to the park with three Golden Blessings that my mom had given me for doing well at homeschool that afternoon.

It had been mostly handwriting practice, which I hate, but I spent the whole time wondering about the brownies and that had made me a lot less antsy, even if it didn't improve the quality of my work. Mom was pretty happy that I'd been able to sit still the whole time, which seemed to be the thing she thought was the most important at homeschool, and had given me enough money to cover an evening park ticket and five turns on the swings, or four if I had to go to the bathroom. I was a pretty happy kid.

"Hey, Matt, wait up!" someone called from behind me. I turned to look. It was Eric's sister, Jenny. I didn't want to wait up. But Eric was always telling kids to be nice to her, so I thought I'd at least be polite. I stood and waited for her to catch up to me.

"What do you want?" I tried not to say it too rudely but was only partly successful.

"I heard what you asked my brother," she said. She was smiling at me, like she always did, like she knew something I didn't. It never stopped bothering me, and it really bothered me now.

"What? About rectangles?" I asked, trying to play dumb.

"No, about the night people, dummy. I heard you ask about them."

I remembered what I'd promised to Jimmy earlier. "You need to get your hearing checked! If your parents can afford it." That was mean, and I knew it, but I really hated that smile of hers.

Jenny was no stranger to being teased about being poor and brushed it off. "Okay, moneybags, what if I told you I already know about them? What if I told you I know lots about them?"

"You do not! You don't know anything about them. I bet you've never even seen them!" Oops.

"Aha, so you did ask about them." The triumph in her eyes was infuriating. "Well, have I got a deal for you! You give me five blessings and I'll tell you everything I know about them."

"Five? Are you nuts?" I may have let the cat out of the bag but at least I could try to negotiate. "Why don't you tell me what you know and I'll pay you what I think it's worth." It was worth a try, anyway.

"You must think I'm stupid."

"Yeah, I do. I don't think you know anything. Maybe I should tell your brother you've been making up stories." I don't think that really scared her, but at least it got that little smirk off her face while she thought about it.

"Tell you what, you give me one blessing and I'll tell you a little bit of what I know, and if you want to know more, you pay me more."

I had to think about this. I wasn't really prepared for the idea that other kids might be in on the secret. And, until I actually handed her money, I could say that I was just playing along with her dumb game, that I didn't really know anything about any night people, as she called them. The minute I handed her a single Golden Blessing, even a single Common Cent, I'd be breaking my promise to Jimmy and admitting she was right.

"I don't have any money," I lied, turning back down the street toward the park.

"You're going to the park, aren't you? You have at least enough for a ticket. Come on, one blessing."

"Go beg somewhere else, parasite," I told her. That's probably what my dad would say. She didn't seem fazed by it. "You know where to find me when you change your mind," she said. "Only it'll be a lot more, then."

I said nothing, and continued on my way to the park. I was relieved. Relieved that I hadn't broken my promise to Jimmy or admitted anything that could have gotten me and trouble. And I was relieved that the door Jenny offered was still open to me, even if the price would be higher.

“Leaving Independence” By DarklyDreaming

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411710746&forumid=1

From the December 2030 issue of Need to know magazine, written by Astrid Cunningham

At first glance, Claudia Bering looks like she was born too old for this shit. The lines around her face and eyes reveal many a sleepless night and her face seems stuck on “determined scowl” Miss Bering runs a nonprofit organization referred to as “Freedom from Independence.”

Astrid Cunningham: So tell me what gave you the idea.

Claudia Bering: Well I was born and raised in San Marcos, the closest major city to Independence. I was a high school history teacher. Until I started seeing them around town

A:Them?

C: The people who left Independence either by choice or by exile. Most of the hardliners, the first generation that paid their life savings to invest in Glenn Beck’s fantasy camp, they’ll die there, secure in their delusion that paradise is just around the corner as their wasteland burns to ash. The people leaving are their children, at best they are rebellious teenagers who asked too many questions like “How do you know all black people are criminals if you’ve never met one?” The worst are the ones made to work in the natural gas refineries or gun factories from age six until they either get lucky or drop dead from exhaustion.

A: And you help them escape

C: Escape? I wish, no one has enough guns to get someone out alive. They have to be willing and able to walk out the front door, the only way out of the city if you don’t have wings, in front of everyone. They don’t shoot if they know you want to leave, they will curse at you, but you can leave. They will however shoot if a foo-rin-errr shows up to tell them their paradise isn’t worth staying in.

A: So what do you do exactly?

C: When they show up, they have no education, no job experience, and no credit history. They either went to the indoctrination camps they call learning centers or their parents gave them twelve years of “Us good, them bad” over and over again, if their parents didn’t sell them to somebody. If they had careers in there, they never had the regulations we take for granted, I am talking about carpenters who have never heard of OSHA, doctors that think they don’t need lead shielding for X-Rays and farmers that think borax is a good pesticide. After that they never got paid in anything besides company scrip or “Purestrain gold” I have never seen a sample of this and no one’s told me what’s so special about it so I’m betting someone gave them gold plated tin and told them it was magic.

A: Must be difficult

C: Very. First comes the GED, they get that, a few more options open up, then find a diner or gas station for them to work at a few years, If they want a real career we have a college fund but we can maybe afford to send two or three a semester.

A: And there are more than two or three a year I take it

C: We average about ten a month.

A: How many people are in your organization?

C: Twelve, counting me. To be honest I’d love to have a few more chaperones but I love meeting and getting to know every one of them as I fix their lives

A: You must have some stories then

C: Of course I do, that’s why you’re here isn’t it?

“As Free as the Market that Made Me” By Agentdark

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411711537&forumid=1

Tape Entered as Evidence at Trial of Leaders of "Independence USA" for crimes against humanity.

The Free Market will set me free

I will let the free market decide if I am to finally be set free. Well, that’s not true, but the gun I hold in my hand is a product of the free market in this shithole of a town.

It’s a good weapon, probably the only quality product this town ever made. 1791 Jeans, knockoff pharmaceuticals that had just as much of a chance as being placebo’s as actual medicine. It was all shit, overpriced shit that we sold to the tourists and to the discount megastores that kept growing across the country. But amidst the entire wave of shit that this town produced, it made good guns. The Parasite Cleaner, the Freedom Hammer, the Obummernator. Of course, the Patriots never told us who we were selling these to.

But I saw. I saw the men in the military uniforms. They came from all over, usually by chartered plane out of Mexico. They came for cargos from the labs, and from Liberty Firearms explosive’s division, and they came for the kids. Jesus Christ, they came for the fucking kids. Kids of parents who were in debt, of parents who I had even arrested, or executed. Shit it didn’t even matter. We sold kids. We were told that the men in the uniforms were from countries sympathetic to our cause of a perfect free market town.

However, one night, when I was on overwatch, patrolling the airfield, I recognized the insignia on the uniforms. It was from a time I barely remembered, a time when I still watched the news, had access to the internet.

North Korea. But they were godless communists, opposed to the will of the Prophet, hallowed be his name, and the isolation from the socialists on the outside. North Korea and the 2nd America were part of the axis of evil that we had fought off three decades ago.

Or had we. I suppose I should start from the beginning, though the chances of anyone listening to this are essentially zero. And I apologize to anyone who this might reach for how disjointed it is. I’m 3 sheets to the wind on cheap bourbon and a little bit of morphine I bought off a cooker in habblock 23. Shit, anything to make the end of the rainbow seems a little closer. But I remember. I was 19, from a broken home. Obama had been reelected around then, and I heard on the Internet about Independence, USA, some super community in Texas, run by Glen Beck. I thought it would be great, I could make a fortune, live like a King, have all the guns and women I wanted.

I took all my money, all the money I could take from my parents, and left home. I arrived here and joined the militia, and I watched the rise of a great dream, and then the fall of a promise. Of course, it was never great, or even a good promise. I let myself drink the kool-aid, and I believed in it.

Even as we became the greatest destination for cheap labor, and pollution darkened the skies, I kept the workers in line, and believed. I shot men in the streets like dogs. Made examples of women because I had a gun, and I had the power, and I believed.

I was chosen for the patriot corps, and issued a new badge, and a uniform that gave me unlimited powers to hunt the parasites, and I believed. I shot a man who asked to go to the hospital because he lost a finger in an industrial accident, because I believed that he was a parasite.

Hold on a second

Rustling is heard, and the sounds of a needle being prepared. Then a sigh

That’s better. Had a little morphine left, didn’t want it to go to waste. I believed until the end. I marched in the parades, sang the slogans. I helped cover up the degradation, the slavery, the deaths when inspectors from the 2nd America…no, the United States of America, I call it by its true name now, because I am free. The whole time I believed that I was free, but I was not. I was trapped by my own mind, but the words and the slogans we shouted. By the rewards, by the fear of the “working class” of what I could do to them without any repercussions or consequence, because I was a patriot, I was a god. A God of the Free Market. A Prophet unto Beck.

But then I was given high enough rank, and I learned what we had done. We sold kids. We sold electronics. I don’t know what else we sold, or whatever butchers bill the pursuit of the Free Market with no rules bought, but I did it. I ended it all. At least I think I did. I got to a working terminal. I got word out to the USA.

Now the hab blocks are rioting. I am ignoring the calls to Arms. The National Guard is advancing. But I am too much of a coward to turn myself in. But what scares me more is that they might give me absolution for doing to the right thing in the end.

If I did. I don’t even know. I don’t know if my transmission got out. But I am a monster, I deserve punishment, but I am afraid. I abandoned all that was

Fuck it. I have one bullet left. I executed the 5 members of my squad while they slept. My pistol is a revolver called “The defender of the free market”

The free market will set me free.

“Guide for New Camp Staff” By Loxbourne

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411723268&forumid=1

From the journals of Doctor Robert Brauman, as collected in Liberty: the Stillborn Dream, The Media and Legacy of The United States' Most Notorious Social Experiment. Cambridge Press, 2d ed. 2056
Medicins Sans Frontiers (MSF-USA Branch); Independence, Texas.
Spring 2043

Extracts from casenotes and guidance to new camp staff, edited for clarity.

Page 12/28

"...radiodense pulmonary emboli, following repeated introduction of mercury into the bloodstream via a botched dental filling. The patient appeared to have attempted this in his own home, stating dentists were all frauds and playing him for a sucker. The patient's views did not prevent him accepting pain relief. During a pre-admission exam, the patient was also found to be concealing two week-old puncture wounds in his right thigh, both of which were now septic. On questioning the patient he admitted to being shot in the leg twice after arguing with the "dentist" over the price of his services. The ammunition used was irregular and low-calibre, of home-cast manufacture and entirely lead.

Patients should always be checked for other injuries beyond what they present on arrival; particularly home-sutured lacerations and heavy bruising.

Many residents are enterprising and pro-active about treatment and most have some awareness of infection control; the problem is that the majority of the population are effectively enslaved and will be forced to return to work as soon as the wound is dressed, if that. Broken bones rarely set properly, and minor injuries often become septic when exposed to the hideous lack of hygiene within the compound.

Accidents are as rife as arguments in Independence, and many residents now make their own powder and ammunition. Misfires from fouled barrels cause many injuries and deaths.

After diseases of poor diet, the most common condition is heavy metal poisoning. Lead and mercury, although we have also had a few cases of arsenic, and one case of cadmium poisoning from a battery salvager.

Lead can be inhaled or enter the food supply from industrial emissions, the lead weights used to measure out quantities in the compound marketplace, or the salvaged water pipes used to cut costs in the compound's construction. Even from some of the truly ancient tinned food the compound keeps in its stockpiles.

Home-cast lead crockery and utensils are common within the compound. Be warned that residents of the compound are told we will arrest and execute them for owning a firearm; they are more likely to admit to casting crockery than the reality, which is bullets.

Mercury poisoning may be found in residents who work in battery repair/manufacture or repairing solar panels; some of the compound rulers have a forced-labour site attempting PV panel and circuitboard doping. This is done with grossly inadequate filtration and breath protection, and patients will often present with scarred lungs. Mercury pesticide use is common on crops, and may also enter the food chain via the eating of animals who have consumed contaminated garbage.

On two occasions the compound's leaders have purchased consignments of food, particularly fish, that were originally condemned as unfit for human consumption due to high mercury levels. Mercury cases rose spectacularly in the following weeks.

Lastly, arsenic. Most arsenic patients are or were workers in an attempt to smelt and refine "ultra-pure" silver that appears to have been set up in the last year. These can be identified by discolourations on the palms of the hand, particularly at the base of the thumb. Patients will often have a pattern of burns or burn scar tissue along the forearms and upper body, from fumes and casting accidents.

I was thankful for this sign, straight out of the middle ages, as the first silver cases were the entrepreneurs themselves! They would refuse to explain their injuries, even when presented with evidence of their condition, for fear of "giving away trade secrets". Naturally none of these fine men dared to use their own doctors within Independence, if such people even exist."

“Escape From Independence” By MongolArcher

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411725262&forumid=1

This is from the case file of Beegum, April D. 32(?) year old female who escaped the compound during the Blizzard of 2039. She made her way to the UN/SFOR FOB approx. 20k from the compound. Upon intake she was immediately taken to medical for screening and treatment, medical records appended to file. She was in poor health, malnourished, and frail but determined to report to 'someone who could do something' as soon as possible.

Interrogator questions and comments have been bolded. Please note some information has been redacted for security purposes.

GOOD AFTERNOON, MA'AM. MY NAME IS XXXXXXX XXXXXXX, WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

They called me Mother. Mother of... last, was nineteen. Yes.

Mother of Nineteen.

*shifts uneasily in her chair.*

I had a name, a real name once. Is it mine to use again? It might... it would make it easier to talk about what happened, you know, there...

OF COURSE. CAN YOU STATE YOUR NAME FOR THE RECORD, PLEASE?

April Dawn Beegum. *she smiles, sitting up straight for the first time and looking the interviewer in the eye* Yes. That's me. Mom named me that because that's when I was born and she was kind of a dreamer, you know... *leans forward, hopeful* Do you think she's still alive? I mean, it hasn't been that long and she wasn't that old when I was.. when dad moved us, you know, THERE.

WE COULD HELP YOU LOCATE HER, IF YOU LIKE. THERE ARE STUDIES THAT SHOW IMPROVED OUTCOME IN READJUSTMENT IF THE REFUGEE HAS SOMEONE, UM, MORE EXPERIENCED IN MODERN SOCIETY SHOW THEM THE ROPES, SO TO SPEAK.

Okay, sweet! Yeah, I know nobody talks like that anymore, but what can I say? Dad and mom were getting a divorce, and he was angry with her so he sold the house and emptied the bank account and picked me up from school and took me away with him. I didn't have a choice, or a chance - the bastard took my cell phone out of my backpack and threw it out the window so I couldn't call for help and we drove and drove and drove. I was so pissed off, you know, because here was my dad and I hadn't seen him in forever and all I wanted to do was talk to him and he fucking kidnapped me! You people need to get in there and stop them, you know. It's hell in there and worse if you're a girl. All the times they... "married" me to some Captain of Industry, that's what they called the rich fuckers with all the BeckBucks, all the power, there was this fucking stupid ceremony and I had to look all stupid and pleased and happy or they would... would punish me. Yeah. I still have scars, you'll want to see them later I guess, right? I was "married" to these old fuckers who made me pregnant and then - then I never saw the baby after it was a year old. I never was allowed to name them, but in my head I did. They couldn't drug me the way they did other girls because I could have babies and too many drugs would spoil the babies. That's what I remembered from my Health classes at school back home, and it was so true! I saw horrible things...

*long pause*

WHAT SORT OF THINGS DID YOU SEE? ARE YOU UP TO TALKING ABOUT THEM?

If you couldn't have babies, they said you had failed god and beck. They sent the less pretty girls to the mines, once they got big enough and even if you had babies and started to look not pretty, they would send you to the factories and work you to death. They didn't care if you could do anything else or not, they chose, because you were a girl and so they thought you were less smart, less useful than boys. If you were really dumb and pretty, you got to be a Wife. I got good at acting dumb.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY 'GOT TO BE A WIFE'? WHAT DID YOU DO?

Being a Wife was boring. Boring boring boring! I had been "married" to, like, five or six of those Captains, so I had to Wife for all of them. Do the laundry. Cook. Keep the house clean, for all of them. Good thing they all lived in the Heart of Liberty or I couldn't have done it, because even when the roads were still good, 'women drivers suck' was a thing they would say and not let women drive. So I got to go from one house to the next to the next and keep it all nice and clean like a good Wife. If I was really good, they would let me see the babies in the Center, the big school and nursery they had for them. They never told me which ones were mine, but I just wished I could take them all away with me, you know? the guys running the place acted like they didn't like babies much, called them workers and apprentices and teased them and were mean. Trying to make them tough they said.

Wife was bad, but Mistress or Whore was worse. Sometimes when i was cleaning I found one, still in bed, all torn up. I felt bad for them and tried to help them all I could, but I dint' have much of anything. I just cleaned them up and when I started to find how to get it, got them asprins and stuff to make the hurting stop a little. Some of them started to tell me things... it made me sick. Some of them were younger than me when I started, and I was fifteen!

Yeah. Fifteen when my real life ended.

“Lead in America: An Invisible Epidemic” By A Terrible Person

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411727745&forumid=1

Transcript excerpted from Lead in America: An Invisible Epidemic hosted by Michael Langland, original air-date September 1st 2026.

Note that the following interview with a man identified only as Mr. Holloway was removed from subsequent broadcasts following pressure from Clear Channel Media and Mercury Radio Arts. Questions and statements from Mr. Langland come from off-screen and appear in brackets to aid in clarity.

"Boomtown. It's one of those words that makes a person think of those old western movies. The type of word that fits in perfectly with cowboys and prospectors, corrupt lawmen and robber barons, ramshackle saloons and frontier brothels. The last thing I ever thought I'd associate it with was an amusement park. But, then again, here I am."

["And here would be...?"]

"Here, in this case, happens to be Independence. Located smack in the middle no-man's-land Texas, Independence isn't technically a city or town or... well, anything else for that matter! Hell, it doesn't even show up on a map or have a real name. Most just call it Independence on account of the theme park in the middle, but the town proper has been called anything from just 'The Town' to 'New Gulch City' to 'Boomtown, USA'. I'll admit that I kinda made up that last one, though, even if it is catching on. Just edit out the part where I admit as much."

["I'm not sure I understand. The town isn't part of the park?"]

"The land itself is still owned by the park, but it isn't part of the park. The town actually wraps around the outer bounds of the park's walls. And, again, it isn't technically a town because it doesn't technically exist. It's important to keep that in mind."

["I'm not sure I follow."]

"I'm not sure I follow it myself, but that's the genius of it. Well, genius if I actually understand as much of it as I think I do. As far as I can tell, the park is zoned as a park and is granted all kinds of special perks and privileges for being one. On top of that, Mr. Beck and his investor friends wheedled and bought certain legal protections from the former Governor and his politician friends. Just how much protection and from how high up it comes is anyone's guess. Regardless, Independence was plotted and built and opened to great fanfare. Some people bought into the dream and moved in, others came to see it in action. The thing that most people didn't know was just how much land was purchased. You see, Beck and friends wanted to build an attraction, but they also wanted to build a utopia. Independence was phase one, and it was plotted out with room for expansion."

["So they built a town. This town."]

"Yes and no. There is a town. We're sitting in that town. But it isn't a town and 'they' didn't build it."

["So... there is a town and there isn't a town."]

"Exactly!"

["And nobody built it?"]

"Of course somebody had to build it! It's a town, for chrissakes!"

["But-"]

"I'll start over real slow-like. It's a town. But it's not a town because it's a park. But it's not a part of the park. The people who own Independence own the town. They own the land it's built on, which is park land. They own the materials the town's built out of. But the people who own the town? They didn't build it."

["So who built it?"]

"People from Independence, most likely. Sure, a lot of labor came from outside, but only approved labor. The thing you have to remember is that Independence pride's itself on being self-sufficient. When they ship in material and labor, it has to be the right kind."

["So a self-sufficient park utilizes outside labor and resources to build and not build a town that isn't a town."]

"Now you're getting it! You could fit in here perfect in no time flat."

["I was trying deliberately to show how I didn't get it."]

"Oh. Well. What didn't you get?"

["Just about any of that, to be honest. I think I understand how the town is on park land but not a part of the park, but not who built it or how it's self-sufficient. If Independence built the town, how is it the people of Independence didn't build it at the same time?"]

"Oh, that's the easy part. You're merely confused about how the people who own Independence aren't the people of Independence. The owners live and operate who-knows-where while the people of Independence are the literal citizens of the park. It's just one of those things people tend to miss: the folks who work for the park live in the park. The folks from the park are the ones who run the businesses and attractions and built this town. With outside help, of course."

["Which brings us back to the issue of self-sufficiency."]

"True enough, but that depends on who's definition of 'self-sufficient' you're using. If I own something and utilize it, I'm being self-sufficient. If I have to go to somebody to get my something, then I'm not being self-sufficient anymore. But if that somebody's something becomes mine through no action of my own, it's my own resource to use. Got it?"

["So it's theft."]

"No, it's not theft! Of course it's not theft. I mean, yeah; theft may be involved in some areas or some cases, but that's not the point! The point is that the park purchases the resources and then the people of the park utilize them. The people of the park are using park resources to remain self-sufficient!"

["So the park isn't actually self-sufficient?"]

"Of course not! But the park is."

["I-"]

"No, don't even start. It's obviously too complicated for you. Just think of it this way: Independence was meant to be a Libertarian theme park that not only extolled the virtues of the philosophy, but also lived by and championed them. As long as the park's owners could explain away the park's actions as being right through the lens of the movement, then the park would be successful and the message could be spread. The True Believers would accept a certain amount of hypocrisy so long as the message rang clear. So my question to you is this: when did the government last open a police department in Disney World?"

["I think Disney World is policed by the Orange County Sheriff's-"]

"Yes, yes; policed by, but not stationed in. Most of the park's security and emergency services are handled by employees hired by Disney. The same goes for Independence, except that our park relies mostly on in-house militias rather than deputies or whatever else. That's where our city planning and regulatory practices are approved, too. Not by any government agencies, but by our own personal guilds of architects, contractors, Dreamers, and builders. Once the learning center was accredited, all of our legal issues came to an end. And there were plenty of outsiders beholden to the dream who were willing to work for whatever was offered to make the town succeed. The town is self-sufficient so long as the residents are willing to believe it is, and they are the ones who make the rules. No government is allowed in Independence, and none is needed. Because this is a park, not a town."

["But a town like this can't exist for very long. And it certainly won't be allowed to spread any further."]

"Oh, but this isn't a town. And just wait for Independence, Florida."

“The Boys on Coughlin Street” By HEGEL SMOKE A J

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411727762&forumid=1

Ann-Coulter Berkowitz had a number of strikes against her from the beginning. In the first place, she was a girl. And although Mom might have always said that true Libertarianism, properly conceived, erased the differences between men and women under the pressures of Free Market Principles, that happy news apparently hadn’t reached most inhabitants of Independence. Secondly, she was smart, smart as hell, which most dudes did not appreciate in the second sex.

Thirdly, and here was where it got weird, she looked different. Even now, when she was thirteen, you could have cut a wheel of cheese (were such an item available) with the blade of Ann-Coulter’s magnificent, graceful nose. Her skin was olive, not the pale peaches-and-cream of most of the people of Independence except for Mom’s friends. Her black hair bounced in curly masses about her thin face, and muscled its way out of even the stoutest braids by noon. At the slightest hint of moisture in the air, Ann-Coulter’s head fluffed up like a dandelion gone to seed.

Different.

The problem was, she didn’t know what made her different. She had been listing things for weeks, ever since she had started thinking about this, but despite all this data (logical observation is a hallmark of libertarianism), she had no idea what any of it meant.

Food that Mom will Not Eat: Bacon. Pork and beans. Pork chops. Clam chowder. Biscuits and gravy.
Food That Mom Will Eat: Everything else. Especially ice cream, when we can get it. (significant??)

Guns that mom WILL NOT BUY: HK. Krupp. SIG Sauer. Walther.
Guns that Mom will buy: Desert Eagle.
Guns upon which Mom is neutral-to-positive: Everything else.

Families we hang out with. Kantorowitz. Rabinow. Feldman. Novak. Greenspan. Goldtree. Roth. Goldfarb. Saul. Loewisohn.
Item: Why are mom’s house parties different from all other house parties?
N.B. This is the Rand neighborhood. Nobody else.

What did bacon have to do with firearms? It was like she was coming across the basic elements of a vast intellectual landscape, the first principles of which were entirely hidden from her. It was a thing she did not know and could not figure out, which frustrated her immensely.

And another thing:

House Rules: No backtalk. Clean up after yourself. Be in bed by midnight. Never go to Coughlin Street if you can avoid it. If you have to go, go in groups with some of Mom’s friends. And always, always go armed.

What was that about?

“They hate us,” Mom had said.
“But why?”
“Because they’re stupid. Everyone that lives in Coughlin Street is dumb as hell.”
“But what does that have to do with--”
“Hush. Remember what happened to Mrs. Auerbach and always bring at least one of your guns.”

Would stupidity make you want to hurt people, though?

Nothing made sense here.

It had been during a fight. Ann-Coulter was mad because she still had to carry the Hello Kitty AR-15 her mom had bought her when she was ten. It was too small for her now, and worst of all it was pink. Pink! She looked like a child. Ayn-Rand Blumenthal had a real, adult assault rifle, why couldn’t she?

Of course, it had devolved into a screaming match, and then Ann-Coulter had brought up the fact that her mom had a secret.

“Why do we only hang out with the people in Rand neighborhood? Auerbach, Blumenthal, Kantorowitz, Weil, Berkowitz. Who are we? Is something wrong with us?”

She saw Mom’s head move backwards as if under a blow. “We’re German,” she said. “Those names are German. Everyone in Rand neighborhood...used to come from Germany. If people are bigoted against that...well, they aren’t real Libertarians. Or Objectivists.”

“Germany?” crowed Ann-Coulter, fed up to the teeth with the stupidity of adults. “Then Coughlin Street must freaking love us. Adalfit is German and they talk about him all the time. They can’t get enough of him. We ought to be their best fr--”

Her mother closed the distance between them faster than Ann-Coulter had ever seen her move and struck her in the face. “Do...not...ever...speak...that...name...to...me...again,” she hissed.

And when Ann-Coulter raised her hand to her stinging cheek, she saw that there were tears in her mother’s eyes, which thrilled her with an obscure terror. Judith Berkowitz, crying? Veteran of a thousand college Young Republican debating sessions, head of Young Americans for Freedom eight years in a row, three-time winner of the Buckley Award? Crying?

“Oh my God," shrieked Ann-Coulter. "You are all insane! Uugh!” She stomped to her room loudly, slammed the door as hard as she could, and flung herself onto her bed crying--loudly, of course, so her crazy mom could hear how much she had hurt her.

But that night she dreamed that she was a tiny, tiny girl, and her mother--and her father too, since this was long ago--had taken her into a big room, where lots of people were. It was dim, lit only by the glancing sunlight from small windows, high above her. And there, in the shadows, at the front of the room far away, a young man sang with a tenor as pure as icy water, and it was the saddest song in the world.

”I look to the hills, whence cometh my help...My help is in the Lord, who made the heavens and the earth.”

The melody trailed away, scraps of music, and the darkness they fell into was time, time was a well that the young man was singing out of, and it went back and back and back. My God, thought Ann-Coulter as she was waking up, are human beings ever fucking lonely.

"My help is in the Lord, who made the heavens and the earth.”

It was probably because she was thinking about the dream that Ann-Coulter forgot which route she had to take from the Rand neighborhood to the Learning Center, where she had her apprenticeship. Usually, she turned left at Gingrich Plaza and made a wide circuit around the area of Coughlin Street, then turned back right before heading north into the marketplace and getting on the bridge over the lake. Today, she just walked straight north, feeling the sun on her face and humming the song from the dream under her breath.

And then she heard the laughter.

There were three of them in front of her and more behind, she didn’t know how many. There were probably more behind the tall building ahead of her and to the right, which is where she would have set something up. They had cut her off. Stalking her. They were all pale, super-pale under their angry-looking sunburns (Ann-Coulter herself almost never burnt or tanned), yellow hair shaved down to the skulls. All boys: Coughlin Street hated chicks, too.

The one in front had eyes as pale as any she had ever seen, like flat chips of stone in his round, piggish face. She couldn’t tell if it was fat or muscle, but he was definitely a lot bigger than Ann-Coulter. He had to be at least sixteen, which may as well have been adult.

“You know you're not supposed to come here, Jew," he spat. "You made my day, though; Breivik'll give me fifty dollars for your teeth.”

She reached behind herself...and found nothing. The Head Librarian forbade guns in the stacks. Plus, that morning she had thought that if her mom saw how embarrassed she was by her Hello Kitty rifle she’d hurry up and get her a new one.

It was like time had stopped. My help, my help, my help sang the part of her mind that was still operating, into a depthless silence.

And then she saw two things.

One: The homemade tattoo on Big Dude’s forearm, poorly done as it was, was recognisable as a symbol which Ann-Coulter had seen in a book on Indian history. For some reason, the thugs on Coughlin Street were into Hinduism, which meant that they were morons, not true Libertarians at all. She was going to be killed by idiots who had probably never even heard of what Rand had said about religion. Slowly, within the white space of a fear as all-consuming as anything Ann-Coulter had ever felt, grew a spark of rage.

Which brought her to the second thing: instead of wearing proper holsters, all the boys in front of her had jammed their pistols into their belts or waistbands. And she could see...she could just see, glinting in the sunlight, that the safety on Big Dude’s piece was off. You stupid motherfucker.

So, when Big Dude moved towards her, arms out--he hadn’t even drawn down, what the fuck--instead of screaming, crying, trying to run away, and everything the boys were probably expecting, Ann-Coulter yelled, as loud as she could, and dashed toward him, grabbing for the pistol.

He twisted around her when she collided with him, and then the gun went off, echoing around the narrow street. She saw his eyes get big and then they both went down.

“You shot me! Oh my God, you Jew bitch, you shot me!” he blubbered, going ashen under the sunburn and the dirt. She could smell the stink of his body now, and underneath that the blood. There was something warm and wet on her knee where it rested on top of his crotch. She grabbed for the pistol and when she brought it up into his face her hands were sticky.

“Help! One of you, help! Help me!” Ann-Coulter swept the pistol around quickly, then looked around herself more slowly. The street was empty: at the first sign of actual fighting, the boys had run away.

Stiffly, Ann-Coulter got to her feet. There was blood all over her jeans. A lot of blood. Avoiding his face, she looked at the pistol: it was a piece of trash, poorly made and poorly maintained. Gently, she placed it next to his feet and turned back south, to walk around the Coughlin Street neighborhood like she should have at the beginning. She could use her lunch money to buy water in the bathroom on Gingrich Plaza, and wash her hands.

“You...you cowards! You’re...you’re all a bunch of Jews!” cried Big Dude. His voice was weaker now, softer. You could hear the youth still in it. “Jews! Jews!”

Ann-Coulter Berkowitz kept walking, and she didn’t look back.

“Sanctity” By Etherwind

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411729594&forumid=1

It would be months before the Circle of Pundits could be convened, and until then the daily duties of my station demanded my attention. I barely had the girl settled in the Abbey when word arrived that a terrorist was to be executed in nearby Gigotopolis, and with it came a request for a priest to officiate last rites. Usually the task would fall to the most junior of our brothers, but my time away had lightened my spirits sufficiently that I accepted on his behalf.

Five days later I found myself near the head of the procession toward the new city square, walking slowly alongside the wooden cage where the offender was huddled in an orange gown. Progress was slow, with many turns required to squeeze between the towering buildings, and my heart lifted when I saw the space ahead had been cleared with careful fire some days before. Our journey quickened as we trod across the ashes of the poor and their homes.

At once we slowed again, and I saw a crowd of girls descending on us with bared breasts and wanton smiles. Harlots! Every village and town held women like them, profaned by pregnancy out of wedlock, but never did I imagine so many would flock together in the cities. I recoiled from a young woman of sixteen years as she reached for my beard, and at that moment the Majority Leader stepped between us and sent her shrieking in terror. His hand held a long, spiked phallus that I only recognised in retrospect: the urethral ultrasound warded off the horde.

"Are you well, Father Abbot?" I nodded speechlessly to him as he stooped to clean the buckles on his shoes, and then he was away.

We stopped in the middle of the square, where waited a boiling vat of pitch. The terrorist let out a moan of fear as he recognised what awaited him; he had profaned the race to which he belonged, and that grace would be rescinded before his death. I almost pitied him.

"Let all bear witness to the just punishment of the terrorist!" the Minority Leader shouted above the bustle, signalling that all were to take their places. I fumbled with my books - it had been years since I officiated - and sought the readings that I had selected. The ribbons had come loose again, but I quietly omitted the abjurations to shoddy Chinese workmanship, resolving to pray for forgiveness at a more opportune time.

I was thumbing through pages when the cry went up, and one of the marshals nearby jostled me as he ran past, earning a scowl that softened to surprise when I saw where the disturbance centred. At the other end of the square a palanquin had arrived. Through the open doors I saw a woman in red laughing and waving to the crowd, thick spectacles and brown hair visible even from the distance.

"Governess!" I was not the only one who had saw her. Beside me, the terrorist was on his feet and waving frantically through the bars of his cage. "Governess! See me! Governess!"

At once I strode to the marshal and hauled him back. "Stop him," I whispered as I shoved him toward the cage, hearing him smack the bars with his truncheon as I turned back to the distant figure. What was she doing here? And why now, of all times?

"Governess!" The terrorist was undeterred, though I heard the crack of the truncheon on his knuckles and his scream. That cry was enough to rise above the others, and from her seat on the palanquin the figure in red sat up and peered toward the cage.

"Governess! Do you see me?"

I felt horror rise as she gave a wink and pointed to him with the sacred rifle. "You betcha!"

A jubilant call unlike any I had heard across the years screamed out of the cage, and I staggered back, leaning against it in defeat. The marshal smacked the prisoner about the face then stopped, tipping back his wide hat to look at me in surprise. "What's the matter, father?"

"The prisoner is to be released." My voice was morbid, my eyes like daggers against the distant woman. "He has been pardoned."

An hour later I followed her into the city cathedral, genuflected with her at the altar before passing into the rooms behind. I acted with all due deference until she stepped behind a privacy screen, watching her thin silhouette as she removed the coat and glasses, then at last her wig. She emerged a much younger woman, blonde hair bound tight against her head.

"You wished to speak to me, Father Abbot?"

"Why did you pardon that man?" My rage welled up within me, and I inwardly repeated the prayer to St. William, we'll do it live / fuck it / do it live / look / I'll write it and we'll do it live / fucking thing sucks!

"He called out, and the Governess answered."

"You don't even know his crime!"

"The Governess is not renowned for her wisdom or book learning," she coolly replied. "She is the hope of those who have no hope. She offers succour to the masses and welcome to the defective. All are warmed against her bosom, so long as they have read her book."

I knew she was right, but it hurt me to consider. The man had sent his son to join the elites and then reneged on his debts when the time came due to pay, claiming he was a sovereign citizen and would not be subject to the yoke of tyranny. Preposterous! The man was no Capitalist, yet he had been excused of all crime and would profit from his parasitism. Others would study his lesson.

"Then why are you in this city?" I asked her as I sat.

She smiled as she moved to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of wine. "I came here from the capital."

"Independence?" I was in awe. To think she had travelled so far was inconceivable.

"Where else would you find a Pundit Virgin? Do you think there are so many of us abroad in the world?"

It aggrieved me to be shown foolish by a woman. I can't do it / we'll do it live. "Forgive me, Blessed Sister. I had thought there was a temple to your patrons in the dust bowl, and that you may have come from there."

"That temple does not send its acolytes far, so great the suffering of the people there. No, I set out from Independence six months ago. In Kristolopolis I received a messenger who said there was a call for Pundits, and so I came here-"

"You are answering my call?" My head swam. All wrath left me, having appeased the spirit of St. William.

"If you are Abbot Rove, then yes, I am."

“Revising Theology” By Etherwind

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411732934&forumid=1

An abbey dedicated to the Nine Principles and Twelve Values is one of the few locations where a Pundit Virgin may lodge under the same roof as men, so it was not long before we became the centre of her excursions. I learned her name was Sincerity, which struck me as appropriate after the exchange we had shared in the Gigotopolis cathedral. I would later come to understand that each member of her sisterhood adopted the name of one of the Values for the duration of their service, resuming their original name upon retirement; until she ceased to be counted among the Pundit Virgins she would be an exemplar of her chosen name.

I soon came to resent her for it.

While she went back and forth throughout the surrounding towns in the holy guise of one of the Personalities, I busied myself attending to preparations for the gathering in which she would participate. The girl in our care was called Compensation-for-their-Services by whatever pious mother had brought her into the world, and that proved a challenge for the Novices and brothers under my leadership, since they each felt she was some sort of reward for their devotions. Publicly, I instructed them all that she was a guest to be treated with due respect for her gender and suspicion for her status as an elite, while privately I gave each and every one a stern warning that she was to remain untouched.

If only they pursued their prayers with the same diligence they went after her! I caught one of the Novices struggling with her in the kitchen, his hand up her skirt. After rebuking her for tempting him away from his duties and seeing her confined to quarters - there to remain until she cut her hair and dressed modestly - I took the Novice aside and put the fear of Dutch into him. In times like those I knew the temper of St. William was a blessing as well as a curse.

After that, I had Novice Peter accompany her as chaperone when she was not in my presence. He had come through his possession with real fire and spirit, quite impressively, and I knew from our private tutoring that he would not give her any trouble.

The problem of what to do with her vexed me for some weeks, and there were only so many letters I could write and sojourns I could take before I had to face the fact that she needed something to do. Were she an ordinary girl, I would have set her to work in the kitchen or in the garden, but the spirit of an elite is rebellious in the face of honest work. That she was still under investigation meant that she could not be trusted to instruct the novices in counting. In the end I resigned myself to using the time to test and strengthen her faith in Lord Regan and all his Saints, consoled to think that even if she were later put to death, her soul would be less tarnished for the experience.

"Where did your name come from?" I asked her one evening as we sat in the garden, joined by Sincerity.

"I was named after the Constitution." That she was educated meant that she showed discernment in answering the questions put to her, and Sincerity nodded her satisfaction at the answer.

I was less easily contented. "And what is the Constitution?"

"The Constitution of the United States of America is the greatest work of literature ever written," she recited. Before I could press her on this, she added "Some assert that the Declaration of Independence and the First and Second Testaments are more beautiful, but all agree that none are more perfect."

"How, then, do you explain the Amendments?" I had her trapped.

She looked down at the empty plate in her lap. The girl had put on weight since joining us, and her brown hair was clean around her ears. Were it not for the naturally inquisitive look with which she regarded everything, I would hold her in higher esteem.

Sincerity interrupted, "Are you familiar with the concept of Implicit Inerrancy?"

At once Compensation-for-their-Services looked up, smile bright. "The Amendments to the Constitution were implicit in the document signed by the Founding Fathers, who intended they come to light and be ratified at an appropriate time and place. The Constitution was perfect because it was implicitly inerrant."

The learning she showed staggered me, and I placed my drink down. Sincerity gave a cruel laugh and sat back, thankfully holding her tongue.

"And who were the Founding Fathers?" I covered for my ignorance.

"Washington, Jefferson, Adams, Hayek, Hamilton, Franklin, Lincoln, Madison, Beck, Galt and Friedman." She was quick to name them all.

"Who is the only one who is also a recognised Saint?"

"Saint Beck the Greater."

"Very good. Let us try you on more esoteric matters. Who was Rand?"

"She was the wife of Galt and mother to St. Paul, grandmother of St. Rand the disciple of Beck."

Her recall was truly staggering. I could see now why she had been destined to become one of the elite, and perhaps with the proper instruction she could have served as an example to them in humility.

Before I could move on, Sincerity cut in with a question of her own. "You know the Founding Fathers," she said, "but do you know their works? Which of them is the only one to have made a mistake?"

"That's a trick question. None of them made mistakes." The girl was sure.

"Then how do you explain the Thirteenth Amendment?"

I sat forward, genuinely interested. I had often avoided the subject in my sermons, for many among the faithful considered Lincoln a confusing and contradictory character, at once both the saviour of the greatest nation on earth and yet the architect of its decline.

She put down her plate. "Pundit Virgin, I can't answer that. I only know what I was taught."

"Very good," I applauded her. "We each must accept our limitations, and there are some questions that no one can answer. Your humility speaks-"

"I can answer that." Sincerity gave me a broad grin, and for the ninth time that day I repeated the prayer to St. William in my head. "Lincoln wrote the Thirteenth Amendment into the Constitution in recognition that nothing could be perfect without first possessing and overcoming its flaws. For this reason, he allowed the emancipation of the slaves that we would be tested, while also ensuring his amendment would be struck down when the time proved right. His wisdom meant that we would recognise the evil within our hearts and confront it, and then return to the right social order with appreciation for what the founders had given us. For this, he is called the tallest of the Founding Fathers, for he saw further than any other."

"Even Saint Beck?" I clenched my fist.

"Saint Beck showed humility before Lord Regan, and was not ashamed to recognise the greatness in others. For that he is first among the Saints. Surely you know this, Father Abbot?"

I took a deep breath, and bowed my head in meditation. After a time I looked up at her, pushed away my wine. "I struggle to follow his example, Sincerity. Your education was more comprehensive than mine."

"Naturally." Her eyes were not so cold as before, and condescension had gone out of her as she lifted the glass I had forgone. Her demeanour made brilliant contrast with her words. "I was educated among the elite before I joined the sisterhood."

My mouth fell open in shock, but Compensation-for-their-Services started up with questions, desperate to know more. Sincerity waved her into silence and finished the drink, turning to face her with the calm equanimity of one who knows she is sacrosanct in every circumstance until cast out by her sisters.

"Do you know how we join the sisterhood?" The girl shook her head, and the Pundit Virgin continued, "We are offered up by our families before puberty, when we are old enough to show our beauty but not yet old enough to commit to marriage without our parent's consent. The pageant is held in Independence before a crowd of onlookers, presided over by the Vice President and with each of the Personalities in attendance. I have attended the ceremony twice, both times as the Blogger, Lady Malkin of the Good Ones.

"Each child dances and sings before those gathered, and must be careful not to show immodesty through the cut-outs in her gown, or shed the purified rhinestones before leaving the stage. Talent is not what we are gauged on, but piety, and the semblance we bear in our actions to any of the gathered Personalities. When all are done, they argue long and loud, casting aspersions on our mothers and attempting to bring forth tears. Those who do not cry are then chosen between, with the unworthy becoming daughters and then wives of the Vice President. A large dowry is paid to their families."

"You did not cry?"

"No. I did not know it at the time, but the spirit of Lady Carlson the Friendly stole my tears from me."

"How can you have been educated among the elite," I challenged her, "if you joined the sisterhood at such a young age?"

"I never said I was successful then," she dismissed me curtly. "I became daughter to the Vice President and was sent to study among the elite to better serve him in later years."

I studied her, just as perplexed as the young girl.

Sincerity sighed, refilled the glass. "Pundit Virgins falter. Some prove incapable of handling the mantle of the Personalities, and give in to temptation, profaning themselves at the wrong times and without sanction. In these cases, they are buried alive in the library of Lord Regan, and the girls who danced with them are sought out. I was one of the few who had retained chastity, and when put to the test of the mysteries I proved strong."

"Test of the mysteries?" Both of us asked at once, and I frowned at the girl, annoyed at myself for being so childlike.

"We are not allowed to speak of it. The result was that the will of the Personalities had not been properly enforced, and that they found me worthy all along. I left the elites that day."

She seemed sad to recount it, and though it was inexplicable, melancholy crowded out discussion. We all studied the horizon, Sincerity doubtlessly reflecting on her past, I on the fragile nature of mankind and how often we failed to live up to the example of our betters.

"Pundit Virgin," Compensation-for-their-Services asked, "I have wondered... you will be judging me, won't you?"

She frowned. "The answer is complicated, but essentially: yes."

"Then why do you spend time with me? Will that not be unfair?"

"The Personalities were never impartial, and even their most forgiving, the Governess, could be wrathful when it was just. Talking to you does not threaten the outcome, Compensation-for-their-Services."

"Still, the girl has a point," I complained. "As the most senior Pundit, you will lead the circle. With that-"

Sincerity burst out laughing, and for once, rage did not take me. She recovered quickly, but was incredulous. "Don't be ridiculous! I could never lead the circle. Have you not studied the rite?"

"The notes were vague. I thought the most senior-"

"I'm a woman, Father Abbot. How could we ever be in charge?"

“A Boy's Life in Beckistan, Part Five” By Vienna Circlejerk

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411733280&forumid=1

Trash day was only once a week, which meant I had an unbearably long time to wait for a chance to catch another glimpse of Rob Waylow. It was him that I thought about, rather than the old man or the woman Jimmy told me about, when I thought of the brownies. I felt like we were friends already, that we would get along great, if I could just find a way to talk to him.

It occurred to me that the brownies might come out on other nights, for other reasons. I tried to stay up a few times and look out the window for them, but I never saw anything and I didn't want my parents to find out what I was up to. Things had already started to get a little weird with them.

Before, I had always looked up to my dad. I would hang on every word he said, about Independence, about the free market, about Glenn Beck's dream for us and how the whole world was watching what was going on here. I was sure my dad was helping to save the world, to bring it freedom and fight back against socialism. I imagined him working every day in the gun factory to help people stay free and protect their families, like he protected us.

Now, I was keeping secrets from him, which made me feel ashamed, but he had been keeping from secrets from me all along, which made me feel betrayed. Maybe he actually didn't know about the brownies, I thought, but if Jimmy and his parents knew about them, then how could he not? Why was it such a big secret? Also, dad never talked about what went on at the gun factory. I'd heard other people talk about how dangerous it was, and I always just figured my dad was really brave. But why would the tour guide say it was safe? I felt like I was surrounded by secrets.

And Mom, too, I realized, was helping to keep secrets. Mom never liked it when I asked questions. Anything I asked, whether it was about school or not, she always tried to check a book first. Sometimes, it was the homeschool books. Sometimes, it was the Bible. Sometimes, it was one of Glenn Beck's books. But she almost never just answered the question, even when it seemed like something she should know. It was like she was checking to see what she was supposed to say.

I wasn't speaking to them as much, and I think they were starting to notice that I was off in my own world a bit.

My daydreaming, which had been helpful for mindless tasks like handwriting practice, had become a liability for any schoolwork that took more concentration. The stories of the Founding Fathers jumbled and mixed together while, in my head, I roamed the night with Rob Waylow, collecting trash bags and juice boxes, peeking into Jimmy's window while he was sleeping, helping trees grow, opening the flower buds, sprinkling the dew, and any number of other tasks I fancied the brownies were responsible for. As the eastern sky grew light, we'd wake the birds and scurry into our secret underground house before the sun rose.

Jenny's offer to tell me everything she knew about the brownies--for a price--was never far from my mind. I carefully started saving money, just in case. I went to the park less, or used the playground a bit less when I did go. There were some bushes the kids knew you could pee behind, if you didn't want to spend your bathroom money. I made good use of them, always checking to make sure the park manager was occupied elsewhere first. As for Jenny herself, I did my best to avoid her, rather than risk any further conversation about the brownies. I still wasn't convinced she really knew anything, and I wanted to try to find out on my own, first.

As trash day approached, I began to conceive of a plan. I took some clothes from my dresser and stuffed them under my mattress, so I could get to them without the bump bump of the drawers opening and shutting. I practiced walking quietly in my room. I pilfered a flashlight from the basement. I oiled my window until I could open it wide without a single squeak.

Shoes took some thought. Going barefoot was out of the question. Maybe the brownies removed all of the broken glass that could frequently be found on the sidewalks, but I'd seen enough of it in my life to know not to risk it. The answer came to me on Sunday, when I realized that my church shoes were always put away in a box in the closet and not seen again until I shined them up and put them on before the next service. After Wednesday night church, I stashed them under my bed when no one was looking. I'd have until Sunday morning to put them back. I just hoped they didn't get all scuffed up.

It seemed like forever, but finally the night came, and after prayers and getting tucked in, I was dressed and standing at my open window, listening for the sounds of my parents approaching in the hallway, ready to leap back into bed. I knew the brownies wouldn't come until later, but I was so fearful of missing them (or falling asleep, if I stayed in bed) that I took the risk. Rewards go to those who take the risk, I had always been taught, and there I sat, praying for that reward. My new friend, Rob Waylow. I tried again to remember his face as I'd seen it a week before.

It was a clear night, with a half moon in the sky, and after what seemed like hours of anticipation, I could see movement. The cart, silently approaching down the street, a figure pushing behind it. I noticed how silent the cart was. Its fat rubber tires seemed to be made to allow the brownies to go about their nighttime business without being noticed. As it came toward the house, my heart sank. Only one figure came behind it, that of a woman, older but not as old as the old man. I watched, my throat tightening, as she picked up our garbage bag and put it in the cart.

It had been in the back of my mind since I'd talked to Jimmy that I might not see Rob Waylow the next time they came for the trash, but I allowed myself to believe, to be certain, that I'd see my new friend again. I watched the cart and the brown woman disappear past the corner of the house, and I thought again about risk and reward. I decided I would go forward with my plan anyway. I waited a moment, then pulled myself up through the window. I grabbed the flashlight from my back pocket and held onto it as I jumped out past the bushes, barely making a sound. I peeked around the corner of the house and saw the cart just past the neighbors' house, still moving away. Pausing for just a moment to gaze back at the black square of my bedroom window, I quietly followed.

“The Lone Patriot – Ep 63” By Zeond

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411747729&forumid=1

Transcript of The Lone Patriot Show - Episode 63 – Original Air Date: April 15, 2021

----BEGIN TRANSCRIPT----

[OPENING SEQUENCE AND CREDITS]

[Ext. Midday. Long shot of Texas scrubland with dirt road running through it. LONE PATRIOT’S CAR (large black muscle car with flaming U.S. flag decals on doors and an eagle holding an AR-15 on hood) is speeding down the road kicking up dust and leaving a cloud of black smoke]

ANNOUNCER: [Upbeat cheery voice] “It’s that time again young Patrioteers! Time for The Lone Patriot Show! Today’s show is brought to you by the Liberty Arms Manufacturing Company which reminds you that when it’s time to water the Tree of Liberty, only a LiberArm is the right tool for the job. We join the Lone Patriot as he makes his way to a family facing the government oppressors.”

[Ext. Midday. LONE PATRIOT’S CAR drives up to squat farm house, barn and other farming buildings in the middle of scrubland. Two other vehicles are visible: worn pickup truck and shiny green compact car. FARMER is visibly arguing with AGENT on doorstep with WIFE, DAUGHTER and SON hiding behind him.]

[Zoom-in on diver’s door on LONE PATRIOT’S CAR. Door opens releasing cloud of grey smoke. LONE PATRIOT emerges from car with cigarette in his mouth, putting on white cowboy hat. LONE PATRIOT is visibly armed with twin hip holsters holding large pistols]

LONE PATRIOT: [Walking up to FARMER and AGENT] “Howdy folks. What seems to be problem?”

FARMER: “Thank Beck you’ve come Lone Patriot!” [Gestures at AGENT] “This man claims to be from the government. He says that today is tax day and that I am required to pay my share of taxes as mandated by law.”

LONE PATRIOT: “It’s that so?” [walking to face AGENT] “Under what law do you claim to be able to take a man’s hard earned wealth? Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?” [blows smoke on AGENT’S face]

[Cut to exterior aerial shot of farm and vehicles] ANNOUNCER: “How will the Lone Patriot solve this situation? We’ll be right back after these important messages.”

----COMMERCIAL BREAK----

ANNOUNCER: “Welcome back young Patrioteers! Our hero, the dashing Lone Patriot, smokes only Jefferson Cigarettes made from pure unfiltered tobacco for that great unadulterated taste and a free collectible toy in every kid’s pack. Jefferson Cigarettes: a bit of independence in every puff. We now return to our hero who is facing down an evil government stooge.”

AGENT: [Thin reedy voice, obviously frightened] “The… the law of the U….United States and the Internal Revenue Code which levies various taxes on citizens and residents of the United States in accordance to the 16th amendment to the U.S-” [LONE PATRIOT punches AGENT in the jaw, AGENT falls to the ground. LONE PATRIOT flicks cigarette at AGENT]

LONE PATRIOT: “Do not blaspheme against the Holy Constitution again. We free Patriotic men do not recognize anything past the 11th Amendment. Any other so called laws and amendments are blasphemy and against God’s law as expressed by the Founders.”

AGENT: “God’s law? What about render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s?”

LONE PATRIOT: [Strongly] “Lieberal claptrap and more blasphemy.” [picks up AGENT by the neck] “The only true Bible is the Conservative Bible as translated by the great Schlafly. True Patriots should know this.” [Throws AGENT back onto the ground, pulls out PISTOL. Close-up of pistol which is branded ‘Crying Desert Eagle Freedom 50 caliber’ along the barrel] “And I don’t reckon you’re a True Patriot but a thieving government parasite who has come to take what belongs to others instead.” [points pistol at AGENT]

AGENT: “But, but we must all contribute to the general well being of society by paying our fair share of taxes which fund serv-” [LONE PATRIOT fires a single shot from his pistol that whizzes by AGENT’s head. Cut to close-up of LONE PATRIOT’s scowling face and back to medium shot on both AGENT and LONE PATRIOT].

AGENT: [Confused] “What… what’s that smell?”

LONE PATRIOT: [Cheery] “How nice of you to notice!” [Looks up at camera] “That’s the new line of LiberArms ScentMunitions. Now shooting your favorite LiberArm can be fun for four out of five senses. Comes in many calibers and a variety of manly scents like beef jerky, barbeque, gasoline and burning rubber. Also available in rose petals and sandalwood for the ladies. Get yours at your nearest LiberArms dealer today!” [Focuses back on AGENT] “You talk mighty pretty about society” [spits on ground] “but you forget about Freedom. Freedom means not being subjected to rules you didn’t consent to and not having your property taken to feed and clothe moochers and parasites. But most importantly, you forget about the freedom to be man. To pull yourself up by your bootstraps, kick ass and take what’s rightfully yours without owing anything to anyone.”

AGENT: [Eager] “Tell me more Patriot, what can I do to regain my freedom?”

LONE PATRIOT: “It’s too late for you now, you fiend. Once a moocher always a moocher but others can be saved by moving to the promised land of Independence. The last place in this rotten world where a man can still be a man.” [Cut to aerial shot].

ANNOUNCER: “Stay with us young Patrioteers, the Lone Patriot will be right back!

----COMMERCIAL BREAK----

ANNOUNCER: “Today’s episode of the Lone Patriot was brought to you by Jupiter Pharmaceuticals. When you want a hit that’s out of this world, choose Jupiter.

[Close up of LONE PATRIOT hoisting the body of AGENT up onto a pole. FARMER and his FAMILY are nearby]

LONE PATRIOT: “There, that should be a warning to any other government parasites who come calling. Left my calling card on him as well.” [Close up of dead AGENT’s forehead where ‘A = A’ is carved into his flesh] “No one should trouble you again sir, but if you want my advice, move to Independence as soon as possible.”

FARMER: “Thank you Lone Patriot, you’ve saved us. How can we ever thank you?”

LONE PATRIOT: [Pulls out paper out of jacket] “Well sir, here is the itemized invoice for my services today” [Hands invoice to farmer].

FARMER: [Looks at invoice. Alarmed] “But we don’t have any gold, the harvest failed with the drought and the locusts ate what little remained and my wife’s medical bills keep piling up.”

LONE PATRIOT: “You should have thought of that before you called. Charity is unbecoming a free patriot and”[emphasizing] “I don’t do charity.” [Thinks for a few seconds] “Tell you what, that daughter of yours looks like she’s 13 or 14. I’ll take her and we’ll call it even.”

FARMER: [Distraught] “My daughter? I can’t! She’s my child.” [Lone Patriot moves his hand to his holster. WIFE and DAUGHTER begin sobbing in the background].

FARMER: [Defeated] “Alright. I have nothing else to give. Go pack honey.”

LONE PATRIOT: [Interrupting] “Don’t bother. She won’t need clothes where she’s going. [Grabs DAUGHTER and shoves her into passenger side of CAR] “Don’t try mooching off a Patriot again. You won’t be so lucky the next time.” [LONE PATRIOT gets into CAR. Long shot of CAR as it drives away].

ANNOUNCER: “And so ends another exiting episode of The Lone Patriot. Join us again next time when the Lone Patriot joins forces with a Captain of Industry in fighting against oppressive government safety regulations.”

[END CREDITS]

----END OF TRANSCRIPT----

“Not guilty.” By Tulip

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411759791&forumid=1

“Glenn Beck, you stand here accused of sins and crimes both mortal and infamous. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

-----

Twenty years after Independence was formally declared open, it was blown open like a nest of rats getting cleared with dynamite. The Library District, the pristine part of the city that showed up in all the brochures, was blitzed with air-dropped special forces squads and armor, all supported by modern gunships and fueled with righteous rage. The manors of the wealthy burned and burst, but while Independence boasted some of the finest - or at least most expensive - PMCs on the planet, how is a decrepit merchant republic supposed to stand up to a Crusade? Men who worship money are rarely willing to stand and die for their ideals.

The rest of the city was destroyed no less rapidly or completely. There was no real physical infrastructure to speak of, SWAT teams in full armor just burst through walls, subdued any resistance, and then let priests and humanitarian workers flood the scene to extract as many survivors as they could. The human infrastructure of Independence was torn to the ground in hours as hundreds of thousands were bused to the hive of charitable aid camps set up by churches (with state support) that ringed the ruins.

-----

“Mr. Beck, I realize it is highly unusual for a Judge to say this, but I implore you to take advantage of your court appointed lawyer. The law is quite different from when you learned about in school.”

“Your honor, I will make my own arguments. I do not need the charitable help of my enemies, and if I need help I am sure one of my many powerful friends will-”

“NOBODY OUT HERE CALLS YOU FRIEND, ASSHOLE!”

The judge pounded her gavel until the heckling had ceased.

“On your head be it. May God have mercy on your soul.”

-----

What happened in Austin rapidly became known as the 21st Century Nuremberg Trials. The ICC had requested that the USA hand over Glenn Beck and the other “Lords of Capital” over for crimes against humanity, but President O'Keefe had made it clear that this was an American problem, and if the ICC wanted Beck they would have to wait for him to serve his sentence. Ultimately the world shrugged - nobody who knew what happened in Indepedence could doubt the outcome, the whole point of the trial was for the rest of the world to know what had happened. The ICC tried him in absentia, at the same time as the trial in Austin, really just for the benefit of European audiences. The world could only watch.

-----

“The prosecution today will show, before God and the world, what Glenn Beck, in the course of managing Independence according to his base and craven 'ideals,' had to hide from the rest of the world. What things were possible in the 'Free Territories of Independence' that were not possible in the United States of America.”

A small white boy took the stand, named Let Freedom Ring. He could only directly answer questions from the black prosecutor - any question from a white person was answered with a dead-eyed “Yes, sir.” He said that his last few months had been happy, that he enjoyed playing soccer with his friends and math problems and green apples.

“Freedom, I want to ask you about what things were like before the big fire. What did you do then?”

The boy's demeanor changed, he became stiff and cold. Using the halting and unrefined words of a six year old, a small child in an austere court room in Austin, Texas, opened the blood gates.

----

Just as Americans had once spoken of knowing where they were when the president died, they would all remember where they were, what they were doing, when they first heard Let Freedom Ring. Nevermind the endless march of other children, the gladiatorial pits, the womb-farms, the plagues, the 'experiments.' Hearing it all once was numbing, but bit by bit, individually, there was no defense. After two days of testimony from the children, a weeping jury had begged the prosecutor to stop, that there was nothing left in the world that could sway them anymore. All remembered the scene, a courtroom with tears on every face but two - stone cold stares of a ten year old girl named The Spirit of Capitalism and the exasperated dryness of Glenn Beck. Beck, so famous for his tears over minuteae of legislative decisions, quickly stopped faking empathy and just looked bored for most of the testimony.

Long after the stoning, when tempers had cooled, somebody asked the prosecutor why she only called white children to the stand. “We could only interview survivors” was Sasha Obama's inevitable reply.

“My Sister's Ambition” By Crain

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411762391&forumid=1

I’d always gotten along with my sister. Growing up in rural Georgia on a farm we never had a whole lot of interaction with people outside of school or sports, so we had to make due with each other. I still remember the time when we were about 4 and 6, she was older than me, and Dad took us out into our back yard to plant a peach tree. It was funny at the time, and is still a little funny now, because Dee had simply asked “Can I eat this?” when we had finished our snack, holding up the pit. Dad only said “not yet”, and then went to get his shovel. It was fun at the time, digging up the ground. Our parents had normally gotten mad at us for digging up the yard since they ran an orchard and we always seemed to find their newly planted fruit trees and flowers; probably because the soil around them was the softest being so newly worked.

Years later we made it.

Climbing it, about 10 years later, that tree, but by that point we realized that it was a bad idea. Even though it might have been able to hold our weight (we never got very big), it didn't go very high, and there were better trees out in the woods. Plus by that point the tree had started to bare decent fruit and we were allowed to do with that fruit as we pleased, so we decided to not risk damaging it. We could expect to make about $70 a summer from the fruit of that tree; although I’m sure some of our somewhat distant neighbors decided to humor our young selves by buying our stuff; although a few years later, we…I started to make some real money from that tree.

My junior year of high school I managed to get into honors chemistry. I had always loved science and studied independent of the curriculum so making the marks on the placement test wasn't that hard. But it was the “not so standard” curriculum that made the difference that year. Our teacher, Mr. Wilcks, was a home brewer and that influenced some of his biology and chemistry teachings. Eventually he had let enough information slip that I decided to ask if you could ferment any natural sugar.

“You can. But unless you’re ready to try and distill your mash you’re in for a pretty nasty bit of slop” he said with a kind smile. “It’s not hard to learn how to distill, or even to make your own still, but it’s pretty illegal.”

The more than obvious wink let me know that was where I had to look. I had the peaches, and since Dee was off at college by this point I had them all to myself. So I took my time researching how exactly distilling alcohol was done. This wasn’t easy at the time since the internet hadn't even become a distant dream, and DARPAnet was a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream. But I managed to find a moonshiner who lived out to the west of town who was willing to teach me the trade. It was pretty simple. Just mush up your peaches, add in yeast (or leave it out uncovered long enough to get a wild infection), wait about two weeks, then strain it off, press the pulp to get every bit of juice, and run the mix through a still. On the other end you’ll get white lightning. Turned out my peaches were worth a lot more in ounces than they were in pounds. Our once patronizing neighbors were now very willing to pay most any price for my cheap peach brandy. I could make my $70 worth of peaches become $200 to $400 easily. It also made me pretty popular at school. But the measly few peaches my tree could make every summer wasn’t enough, and planting more trees now wasn't going to help me any. But I was making more than enough money to make a 16 year old happy by the time I left high school.

But as much as that first pit and first bit of loose soil taught me about libertarianism, my senior year taught me about federalism. It was about 2 weeks out from graduation, near early March, that I had begun my brewing. I had saved my sellings from the previous summer so as to buy as many peaches and fruits as possible from the local mart. My figure was: If my peaches in pounds were worth about $70 then the $300 I had saved from the summer would get me about 150 pounds of fruit for March that I could then turn into at least $500 worth of booze. And I did.

But that quantity of booze draws the eyes of the government. The last party I delivered to had been my last. The parents had been the buyers and when the cops showed up, since it had been in a suburb outside of Atlanta, they decided to pin the blame on me. I was cuffed, processed, and interrogated. I gave up my distilling location on the promise of a lighter sentence. I did not get it.

The trial took about 10 months since they feds had managed to trace back almost all of my sales. My parents were horrified. Somehow it was deemed worse than if I had just been dealing drugs. The “established infrastructure” (a simply copper pot with a steel funnel welded to the top), and the intent to “traffic” (a few neighbors, and friends) alcohol was enough for the judge to rule for maximum sentencing. I had been older than 18 (by a few months) so it meant years in prison. But my father managed to convince the judge to be lenient on me.

I was allowed to go to college, Texas A&M University, granted I did not break my parole. The stipulations of which meant that I personally could not brew alcohol before the age of 21, but it did not say that I could not instruct those who wanted to do so at their own peril. So that is how I made spending money in college. Most of the people I came in contact with could have figured it out themselves but they were too lazy, didn’t want to investigate in what type of glassware to buy, or what type of metal to purchase to make unique stills with. So I did the footwork for them.

By the time I had graduated I had landed a job with Dupont. I would be working with a new alcoholism prevention program. They had wanted me because of my early experience with producing the stuff, and they needed someone who could do it accurately in house. I was more than happy to supply my experience.

Years later I finally contacted my sister. She had been weary in contacting me due to my run in with the law, but by this time the legal repercussions of contacting me were long gone. She had joined a commune of some sort after studying law in college and post College. She was connected to a group who wanted to try and detach themselves from the US government. I knew well enough to stay away from that personally, but I gave her a few contacts that could help her to investigate that goal.

I had made a decent amount of liquid savings from my years of working at Dupont, so I decided to try and reconnect with my sister. This was right after President Obama had secured his election in 2008, or as her bed fellows had tagged it: year zero. I did not know just what I was getting involved with at the time, but soon enough I’d come to understand that it was of national importance.

It was in 2010 that I first became involved in Glenn Beck’s grand plan. He had not yet decided to reveal it to the nation, but the second decade of the second millennia was of course the most important time to begin planning for his glorious new revitalization of our nation. With the failure of the democratic method in 2012 Beck decided to start pushing his grad idea into reality. With his announcement of Independence, USA patriots around the nation began to mobilize. By the time Obama had been inaugurated a second time, possibly illegally, the real back bone of the nation had begun to mobilize toward the Mid-West. I had secured a preposterous amount of land in northern Texas. The Independence acreage allowed the early investors to ensure that they would have the largest amount of workable land for their initial investment. I was in the third generation of investors and moved in early March 2013.

When I finally reconnected with my sister she was different person. She was talking about internship opportunities when she had almost 15 years of experience in the legal world. Rand and Galt dominated her verbal expression and I couldn’t get a word in edgewise about our parents or anyone we had previously known in Georgia. While it was true I was coming to Independence to start a new life I wasn’t expecting everyone around me to seemingly be brainwashed away from recalling the world we had previously lived in.

The first week there I had to sleep in my sister’s bungalow. There was some sort of verification process that required a registered member to keep watch over me. It wasn’t stated in the form. But I found my sister standing over me with a demented smile at 4am my first night sleeping in her house. I think I had tricked her into thinking I hadn’t woken up, but I had gotten a clear view of what she was doing: Watching over me with a crazed smile, taking notes in a book, watching a clock on the wall across from me. The next day I decided to snoop around and found her book:

“Initiate takes to the basic amenities too well. In the 8 hours he has been here he has not even begun to start his own business. I will grant him a stay of execution due a possible state of economic-lag. But should he stay more than 3 weeks without a business plan I will have to believe him a traitor and execute him like a liberal bread-dog.”

That was only after one night. I moved out the next week and slept in my tent under the stars. I can’t say my sister’s face was as settling a vision those nights either. If kin was regarded with such suspicion I couldn’t dare trust anyone in this swath of land. I cut down at least 10 trees to make a stead to sleep in the second week, thankfully no one bothered me.

I liked those woods. I happened to find a few peach trees, which was unusual for Texas. It was summer so I began mashing and brewing them. Not able to gain the materials easily to make a true still I took to using a smaller scale kettle and pot to collect my booze. A week later I had enough to run back out of town to get the materials I needed. My business worked well enough those first two months but by the time September rolled around I was running low on materials. People are not kind in this town. A lack of materials to do business might well be tantamount to raping a child. When I finally sold my last jug of peach brandy people started to get violent. Thankfully I had no storefront and was able to lose the tailers who tried to follow me back to my home, but it was insane. A run of liquor here seems to be treated like a run of donated blood in a crisis.

I managed to get enough of my land plowed and planted with quick growing fruit by late July. I promised about 10 farm hands $50 dollars for 3 weeks of work plus 3 gallons of booze each when the harvest comes in. It should let me turn a decent profit in October.

There was no profit. In fact there was barely enough to pay the hands from July. I managed to make just enough and with savings was able to pay them off enough to leave, but unless I’m able to keep a few bushes alive through the winter I won’t have enough fruit to make money in the spring and summer.

Through some “learning” opportunities I joined in on I managed to rustle up enough fruit trees and bushes from neighboring states. I’ll have more than enough material to brew up some booze in the coming months. Because of this I decided to visit my sister again. I haven’t managed to talk to her in a few years, even since moving into this commune, but since I managed to get myself established as one of the few alcohol providers in Independence she has decided to talk to me. Turns out she hasn’t been doing so well. She went through a number of legal internships for businesses in Independence but none have hired her, they’ve only used her for a couple of months at a time and them thrown her out without pay or promise of a job after she basically guaranteed that they’d be free from legal trouble from the US government for a few years. She was very interested in my business, but she wasn’t very interested in the business itself. She only cared where it was based and a few other security details. I left quickly once she started to get pushy about details.

A few weeks after talking to my sister it seems she had decided to take my business over. I had inkling that this would be the case so I hired some guards. They were eager enough to work for food and booze, so it was more than enough incentive to not turn sides when my sister’s bandits showed up. They even announced themselves as such. They were dead soon enough. I trekked back to my Sister’s bungalow in the morning, found her crying in the corner of her bedroom.

“Remember the peach tree Mathew? We planted that ourselves. We watered it. It was a group effort. You can’t throw that away! YOU CAN’T THROW YOUR KIN AWAY FROM SOME FRUIT!” she screamed.

“Dad planted that tree. Dad and mom watered that tree for most of its first years, cause we were kids. Mom picked that fruit when we were younger. You moved away when I started to actually take care of that tree. I made that fruit into money. I brewed that sugar into booze and made a mint and went to court for doing so. You suffered and offered nothing in regards to that tree. You don’t belong here. You do not have the spirit of INDEPENDENCE!” I shouted.

I had a pistol with me as I talked to my sister. It was just for protection. Initially. But she proved that she was just trying to take my hard work. She proved that she would try again and again. I had to end her, I had to stake my claim.

Finally I had a house, a business, land, and prospects in Independence. I learned that day that I killed my sister that there was nothing here for the Galts, for the Becks, for the Carnegies, for the Roosevelts. There was only for the Devil. There was only enough here for those like me. Only enough for Mathew Brakes.

“Testimony of Ronald Jefferson” By E-Tank

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411763411&forumid=1

Recorded Augest 5th, 20XX.

Johnson: "Subject name is Ronald Jefferson. Recovered on the road going through the no mans land surrounding Independence, USA. Claims to be an eyewitness to be the begining of the end of the libertarian citystate established roughly seventeen years ago. Agent Rodrick Johnson overseeing debriefing."

Ronald: "Yeah, yeah. I was There. I saw it all. I saw good men turn on each other. I saw brothers eat one another. I was there at the beginning."

Johnson: "Who were you in the begining?" The sound of rustling papers can be heard as Agent Johnson looks through a folder of pictures.

Ronald: "I was one of his 'chosen'. I served him and he brought me with him into his so called promised land."

Johnson: "One of his chosen? Our last record of you is serving as a personal assistant to Mister Beck. From everything I saw on here it was a pretty crappy job too."

Ronald: "He told me I had such potential, and if I proved faithful, he would reward me. He told me this and so did the others. I was new, but they all accepted me as brothers under Maste-" Subject pauses, hands clenching into fists. "That bastard."

Johnson: "Right, so what made you leave? I have a hard time believing you'd leave just because of the troubles. We see whole familes destitute in the streets refusing to leave because they think we're going to take away their freedom."

Ronald: "That's what I'm here to tell you about, Agent Johnson. It started a while ago, I'm not sure exactly how long. You see, we had to have our own calenders, complete with our own months. Our weeks were ten days long, and our months were twenty days. I don't know why exactly, I think it was some propaganda about how we shouldn't beholden to some government enacted calender system."

Subject sighs and leans back a bit, as if reminiscing fond memories before snapping back to the present.

Ronald: "It was alright at first, you know? It was just like on the outside. People not having rules enforced on them, but generally staying with the rules they'd been used to all their lives. I mean...in the begining, the people in charge had to be there to see their employees, people they knew and had hired, being put in danger. With the rules still fresh in memory, they ensured everything was safe. Probably not as safe as how it had been with the faci-"

Subject pauses again, as if trying to rephrase the statement before starting again.

Ronald: "Not as 'safe' as how it had been with the government rules in place, but safe enough."

Johnson: "What happened?"

Ronald: "One of the factories was failing, and they started to cut costs. Before they knew it, they were producing the same quality goods, but with barely any pay over the costs for materials. They dropped the price of their product two GBs a-"

Johnson: "GBs, That's the currency they used? Golden Blessings I think?"

Ronald: "Yeah, though Beck told me that they were meant to symbolize his name. He wanted everyone to remember that this was all made possible by him."

Johnson: "Continue."

Ronald: "And suddenly their market jumped up from failing, to stabilizing, to becoming a monopoly. Of course their workers suffered, but they didn't have to watch that anymore since the people who paid the bills took their newfound fortune and moved as far away from the factory as possible. It wasn't long before every company was trying to match its success by ramping up productivity to unsafe levels and dropping all pretenses of trying to have a safe work environment. It was then that Beck started talking about how real patriots didn't just quit. How when the going gets tough the tough, tough it out. Convincing people that it was just a bump in the road to providence.

"I labored under Beck. Under the 'Great one'. Under all that bullshit, for so long. It got worse...and worse...Then one night, I was working late in the office to try and earn some extra money so I could afford food beyond the filth that McGlen offered, I'm not sure what was in that food but it had to have some form of cardboard in it. And I overheard him. He was laughing while he talked on his phone, saying that he had milked Independence for all it was worth, and he was about to bail. That there'd be a horrible 'accident', and Glenn Beck would become a glorious martyr for the people of independence.

Johnson: "That's impossible. Beck died six months ago when touring the Tri-Corner shirt factory when it caught fire, along with all the workers."

Subject stands up angrily and throws his glass at the wall, shattering it.

Ronald: "That's not true! He's alive! He's alive and he's fled the country, and every single atrocity committed in Independence is on his head!"

“The Beckian Job Pt. 2” By Venusian Weasel

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411764285&forumid=1

The file fell on my desk just after noon. I was getting this briefing much later than I'd hoped. Twenty-two hours had already passed since the raid, our clues as to the whereabouts of the missing gold were dreadfully few. I flipped open the file and winced. Yes, it looked like the work of the more radical sects of Paulites, but this work was much too professional for them. It looked like the corpses were arranged as window dressing. I flipped through the crime scene photos. The mutilated bodies. The “END THE FED” graffiti. The missing gold. It all pointed to the Paulites, but something was wrong.

I flipped through the reports detailing the raids on known Paulite compounds. Nothing much of interest, mostly the same sorts of stoner dens and gold-obsessed junkies that you'd find anywhere in the country. Files had been pulled from their computers, but there really hadn't been much of interest. Everything in the case file suggested that the Paulites didn't have the organizational capabilities to actually pull off a raid like this. Two thoughts crossed my mind, and both scared me. Either the Paulites had a higher-level organization that was still unknown to us, or someone was using the Paulites to hide their tracks. My thoughts turned to the Beckistanis. I leaned back in my chair and reached for a cigarette. “God help us all.”

“We might have a break in the case, Pete.” Loren turned to me and slipped the incident report into my hand. “Kansas state police busted a semi speeding north on I-35 just outside of Salida. Things got nasty when the policeman asked for an inspection. Turned into a shootout.”

“Christ.” The shooter must have been desperate if he'd needed to escape that badly. “What's the situation now?”

“That's the thing, when we finally ended the standoff, we searched the truck. There was a ton of office equipment piled up near the back of the trailer. Whoever was in the trailer, they'd been using it for a while for a major operation. The pile had been rigged with a firebomb set to go off if anyone opened the back of the truck. Fortunately, it wasn't correctly wired.”

I flipped open the file. A mugshot of the driver. Young, but heavy-lidded. Name was Scott Houston. Resident of Plano, Texas. Known to have Paulite connections. “Well, well, what are we doing all the way up in Kansas?” I flipped through the files. Car registered to Houston was found at a rest stop further south on the interstate. Not much of interest was found in the car, only a short truck description and a time. 11:00 am. I blinked.

“Looks like it was a truck handoff. I don't think Mr. Houston had any knowledge of what he was carrying, only that he was supposed to carry it.” Loren said, she reached over and flipped another page. “Now look, if this does turn out to be connected to the Kansas City raid, it means they probably came down the Kansas Turnpike. There aren't many weigh stations along that stretch, mostly because the truckers avoid paying to use it.”

“Of course. Then the perpetrators would have gotten out somewhere.” I looked at the map. “Wichita is the last town before the Turnpike merges back into the Interstate system. We should start there, whoever did this would want to get as far as possible before ditching their ride.”

“Looks like we're going to Kansas.”

“Looks like it.”

While flying into the heart of flyover country, we received a transcript of Scott Houston's interrogation. He'd provided a lot of information that may prove helpful in the future, but not much to help us along with the case. It had given us solid indications that a highly-organized network of Paulites operated in Texas and Oklahoma, but he wasn't involved with them. He couldn't or wouldn't name names, but that was an issue for a later time.

All he said was that he'd gotten a phone call from an organizer at about 7 am the previous day, telling him where to be and when. He'd spent most of the day driving north and stayed in a hotel room that had been purchased for him in Wichita. On this point he was likely lying, his credit card showed that it had been used to pay for the room. He had arrived at the rest area at around 10 am, and had stuck to his car for the next hour.

The handoff occurred at 11 am, on the dot. He described the driver of the truck as being a bald, older man maybe in his mid-60s. He had a companion, 30s, brown hair, blue eyes, overweight. Houston identified the man as Andy Wilkow from photographs. His companion was unknown. Houston said Wilkow thanked him for his service, and told him to drive north until he was stopped. Whatever the circumstances, he was not to open the back of the truck.

So Houston had driven north. Being somewhat unfamiliar with driving a semi, his erratic behavior on the road had caught the attention of a Kansas state patrolman. He'd pulled over and panicked at the thought at what might have been in the back. He'd had second thoughts about being the fall guy, so he attempted to escape, where he said he planned to abandon the truck in Salida and hitchhike back south to the rest area.

Other details came in during the flight. Treads from the semi in question had been matched to those found at the Kansas City crime scene. We were likely on the trail of the perpetrators, but how close remained to be seen. It was only a five hour drive from Kansas City to Wichita, and 28 hours had already passed since the raid. Whoever did this still had a full day on us. They were heading south, and probably into the vast expanse of Texas by now. With our limited manpower, finding them would be difficult.

“The Freeplain” By Hamiltonian Bicycle

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411764601&forumid=1

Ninel crested the ridge, paused. Somewhere ahead, just above the horizon, the sky's gentle glow was broken in several places: long rays of light stabbed through it, harsh yellow-red light, the light of the outer world. It was almost beautiful in its way, she thought, but she knew it was a trap. Everyone knew. Under that light, all was slavery.

She turned around and looked down the slope, where Levan was struggling to catch up. Her brother had always been the slower climber, though he was quick with a spear. Behind him, the Freeplain stretched away, dotted with homesteads and villages, back to the Pit-Where-The-Sky-Is-Made, where the great dark pillar rose for their protection, fed by unseen fires far below.

There had been a day, the elders said – only one day – when the evil light pierced through the sky right near the great city where the old gods lived among the people, and its rays touched upon the deadly waters that the gods had made, and they rose up in fire and wrath. That was the day the gods took away the city and descended into the depths; the living could not reach them now. Only the dead were sent down, to dwell in the city of the gods and stoke their fires.

Ninel realized with a start that Levan still hadn't caught up. In fact, he'd stopped climbing entirely – he was squatting near a thicket of redthorn, peering at something under it that Ninel couldn't see. He raised his head as she half scrambled, half skidded down the slope to join him. He grimaced and gestured at the thing under the thorn.

A dead man.

He was wearing the kind of slave-mask she'd seen on the strangers who came every so often, carried by huge insects, bearing gifts (food, medicine, odd mechanical devices) and speaking words only the elders understood – which was good, the elders said, because they sought to tempt the people into slavery. Consequently they accepted the gifts, but cast them into the Pit, where the gods would destroy them and turn their evil magic against its originator.

'He looks like a fly-slave from Outside,' Ninel ventured, but he didn't entirely. The fly-slaves, being slaves, all wore identical clothes. This man's weren't as thick and bulky, and the redthorn had torn open the left sleeve just above the elbow. Maybe that was why he died; the elders always said slaves couldn't bear the air of the free, and would burn and choke and die without their suits and masks. Their flesh lacked the light of liberty.

Ninel peered through the mask. She thought she could make out where tears had dried around the man's eyes. It wasn't uncommon for some of the fly-slaves to start crying at the sight of the liberty they could never have, but this one had died out in the hills, not among the free.

'Look,' said Levan, who had crawled a little further. 'Here's the thorn that got him, see, there's a bit of his sleeve. He must've been trying to back out. And he dropped this.' It was plainly a small shovel, though equally plainly made Outside with Outside materials and Outside magic.

'He was still holding something, too,' said Ninel. 'I can't get it out of his hand but I think it's a, a speaking-papers, like old Brooks-No-Charity has. Maybe it was telling him where to dig.'

'We should tell the elders. They'll come and take him to the gods. The gods take everyone and everything. He'll be free, or fuel, I guess.'

'I suppose.'

Levan had crept forward again. 'Hey! This is where he was digging.'

Ninel managed to find room beside him. Levan held one luminous hand above the shallow hole the man had dug, illuminating what the fly-slave could only have felt: several half-buried human skulls, split open and filled to the brim with fragments of an almost forgotten material. Yellow, lustrous, and very, very heavy.

Purestrain.

“Operation Bravo Tango Charlie” By Pseudoscorpion

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411766859&forumid=1

“Men,” A spindly 40-something stands at the head of a large, mahogany conference table. In front of him, two-odd dozen men in officer's regalia sit, filling the room to the brim. He clears his throat and adjusts his peaked cap. “We all know why we are here today.”

A sweating, bearded man sitting nearby speaks up. “Independence, sir?”

“Precisely.” The general turns and motions to a distinctly out-of-place old man. “Mister Ryche, would you be so kind as to load the slides?” An exasperated sigh follows as the hefty man boots up an old projector, displaying a computer desktop. A double-click later displays a pop-up application: Now Loading fukucntmin.dptxxiiv – LibreSoft DisplayPoint 2023. Silence descends upon the room as the application loads. Thirty seconds. A minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. The clock's ticking soon becomes unbearable.

“God dammit, man, what's the holdup?”

“I-I'm sorry, sir! It's the computer, sir – on loan from the Free Man's Navy. It's a Seasick-line single-purpose machine. If we had instead invested in more versatile com-” Smack, thud. The floor shakes as the obese man hits the floor, the imprint of the general's hand faintly visible on his cheek.

“Never – never – suggest such treason in my presence, Mister Ryche. These machines got us to where we are today. Ten years ago, we were the laughingstock of the nation. Five years ago, the Glorious Founders created the Bootstrapped Timocratic Confederacy and we quickly took our place in the world theatre with our hardheaded determination and innovation. And you dare,” The general's face distorted in disgust. “You dare to imply that perhaps we did it wrong? Pull yourself back to your post. We adults have more important things to discuss.”

A faint jingle rang throughout the cramped room as the projector changes to display a topographic map of the area around Independence, FTS.

“Here, we have a map kindly, uh, donated by the folks at the Federated Texan States.” The general cracks a smile and hooks his left index finger. A wave of chuckles fill the room, and more than a few arrs. The laughter dies down, and the general grabs an extending baton and begins indicating locations on the map. “You all should be familiar with the layout of Independence at this point, but just in case you aren't -” He shot an icy glare over his shoulder at Mister Ryche “- we'll go over it one more time. In 48 hours, we will be initiating a triple-pronged strike on the city. Here -” the tip of the baton flies over to a large plaza “- is Beck Plaza, the main thoroughfare of the city. Our first infiltration team codenamed Rocking Hookah will be crawling through the dank tunnels carved beneath the city and will emerge through the reflecting pool.

Preliminary research has shown that the reflecting pool may be a class-3 biohazard, and so the team will be equipped with the finest equipment available to them.” Another gesture, and a soldier comes squeezing into the stuffy room, hoisting himself onto the table. The officers collectively nod approvingly as they examine the soldier's equipment – the standard Confederate Battle Dress Uniform, with the additions of transparent plastic gloves and what appeared to be advanced combat spectacles – one lens cyan, one lens red, surely for tactical reasons. “Rocking Hookah will emerge from the pool, and will them proceed to cause as much chaos as possible as they approach their primary objective.” The baton slides up a street, ending at a large building. “The Golden Waters boxing plant. We have reason to believe that this is the main source of Independence's sustenance. Needless to say, its destruction is crucial.” An exaggerated throat-clearing indicated that it was time for a slide change.

Another map replaced the old one, this time a detailed view of Independence's Liberty District. “Behold, Independence's production center. This is where the Pundits of Independence commission their goods. Lapel pins, miniature eagle statues, trucks, guns – it's a veritable wonderland out there, and I would be a liar if I said I wouldn't want to visit for pleasure at some point. But don't be fooled – our grand work has already started there. Our spymasters have planted two media experts in their midst. This team, codenamed The Valkyrie, has created a controversial webishow about the goings-on in Independence, using the same format that the Founding Pundits used as they garnered support for Independence's creation. On our order, they will flood the airwaves with anti-Independence propaganda, inciting riots throughout the Liberty District. These will undoubtedly be put down by the Freedom Police – The Valkyrie included – but it's a necessary loss, as between The Valkyrie and Rocking Hookah, the way will be clear to pull the greatest heist the world has ever known. My idea, of course.”

The projector changes slides once again, displaying a bogglingly large, cylindrical skyscraper. The crowd in the room began to murmur angrily. The slides change once again, now displaying the base of the tower. Two giant spherical buildings stood at the base of it, and if one squints they can almost read the sign above one of the doors – 'Independence Re-Education Center'. The angry murmurs progressed into outright yelling and screaming. No one had any doubt about what they were seeing right now – Rand Tower, the tallest manmade structure belonging to a city in the Federated Texan States solely funded by a Captain of Industry in the city of Independence in the world.

“Men!” The general yelled, his booming voice silencing all others, “The third prong! Codenamed: King Atlas!” A giant grin appeared on the general's face, dropping all pretense of professionalism. “We will steal Independence's supply of Psau from Rand Tower's stores, opposite the Re-Education Center, and then! We! Destroy! Rand Tower! In Her name we liberate them!” The officers leap to their feet, cheering triumphantly. “Damn Independence and their false freedom! The Grand Pundits simply parrot the desires of the Texans! Yeah!” A battle cry fills the chamber – Yeah!

“Damn the Paulites and their false prophet! Their 'standard' of impure Psau makes them no better than those they left! Yeah!” - Yeah!

“Damn the doubters! Those who laughed, who thought they could stop us through sheer rhetoric! In the shadow of Gox, they will be cast aside!” - Yeah!

“And although the mines have run dry, this will return the Confederacy to the forefront! Long live Rand! Long live Satoshi! Long! Live! Bitcoin!”

-----

“Hey, uh, Mister Ryche? Can you, uh, give me a ride home? My mom won't pick me up because I haven't paid her rent yet...”

“...fine, General Tong. But this had better be the last time.”

“Holloway Spirits, Inc.” By A Terrible Person

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411769306&forumid=1

The following document was scavenged from the wreckage of West Independence, Texas. Subsequent study strongly suggests the document is part of the transcript of a meeting between several investors at Holloway Spirits, Inc. circa 2037 and was Exhibit F in the landmark case United States vs. Griswald.

-umours you heard are true; True Patriot Rifles was raided last night. Calm down, calm down! It ended much more peaceably than you could imagine and everything was alright. They might need to end production on their more imaginitive lines, but everything else is a-okay in the eyes of the Guv. That's the important part.

[JRT] But what if they come after the rest of us? It may have been one raid yesterday, but what if one raid turns into three tomorrow? A dozen the next day? Where does it end!?

[JH] It ends last night. I assure you that it ends last night. Hell, it didn't even get started!

[JRT] Who says? You? Just because-

[HL] Who's to say that any of us won't be next!?

[JH] Stay calm! Be rational! Are you businessmen or children? This raid was the best thing that could happen to us, and you know it! True drew attention away from the rest of us, and we all know how incompetent they are. But- But! I said but! No matter how incompetant they may be, they're backed by powerful men. Smart men. Men who have an interest in our success. Those men assure me that True's fall is a sign to the outside world that we're willing to "snuff out corruption" and "play by the rules." As True's weakness is snuffed out, the rest of us grow stronger.

[JRT] That doesn't mean anything! If the Feds want to take down one of us, they can take out the rest, too!

[JH] Why? Because a group welding together steel pipes and washers claimed they made the nation's Next Big Gun? Be serious, man! The Feds got involved because the rifles killed more customers than they did criminals. Just think of it as market pressure. The company was popular because their product was cheap, not because it worked.

[HL] You have to admit that they were popular, though. A popular brand caving to the Feds isn't going to go over well.

[JH] Not if the people think that's what happened. But knowledge is as much a commodity as anything else. Griswald can just post a few choice articles here and there over the next few weeks suggesting a tie between TPR and the government. Nothing explicit or accusatory, of course, but enough to draw a clear line between their reduced production and the local gunfights.

[JRT] Gunfights? But there haven't-

[JH] Of course not, you moron. That's where Lawrence comes in. Covertly, of course, but consistent enough to line up with what we have printed. The people get riled up over the Feds, Lawrence sells a bit more of his protection, Griswald gets a renewed interest in printed media, and we all benefit from the distraction.

[FG] Brilliant plan, sir!

[JH] Plan? Plan nothing. It's the truth! And you all better start thinking of it as such. If any one of you slips up or forgets how things are supposed to pan out... well, True doesn't need to be the only company to go under.

[HL] Point taken. Assuming I do agree to get involved... what sort of guarantees do I get that this will work?

[JH] What guarantee do you need? There are plenty of other weapons manufacturers in business, but yours is the only officially-sanctioned security agency in this quadrant. If people fear the law sweeping in to take their suddenly illegitimate weapons and you're the only "free" alternative to such an action?

[HL] I could make a killing offering extra protection to those who invested in TPR product.

[JH] Exactly! Griswald drums up a little fear in the opinion articles, hints at a meat surplus in homes that have recently become a little more guarded, and then the ensuing riots and subsequent need for protection justifies the fear that the Guv has been infiltrating our little hamlet. If the parasites think they're hunting for hoarders while the nuts think they're defending against Federal spies, we all benefit in the end!

[JRT] What if somebody catches on?

[JH] So what? Who would believe them? Griswald is backed by the Learning Center. His opinion is truth and his statements are as good as Law. All we need to do is preempt the rumor with articles suggesting that doubts of our capabilities are doubts about the free market. To assume that we're colluding with the State is to assume that the market of Independence is broken. To decry us in public would be tantamount to heresy.

[HL] That seems to take care of the populace, but what about the rest of the nation? What if the liberals latch onto headlines and decide to dig a little deeper?

[JH] That would be priceless! What are they going to uncover? Independent commerce springing up around a theme park? Small business owners trying their hand at manufacturing when all they understand is administration? Oh! How about a gang culture latching onto trade in and around a tourist hub? I'd love to see those bastards chasing their tails in attempt to find "leads" or "clues" in a place that hates their very presence. I imagine half of them would simply disappear off the face of the earth if they came searching for their inside scoop.

[FG] But there'd be no way of covering anything like that up! If people came in looking for answers and then suddenly disappeared...

[JH] What of it? Joe Noname of Joe's Super Serious Blog disappears while exploring the dark heart of 21st century Detroit; who's going to miss him? The park is immaculate, but the city is dangerous. We all know that. Hell, everybody knows that. But the government didn't shut down New York in the height of the 80s, and they won't shut us down, either. Especially not due to a few missing people. Folks disappear all the time, and we're a bit of a tourist trap on top of a "dangerous" metropolis. People sign up to live in the park all the time, and not all of them come out again. Same goes for the city. People love us, and more of them want to be a part of movement every day.

[FG] You have a point. It's not like I need to search for people to rant about how amazing Independence is. I could make an entire magazine filled with quotes of how wonderful it is to live here and still manage to produce a unique printing every day.

[JH] Exactly. How dangerous a town can this be if the supposedly downtrodden and destitute are singing our praises? Nobody on the outside needs to know they're crazy. Besides, all of this will blow over after the next election. It'll be a hell of a lot harder for them to condemn us when their success depends on our survival.

[HL] It really is amazing that so many people are committed to us putting them out of a job.

[JH] Honestly, Howard; if it weren't for people like them, we wouldn't have a job.

The remainder of the transcript is damaged beyond recognition. Although all parties involved were identified within reasonable doubt and called as star witnesses, Frederick Griswald was acquitted of all criminal charges and subsequently put under Federal Protection. No further lawsuits were filed against his person or against any other people of interest in this case. The mystery surrounding the rise and fall of Independence Theme Park Ltd. is shrouded in mystery to this day.

“Call It What You Will” By Frozen Horse

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Major Hinkles had a little time to think during the flight from Minot to Independence. He and his crew had checked and re-checked everything, this was a once-in-a-career opportunity. They had levelled off now at 45000 feet, where they could expect a safe, smooth flight the whole way in and Hinkles reflected on how events had reached this moment.

Independence had started as a joke, took root as a con-job and a theme park, blossomed into a Maquiladora in the basement of a whorehouse, and began to bear terrible fruit. After the first few phases, the inmates took over the asylum and kept to their furious and secret plans. The whole premise was a city where everyone has his price and is ready to negotiate. As a civic philosophy, it had an appeal if one's tastes ran to the sort of things that can only be bought on the black-market, were too extreme to be found in Vegas, and one didn't care about externalities. The big players gradually realized what they had and kept adding layers of arms-length, sometimes it was enough when the reports of what was on the menu surfaced. There was everything. Cheap factories with fast turn-around, chemicals to get you up, chemicals to help you get down, child slaves, custom arms, if you wanted to buy there was someone willing to sell.

What had begun as a gated neighbourhood next to a glorified strip mall expanded, facilitated by property owners who wanted to get a good price before noise, smoke, and threats added up. After a dispute with the IRS reached a head, the gates and walls went up. With some deft flying, travellers and special deliveries could still be made to the airport that Independence had engulfed. One did need to phone ahead with bribesservice payments to ensure not being shot at on approach. The locals took a very DIY approach to enforcing airport noise regulations. The IRS decided to wait it out, play the long game, and seize relevant assets that were on the outside. The air pollution and ordure flowing downstream made their own way out, as did the advertisements. One of them was seeking specialized military hardware, very specialized hardware of a deterrent nature.

Deals were made, codes were spoken, oaths were broken, numbered accounts were credited, and a man can never go home after certain things have been done. While this delicate dance of trust and verification was going on, the less well-connected masses continued to be mud to be ground underfoot, fuel to be burned for those who deserve it. Broken bodies, badly treated with dodgy medicines bred fantastical microbes, and these also made their own way out. A drug-resistant super-cholera began its slow burn downstream. In any event, the country had its attention focused on exactly what was going on in Independence when the announcement was made.

Hinkles remembered clearly exactly where he was, and the sound of his cup of coffee hitting the floor as Independence announced its independence. The uproar was immediate, what with the announcement coming on the heels of the realization that we had almost lost New Orleans. The Big Easy still required fifteen inoculations and people of child-bearing age were advised to not drink the water. The second half of the announcement brought a dead silence to the room as the Pundits of Independence announced that they were sharing the stage with the means of ensuring their independence. Someone had sold them a nuclear weapon, and they were willing to buy more with no questions about whether the seller had ownership or merely possession.

Reasonable minds differed on whether Independence had a legal basis to quit the country, keeping the ground that was under it. After some debate, the federal roadblocks were moved back and bunkerized. The residents rejoiced, but the city could not expand rapidly on the backs of ailing slaves. Meanwhile, Hinkles was engaged in secret meetings and toured near-forgotten weapons-storage bunkers containing cold-war relics. He assembled a plan, briefing only those he could trust. It was known that the military had been partially infiltrated, and he didn't want anyone to start getting similar plans. Then, almost without enough time to get through the checklists, the go-signal came.

Major Hinkles and co-pilot walked out to their B-2 stealth bomber as though it was just another routine training mission. Within the bomb-bay, there hung the last remaining Mk-41 nuclear bomb on modified drop-shackles. It had been scheduled for decommissioning decades ago, but had fallen down a paperwork hole within the inefficient government bureaucracy and it was now theirs to deliver. The aircraft surged down the runway, wings flexing in response to the weight of their cargo: five tons of stolen taxpayer revenue as it would be called in Independence, plutonium, and the crew's chance at fame.

The airspace over Independence had gotten much touchier since the secession. Even commercial flights at cruising altitude had been subject to crude and paranoid SAM barrages. The resulting clear airspace suited Hinkles just fine, and nobody was tracking them. He could now see the outline of the city approaching below, heralded by the pillars of smoke from its factories. Its devotion to industry and commerce was as monumental as bronze, more ancient than Egypt, anterior to the prophecies and the pyramids. On that note, he ended his reverie and pulled out the next checklist.

Simultaneously, the President of the United States approached a podium and announced, "My fellow Americans, following closed-door deliberations of Congress, I have been authorized to act on the grave crimes against humanity, wanton destruction, illegal secession, and nuclear blackmail by the so-called city of Independence. After meeting with my advisers, it has become clear that the best course is the only course. Although it will cost innocent lives, the loss is less than any other course of action including doing nothing."

Pilot and co-pilot simultaneously twisted keys on opposite sides of the cockpit. Moments later, bomb-bay doors snapped open and the city of Independence could claim possession of two nuclear bombs within its borders for the few minutes it would take for its newest addition to reach detonation altitude. Reviewing the bomb-bay gun camera footage, Hinkles noted that his crew chief had chalked on the bomb "The only way to be sure."

“Blasphemers” By j00rBuDdY

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“Honored Patriots, thank you for gathering here today. As you know there are many threats to our freedom lurking beyond the safety of our most glorious nation-”

A fist slammed down on the table in the smoke filled room that stank of sweat, tobacco, and spilled beer – the War Room. “IT'S THEM MOOCHIN LIEBERALS AGAIN AIN'T IT? WE SHOWED ONCE WE'LL SHOW EM AGAIN AND AGAIN!”

“No General George-Reagan, for once it isn't that particular brand of filth.” A hush fell over the room and whispers darted about between the best of Independence's militiamen. The speaker held up a hand calmly and his presence commanded silence. “What I gather you all here for today is a most blasphemous affront-”

“IT'S OBAMMA'S FEMA DEATHPANELS THEN...” The black garbed man at the fore of the room shook his head. “No? Aw shucks. Thought I had it that time. Well out with it spook.”
“There are blasphemers who claim to be our brothers but do not kneel at the alter of the Lord Jesus Christ and his Prophet Glenn Beck. They claim they are followers of the Free Market but they refuse the words of Prophet and his Pundits.” That got their attention and a dead silent hush fell over the room.

General George-Reagan stood up with a look of shock on his face and pulled a wad of Golden Blessings from his pocket and tossed them at the man. “Where we marching son?”

“Northwest, to Idaho.”

Another of the generals stood up and lit a cigar as he pulled out a few more Golden Blessings from his wallet. “Tell us what to expect.”

“It's an old settlement, founded shortly after Glenn Beck delivered our ancestors from the clutches of tyranny.” The man pulled out a crude map to spread before the generals, hand drawn and stitched together out several pieces of canvas. They all gathered round as the hush was replaced by fevered talking as plans started to form. “I doubt they'll know what hit 'em when a posse of REAL red blooded patriots show up.” There was a nod of approval.

“We'll free the shit out of 'em, show 'em how REAL libertarians do it!”

“Yeah!”

“Wait- isn't freeing them like charity?”

“What, nah you're over thinking it Rove, look, we go in and kill the blasphemers and heretics and the like, then we take over.”

“Yeah they'll be paying us with their land and labor afterward, fair trade I say.” More heads nodded in agreement.

“If they don't like it, well they just need to try harder. After all we all pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps.”

They all wore cocksure grins that oozed smug. “Well then gentlemen, thank you for your business. I look forward to your results. May the Invisible Hand guide you and may Beck bless you."

“Businesswomen's Council of Independence” By Vagueabond

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We're all busy folk. Pat has her geography school, Leanne and Savannah co-run their tailor's outfit (they're increasing to five workers next month, can you believe it?), and I'm pretty important over at the paper these days. Our days are full! But we always make time for Thursday nights, because Thursday nights are the executive board meeting of Businesswomen's Council of Independence.

Thursday nights, we play euchre.

Sure, there's some shop talk, but the organization...we don't really need it like we used to. So we play euchre.

It's pretty simple, when all's said and done. I'm hosting this week, so Norm and the kids are having dinner with my sister and her family. Tell the truth, I think he likes it. Her husband doesn't really visit much, since, you know, that thing at the plant-- such a tragedy, thank God he only lost that leg--and they've always been real good pals, and besides six children I just do not know how she does it, so she's mighty pleased to see another adult around the house for a change. I sure would be! Sure and all, they help out in the garden, but I just th-

Son of a gun, looks like Pat did have the bower, after all. Another two points to red, I guess. Leanne and I'll have to work mighty hard to pull ahead: they've got us by the ears, eight to five.

But I'm certain we can do it. After all, this is Independence. Hard work is sorta what we do.

“Doctor Robert Brauman” By Loxbourne

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From the case notes of Doctor Robert Brauman
Spring 2043, fragmentary (scribbled in camp diary)

"Two men came in today with pulmonary edemae, vomiting blood. Chlorine poisoning. Chlorine! What are they doing with chlorine in that hellhole, I asked?

I figured maybe they were finally cleaning out that haven of legionnaire's disease they call a reflecting pool, but no. Apparently some idiot has decided to try his hand at gold refining. He's been buying up scrap jewlery and old electronics from residents on hard times, then set up his own Miller Process crucible in his back yard. Reckons he can get it to 95%, and that'll do to pass muster as "purestrain".

It helps that he's the only assayer in town, of course. Although I hear every man on the street has his own method of testing that no liberal filth can fool, only one guy thought to actually bring a slate touchstone with him. How delightfully 1800s Yukon.

Well, whoever he is, Mr Assayer is nobody's fool. He got all his debtors to stand by the crucible and pump the chlorine gas in with hand bellows. Bootstraps, y'see. That and being bankrupt now carries the death penalty. He pays 'em two Golden Blessings a day, which is about enough for half a sandwich.

I put both of them on humidified oxygen cut with budesonide, but the best treatment I can give them is proper food and the enriched milk we use for malnutrition. That, and a referral for both men to the deprogramming and counselling team. They went gladly, although it'll be months before their ruined airways can draw breath properly again."

“Extractor” By Loskene

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The smell was what Werner remembered the most. That stench of smog, sludge, heavy metals and urine. He'd actually spent most of his life outside of Independence, but the rancid smell of this rotting utopia had been burned into his childhood memory. That, and his family dying.

It was mid afternoon, though the sun was obscured by the ever-present clouds that were that grim shade of death. This was a busy place just south of the Central Markets. A statue of Glenn Himself stared over bustling crowed of unwashed humanity. Werner found it amusing that even though the statue itself was perfectly intact, not chipped or scratched in any way, the pollution had turned Big G into some sort of putrid green giant. He fantasized that Beck's soul was somehow trapped in the statue and would be forced to watch through those stone eyes how his perfect capitalist world had fallen.

Werner put thoughts of revenge out of his mind. He was here on a job and the job couldn't wait. Peddler's Place was just at the end of the street with two burly looking guards at the door. Steroids, like every other drug one could imagine, were perfectly legal and these two apes looked like they'd been fed a steady diet of it from birth. Come to think of it, they probably *had*.

"Nice shoes," came a voice from behind. Werner stopped and turned. A lone Patriot stood in the sludge that passed for a street. People gave him a noticeably wide berth. "The Market must be very good to you, Brother Entrepreneur."

"Very, Borther patriot," mumbled Werner. Had he been made? It was actually pretty easy to get into Independence, but the nature of Werner's work required him to sneak past the checkpoints. That itself was also not too hard; security was generally meant to keep people in. "Faith in the Truth of Industry has sustained me."

"It warms my heart to see the glory of the Market doing its work," replied the Patriot. Werner noticed the scar running horizontally along the man's chin. A shakedown maybe? Mugging and looting were a favorite pastime of Patriots, and the primary reason most people joined. "Tell me, what is it that you do that has made you so fortunate?"

"A mover of valuable goods." Which wasn't actually far from the truth. Werner weighed his options. He could kill this bastard and avoid the patrols, that was simple enough. But he wouldn't be able to extract the package. "Speaking of which...."

"I apologize for wasting your time, you are within your rights to bill me if you like?" Werner shook his head. Only an idiot would demand compensation from a Patriot. Scar-chin smiled and sauntered off.

-------

"You're my best customer, you know that Dubya?" Peddler led Werner through the smeared walls of his brothel. High words from pimp who provided girls and boys to the Becks themselves. ``You pay well and you pay on time.``

``I pay when I see my package, Peddler,`` answered Werner curtly. Peddler smiled, giving Werner a view of all three teeth the pimp possessed, and pushed aside the drape that hung in the doorway.

It looked like the girl. Height, hair and eye color. She`d lost weight and her skin had become pale, but that was to be expected. Her facial expression was a mask of detached neutrality, a clear sign to Werner that she`d been fully worked over and turned out. Something about Independence attracted kids like moths to a flame. Werner could forgive his own parents, they`d come in the early days before things had gotten as bad as they were. What had run through this girl`s mind when the gates had opened up and she`d realized her libertarian utopia made Grozny look like Seattle?

“Strip,” Werner said coolly. He felt ashamed forcing the girl to do that, but he didn’t put it past Peddler to pull a fast one and acquire a girl that just fit the description. As casually as you would light a cigarette, the girl peeled off her filthy clothes. Werner circled here, taking note of all the scars and moles and whatnot. Just as the profile read, but then Peddler had seen that profile too and the Ranches could do some bang up plastic jobs. “What is your name?”

“Anything that my master desires, and for the moment I am named Saffron.”

“Your name before you joined the freedom of Independence?”

“Alice.” Werner nodded and turned to Peddler, tossing him the agreed upon amount. Peddler grabbed the chit and slid it into his pocket.

“She’s all yours, Dubya. A pleasure doin’ business.”

-------

He dragged her around town for almost an hour to make sure they weren’t being followed. The run in with Scar-chin had Werner spooked. He was getting paid a fortune by that guy in Orange County and didn’t want to blow it. When he was sure that they weren’t being followed, Werner headed for the old car dump. Alice didn’t offer any resistance. She’d only been here two years but already Werner knew that she’d seen and experienced it all. Hopefully when they got to the perimeter and to his stashed hopper, she wouldn’t go all Stockholm on him. The only job Werner had ever failed, the kid had become a total Beck dicksucker and Werner had to strangle him.

“Nice shoes.” Oh fuck. Scar-chin was waiting in the clearing, along with two other Patriots that Werner immediately named Unibrow and Flatnose. “But I’m thinking that you didn’t buy them here.”

How did they know? How did they follow him here? It didn’t matter. Werner’s mind was already running through all the difference tactics he was going to use to get out of this. Extraction was punishable by death, usually after severe torture and mutilation. No one left Independence. No one.

“Surely now Brother Patriot, we can come to an arrangement?” asked Werner. He pushed the girl down onto the ground and strode towards the three men. “I have money.”

“Oh I’ll be taking your money, Liberal Outsider,” laughed Scar-chin. “And then I’ll be talking you to the Bastion for some questioning.”

“Are you sure? I think you’ll like what I have.” Werner reached into his jacket pocket as if to withdraw a wad of cash, but when he withdrew his hand he held his HK. He grabbed Scar-chin by the arm and pulled him forward, his body acting as a shield against the two slugs that Unibrow got off before Werner fired a round over Scar-chin’s shoulder. Flatnose was slow on the draw and caught one in the heart.

Scar-chin, despite being shot twice in the back, took off running and curved around a stack of flattened Escalade’s before Werner could take aim. Cursing, Werner took off after him. He didn’t have to run far. The wounds had obviously been mortal. He found Scar-chin collapsed on the ground, his own lifeblood oozing out of him.

“Please, mercey,” groaned Scar-chin, raising his hand out. Werner aimed his HK carefully.

“Tell me, Patriot, what is the cardinal sin?”

“Altruism,” the man said in a resigned tone.

Werner shot him through the eye.

-------

He hid the bodies as best he could. Dead corpses weren’t uncommon in Independence. Dead Patriots with bullet holes would attract attention from the Pundits.

“Come on,” Werner said to Alice, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet. “Your family sent me. I’m getting you out of Independence. I’m taking you home.”

“Home,” the girl whispered, as if the words were somehow taboo. She began to weep softly.

“Yeah. Home.” He pulled her along towards the hopper. “Maybe you shouldn’t have left.”

“Decline” By BooDoug187

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I can tell you when everything fell apart for that shit town and those who ran it.

When Independence was first announced by Beck on his little website “tv network” people just rolled their eyes and scoffed. The comedy news shows made their jokes and nothing else was thought of. Most people just figured it was the typical bullshit pie in the sky dream that would go nowhere…

But soon the rich who were either crazy or just stupid stepped in and funded the town.

In late ’13 early ’14 the groundbreaking was trumpeted in full fan fair by Fox News. Beck had some long winded speech about how this would be the start of a “new” America. Again people just rolled their eyes and left it alone. Some websites had ongoing betting pools about how long the town would last sprung up. The long shot bet was past ten years.

Who ever put money on 20 years racked in a shit ton of cash.

The first five years there wasn’t too much news. Sometimes a news program or news site would do a fluff piece about the large number of people from around the US were moving to Beck’s town. The common age of the people moving to Independence was between early 40’s to mid 50’s. Most of these people had either businesses that were closed by the poor economy or just got tired of the “evil liberal agenda” that Beck and Fox News created to boost raitings. It seemed like most of the people moving to Independence were white. No one seemed to care that was the case, most viewed this “experiment” as doomed to fail.

Years 6 and 7 was when people stopped hearing about Independence. Fox News hardly talked about it or Beck. Beck’s internet network was shut off to the internet. Going on to the site you would be greeted by a screen that said the site was only for the citizens of Independence. Again no one cared.

The towns nearby Independence started to notice the bad things that were taking shape. The air over the town was becoming black with smoke from the many factories that opened. The ground, even though it was South Texas and was mainly dirt and dust became more dark and nasty. The town closest to Independence complained that their water started to have “funny” to “nasty” taste. They would complain to the state government. The state government would say not to worry and they would look into it. They would come back saying the water problem was from Independence growing too fast and Mayor Beck would “cut back” on growth.

Two years after the fall of Independence it was exposed that the Texas state government was bought out by Beck and his Town Founders group. The water was tainted by lead and other chemicals. Lord only knows how many innocent people were hurt or killed by the greedy bastards.

It was year 13 when the first escapees from Independence were able to tell the world what was really going on.

“Saintly Exile” By Whybird

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The day has finally come. The sun rises, painting the patina on the Reflecting Pool every colour of the rainbow.

The crowd begin to gather, drifting in in twos and threes. They've come to watch. To mark the occasion. And to rejoice in their victory.

There are, he notes, a good portion of first-generation Patriots among them. It's beautiful, in a way.

The signs they carry are like old friends to him. Crafted from flattened juice cartons, mostly: actual card is far too valuable to be used in anything other than construction. INDEPENDANCE FOR THE INDEPENDANTANS, says one of them. WHERES THE CITIZENSHIP CERTIFICATE, another. GET A LIFE! MORANS, that old standby. And OUTSIDERS OUT, perfect in its tautological simplicity.

He can't help but shed a tear. His enemies -- and heaven knows they will be watching in his moment of downfall -- will no doubt attribute it to shame, or rage, or despair. But in honesty, all he can feel now is pride. Whatever else they may say about him, they can never argue that he was not an exemplary teacher, and Independence attentive students.

The barricaded gates open. And Glen Beck is expelled from Paradise.

“A Free Woman” By Centripetal Horse

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The little girl picks her way carefully across the debris as the wave recedes, its farthest progress inland marked by a foamy green snake. The stink of industry and rotten fish coming from the foam cause the little girl’s nose to wrinkle in her dirty, tanned face. The child’s left arm hangs limp and useless at her side, bouncing off her hip as she gently places another step, careful to avoid the needles, broken glass, and rusty edges of scrap metal that make up the beach. Feet safely settled, the girl sinks slowly into a crouch, using the back of her right hand to move a long, matted clump of hair from her vision. Clutched in her tiny fist is a thick, waterlogged stick with a large rock tied to the end with vines and a few strands of scavenged rope. Although the little girl does not know it, she has reinvented the flail, a weapon so old that even the Glorious Founders had not wielded them during the Great Enfreedoming.

The child is hungry. Although it has been only a few months since her sixth birthday, a few months since the day she was turned out of her parents’ home to find her place in the Grand and Wondrous Collective of Free Men and Women, it seems to the child as if she has been hungry her entire life. The days are long and tiring, concerned only with survival, and the nights are cold and scary, alone in the dark with no mommy or daddy to call for. Now, the girl’s hunger is nearing desperation. Some weeks back, she fell from a tree while trying to steal eggs from a bird’s nest. Her arm “popped” as she landed on it, and, since then, hunting has been much more difficult. The little girl has not eaten in days, exactly how many is uncertain, and she is weakening by the hour.

A hundred yards away, a group of perhaps thirty Free Men and Women are watching the little girl. Here and there in the crowd, money changes hands as bets are placed. As the dirty child with the hanging arm settles into a crouch and brushes hair from her eyes, the crowd becomes silent, and movement ceases. Ten feet from the little girl sits a fat, arrogant sea bird, occasionally ruffling its feathers as it stands on a rock outcropping above the medical waste and industrial debris. The young huntress is completely still, her gaze pinned on the fat bird, a meal fit for a king. Against the setting sun, the silhouette of hunter and pray is an extraordinary sight. Some of the Free Men and Women among the watchers feel themselves swell with pride, the pride of being Free, of being powerful, and self-sufficient. Before them is a beautiful thing, God’s laws being played out on the world stage. They envy the little girl, envy her youth, and this experience; the feeling of pitting yourself against the world, while that feeling is still new.

Now, the girl is moving. Quickly, she lurches forward, right arm swinging the flail. The garbage beneath her feet shifts, and her blow goes wide. Her prey squawks as the girl’s rock glances off its feathers, then it is airborne, and out of the little girl’s reach. Her foot twisted under her, the child crashes down among the garbagescape, scraping her side on some jagged piece of trash that may once have been part of an automobile, or a house, or a wrecked boat. The little girl’s ruined white t-shirt rides up, exposing her scarred and protruding rib cage to the crowd of watchers, and she falls once again onto her already damaged arm. There is a pause, and the little girl begins to weep. The child knows she is being watched, knows some of the watchers are Mommies and Daddies, just like hers, but she also knows from painful experience that they will not help. Crying to herself – silently, silently – the hungry child feels her stomach grumble, and the tears stream harder as she wonders what she has done wrong to deserve to go hungry for another night.

Among the crowd of watchers, a small cheer rises from those who have won their bets, and there is both laughter and grumbling, some good-natured, some not. Backs are slapped, and a cigarette or two lit. At the edge of the crowd, one person reacts differently to the pained cry of the falling child. A slender woman with dark brown hair and a mass of small scratches and scars on her face and arms rushes toward the injured child, but is stopped by a hand on her upper arm, the grip strong enough to hurt.

“No, Emma! Where do you think you’re going?”

“She’s dying!” Pulling against the man’s grip, the woman called Emma tries to take another step toward the child lying among the rocks and trash at the water’s edge.

“No, she is living! Would you really insult her so, to offer her help, charity? Would you rob that little girl of her right to stand on her own two feet, to live as a Free Woman? Would you have wanted someone to do that to you?”

Yes. YES! The answer is YES, the woman called Emma wants to scream. Yes, that is ALL I wanted when I was that child! Emma knows, though, that this is the answer of a parasite. “Yes,” is the answer of a leech, a weakling who does not deserve her place in the Wondrous Collective. No fear is greater than fear of being branded a leech, or, God forbid, a LIEberal. Emma quells her concern for the child, knowing there is nothing she can do, and relaxes under the man’s grip. A moment later, studying her face, the man lets go of Emma’s arm. Together, Emma and the man, and the few left in the crowd who are still interested, watch as the little girl struggles to regain her feet, watch as the child falters and falls back into the debris, apparently giving up, for now. In the gathering twilight, Emma can just see the tiny chest moving as the child draws breath. Gathering her robe in her hand, the woman called Emma turns her back on the mortal struggle taking place among the discarded detritus of free society, and heads home for dinner.

“The Hendersons” By BooDoug187

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411785123&forumid=1

The Hendersons were a young family from Ohio who moved to Independence in 2015. Tom Henderson came to town with his wife Kelly, 8 year old son Tom Jr, and 5 year old daughter, Jenny. Tom moved his family because he thought that the nation under President Obama was doomed to fall apart under the liberal agenda. When the Hendersons moved to town they were healthy, god fearing family that thought they were going to have a better life in this new place.

When the Hendersons first interview was on tv in 2026, they were malnourished ghost of their former selves. Tom Jr who was now 19 looked more like a man in his early 30’s and Jenny, 16 years old, had a distant look of a woman who suffered more than any woman should.

Their escape from Independence seemed like a story from an old Cold War story set in Eastern Europe than somewhere in America. Tom Sr talked about how in 2018 Beck and the Town Founders Group decided that there seemed to be a influx of “undesirables” somehow coming into their “perfect city” and was decided to build a large mega wall that would surround and protect the “true” citizens of Independence. The reality was that Beck and those in charge saw that things were falling apart and decided the best way to make sure no one on the outside could find out was to wall themselves off.

Tom Sr talked about how when the wall was completed Beck’s “patriots” were placed along the wall, but they seemed to have their weapons pointed towards the inside of the wall, not to the outside. Tom Sr said how Beck would talk at great lengths on his nightly tv address how the patriots were doing street sweeps and were finding the illegals and other undesirables and they were being dealt with. Tom Sr and Kelly thought nothing of what Beck said as odd.

It was 2019 when the cracks started to show. When Tom jr turned 12 he was selected to do an apprenticeship at the Independence Refinery. For 17 hours a day Tom jr worked in hazardous conditions, breathing in fumes, handling hot steel and other hazards with substandard safety equipment. Tom jr lost two fingers on his right hand when a metal door broke off of some equipment and cut the fingers off. Two days after that Tom jr lost the hand due to infection. When Kelly tried to complain about what happened to her son she was taken away by the Patriots for a week. When she returned she wouldn’t tell her husband what happened.

2020, Jenny turned 10. Several days after her 10th birthday she vanished from the “Freedom Tower Learning Center.” For two weeks her father went to the Patriot station demanding to know what was being done to find her. The only thing they would tell him was “they were looking for her, report back to work.”

It was late Friday when Jenny was dropped off in front of her parent’s home. She was covered in bruises, cuts, and cigarette burns. She had a note written and signed by a senior pundit excusing her from missed classes and written permission to miss another three days of class. At first she wouldn’t say what happened to her or where she was but after a day she told her dad.

Jenny and all the other girls who turned 10 that week were called to the med center of the tower. They were stripped by the doctors and examined. After they were checked out their clothes were taken away and the girls were taken to the upper floors. Once there they were greeted by Beck, members of the Town Founders group, and people the girls have never seen before. Beck made a speech about how these girls were now on the cusp of woman hood and that they will now begin their new training. The training was what women in Independence was supposed to be, subservient to men in every way.

For two weeks Jenny and the other girls were raped by the men. Jenny recalled men with cameras recording the violent, evil acts. When Tom Sr heard this he was going to go to the Patriot Station to report this but was stopped by his wife. The week she was locked away at the station when she complained about Tom jr’s injures she was tortured and raped. She was told that a woman’s place in this town was “on her knees, serving God, husband, and Beck.”

This was when Tom Sr decided he and his family had to escape. Sadly it would take six years for this to happen.

Escape seemed impossible. First there was the walls that surrounded the city with the guards. The area around the walls had no buildings near them, making building tunnels under the wall not an option. Second was the location of the city itself. In a way the town was built in the middle of nowhere. There were no trees or anything to hide behind if you were able to get to the other side of the wall, making you an open target.

The other issue was trust. No one spoke of escape. Independence worked on a system of fear. You would hear stories of children turning in their parents for speaking ill about Beck or the city. Parents would be taken away to “reeducation” and children of useful age (mainly 10 and under) would be sent to the “Lil Patriots Orphanage”. Tom Sr had to be careful as he even couldn’t speak about escape to his family, even though they were each experiencing hell.

Kelly, who before moving to Independence was a bold, often outspoken woman who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind was now a scared shell of her former self. Her job in Independence before her run in with the Patriots was records keeper, but after that week she had her job striped from her and she had to work as a sitter in the local child care center. The children she was put in care of were children of Patriot officers, several who were involved in her detention. She would later talk in interviews about how some of those men would remind her about her time at the station, threating her if she would harm their children or even threatening to show her husband the videos of what they did to her. She would talk about how she often thought about committing suicide. But in Independence those who committed suicide would be dooming their surviving family’s to punishment. In Independence suicide was something “liberals and un-Americans would do to harm the well-being of the city and it’s citizens.

Tom jr worked in the foundry. After his mom tried to complain Tom jr was sent to work in the deep bowels of the foundry, breathing in even more harsh toxins, suffering more burns and injuries. His supervisors would make sure his first two years would be harsh. Tom jr would later recall that he had a feeling that these people were out to kill him. At some points he even thought about just letting them do it to end his suffering but he would say that he wanted to stay alive, mainly because he didn’t want them to win.

Jenny was sent to the “womanhood” training after her two week ordeal. Every day she was sent to the upper floors with girls age 10 to 16. These training sessions were really just a “whore house” for the town founders and outsiders who would be exposed after the fall of Independence. Jenny would talk about what would happen. Sometimes she would be sent into a room that had a bed and all day she would have to service several men. Some would just want sex and leave while others would be very abusive. Jenny spoke about how if any of the girls would become pregnant they would be removed from the training. What would be exposed what that the girls would be forced to carry the child to term. After the baby is born the child is sent to the orphanage. The girl is then sent away to a whore house in a “lower” section of the city, never seeing their child and in most cases never be seen alive again. Jenny would also talk about how she knew there were cameras in the rooms, filming them with these men.

During these years the FBI and Interpol would release reports stating that they believe that a large influx of child porn was coming from Independence, but at the time they had no real evidence to prove this. Once Jenny’s story was told, the US government reacted.

Before this happened though Tom Sr had to find a way for him and his family to escape. Tom Sr worked in the Independence Civic Planning Center. Tom Sr was in a prime place to find any way to escape. He carefully had to go through piles of blue prints and street plans. The problem was that many things built in Independence was not put through the proper channels so many streets, buildings, and the wall itself had no plans. For those six years Tom Sr poured through what little plans he can get his hands on. During this time Tom had to act like he supported Beck and his government. Tom Sr would later say how he felt like every time he had to do his Pledge of Allegiance to Independence and Beck he was slowly killing himself and his family.

During this six year period the food stores of Independence was running dangerously low. During this time the Town Founders let mass amounts of chemical and garbage dumping, polluting the ground and water. Any meat that was being produced in town were diseased. Large numbers of Independence citizens would be struck with mad cow disease, E. coli, Hep A and other deadly viruses. Tom Sr and his family were becoming weak from malnourishment. It was looking as though there would be no chance of escape.

One early February morning in 2026, Tom Sr found a way out.

On an old street plan Tom Sr found what was labeled “Access Tunnel”. Using the civic truck he drove to what was now called Sector 07. Sector 07 was the former site of Independence Amusement Park. After some funding fell through the area became a housing area. This was during the beginning of the “Sector Plan”. Areas of Independence were being walled off due to growing food riots. Of course Beck was quick to spin the riots on “evil liberals infiltrating their perfect city.” Tom Sr’s job was able to let him go between sectors with little trouble. Tom sr nervously drove through the oddly done streets in hope that the tunnel was still there. After about twenty long minuets he found the tunnel.

The tunnel opening was large enough for his truck. There were several guards and a large grate that blocked Tom’s escape. When Tom pulled up he had to make up an excuse to check the tunnel. None of the guards really questioned him being there. As Tom checked the grate he saw that there was only a padlock keeping the tunnel closed. Tom was given a large set of keys. He would say how his heart raced as he checked through his keys, praying that maybe he had the one key to open this lock. When he was able to feel that lock open and fall into his hand, Tom said he felt as if God himself was telling him to go.

Tom opened the tunnel and explored it a bit. He saw that he could drive a truck strait through with out any issues. At the other end there was another grate. Tom didn’t check to see if he had the key, he didn’t want the Patriots on the wall to figure out what he was up to. In interviews Tom would talk about how he almost thought about running right then and there, going to get his family help. But he knew if he did that his family would be killed.

He quickly left the tunnel. He made up some excuse to the Patriots about him coming back later. When he got home he waited for his family to come home. After they came home he quickly told them they were leaving. They didn’t have time to pack anything. Tom sr hid his family in the truck and drove to the tunnel. He was luckily that there wasn’t as many guards. Tom was able to open the grate and drive the truck through the tunnel. Not even stopping to unlock the exit he drove though the grate. The Patriots on the wall had no clue what was going on. By the time they figured it out Tom and his family was a safe distance away from Independence.

They found themselves in the middle of the desert. The cover of night was the only thing that saved the family from what would have been certain death. They were able to make it to a small town 40 some miles from Independence. Finding their way to a police station they told the police everything. The officer in charge that night quickly got in touch with the FBI.

By noon that day, Independence was in the forefront of the news.

Before the end of the day, the people of the US demanded action.

What should have been a quick call to action became a long grinding bureaucratic nightmare. The president demanded humanitarian groups access to the city but Becks lawyers and others kept stalling, making up stories about how the Hendersons never lived in his town, how young children weren’t being used as sex slaves or for cheap labor. As this played out people grew angry at the government. The president decided to have a military blockade surround the city. During this time more of Beck and Independence’s secrets were exposed.

It was found out that the tunnel was used as a secret road to import goods from the outside world to Beck and the high ups in his government. With the blockade in place Beck tried to make himself a victim saying that the items being driven in was medicine for his blindness and for other illness but his cries fell on deaf ears when the trucks that were stopped was full of expensive foods and luxury items that several years before Beck had banned for being “tools of liberal evil”.

The Mexican Government exposed another dark secret. The Mexican military did several raids on drug cartel strongholds and shockingly were rescuing young white women, aged between late teens to mid 20’s. These girls would talk about how they were sold to the cartels by Beck and his backers for drugs.

At this point there was more escape attempts, most were killed on site by Patriots. Those who were able to get to the blockade made sure to bring with them proof of what was happening inside.

2034 was the final year of Independence. The new president, whose main campaign promise was to shut down the evil city signed off on the order:

Liberate the city, kill or capture Glen Beck and the group known as Town Founders.

“Folder Number 3” By Sleepless Dreamer

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411789263&forumid=1

After the second inauguration of President Hassiff, many people celebrated. The first Muslim president had been re-elected. And under the Neo-Republican banner nonetheless. The United States of America was no longer the same as it was in the early 2000s. Secretary of Independence Rutgert knew that much. Secretary of Independence sounds impressive on paper, but in truth, it is one of the more problematic positions, and it is the only position concerned exclusively by a territory that does not belong to the United States government, or even to the Global Terran Union. It focussed solely on a dark spot on the maps, one that history would rather forget. It was well past midnight, and Rutgert was looking closely at the numbers in the datafile known as the "Uncensus". Independence was populated again. It was their fourth time rebuilding it, this time around the "Citadel of Liberty and Freedom", a poorly name and poorly designed retro building, like the ones you see in Historic Manhattan. Old style elevators instead of Gravlevs, glass windows rather than SolPanes, and no waste retreatment planning. They were building it because they were a thing again. Beckians, member of a ridiculous sect had risen again, claiming that the second election of a Muslim would surely fill all the elements of the Glennian Scrolls.

The world had changed since the Ole Era 2000s. What was back then moderate conservatives would now be seen as extremists, and with reason. With the self-exile of the extreme right wing base of the era, the United States reformed itself in many ways. For one thing, once it was economically viable, the republican party was the one to propose the American Union. And later on they would take the forefront of the Global Terran Initiative, once the Martian Colonies established that communications made it hard for them to have a real Earth based government and formed the Mars Union. And in the 2020s, the democrats enacted the education reform act, following the rest of the world in favoring free education. On the social side of things, with a now more left leaning America, gay marriage was easily adopted, social safety nets were established, and it created a healthier, happier country that could improve itself. President Hassiff said it at his inauguration: "Liberty and freedom grow from equality and health, not from greed and selfishness." That was the new American dream: To thrive, one must make it happen as a society. The Libertarian-Americans did not like that. Obviously the world was not all perfect. There were still issues that needed to be addressed. But with the crisis of 2015, and the first collapse of Independence with the trial of Beck, people realized that there was more to life than greed, and that the true job creators were the consumers, and not the corporatists. Laws changed, and laws still had to change. But it was getting closer to a Utopia than a Distopia.

Rutgert was selected for this job because he specialized in history in addition to environment. His doctoral thesis was on healing the wounds left by the industrial era debacles. He was one of the few to nuance his propos on the use of fossil fuels, understanding the limitations of technologies of the past. Now, with their understanding of Quantum Theories, and the new technologies, keeping society alive without damaging the earth in near permanent fashions was possible. History holds a lot more than dead people's birthdays and outdated texts, it held lessons that we had to learn from. Before the GTU Calendar was adopted though, some people misappropriated history and created Independence. Nowadays kids in school learn of how it was founded, know that the first female president ordered the Black Sky Assault that saved countless slaves from the depths of depravation. But the law that made Independence possible stayed on the books, as a stark reminder of human folly. History holds lessons, but also repetition. After the Black Sky Assault, Independence rose again, this time as Glentopia. By then, shady people used new therapeutic tools to perfect their brainwashing of people. No longer was it re-education, it was now psychiatric torture that took place in the "schools" of Glentopia. Combined with no regulation on genetic experiment, within months they had a new "Beck", a new "Palin" and a new hellhole. The transgressions were so severe, and the genetic mutations irreversible, this time, a new president made the toughest call ever, he nuked American soil. But as the last Scrubber had left the land, the city was being rebuilt. This time, libertarianism had become a genetic fact, and something that was beyond a simple problem. By this time, Mars had been colonized, and terraforming was a reality. People looked to the stars but in Independence, trouble was brewing. If there is one thing that never changed about "libtards", as they were known in common parlance, they liked child labour. Their child caste was exploited, and it blew up in their face. The cannibal revolution was still fresh in the memory of many elders.

This time, the Citadel had a terrible heart. Even though they espoused a love of fossil fuels, they still had obtained a fusion core. And that alone meant that Rutgert had to lose sleep. Once weaponized it could damage a continent. And since they would fear a nuke again, it would be weaponized soon. The man who sold it had been arrested. In the current era, this kind of criminal greed is no longer tolerated. But the end result remained. Rutgert, with a growing insomnia, had taken to watching old vidfiles from the years leading to the rise of Beck. Maybe if he understood them, he could find a solution. News reels he left to his assistants, he was focussed on the culture of the era. A solution presented itself in a movie from old era 2007, but they would notice a dome, they would react, and they would react badly. But it was an idea. The two issues remained, they would notice, and they would pollute themselves in a biological bomb anyway. An older movie, from 1998 old era solved the first issue. With vidscreen tech, they could project the image they want, and since Independence would not use solar technology, they could use simulated biolights for the plants.

But the pollution issue remained. One late night / early morning, Rutgert was leaving his office in the White House when he ran into the head of Nasa. He was there to meet with the president, over the GTU's plan to terraform Venus. Mars had been easy, but their cleaners, when exposed to the much more toxic environment of Venus would need to be refined and improved. That morning, wrack by insomnia, Rutgert watch the next movie on his list. A horrible movie from old era 1996 according to all critics, but understanding the mindset of these people would make it easier. History is about what you can learn from it. He knew that the "libtard" would not give up until they were sure they had won, because defeat was not something they envisioned. They wanted to see the rest of the world suffer while they survived. They could easily be convinced they won through media manipulation. Deception was not something Rutgert liked, but then again, that land was nuked and they rebuilt it. Creative solutions had to be used. And so, after 88 minutes of a horrible unfunny "comedy", Rutgert had a eureka moment. He could solve the both Independence problem and Nasa's cleaners problem at once.

Build a gigantic dome, run media propaganda to make the people inside believe they live in the best city ever, and use their pollution to stress test the Nasa cleaners, to prepare the Venusian Terraforming. They could even use bio-engineers to make their crops grow, give them food and a safe haven to live. The ultimate charity, create a new Eden for them. And they would never know. And so, in folder number 3, a fit of fancy, Rutgert presented the "Bio-dome" solution to the President. It could solve everything.

“Not Even the Liberty Trees Grow” By StandardVC10

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411789505&forumid=1

Excerpt from Not Even the Liberty Trees Grow, a comprehensive account of the United States government response to the failure of the Independence project, the account of retired Special Agent Steven “Red” Wayne.

It seems like common sense these days, I suppose. But you have to understand that it had been a long time since anyone had needed to do the things that were done in Independence. We had opponents to our actions, we had thoughts of what could go wrong, and we had moral qualms, because how do you decide that an entire city- buildings and businesses, rich men and poor- can no longer exist? How do you destroy it, while still following the basic precepts that Independence claimed to represent in its zeal?

We had agents there for a long time. Some even from the beginning of the place- the FBI had been placing agents within domestic militia movements since long before I signed up. So when militia members, and those within that general circle, moved to Independence, so did our people. But there weren’t ever all that many, and at that time the intent was never to build a case against the entire city, only to continue the mission of defusing domestic terrorism.

By the time the city approached twenty years old though, many in the FBI decided that more was needed; especially those in regular contact with other government agencies. The ATF had a grudge from the start, while the Department of Agriculture was fielding complaints from farmers about poor water and soil in the area, and the EPA was complaining that they couldn’t persuade anyone to let their workers in for even the most basic compliance issues and air samples. While I was working in a Little Rock field office I even got a call from someone in the Federal Reserve, who made a half-joking utterance along the lines of “we should give that shithole something to be scared about!”

So more agents were sent in, and more contacts were made with those already inside. It was hard to recruit an informant, because Independence residents thought, with quite some justification, that it was hard to touch them in there, and even if you did, there would be few to help you build a case. Even so, we tried; it was easiest to get people who spent time outside of the city on your side, but we had to be careful; it was hard to ascertain how well Independence as a whole knew of investigations within their city, but the obvious pattern for them was to let fewer people in and out, which would hurt any effort to bring them back within the law even more.

I already know what you’re thinking now- if the FBI was already in there, why didn’t the worst excesses stop sooner? Well it’s complicated. For one thing, we ramped up our investigative presence as crime in Independence itself was drastically increasing, and the vicious cycle of employers dropping the place like a hot potato, neighborhoods losing income and looking for quick sources of money, and movement from the white and grey markets into black, went quickly once it got started. We could try and handle the low hanging fruit- drug runners who didn’t have a well hidden contact outside the city, for example- and monitor the most likely schemes to burst beyond the city limits, like the wire frauds and pyramid schemes that had their offices in Independence to escape scrutiny.

I guess we also didn’t want to step on any toes. These Beck backers had money and connections in Texas for sure, and whatever the man himself said, it cost way more than $2 billion to build Independence. If we got too far in the way of the Texas state police, someone might take offense and make a big story out of it, something that the Independence media machine would jump on. I tried to make it clear to field agents that it wasn’t so much other police and government agencies that we were worried about as much as it was the people who were more likely to know Texas state troopers or county sheriffs than they were to know the FBI, but I think we got a little paranoid that local governments might be complicit in some of it.

The Independence media were good at making you think that. There were only a small number of stations, but they had a wide audience and some of their programs got picked up elsewhere in the country, so the public impression was of a broader support base than really existed. They loved taking local stories and quotes out of context, and whenever it looked like the law might come down on something important in Independence they went back to the Waco well and spread fears about federal agents overstepping legal authority and wasting innocent lives.

And there was no law on the books to arrest a whole city. As long as the big shots could hide their worst actions, we couldn’t address the structural problem. Our first idea, once we brought the Texas state government aboard, was to de-incorporate the city somehow, taking it outside the legal protections it had created for itself and creating more latitude for Texas state police as well as the rest of us. That required too much work within the city though, because Texas couldn’t do that unilaterally. Still, the proposal was kept in mind for later.

Maybe some of what we talked about got out somehow- as the city approached twenty-five years old, it became increasingly militant. We didn’t hear much about their deliberations, if they had any, but we did get one of the few internal stories that Independence radio and TV would report- a member of the figurehead Independence City Council and local business owner (seems he made some kind of alleged health products, never evaluated by the FDA) introduced and passed a resolution that a federal enforcement action against one business, individual, or neighborhood, would be considered an action against all of them. Some of Beck’s ideologues had to have seen the irony. The walls around most of the city grew higher, and reports of riots revolving around people entering or leaving Independence reached an almost daily frequency.

It was also around this time that the child labor scandals started to break. The poor kids were reaching the age where they could get out of the city and tell their stories, twisted bones and skinny muscles. This had a dual effect of increasing pressure to act quickly, and reducing bureaucratic inertia; soon, the FBI had received a special court allowance to carry out unmanned aerial surveillance above Independence. Most agency public statements said that this power was extraordinary and seldom used, but in truth, we carried out flights as many as three or four times a day, and if anyone asked, we were simply lending our surveillance expertise to other agencies that needed aerial data.

Action, not information, was required, however. Since Independence had said trying to prosecute one of them was prosecuting all of them, we decided that was what we would do, and preliminary plans called for a multi-pronged effort all over the city to arrest as many of the influential perpetrators as we could, carrying out rescues as required. The more data the drones brought in though, the harder it started looking. We simply didn’t have enough agents with the training to break down all the doors, secure all the compounds, and suppress all possible sniping, homemade bombs, arsons, and similar such activities that could cause chaos disproportionate to manpower.

Calling in the National Guard had other problems, though. They weren’t trained for house-to-house combat with other Americans, and there would be no better way to vindicate the Independence paranoia relating to the government coming down upon them, Constitution be damned. It would also require the assent of even more government commands, though by this point there was a clear mandate from the public and the President to knock the place down so that wasn’t as big an obstacle as it used to be.

It was Agent Chavez, just promoted from Chicago, who suggested creative interpretations of disaster relief. The National Guard carries sandbags for hurricanes all the time, right? Someone from the Attorney General’s office caught wind of the idea and soon the President was on national television declaring that Independence and the environs had been struck by a man-made disaster, and that three National Guard regiments from Texas, New Jersey, and Oklahoma and Air National Guard squadrons from Arkansas, North Dakota, and Maryland would be mobilized to rebuild unsafe structures and distribute aid to the destitute.

The plans were a bit more complex than that, though. Two other measures were taken to ensure that the perfidious Fed had not simply declared war on the city; one, the de-incorporation plan was floated to Independence as a way to accept the rule of law without facing down the combined efforts of the FBI, ATF, DEA, IRS, Treasury, National Guard, and Air Force; two, we decided we’d try to split Beck’s united front.

We had long known that Independence wasn’t just libertarians; there were Christian conservatives and other authoritarian types as well. If we could get one of them to be worried enough about his position relative to the rest that he made overtures to the Texan state government or other external authorities, we could say we were acting on someone else’s causus belli and the more deferential among them might be less inclined to go all out against government gun-grabbers and currency debasers.

After many months of planning, and several close calls on the ground, we finally found our man. Agent Rosenburg called one of the Texas field offices on a June evening with the news that one “Dow” would make the appeal, along with his two dozen strong militia, for wider intervention, in exchange for amnesty in regard to violation of several environmental safety, building code, and firearms distribution laws. When the rest of the city had comprehensively refused the de-incorporation offer, which we knew they would, Dow could instigate the operation.

“Jack Drake” By mr. Stefan

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411796091&forumid=1

FEAR, MEDS, AND INDEPENDENCE: THE CRASH AND BURN OF THE AMERICAN DREAM

An Article in Three Parts by Jack Drake (Associate of Journalism)

AUGUST 8, 2027

Five miles, two hours, twelve checkpoints. We aren't even within sight of Independence when we see the first barricade on the road. Surprised, I look to my lawyer, a habitually inebriated sot who has already cracked open a bottle of Tequila before it even hit three in the afternoon. Glaring at me, he waves his free hand in disinterest, a clear sign that this was an expected obstacle.

“Afternoon, outsider,” says the first of three guards as we slow to a stop, “what brings you two to Independence?”

“Business. My associate and I are traveling salesmen.” This draws a cackle from the trio of portly men, before they wave us through. A dozen times we stop, to be asked the same question by dozens of men, all with different uniforms and different style knockoffs of the AR-15 rifle.

That we are here on business is certainly true, and we are definitely planning to sell something, but that is by no means our real purpose in Independence, U.S.A. Ten years ago, Glenn Beck had founded this town on the dollars and backs of his adherents, and in all that time, almost nobody had told the real story of the city.

Oh, certainly, reporters went in and came out. Rode down George Washington Lane right through the center of Sector One, an immaculate asphalt boulevard flanked by shiny businessfronts that started at Liberty Gate and and ended at the Glenn Beck Learning Center right at the core of the city. They'd all been wined and dined by Beck and his little council of Captains of Industry, telling them of all the wonders and freedom in their little insane disney land before leading them on a crazed tour through the Randian playground known as Independence.

Nobody ever questioned why the trees on Washington looked so shiny and plastic, or why the customers busily milling around the storefronts never actually bought anything, because the Limos waiting at the gate moved just too fast for the reporters to get a good look and, wouldn't you know it, cameras were “frowned upon” by the citizenry. Oh, sure, everybody had heard the stories, of diseases running free that had been stamped out in the free world, of unregulated factories kidnapping children to use as disposable labor, but no news agency had ever been able to get solid facts.

I got a chance to go on an official DPRK tour of Pyongyang once, before the country burned itself alive and the Kims were publicly hanged on a pan-Asian television broadcast. The official Independence Experience, then, felt eerily familiar.

In the last five years, Independence had taken on fewer tourists, and more and more smoke stacks had started to spring up all over the city. People were curious, but flyovers were forbidden (To prevent “terrorism”) and most satellite imagery was out of date. So, rather than go the path every other soft-bellied newsman in the western hemisphere had taken, my drunkard lawyer and myself chose to take a more underground route into the city. However, in Independence USA, Fiat Dollars are seen as worth less than the cotton they're printed on, so we had to improvise.

In every city in the world, there's one thing in demand that even the most gormless outsider can use to trade for native currency off the grid. In most of them, it's drugs. In Pyongyang (before implosion) it was food rations. In Independence? Medical supplies.

The trunk of our dinged-up crimson convertible is loaded like a mobile pharmacy. Morphine, Codeine, Saline, The 'Cillin Sisters (Penny and Moxy) and every kind of pain pill and generic medication you could buy off the shelf, a cooler full of vaccines, tubing, IV kits, medical handbooks, a cotton field's worth of gauze, bandages, patches and slings, styptics, antiseptics, clamps, scalpels and even a couple defibrillators. We'd blown most of our advance on an inventory that would make a warzone clinic salivate, my lawyer and I, and we celebrated our genius planning by wasting the rest on booze and weed the night before. As we pass the last checkpoint before the gate we casually drive off the beaten path, and a short time later we pull aside to meet our waiting contact. Grasping the .44 magnum pistol I had brought for protection, I wait by the car as my lawyer moved to negotiate.

My lawyer is a corpulent, foul man, who could walk out of a shower and into a $6,000 suit and still come off as a seedy creep planning to screw you out of your life savings and fuck your wife on his way out your back door. Truth be told, he isn't a very good lawyer, either. However, he'd been to Independence before, and gone off the tourist chute too. His experience would be invaluable.

Fifteen minutes of wild gesticulation later, the nameless contact hands over a briefcase and a pair of laminated cards, and begins shuttling the medical supplies from our car to his pickup truck.

Idly, I ask him, “So what's your deal, opening up a clinic in town or something?”

He stops and looks at me with utter shock for a moment, before laughing. “Are you kidding? I'm going to resell all this shit! I'll be rich!” Shaking his head in amusement, he throws a box of sterile needles into his truck before he hops in the cab and peels off, throwing a massive gout of dirt into the air as his back tires spin and grip. I get back in the car, on the passenger side this time. Curious, I look at the cards. They are ostensibly ID cards identifying the owner as a True Patriot of Independence USA, and have our names (misspelled) on them. The cards are so cheap-looking, I could likely have forged them with a hot glue gun, a printer, and some plastic bags.

I open the briefcase to be greeted with countless glittering cubes, half an inch to a side.

“Jesus fucking christ!” I shout, “this fucking case is full of gold!”

My lawyer snorts, not taking his eyes off the path. “No fucking shit, the people in there don't believe in fiat money. Go gold or go home.”

“That doesn't make any fucking sense! This case weighs almost six pounds, that would be over a hundred thousand fucking dollars of gold!”

“It's obviously not pure, shithead. Those little cubes are Beck Blocks, probably just a lead core with a gold plating. Every asshole in this city goes on about 'pure strain,' but I'd bet a pound of platinum against any taker that there isn't a single fucking block of gold in that entire city not cut at least 90 percent with lead or other heavy metals. Everyone knows it and everyone does it, and nobody talks about it because they don't want to get their balls cut off for doing it.”

Independence is circled by a tall concrete wall, a bulwark against “undesireables.” As the sun begins to set, we approach one of the smaller gates of the city, a walking gate well away from the main entrance flanked by a pair of men with ill-fitting uniforms. My lawyer pulls the car to the side and turned it off, stepping out.

“What the fuck,” I say, quickly getting out and following him to the trunk, “We're just going to leave the car here?” My lawyer looks at me with a disdainful smirk. “I told you already, nobody owns a fucking car in the city except the Elite Patriots. You park that thing on a street corner, it'll get stripped to the fucking frame in less than five minutes. Leave it here, it might only be missing the catalytic converter when we get back. Grab the goldish.”

Pulling a pair of decrepit looking messenger bags from the trunk, he hands me one. “Split the Beck Blocks up. Don't keep them in one place, don't fucking gawk at people. Act like you've lived here for five years, don't drink the fucking water and don't eat the fucking food. And, for the love of christ, don't fucking tip people. You make one wrong move, they'll eat you alive for being a parasite.”

My slug of a lawyer passes me the tequila. Have to build up the illusion, after all, and now, with ragged messenger bags and liquor in hand, we wobble towards the walking gate, brandishing our ID cards. I wait until I'm less than two feet from one of the guards before shouting “Hail, patriot!” at him as loudly as I can. The guard – jesus christ, he's a fucking kid, can't be more than 16 and they gave him a gun and put him on a gate – visibly recoils before responding in kind.

“An excellent night to you, sir!” I shout, “We've come from a business deal with the dirty outsiders! I see that you have been tending the gate like a true defender of freedom!” The guard's mouth opens and closes repeatedly, clearly too overwhelmed to say anything. Before he has a chance to respond, my lawyer and I enter the city.

Have you ever seen one of those retarded steampunk movies that were really popular around 2014 or so? Do you remember how they depicted the seedy victorian underbelly as a giant mass of narrow streets, rickety leaning buildings about to collapse, and uneven winding paths?

Imagine that, but with an aftertaste of urban warfare.

The buildings are a haphazard mess, leaning and visibly buckling with walls of discolored wood and crumbling concrete. The streets are not paved, with scattered juice boxes blowing in the wind like a parody of snow drifts. The roofs are incompletely shingled if they are shingled at all, and just as common are rusted-through tin roofs or rotting plyboard coated in tar.

Ragged people walk the streets, soot-stained and bent, and all of them visibly armed. Some look like peasants out of a medieval period piece, torn rags wrapped around themselves to insulate their bodies, while others wear patchwork jumpsuits reminiscent of a bleak parody of factory uniforms.

There was an odor of flesh, and sweat, and dirt, and rust, but above all that, a smell that had been mounting since we had come close to the city was now all-consuming and pervasive.

“What the fuck is that?”

My lawyer turns to me and laughs. “The lead processing plants, man! Welcome to sector twelve, motherfucker. The beating heart of Independence. You wanted to see what this place was like off the main roads? This is just the beginning!”

As I stood on that dusty path, looking at a rotted parody of a city, I wanted to believe that the sot was exaggerating for dramatic effect. But as I slowly put one foot in front of the other, nose starting to burn from the stench of lead, I knew deep down that he was right, perhaps more than he knew.

“Scarecrows” By mugrim

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411797538&forumid=1

The lemonade is particularly sweet today, only ruined by a turn in the wind bringing our scarecrows' rotting corpses to our palettes. I guess "Scareman" is probably more appropriate, the grackles and crows were the least of our concerns.

Uncle Tim lies on the porch whittling some pikes for the next batch. He can tell the lemonade can't compete with the smell.

"This is god's country", his attempt to break the silence. He'd rather give me another lecture about the evils of the city, corrupting it's people.

"The human mind is only designed to know one hundred and f'tty people, you know that? It's why I don't like cities. They try to force us to be something we're not".

He lies down the long piece of wood and brings another one to work on.

"People have to earn their place in this world."

I was the first person born in Independence. My mother died at childbirth and my father was a drunk who signed his kidney away only to find out that the one they agreed to had already shut down. I was lucky they had already established a will with the Contracts Department leaving this land to Tim. Back then no one was too eager to grow anything. I've heard that at one point farming was considered lesser work. I still don't buy it. Everyone's gotta eat?

TheI drink in my hand goes for one, hell maybe three days labor at an exchange station.

Tim notices my eyes glossing over the sunset ignoring the yelps and whimpers of the scaremen.

"Thirteen years ago you were born. I know it's hard, with your parents gone, but today is a reason to celebrate. You are a man now. Tonight I want you to patrol the fence."

He handed me the crossbow and revolver. I examined them briefly and stored them appropriately, making sure not to seem exuberant. I'm a man now, this is no time to showboat.

My uncle saw the effort and gave a knowing nod.

***

Walking along the electric fence was tough. The dredge of the city would starve and come to our fences and do anything to come in. We don't have enough to feed everyone. We have a couple of loyal sharecroppers who know they're getting a real deal, but those spots are filled.

Occasionally people would get so desperate we'd have to clear their charred bodies off our lines before they bring our generators down. Their bodies would light up a little fire and we'd have to keep it off the grass in summer.

I walk quietly, my head brushing against the blood crusted foot of a looter on a pole above.

Something rustles on the other side of the fence. I turn my light on and see the long grass falling back into place. Something is out there.

Four glowing orbs stare at me from each direction.

I raise the crossbow and think I hit the one on the left.

Instantly a pole with rope comes out and loops around me. A pair of dark eyes hidden behind a face with more hair then skin holds it tight. He tries to pull me to the fence to kill me. At least he's clever. Too bad he's not very strong.

I brace my foot against the wood and grab the pike behind me. My revolver hits the dirt and I drop down to grab it. He's dropping all his weight back as I lift the sights onto his chest.

A flash spreads all over and the looter grasps his chest. I'm amazed I hit considering how thin he was.

I look around to check for others while he gurgles some plea or prayer. A dead woman with an arrow sticking out of her lies next to him. A distended stomach? Maybe. Or...

Tim's yell comes from the porch.

"You good?"

"Nothing special."

I go around and look at the corpses. I guess it is new, we're now getting three or four bands a night. Food is becoming harder for the city.

I search through their pockets, of course they don't have anything, if they did they wouldn't be here. I find an old book in a jacket. On the inside cover someone has written something:

"Man has a dark heart, the only paradise he can endorse is one where he could not exist"

Maybe if they spent less time writing and fucking and more time working they wouldn't be half dead about to be used as props.

I see my uncle prepare the pikes.

"How many?"

"Two"

“The Citadel War” By j00rBuDdY

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411797769&forumid=1

Dubya awoke earlier than usual this morning. Today was a special day and he was excited for it. For today this would be his first time to see the world outside of the hallowed bounds of Glentopia. He was no runaway nor was he one of the sanctioned few that the Pundits or Council permitted to interact with whatever scum lurked outside their nation's borders. No, Dubya had a purer purpose motivating him today as he was a soldier in Beck's Army commanded.

Well technically he was merely a driver in the employ of Jebediah Atlas, Captain of Industry and owner of the A=A Agriculture and Alcohol, who had in turn been hired by the Independence Patriot Militia to aid in the logistical efforts of the war against the blasphemers. None of that really mattered to Dubya though because his heart swelled with pride at the mere thought of being part of the Almighty and his Prophet's Great Work.

He didn't really understand the war or any of the reasons behind it though. He vaguely understood that far north of Independence there were some manner of false libertarians and that the Pundits wanted them dead but he didn't know that made them any different from the communists, socialists, liberals, and other flavors of mooching parasites. Not that he needed to know; the offer of 2 meals a day and the chance to drive a behemoth of truck that ran on honest to God diesel was more than enough to get him to sign up when his boss approached him with the deal. Sure the pay was worse than what he already had and the hours were longer but any thoughts against it were wholesale annihilated the moment he head the bestial machine's engine roar.

He arrived at Atlas's manor right at the sun's rays pierced the hazy smog that fouled the air of Independence and waited dutifully at the front gate for his boss- no – his commander to give him his orders. He saw some of Atlas's slaves hurriedly dashing around the premises in preparation. It took a good ten minutes before Jebediah strolled out in a neatly pressed uniform bristling what medals with a pair of his better dressed slaves flaking him. “Looking sharp son! Ready for work?”

Dubya saluted as best he know how. “Sir yes sir!” He remembered the stories his grandfather had told him about his Great-Great-Grandfather from his time in the Marines back before Independence and Glentopia were even a twinkle in Glenn Beck's eye.

“I like your spirit son. Always were one my better workers.”

“Sir thank you sir!”

Atlas smirked smugly. “S'why I picked you to drive the Freedom-Rings for our holy mission. I trust you on my fields so I figure you handle yourself on a truck like that.”

Dubya stood there slack jawed for a moment before he remembered to speak. “Sir I am honored by your words sir.”

“Come on in son.” Atlas waved the young journeyman in to the compound and strolled over to the ramshackle garage that held his vehicles. “We need to get behind the wheel and ready to move out ASAP. The Generals want us to go ahead the main force so when they roll up with the troops we're ready to supply 'em in the field.”

“Sir what do we do if the Marxists try to get in our way- I mean we will be drivin' through their turf before we get to the Citadel and such sir?”

“Don't worry 'bout a thing, I've got it all taken care of. Even got some of my contacts on the outside lined up to help.”

“Outsiders sir... is that- uh... safe?”

Atlas chortled in response. “I said don't worry. 'Sides, if anyone tries to give us flak well, we're sovereign Constitution-loving men. We'll just exercise our God-given rights.”

“Praise the 2nd amendment!” Dubya pulled his pistol out from his hip in rhythm with Atlas and the pair fired a shot into the air. “Beck be praised.”

“Amen to that son. With any luck we'll be lookin' at some juicy new land up and some new slaves if everything goes right. Hell, we're probably gonna need someone to make the trip from our conquered land regularly.”

Dubya blinked and a smile came to his face. “You mean I could drive the Freedom-Rings regularly?”

“If the Invisible Hand makes sure the Free Market gets what it needs son. If you're the man for the job, well, we'll just need to see how you handle yourself out there son. Now go make sure everything is packed up nice and tight for the trip. You've got over a days worth of driving to do.”

“Over a day sir?” Dubya looked a little worried at the prospect.

“Something wrong son? Can't find your bootstraps?”

“No sir. It'll be fine.”

“I'll be with you so we'll stop for a break about halfway through. I think that'll put us somewhere in Utah if there's any truth in those old maps.”

Dubya let a sigh of relief. “Wait- you'll be coming too sir?”

“You going deaf son? Course I am. I'm not gonna sit behind here and let the others get all the glory. The Freedom-Rings's cabin has a bed in the back for me so it's better than going in one of the other jalopies from Great Eagle Autos or something. Hell, it's even got air-conditioning. We'll have a pair of my guards with us too in case any of them blasphemers or gubmint boogeymen try and head us off.”

“Of course sir.”

“Oh and son, be extra careful when checking to make sure everything's right with Freedom-Rings, she's carrying some extra special cargo for our troops.”

Dubya saluted stiffly and turned to head off to get to work. He didn't want to less Atlas down, not with a chance like this.

When he entered the garage proper he still couldn't help be awed by the sight of the gargantuan vehicle. It was a big rig with three trailers and thirty wheels; the cab was painted in the patriotic red, white, and blue and the trailers each depicted an eagle carrying a rifle in its talons as it flew into the sun set. It made Dubya want to sink to his knees to weep with joy that was he being entrusted with such a majestic machine. He could smell the leaded diesel in the air and it made his pride swell.

Before he could get carried away in his daydreams though he went to go check the contents of the trailers to make sure everything was packed in nicely. He knew how slaves liked to cut corners in their labor; he had done so himself as a child before he bootstrapped his way to buying his freedom not that he'd tell anyone that. Of course in his experience he had always cut corners the right way but as his learned during his time as Journeyman that was beyond most the level of most people- slave or apprentice alike. The first trailer was packed to the brim with stamped metal bottles stacked high in reused pallets and secured with tape.

“Nice,” he commented with a grin. He knew these were his bosses brand of moonshine and they weren't on the list of essential supplies bought by the Militia. This was that something extra Atlas had talked about. A way to make an extra GB on the side. Dubya couldn't help but respect the man. He'd take this lesson and run with it in the future- he couldn't help but contemplate all the extra ways he could make with a plan like this.

The rest of the trailers were loaded down with cans of gruel, pork and beans, and some desiccated vegetables with boxes of hardtack stuffed in the left over space above. Dubya nodded in approval as he carefully peeked through the cracks in the containers. Looks like Atlas had put more in the trucks that the Militia had paid for he reckoned from the hastily scribbled manifest he had been given. His admiration for Atlas easily squelched any rogue worries he might have had about being able to control a vehicle like this with this big of a load.

Once he concluded everything was in order he locked the trailer doors and headed to the cab. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. The key slid into the lock and he turned it reverently. The scent of leather and polish greeted his nose and he let out a contented sigh. When he climbed up into the driver's seat and put his hands on the wheel he felt like he was on top of the world. This must be how Glenn Beck felt so many years he thought to himself as he settled in. He put the key into the ignition and muttered small prayer for protection against shoddy Chinese workmanship that had been drilled into his skull from his first days aboard a tractor. The engine responded with a glorious roar as it came to life. All was right with the world Dubya thought.

“The Beckian Job, pt. 3” By Venusian Weasel

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411798054&forumid=1

“This raid only serves to illustrate that the government is hell-bent on persecuting business owners with Christian beliefs. The idea that this particular Chick-fil-A was involved with the Kansas City scandal is laughable! Do you really believe that a bunch of fast-food workers from Wichita would band together to steal a secret, yes, a secret gold shipment from the Fed in Kansas City? This is a show trial, folks, and the government is hiding its own incompetence by pinning it on 'those Christian folks over there'.”

Elliot switched off the radio. A faint shiver ran down his spine. He almost hated Beck for sending him news of the raid. He wished that he had gotten out of Wichita earlier, gotten a bigger head start on the FBI. The plan was crumbling around him. It was entirely possible that a roadblock would be set up going into Independence in the next few hours, so he began thinking of the backup plan. He could turn east instead, seek asylum with the Paulites. No, there had been news of raids on their compounds. He wished that he had communication with someone in Independence, just to get some advice on what to do. He wished he could call Nina, lovely Nina, and ask the veteran to dispense some of her wisdom.

He turned off the planned route as he was entering Dallas. The first order of business was to find a better disguise for the gold bars. A few Chick-fil-A boxes in the back would invite nothing but suspicion. There was no clear way to move them outside of his car without being seen, so he drove to a Burger King and ordered a to-go. At least the thick brown paper bags would do less to connect him to the Chick-fil-A.

Next Elliot's thoughts turned to the next step. It was entirely possible that his car had been identified by now, and state troopers would be on the lookout for it. He knew that Independence had several moles in the government, but he wasn't sure about the state police. Elliot decided to drive south for a couple more hours before getting off the roads. He had a couple options open to him – he could steal a car and make a run for it in the wee hours of the night, or he could be more subtle and steal a license plate off another car. Both were not ideal solutions, though.

As he checked into a hotel room, he fought a rising panic inside of him. His thoughts turned to the guards back in Kansas City. How his team had rolled the cargo truck off the highway. How they'd shot down the survivors in the back of the truck. How they'd strangled the survivors as they moaned. How they'd eliminated the backup as it arrived piecemeal. How they'd eviscerated them and left their bodies arranged decoratively. By the time he'd set his things down in the room, he was ready to vomit.

After emptying his stomach, Elliot looked down at his hands. He was a murderer, and knowing the US government, it responded in kind. If the police found the 10 gold bars on his possession, that was it. The news stories would say that he'd resisted arrest, he'd been shot while trying to escape. But the reality was different, they'd take him out and shoot him like they would any foreign agent (excluding the Muslim ones, who'd be given the welcome mat).

The realization that he'd be dead in a day was absolutely liberating. He took out his gun and cleaned it. He slid fresh bullets into the magazine. It slid in smooth and locked in with a satisfying click. He chambered a round, then holstered it. He'd make a run for Independence, and if anyone got in his way, well, it'd be a bad day for them. For the first time, he felt like a secret agent.

“The Shark” By Sleepless Dreamer

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411799130&forumid=1

When you build a city on a pile of secrets, only two kinds of people will know what's the real shit that's going down: the rats at the bottom, and the heads at the top. I guess a lot of the stuff you'll ear about in these testimonies will be from the rats. I wasn't a rat. I was on top. Or at least near enough to know what was going on. Independence was in part my baby, and now I am ready to rip it apart so you all can see its innards.

It was a shithole because we wanted it to be one. I was the first guy to crunch the numbers in that faux-ivory tower. We exploited the hell out of the fuckers at the bottom, and they asked for more, buncha idiots.

The first question is always: how thehell does a city make so much money when it's only industry is guns? Well here's the thing: we manipulated the market, created monopolies, andthen crafted the nicest looking crappy guns. And I mean "blow your face up when you line up the crooked sights" crappy. The free market prevails or some shit.

No, we sold them. Not in the city, mind you, they had better stuff, the best was for our personal guards and usage. Although I never carried a gun in my life, these things are for monkeys, we controlledthe city with a different kind of bananas, the gold kind. So, how to make money with crappy guns? Simple, you sell them to your friends' ennemies. And our friends were a weird bunch.

Our first client was Russia. Seems like the commies hated their rebelions, so what we'd do is sell our equivalent of a desert eagle for a quarter of the price to rebels in Russia, then Russia would pay us about twice as much as the rebels to make sur all they had was crappy ammunition, crappy guns, and no real power. Then they'd look good when they sent in a small detachment that killed overly armed rebels. Made for good PR anyway.

How crappy were they? Well there was only one fucking metallurgist in town, and he worked with us. The foundries made crappy "Beck-Alloy" and the guns fell apart after a while. Our second client was the Talibans. The militias in Arab countries ended up not being able to fight back. They get a totalitarian shit going, we get fuel for our private jets, everybody laughs. And people die.

A sale order from us killed a lot more brown people than the fucking US army managed with collateral damage. Then we'd buy drugs from the mexicans, party all night. It was so fucking easy. Then people started selling their kids in the city, and I did more numebr crunching: we could export humans and make a killing.

It started with porn. Fuck, for a mormon, Glorious Libertarian God-Leader liked his porn at that point, fucked up shit too. So we made it, filmed it, and sold it. And people kept selling their kids, or dumping them in slave-factory orphanages. And we had a way to keep them in line too. One facility, Slave camp 26, got suspicious about the age of the "pure servants" we sent to the higher ups' bedrooms.

What we do is buy a crappy missile, cover it in black tinted steel, and blow upp the damned thing. When they found the wreckage, and the remains of a buncha old cell phones throen in tehre for good measure, it became obvious that this was a predator drone or some shit. The natives became angry at the world and more obedient.

I invested a million in the project, after a year I made ten times that crunching numbers. And I got paid real money, not that fake gold crap we cooked up for the rats. They wouldn't know real gold if it bit them.

Then we went into biological warfare. You want to cultivate a killer bacteria? Dump a kidnapped foreigner with a shitty disease like ebola in sector 8, have the rats kill the foreigner, let it fester for a while, then suck every last drop of blood from the rats. Boom, Ebola 2.0. Then we sell that shit.

Why am I telling you all this?

Because when you swim with the sharks, you gotta be stupid or protected. Turns out I wasn't in the second category. Mind you, I still have a billion or two hidden somewhere, but I'll give you half of that if you let me be the one thaat kills the supreme mayor. They say he died, you know he's alive, and I have him on fucking Facebook.He ain't in Africa, hell no. He's in fucking Aspen, sipping coffee right now. Amazing what plastic surgery will do to a fucker like that. The fucker, had no right to do what he did. All the fucking money in the world won't bring back my girl, she was fucking 12 when that asshole's body guard had his way with her, leavinga fucking "gold" cube on her nightstand, like I was one of the rats. Put me in jail for all I car, hell kill me. But let me be the one to strangle him with bootstraps.

“Hallowed be the Job Creators” By Higgins

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411799715&forumid=1

Beckford frowned anxiously as he stared into the distance. At the edge of the horizon, he saw immense towers belching flames high into the air. The sight disturbed him; usually, one could not see farther than half a mile in Independence. The fact that he could see the refineries -- nearly two miles away! -- from his porch was upsetting. He would have to speak to his fellow Job Creators and ensure that their factories were still burning at maximum capacity. A strong smog is a healthy smog; a healthy smog makes for a healthy Capitalist.

Beckford languidly rocked his chair back and forth. He tore his gaze from the refineries to look down on his farm. This land had been with his family every since his father first claimed it during the founding of Independence. Beckford's father had had the incredible business acumen to understand that people needed food to live, and as such he had claimed as much arable land as he could afford. Certainly, others had tried to follow suit, but the only remaining land that could be bought afterwards was downstream of Independence's industrial district. The water was a toxic sludge, and entirely unfit for crops. Good enough for people, though.

A breeze gently pushed through the fields. The rows of Super WheatMax Pro 4(tm) swayed back and forth. This strain of wheat was a dependable, hardy breed. It took only three weeks to grow from seed to be fully mature, was resistant to all kinds of pestulance and disease, had an acceptable nutrient/calorie ratio, and had the lowest incidents of adverse health affects in its consumers that money could buy. The Free Market had provided this strain of wheat to Beckford long ago.

The Free Market had provided him with so much; but it was really no more than he, as a Job Creator, deserved. Early, when Beckford had finally claimed control of his father's farm -- he smiled briefly, thinking about that auspicious day when the Patriots came (on his information, no less) to arrest his father on suspicion of harboring Liberalism -- he had a single competitor in the agriculture market. One of the old family farms had finally created a way to filter the water supply into being somewhat potable. The results were incredible: Cancer rates of their consumers dropped by 400%, and their life expectancy shot up from 24 to 27 years old.

At this time, the company that engineered his favorite brand of wheat had come out with their first product: Super Wheat. It entered a fiercely competitive market, and as soon it was released MegaWheatCorp released a new version of its titular product, MegaWheat DirtBlaster Pro 7, to combat Super Wheat. Beckford had planted Super Wheat, while his competitor had planted MegaWheat DirtBlaster Pro 7. As it turned out, MegaWheat DirtBlaster Pro 7 had major flaws in its engineering. The lucky ones died days after ingesting anything made from that product, but most people died over the period of several weeks in a bloody, congealed mass of liquified organs. The competing farm went out of business soon thereafter; its owner was made into an intern, and its lands were claimed for industry. MegaWheatCorp was forced to form a conglomerate with the creator of Super Wheat.

"Caveat Emptor." As true today as it was when first spoke. Beckford nodded in satisfaction; he had always been wary, and the Free Market loves a Cautious Capitalist. Beckford's devotion to the Free Market and Our Lord and Savior Ronald Reagan (PBUH), Greatest of the Founding Fathers (r), who guides the Invisible Hand of the Free Market, was as absolute now as it was when he was a child. His faith had been returned a thousand-fold during his lifetime. Beckford was not an only child. In fact, he was third among many. The Reagan (PBUH), however, saw Beckford's greatness, and He, in His infinitely Conservative Compassion, guided the Invisible Hand of the Free Market into securing Beckford's future. Beckford's eldest brother, Galt, purchased a cannon from a local arms dealer to use for defending the homestead. Praise the Free Market for its wisdom, as that cannon proved to be poorly constructed. Instead of teaching the interns it was aimed at, the cannon's poorly wrought body exploded, killing Galt, two of Galt's friends, AND the interns it was meant to Teach Job Experience to.

Beckford's elder sister, too, met a fate befitting those unworthy of the title of Capitalist. In desperate need of a heart transplant, Ayn rushed to a new surgeon in Independence, who quickly mangaged to acquire a heart from a local parasite. This new surgeon had been apprenticed to a poor master, it seems, for Ayn developed an infection during surgery. She could not find a manufacturer of quality antibiotics, and was forced to take homepathic medications until she died a few days later. Her medical debts were passed onto her only child (who was at that time merely a baby), and the child was rightly made an intern for the surgeon until Ayn's debts were paid. As far as Beckford knew, the child was still the surgeon's intern twenty years hence.

The remainder of Beckford's kin met similar fates. When he finally ousted his father, Beckford had no siblings remaining. Beckford chewed the strand of wheat in his mouth while contemplating his life. It was fair, just, and objectively right for him to have sole ownership of this farm. Our Lord and Savior Ronald Reagan (PBUH) clearly favors him, and the Free Market appropriately rewarded him for his works. If only all the others shared his piousness and Entrepreneurial Spirit; then, maybe, they could be saved.

He snorted. One may as well wish for a reliable postal company, or rain that doesn't cause birth defects. No, some things were simply impossible; parasites could not learn the value of a Hard Day's Work any more than a PigCorp pig could use its wings to fly. He watched the interns work his fields. They were subdued -- they dared not to sing or dawdle today -- and they swiftly harvested the crop. Beckford suspected their behavior was due to this morning's Prayer to the Reagan (PBUH). One of his overseers had found an intern stealing some of his harvested grain crop. Beckford quickly dispensed Objective Justice on the criminal, and hanged the child before the prayer to the Reagan (PBUH). Shockingly, only few people cheered and hooted as the child flailed at the end of the noose and succumbed to unconsciousness. Beckford thought they would all approve of the justified execution of a parasite of society, but the majority of the interns kept a subdued silence. He decided to have his overseers run a purge of the interns to make sure none of them harbored socialist or liberal tendencies.

The intern's body twitched above the supplicants as the local Pundit gave the day's sermon. As the Pundit concluded his sermon (this one being a moving story of how Beck, Prophet of the Reagan (PBUH), cast off the shackles of Liberal Oppression and founded the great city of Independence. As the story finished, so too did the last remaining vestiges of life in the parasite; his body stopped twitching, the Pundit stopped preaching, and the day's sixteen hour shift began.

Beckford made sure the body hung in plain sight of the fields being worked today. He was disgusted by his interns' behavior. He had so graciously provided them with their mandatory unpaid internships when they reached the working age of eight. On top of the valuable work experience he gave them, he, in his inifinite generosity, provided them lodging and food at a discounted price! The apartments the interns lived in -- featuring a generous living allotment of 50 square foot for person, for a maximum of 20 people per apartment -- even had indoor plumbing! Did the savages understand how much purestrain gold the lead for those pipes cost him?! When their internships were finished, they would be able to pay off their accumulated debts to him in less than a decade. Still, despite his incredible beneficence, they demanded more. MORE!

Parasites. Beckford's lip twisted into a sneer as he watched one of the interns in the field recoil from an overseer's lashing. He realized that the intern being educated was one of his many bastard children. He had sired an uncountable number of spawn from a large number of women. Women? Ha!, Beckford thought, They are nothing more than female parasites. To think, they had to gall to believe they were entitled -- ENTITLED -- to my hard earned wealth and assets because the sluts hadn't used birth control when having sex with me. Beckford chuckled. Idiot female parasites, he thought. They should have had an abortion provided by a surgeon with a high patient survival rate. I might have even been generous enough to pay a portion of the cost! If not that, they should have sold the baby off to be an intern. Instead, the fools produced those children thinking Beckford would be swayed by some idiotic sentimentality, to raise those bastards as his own.

No. Beckford would do no such thing. The Free Market helps those who already have the means to help themselves. If the children showed any meaningful ability, they would become Captains of Industry on their own merits. Then, and only then, would the Reagan (PBUH) guide the Invisible Hand of the Free Market to their favor. He would not let any parasites leach away his wealth and fortune.

It is a tough life, being a Job Creator, thought Beckford as he rocked, yet, without me, these parasites would die. It is solely due to me that they live and have jobs. He sipped some of his luxury purified water (which contained only 10ppm of heavy metal molecules and almost no phages, and was a steal at two purestrain cubes/ounce) as he looked out into the distance. The horizon was beginning to come closer; the healthy curtain of brown smog was returning. He sighed in relief. He would not have to convene a meeting of the Job Creators after all. Yet, he knew, eternal vigilance was part of his lot in life.

Hallowed be the Job Creators, thought Beckford, reflecting upon the scriptures, for they are they Way and the Light. Beckford had lived a good life. He had managed to beat the life expectancy of Job Creators by 10 years and reached an ancient fifty years of age. He knew, deep in his heart, that he had managed to make the world a better place. He had managed to teach the parasites the Glories of the Free Market, Hard Work, and Self Reliance. He would die soon, and he knew the parasites would curse his name despite all he did for them, but he knew that in his death he would find his place at Our Lord and Savior Ronald Reagan's (PBUH) side in the glorious Stock Market with His other Capitalists, Saints, and Prophets.

The breeze returned. The fields waved with the wind. The intern's body gently swung with it. The soothing sounds of a butcher's axe chopping the bodies of the raiders who failed to take his farm last night filled the air. The interns would eat well tonight. Hallowed be the Job Creators, thought Beckford.

“Returning a Favor” By Zahgaegun

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411800094&forumid=1

The Glenbeckistan kids were so nice you knew they hated you. That time we were sneaking near the border and Tommy's bike slipped and he broke his wrist, remember that? They heard the commotion and he stayed and braced it while she ran two miles! to get help - they're clearly in some sort of Brainless Kid Soldier group.

Man, I don't know how Glenn did it. Buncha fuckin' zombies. I heard it's like a fucking museum in there, everyone too terrified to let a blade of grass grow a couple of inches. You see 'em drive out and their cars are pristine, polished like a goddamn mirror, overcompensating like them North Korean fake villages.

You can't do nuthin about it though. Forget about getting in, you'd be lucky to even get near most days - they got alotta guns.

Tommy can though - he's on the privileged delivery list. I showed him the light of what really happened and why those two did what they did. And now he's gonna help us, next Monday. He's gonna drive that delivery truck right down their shiny Main Street and he's gonna spread a little bit of love for everyone. I told him what to say too: "Look to the Kingdom, you're finally there! Go sit on your throne as the Prince of Bel-Air!"

“Testimony of Ann Browning” By RoboRodent

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411800555&forumid=1

The woman who sat across from me gave an impression of strength now gone. Her face was strong-featured, a gauntness to her whole body accentuating a natural angularity. Her hair was iron-grey, streaked with the rust of the colour it had once been. The lines around her eyes were tired and deep, as were those around her mouth, and she sat with her hands folded in her lap, and I could see where once, so long ago, the joints in those long fingers had been broken and never set properly.

“Thank you for speaking with me,” I said. “For the record, can we start with your name?”

Her voice was soft. “My name is Ann Browning.”

“And you lived in Independence.”

“I did.” Her face was already solemn, but a pucker of agony appeared on her brow. “I was one of the early immigrants, actually. I didn't even have the excuse a lot of the children did, who were born into that mess. No, I... I actually chose to go there. I was fresh out of university with an engineering degree. I had so many plans. I had this idea that I was going to be one of the great minds behind this new revolution of the perfection humanity could reach. I believed what they said. I'd done a little work – well, I got their attention. I was... naive.”

She fell silent, and her expression settled into bitterness and grief. I prompted her, “It wasn't what you expected?”

“Oh, at first. There were a few of us, idea people. We were all there for different reasons, but we were going to make something special.” She sighed. “And at first, everything was fine. I did a lot of work with housing developments. The Liberty Tower they built in 2019? My god, I was so proud of that. We all were. It was going to be the first of many projects. We were going to make incredible projects, and we were going to be so rich. That seemed... important.”

“They demolished the Liberty Tower in 2055,” I said.

“I know,” she said, and she looked pained. “It wasn't much other than a glorified shanty-town built on top of a burned-out wreck by that point, and it needed to be demolished, but... I watched that, and I don't mind telling you that I cried. It was the one great thing my team did. We believed in what we were doing, you know. We were wrong, you don't need to tell me how wrong we were, but we believed.”

“When did things start to go wrong?”

She sighed. She was silent for so long I was afraid she wouldn't answer, but at last she spoke, low and heavy. “Almost immediately. Liberty Tower was our triumph, but... well, you know we never did anything else. There was a lack of money, a lack of labour, a lack of everything we needed. Our second project – it was called Eagle Heights, but no one ever talks about that one – was half-finished before things started turning sour. We had labourers, but nothing to pay them with. Liberty Tower was full of tenants, families, but most of them could hardly feed themselves. No one was working maintenance, and things started falling apart pretty quickly. We needed a solution, fast.”

“And that was the work gangs.”

“The child work gangs, yes.” She stressed the word 'child,' looked at me with a suddenly fierce eye. “Let's not pretend that it was anything other than what it was. Oh, it was all done with the grandest of motives. Giving children purpose, teaching them the value of hard work so that they would cherish the sweat of their brow, but it was slavery, plain and simple. We bought children from parents who couldn't afford anything else, and we sent them to do the hardest, most dangerous work because they were worth nothing. A lot of them died. It didn't bother us. They were the children of parasites seeking to ruin Independence and our vision, after all. If they weren't, their parents would never have had to sell them.”

It was jarring, to see this woman who could have been someone's grandmother, speak of such atrocities. I swallowed. “Something happened to change your mind?”

“Slowly. Far more slowly than my conscience is happy about. We... we took a lot of shortcuts. There was no one to stop us, you know. Oh, Liberty Tower was bad enough, but everything after that was hastily slapped together, every cheap option in the book that we could take. There was an explosion. It was the plumbing, I think, or what ridiculous mess passed for plumbing: a build-up of gas, some unfortunate spark from some bad wiring... I'm not even sure. Do you think anyone cared enough to investigate?” She was fierce, wilder than I'd seen her yet. “Two hundred and ninety-seven people died.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! We did nothing. Well, some of us pressed for better guidelines, but they weren't having any of that. The lot of us were... they labelled us subversives and we lost everything.” For a moment, she stared at nothing, shaking her head at memories. “Sometimes I think I deserve everything that happened.”

“When you say you lost everything,” I pressed, “what do you--”

“What do you think I mean? I don't know what happened to the others. Me... they sent me off to a camp for parasite women. It was little better than a brothel, or a breeding camp. Sometimes the parasites weren't making enough babies for the work gangs on their own, so women declared 'subversive' were rounded up into these camps. They hardly gave us enough food. We ate rats, when we could catch them. They're... actually not bad eating, once you get over your pride. As far as the food they did give us... I'm sure they laced it with fertility drugs. At that point, the birth rate was already dropping, between the pollution and the disease and the heavy metal poisoning, so they had to, if they wanted us to conceive. A lot of us there would have twins, triplets, quadruplets... and no real doctors. We had guards, and that was about it. The youngest girls there were barely thirteen. A lot of us died.”

“Did you have any children?”

“I had twelve,” she said, after a long silence, and her voice was soft again. “Twelve, over the course of five pregnancies. I don't know what happened to any of them. They... took them away immediately. After that... well, I was getting older. I wasn't so valuable to them anymore.”

My hands had stopped on the recording device, I found; I hurried to catch up while she looked at me, or rather through me, lost in memories. “What happened to you then?”

“I would have stayed on if they'd let me. Not that I'm a doctor by any means, but some of us older women were the closest thing those camps had to a midwife. They took us away when we stopped squirting out babies, though. I'm... not sure where, but there were a lot of stories. I tried to escape, and was caught, of course. They assigned me to a labour gang, doing salvage. Dangerous work. The gang masters...”

She trailed off, staring again. “What about the gang masters?” I prompted.

“No,” she said, and shook her head. “No, that's enough. Leave me alone.”

“Ms. Browning--”

“No. I've talked enough for tonight.”

“Keep Your Gold” By Keiya

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411804207&forumid=1

After the earthquake, FEMA mobilized to aid Independence. Though God knows they needed it, outsiders didn't go into Independance much, so the last solid information they had was about five years out of date. Enough to formulate a plan, bribing their way in and offering a token price on rescue so their efforts would be more acceptable. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

Imagine their shock when their gold was turned down.

"Gold? What do you take me for, some fiat-loving LIEberal?"

"I thought you liked gold!"

"Psh. I don't need it to make things. I can't eat it, I can't use it in any way! It's as bad as traitor-dollars!"

"What DO you want then?"

"Heh, you Muslim-lovers really are stupid and brainwashed. The one thing EVERY person needs... drinkable water."

“Catacombs” By A Terrible Person

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411820253&forumid=1

Nearly forty years had passed since the access doors to the Catacombs had closed, thirty since the attempts to open them finally ceased. No one was really sure why they had been sealed in the first place, although noises were heard coming from below on occasion. Nothing major, of course; a banging coming from a pipe, a muffled "whoomph" like a large flame igniting deep underfoot, and the occasional whispered sibilance drifting up from a sealed manhole cover or shower drain. Minor things that could easily be attributed to rats, settling foundations, or some long forgotten wall collapsing under its own weight. But rumors have a tendency to spread.

Some claim that it was a weapons test gone wrong, bathing the tunnels in near lethal amounts of radiation. Others say that genetic testing had resulted in a race of horrible mutant cannibals that needed to be locked away. A few whispered accounts hung around of a cult of Super-Patriots living below; a group that, rather than being locked in, locked the rest of society out to avoid their tainted inferiority. All that was known for certain was that nothing came out, and no one was allowed in.

Well, perhaps a bit more than that was known.

For instance, most knew the Catacombs were originally built to covertly move labor from one area of the park to another. Nothing insidious in itself, merely a method of keeping the themed attractions unmarred by out-of-costume performers taking breaks or janitorial staff hauling garbage. No one wants to see Reagan drinking bootleg whiskey while flirting with a couple of Ayn Rands, after all. People also knew that the Catacombs were expanded as the park itself grew. New attractions required greater infrastructure and, although not as widely know, the subterranean thoroughfares delved deeper. Even fewer were aware that Independence's founders tried to hide the growing filth and corruption by housing the ever-growing influx of contracted labor and residential hopefuls deeper and deeper underground. This was before the park's borders were expanded and the first shanty towns sprang up, of course.

Nobody at all was aware of Randtacular Wonder Products' existence until August, 2063. Nobody topside, that is.

It started out quietly at first. Brown paper packages began appearing in recently robbed businesses, each containing a different commodity but all bearing the same simple note: "Randtacular Wonder Products has given you a sneak peek at the Wonders we have to offer! All products pilfered from your premises are in exchange for our goods and services. Enjoy!" News of these "exchanges" were slow to spread, as each product was generally of good quality and in relatively high demand. Why announce a robbery when the items that were stolen were worth far less than what was left behind, after all?

News did spread, though, and the people of Independence were full of speculation. Who was raiding businesses? Why were such valuable products left behind? Was Randtacular a front for a Lieberal invasion? And, as always, should we be buying more guns? All questions were answered before the first ashfalls of Winter, but not in a way anyone expected.

On the anniversary of Glenn's miraculous ascension, Liberty Tower's cracked screens and humming speakers gave forth the annual airing of "Beck: A Retrospective." A crowd of fawning Patriots watched on in awe as the story unfolded. Then, in an unparalleled act of terrorism and blasphemy, the feed was cut. No longer was his holiness, masterfully portrayed by Emmy Nominee Sir Jonah Hill, marveling in awe as his skin transmutes to a holy azure and proves his Sanctity. Instead, a simple placard was projected for all to see: "We deeply regret and humbly apologize for this interruption."

Moments pass and, as shock began to fade from the murmuring crowd, a rasping voice sprang forth from the speakers. "Greetings and salutations to my fellow friends of Independence. We hope that you enjoyed the preceding broadcast and prefer this recording to some boring old rolling credits. My name is Rand O'Reilly and I am here, so to speak, to announce the Grand Opening of my little business. I'm sure you've seen and enjoyed the little taste of our products we've sprinkled about the city, yes? Well, that little taste is about to become a flood of wonders. For the mere exchange of a few pitiful commodities, Randtacular Wonder Products is willing to grant you all access to everything we have to offer. Everything save for entry into our Grand Factory, of course, colloquially known as The Catacombs. But, again, your business with us won't cost a single Golden Blessing, Beck Buck, Rand Mark, Bitcoin, or even the smallest sliver of gold bullion. Pamphlets detailing how to initiate an exchange along with catalogues of our wonderful merchandise are being distributed about the city as we speak. And, with that, I bid you all good day. May the Invisible Hand guide you all to my humble doorstep!"

With a pop, click, and grating squeal of static, Independence's first contact with the underground was over.

The city was abuzz with excitement. Productivity went down as gossip sprang up. Interns left their shifts in a daze, unable to sleep their allotted five hours as visions of miracle-manufacturing mutants danced in their heads. On-site fatalities flew to an all-time high as distraction muddled the minds of the poor but materially wealthy who, for the first time, would have access to fresh meat (Grade C but human free!) and antibiotics. Captains of Industry gnashed their teeth in frustration at the thought of competing for profit against a group that didn't appear to work for money. "'A bolt of cotton for a full clip of Patriot or Bear Arms compatible rounds'?" they fumed to their secretaries and slaves, "Preposterous! 'Five gallons of water, any quality...' Any quality!? Madness! Sawdust for antibiotics, scrap metal for meat, seeds and soil for heating oil and gasoline... where the fuck do Mole Men get gasoline!?"

The world of industry within Independence quickly turned upside down. Rare commodities of almost third-world quality could be purchased by even the most destitute in exchange for what amounted to garbage and knick knacks. The hungry were fed, the sick were healed, the cold were clothed, and not a single gun went unused for want of ammunition. The traditional dumpster dispensaries and alleyway grocers quickly went out of business as their goods' value nosedived. Corporations crumbled as their products were outclassed and underbid. Entire industries imploded overnight as the Slave Market Crash of '65 stole their labor force out from under their noses; healthy, able-bodied interns won't work for sustenance alone when it's as good as free, after all. The economy began to collapse as the value of recyclable waste outstripped that of gold.

And then something amazing happened. Randtacular, appealing to a neglected market, began to offer products of value to the upper class in exchange for "real" money. Pamphlets and manuals on how to succeed in manufacturing were set for sale at a price of thousands in USD, billions in GB, quadrillions in BTC. No one volume contained the secrets of the Catacombs' methods in whole, but each offered glimpses of parts and pieces of what was necessary to match RWP's success. There was just one sole stipulation: any one company could own as many manuals as they could purchase across however many disciplines they wanted to practice, but no one company would be permitted to buy a comprehensive collection detailing all the secrets of a given field of industry.

Perhaps the idea was to spur on innovation by creating competition. Or maybe Randtacular was trying to "fix" Independence by making the wealthy less so while building up the lower class. Or, more likely, the Catacombs-dwellers just wanted the money. Regardless, the mysterious subterranean giant had further plans for Independence. And so it was that on a cool spring morning in 2066, the doors to the Catacombs finally reopened. Crowds gathered in a mix of curiosity and wonder as the heavy steel doors screeched open on massive rusted hinges. Many and more shaded eyes and craned necks wandered out of the creeping smog to see just what kind of wonders or horrors waited in the dark beyond the formerly-sealed portal. Then, after an agonizing stretch of hushed anticipation, a figure came into view.

Hunched and hobbled, dressed in odd scraps approximating fanciful garb, a wizened crust of a man limped out from the darkness. The crowd stared on in silence as the twisted Ancient creeped laboriously across a garbage-strewn plaza, leaning heavily on a polished walking stick. Slowly, ever so slowly he approached the crowd, losing his cane as it became lodged in a large pile of human feces. Glancing back with a vacuous stare of senility and incredulity, the missing cane is spotted, but then left as if forgotten. The creature from below suddenly appears to swell with determination, standing up straight (albeit a tad crooked) with pride before the watching crowd. And then begins to tilt and fall swiftly forward, collapsing into a heap on the concrete.

"Oh, sonofabitch!" the man screams, "it worked for Wilder in that fucking movie! Goddamn, this hurts!"

Clutching one arm at the shoulder, Rand O'Reilly looks up at the crowd with a mix of disgust and rage.

"Okay, which of the rich bastards out there brought their purestrain tickets?"

“Jackson T. Jackson” By Vote Republican

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411836652&forumid=1

Taken from remnants of the journal of one Jackson T. Jackson, circa 2047.

Had him lined up real good. Stupid sumbitch wore them dandy red robes, same as them other Punndits. Walkin in broad daylight… well dayligt by indipendince terms. Had this smug look on him face, holdin up some book an lecturin some poor dirty sap half his size. Couldn hear the words. It was him time.

Pop. Blood like old faithful sprayin from him neck. Those blue-suited jokers they call themselves “patrieeits” all blanched out, ran about as chickens. So eesy. Such a plezure. One hundred thousan GeeBees in purestrain for 2 days plannin, a few thousand in bribe, an of cours the six hundred GeeBees for this “lieberarms” rifle. A tru work of art this rifle. Tru aim, didjitul scope that compensayt for wind. Or, thats what the label say. Truth be told I don give 2 shits about no wind.

I luv this town. These red-sute dandy faggot shits walk aroun preachin the “free market” and how bad “altrooizm” be, sayin every man entitled to what sweat come from him brow. I don noe wat any o that mean, but sounds funny and no way in hell anywere else could I buy silenss an a rooftop so cheap.

its grate here. I have my own pent-hous and 3 girls I can do watever I want to, not that im no immoral man who do the sodomee or whatnot. An best of all, no cops. These patreeits don believe in no rule but the bek rules, and so I hears thees bek rules say moneys all that matter. This bek guy sure werent no Christian! Theys dummer than cops anyways, but if I ever run into a smart fucker I jus pay him off like I payd off the bilding owner for the aforrmenshunned rooftop rental. Sumthin about “the free market” and “the highest bidder” is wat they tell me. No one noes how much of these geebees I have, or the room full of purestrain gold briks I got. I dun lost count a long wile back. No taxman come to ask me questions. I dun ended 3 punndit dandys this year an its only randuary!

Mamma told me id be a bad man. An I was. A murderer, a theef, a 2-bit shitbird who busted the local piggly wiggly. until I wanderd inta this big town wen they let me outta the big house. im a good man now mamma, you dum bich. now the folks here call me a captin of industree. the clowns in blue see my fancy boots an step aside wherever I walk. The faggot dandys in red whisper holy-soundin words to me an lower they heads when I saunters past. they still dun noe what been buyin they farms. Morans.

Only downsyd to this independence is bein outside. It gives me the coffs real bad. Smells like pigshit and all the streets hav thees ol jewsboxes goin sqwish sqwish sqwash when you step anywheres. The townsfolks shamble to they jobs dead-eyed, workin themselfs to the bone for littl bits of GeeBees. Smoak every where you headed, an all these poor littl childrins wit warts an scars on them faces. They hobbl about, and I feel pity, offers them my sandwich, and they screams at me about sin an the free market an whatnot. needless to say between them little ghools, the faggot dandies in red, and the squish squish squish I spend most of my time in the pent-house with my angels. We do a lot o prayin to the Good Lord Jesus Christ for our sins when we aint fuckin or eatin pulled pork sandwiches.

I bin thinkin I run for mayor soon. I jus gotta prove im the richest man in town. Dun wanna be a bad mayor, so Im havin my angels read sum books about romans (I wont read no pagan devil words with mine own eyes, see no evil as the good book says) and some crassus and him buddy see-zur. This skeem crassus (wat a stupid name. didnt he noe that crassus rimes with asses?) do with the burnin bildings an buyin the homes seems crafty enuf to work!

Records show that Jackson served as Mayor and Dictator of Independence from 2052 until his dead in 2067 from a heart attack during an orgy.

“John Barleycorn” By saints gambit

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411839885&forumid=1

The Rand District?

I was there. Back in ’22, there was a counterfeiting operation run out of there. They’d take the purestrain gold and melt it down. Use it to plate tin. It’s amazing the scam lasted the four months that it did.

I was young then, and like the other boys, I had come with the notion that I could make my fortune. By the time my money was dwindling to nothing, it seemed like it was join the patriot squad or get sent to the factories. The factories meant an early death. Everyone in there seemed to develop a hacking cough. You could always tell the workers by the bloodstains on their lips. Ugly business to see the women off duty, tryin’ to attract a john while coughing their lungs into a rag.

The squad was the answer, and I used the last of my money to buy the weapons that you needed for the job. I remember growing up hearing about the rifles the soldiers were given to fight in the army. That was outside the gates. In Independence, the squaddies had to supply their own gear. The choice was between the top of the line and eating that week. I went with a cheaper sidearm, the Coulter, that they issued mostly to the civilians. The boys laughed, but that night I had a proper meal and a few golden blessings to spare.

I remember it mostly in flashes. Would have been my second day. There wasn’t any training to speak of, since you had to be able to shoot to live in Independence. We took to one of the complexes where the op was running. It wasn’t much to look at, just concrete and stone. Every set of quarters were the same, ‘cept for the decorations. Wasn’t much to buy by ’22. Not much call for plastic ferns.

I had point, and we moved down the hall towards them. The doors were big and heavy. You couldn’t just kick ‘em in. We had a ram for that. It went on three and I moved through in a crouch.

The walls had been knocked through. It must have been six sets of quarters long and two across. Some one of those parasites had snuck in a poster of a girl without any clothes. That was a no-no. That wasn’t his main problem. He was standing over the makeshift crucible, trying to melt the purestrain. He picked the wrong time to be without a rifle. I fired.

The Coulter must have misfired, because the next thing I remember is staring down at this stump. I remember the sound of rifle fire around me, and the sound of boots charging ahead. Rove, one of the newest squaddies was trigger happy. They shouldn’t have given him the grenade launcher.

The walls they’d knocked through must have been the ones designed to take the weight of the upper floors. There weren’t any inspectors, and since there are buildings falling apart all over independence these days, I’d guess they weren’t any too stable to begin with. Just collapsed. Dust and debris and the screaming. Even with a slab of concrete crushing his legs, Rove kept firing through at the other Parasites. I had made my way to the door without realizing it, backing away, clutching at the bones where my hand should have been. Beck, the screaming.

None of the parasites made it out. Neither did any of the squaddies.

I didn’t have the GBs to pay for medical attention. I had to cauterize the wound with an iron that I rented. The infection was brief, but there are weeks there from the spring of ’22 that I can’t remember. The look on Rove’s face as he fired round after round through the mangled wall, that I’ll never forget.

Eventually, I managed to get work on one of the farms. What cows there had been were gone. You don’t need your right hand to pull a plow. I was still strong despite the infection. We were paid what we were worth; a few GB’s a week and a sort of corn gruel. It didn’t taste sweet like regular corn, but there was lots of it. We’d all try to be the first one to the latrine in the morning. You definitely didn’t want to be the last one in there. Because of the corn, some of the older hands started looking frail. Sometimes, they’d just keel over in the field.

Adams, the farm’s owner was supposed to be making a quota on corn for the factories in Independence. It always seemed to me that there was more than we needed. At the time, most of the farms were played out. They’d had too many pests and tried to wipe them out with something that killed the soil. Sometimes we’d have to load barrels on to the truck, with the sacks of corn. I knew what that meant.

Adams had a still set up in one of the outbuildings on the property. Outside, when I was a boy, my grandfather had one of those. I knew just enough to know that his system was inefficient. If the capitalists taught us anything, it’s that we have to get the most out of any system. One day, I told him that for 10 GBs a day and meat at dinner, I could double his money. At the time, I didn’t know whether that was true, but I knew the plow was heavy.

He went for it. He watched me like a hawk and over a couple of days I got it running better than I would have thought possible. I guess he thought he had learned all he needed to know about the improvements because one day he came to the still with a Coulter in his hand. You should have seen the look on his face. He bled out shortly after it misfired.

That’s how I came to be called Adams. This is my farm now. Since The Library went up in flames, ID records can get pretty sketchy. We buy the raiders off with the weak corn liquor. The good stuff goes to the Pundits. The fieldhands’ll save up three days of wages for a small bottle. I get ‘em coming and going.

“Sky Citadel” By Rabbitwizard

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411844006&forumid=1

“E. Leanard Swern” By monoceros4

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411851378&forumid=1

The slight, stoop-shouldered man clad in a white, threadbare lab coat, his once black hair already grey and balding though he was still only a few years past his fortieth birthday, sat behind the dented steel desk of his tiny office and sipped his first cup of black tea. At least the greying man was fairly sure it was black tea, though after decades of living in Independence he wasn't quite sure whether he any more remembered what black tea really tasted like. I could be drinking catnip water or dried rose leaves, for all I know, he idly thought. Faintly from the basement came the sound of his partner hurrying through a quick, cold shower.

Looking around the small room he noticed a business card lying on the floor under his desk. Damn, missed one cleaning up after yesterday, he groused, stretching out his arm to scoop up the fallen card. He turned over the small rectangle of cream-colored pasteboard in his hand, running his fingers over the raised black lettering.

E. LEONARD SWERN, MEDICINE
General and Internal
1 (800) 555 2718

Swern still had a few hundred cards left from the batch he'd had printed up once he'd decided to try his luck in Independence. He'd even once had the same words stenciled on a ground-glass door leading to his waiting room. (It was a plain, heavy wood door now. The stenciled glass had been lost to an attempted burglary three years ago.) He wondered why he bothered still putting them out. He couldn't remember the last time someone had actually taken one, and the phone number printed on the cards had been useless for more than a decade.

Swern permitted himself a trace of a smile. He was still slightly and absurdly proud that he'd never resorted to decorating his name with assumed credentials. A lot of other quacks in Independence made a show of their correspondence-school or Liberty University degrees; some could even legitimately claim to be Doctors of Medicine, even if they had fled to Independence to escape a license revocation or a malpractice suit. One could still impress a lot of people with a string of letters after one's name, a diploma on the wall and rows of medical journals on oaken bookshelves in the waiting room. But "elitist" was a potent curse in Independence. Swern had done pretty well for himself, taking in patients who didn't trust anyone with a fancy education or a snooty degree.

Hell, when his practice was still new, he used to brag about dropping out of med school at Stanford, hinting at political reasons. Some of his patients just loved to hear it: "Damn right. What can a bunch of Left-Coast hippies and queers teach you?" Swern would smile and nod at such comments. If they wanted to think that liberalism had forced him out of Stanford then why correct them? He didn't have to tell them about the disastrous affair with the handsome young biochemistry tutor. (Michael...Bergman? Bergstrom? It was something like that.) Or the year-long drinking binge that followed.

Just tea for him now, and fifty milligrams of naltrexone every morning. Thank God he'd secured himself a large supply before the 2023 border quarantine. Maybe he didn't really need it any more but he'd rather he didn't find out.

A quick drumming of fists resounded from the front door of the practice, followed another few blows and then silence. Aw, shit, thought Swern, slamming down his mug of tea and fumbling in the desk for his revolver. He'd never had to fire it at another human being and he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to if it came to it, but fortunately he had better protection: Alexander. Sasha's footsteps pounded up the basement stairs and soon his heavyset frame appeared in the office doorway. Sasha's mousy hair was still damp from his frigid shower; he was wearing only a pair of boxers and a plain white T-shirt a little too small for him, and he was hefting his Mossberg.

"A customer?" asked Swern, his expression sour.

"Doubt it's a robber," said Sasha. "Or a complainer. Usually they don't stop knocking once they've started. Wait, I think I hear something." Sasha turned his head, ears straining to catch what Swern couldn't. "Sounds like someone's scratching at the door or something. I'll check it out. You stay tight in here, Leo."

"I will. If it is a patient, stow him in the waiting room and then come get me." Swern's eyes softened. "And be careful."

Sasha's eyes brightened in response. "Always, hon." He disappeared from the doorway and soon Swern heard two voices slowly approaching: one loud, gruff but reassuring; the second a scarcely audible whisper. The loud voice was telling the owner of the quiet voice that everything would be all right and the doctor would see him right away. There came the creak of the springs on the ancient couch in Swern's waiting room, a sudden gasp of pain, then the painful noise of several harsh coughs in quick succession followed by a long, wheezing inhalation. Swern sighed.

"Let me guess," he said as Sasha reappeared in the doorway. "Another whooping cough case. What's that, the eighth this week?" Pertussis, diphtheria, the measles--all of these and others had been making impressive comebacks over the last several years in Independence, a comeback which burgeoning sales of herbal remedies and tonic waters had done nothing to stop. "At least it's not another gunshot wound, I suppose."

"Almost could have been, Leo," Sasha said. "It's not just whooping cough. The guy's been beaten pretty badly. I'm surprised they didn't shoot him, whoever it was. Had this tight in his hand when I scraped him off the ground." He tossed Swern an orange plastic bottle. The label on it was badly scratched and torn but it still clearly read, "ERYTHROMYCIN", with the address and phone number of a CVS in Fort Worth.

"Jesus Christ. Another poor schmuck trying to sneak out and buy antibiotics in the city? How did he get here? Could he say?"

"Didn't say much. Something about a friend dragging him."

"Better see what I can do to patch him up." Swern gulped down the last of his now-cold tea and got up. "If he's hoping to get treatment for the whooping cough, though, he's going to be disappointed. How are we fixed for penicillin or sulfa? Gabriel come through for us yet?"

Gabriel Weathers had been a college chum of Swern's on the outside, hardly any more reliable at studying chemistry than Swern had been at studying medicine, but he was talented. When Swern moved to Independence Gabriel had found it advisable to join him, where he could practice his amateur syntheses more openly without fearing a drugs bust.

Sasha shook his head. "No, haven't heard from him since last month."

"Damn. Probably got a bit too busy trying out his latest experiment in recreational pharmacochemistry. We'll get on his case later." Swern stopped at the doorway. He took Sasha's hand and squeezed it gently. "Get dressed. I'll need your help."

“Weapons Free” By Squeegy

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411868952&forumid=1

All the little micronations, coming apart at the seams. Fires dragging a crooked smile across the face of the nation. The American Dream, taken to its logical extreme. That was the reality we faced today. I brushed my fingers carefully over the American flag emblazoned on the metal next to me, then stood up to peer out of the helicopter. Trailing behind us were six more. I turned towards the inside and nodded at my troops.

"We're headed into enemy territory here," I told them. "Weapons free, you're cleared to engage as soon as we land. Expect multiple armed hostiles."

"But Captain," one of them objected. "This is fucking Ohio. Just what the fuck is going on here? Armed revolution?"

"We're not sure," I lied. Like Hell we weren't. We'd watched the dominoes line up for twenty years. "All we know is the roads are blocked, there's riots everywhere, and they had to call in the military. Our primary objective is to clear the roads to let the APCs in. Then we regroup with forces already on the ground and make our way into the city."

"That's fucked up," another said. I couldn't blame him.

"Keep your heads in the game," I replied. "We're going to land soon. LZ is clear, we'll be touching down on the opposite side of the river. Make sure you're combat ready."

"We're firing on US citizens?" the first soldier persisted. I remembered his name now. SPC Rogers.

"No. These guys aren't citizens."

"Foreigners? We're being fucking invaded?"

"No. They're something else. Shut your mouth. We've got work to do."

We coasted for the next few minutes, the others glancing out of the chopper, bewildered. I wished I could reassure them. Pretty soon the river was in sight. It was industrial; not the kind of river that might immediately come to mind. Mankind had tamed it and caged it, trapped it in a concrete prison. The closer we got, the more we could tell it had abused it, too. As the helicopter touched down, the noxious smell assaulted our nostrils, causing much coughing.

"Not a good day for a swim," Rogers whistled.

"You'd have to be a fucking idiot to swim in one of these rivers," a third soldier commented. I was pretty sure his name was Private Falkner. "They're nasty as shit. Looks like you could walk on this one."

I motioned for them to be quiet as the other squads landed and disembarked behind us. Rifle at the ready, I carefully lead them upriver, towards the bridge. Every step was torture. You had to swim through the air, which was thick as molasses, and smelled like fermented dog shit. I wondered just what kind of pointless, unrestrained excess had made things get this bad. Needless to say, every bit of plant life around the river was dead.

The bridge came into sight. What was left of it, anyway. It had been destroyed; its twisted and bent remains lay in the riverbed.

"Son of a bitch," Rogers swore softly.

"No problem. We'll call the Wolverines in, get an AVLB on that." I turned to face down the road. There were cars littered everywhere, some overturned, some bombed-out and still smoking. It was a mechanical graveyard, and it would be a nightmare to dig a path through it.

"There's a body in the river," Falkner whispered.

"What?" I asked, distracted.

"There's a dead body in the river," he repeated. A soldier from another squad pointed out into the field of cars.

"Tango spotted!" he yelled. In an instant the air was thick with bullets.

"Alpha squad, on me!" I screamed as the troops scattered. I tucked my knees up and rolled, then slammed my back against the roof of a tipped-over car, motioning for the rest of my squad. Two of them came into cover with me, the rest of them took up positions nearby. Rogers was next to me. The name tag on the other read PFC Yates. Rogers put a hand on his head as Yates stood up to lay down some suppressive fire.

"What's the plan, sir?" Rogers asked. "Who are these guys?"

"Seems like an armed militia," I responded. "Couldn't get a good look at them."

"Frag out!" I heard in the background. A few seconds later, an explosion sounded. "That's our cue," I told him, and stood up, tightening the grip on my weapon. We ran towards the road, opening fire as we crossed to the other side. I heard shouts, screams. Returning fire pinged off the gravel under my feet. I pressed up against a car and took a flashbang off my belt. Letting go of my rifle to remove the pin, I tossed it over the car and shouted, "Flash!"

I leapt over the car and dropped into a crouch. A man stood up, crying out, his hands over his eyes. He was dressed in a camouflage jacket and cap, and cargo pants, his sunglasses lying on the ground, carelessly smashed underfoot. He had dropped his pistol, which looked like a Glock. I dropped him with two rounds to the chest and kicked the piece away from him, making sure he was dead before I took my attention off him. Shots rang out from all over the automobile graveyard, then it quickly grew quiet.

I fumbled for my walkie-talkie. "We made contact," I reported. "Proceeding to regroup." I paused a moment. "Bridge is out, need AVLB support." There was a silence full of static, then the response came, "Roger that. Vehicles en route."

We made our way down the road. There were a few more pockets of resistance, but they weren't too much trouble. From what I'd gathered, most of the hostiles would be on the other side of the bridge. They were well-armed, some even carrying what seemed to be semi-automatic weapons converted into automatic ones, but none of them seemed to have any actual training, and they were disorganized. Nonetheless, I could tell the others were getting restless. It was a relief when the bulldozers came into view.

It took hours to clear the road so the Wolverine and the APCs could come through. I kept staring at the buildings of the city in the distance.

When the bridge was in place, we crossed it, then waited for the armored vehicles, and proceeded alongside them at a walking pace into the city. It didn't take long to get into hostile territory; every few minutes another band of roving nutjobs would happen across us and we'd have a miniature firefight. It got worse the closer we got, the groups just getting bigger. We started storing the wounded in the APCs, so we wouldn't have to slow down.

Eventually we got out of the suburbs and into the city proper. I thought that the river smelled bad; I was wrong. It was far worse in here. The stench of death was horrible. We were surrounded by crumbling buildings and broken windows. There were bodies laying in the streets, and lots more in the alleys, nearly out of sight. We ran into a group of tangos turning a corner at an intersection.

Immediately, it became a bloodbath. I ducked into cover as both sides fired into each other. We were better armored, but I could tell they were carrying military-grade firearms, not civilian weapons. They withdrew after taking heavy losses, adding to the bodies littering the street. I shook my head as I recognized Rogers among our own.

We started to drag our wounded out of the way when we heard a noise. I looked up, and saw a man running towards us. He was wearing a black T-shirt and camouflage pants, and holding something up. Time seemed to slow down as I came to a horrible realization and dived out of the way.

"Give me liberty or give me death!" he screamed as he sprinted into our midst, then exploded in a cloud of blood.

I shakily got to my feet and hastily regrouped our shocked forces, pushing around the corner to confront them. We went around, and the street was empty. I heard a horrid squealing noise and looked up in time to see a rocket, well, rocketing towards us. I covered my face as it hit the lead APC and it exploded, showering me with debris and killing those unfortunate enough to be standing nearby. With a shout I lined up my sights on the figure as he tried to draw back from the edge and fired. I watched his silhouette jerk, then topple forward, falling twenty stories to land with a sickening crunch.

Then they came out of the god damn woodwork. I crouched next to Falkner and unloaded into the crazies as they suicidally charged us, firing weapons of all shapes and sizes. They yelled nonsensical, inane war cries. I swear I heard one reference a former President, the 44th. One simply shouted, "Taxes!" as he ran towards me, firing wildly at me before I put one in his torso and another in his head. When the dust settled our number had been cut in half, and we were surrounded by corpses. I reached out to pat Falkner reassuringly on the shoulder and realized he was dead.

I struggled to my feet and regrouped with whoever was left. We proceeded on foot warily. I could swear I felt eyes watching me. The streets were deserted now, save for the debris. Bits of paper floated by me, and before long I realized it was currency of a kind I'd never seen before. Not just one type; several distinctly different ones. I was completely baffled. What the fuck had gone on here, in the years before it all fell apart? I felt like I was wandering through the evidence of events I'd never know the truth about.

I felt paranoid. I felt like something bad was going to happen, real soon.

It happened.

The first warning we got was a crash. The windows of a building, the ones that were left, exploded outward. Then another. They started to collapse as it spread down the street. I panicked and started running for it. The people behind me weren't as lucky. Shadows fell across the street as buildings collapsed behind me, architecture screaming its last. I stumbled out of the block as a wave of dust swept me off my feet and threw me against a wall, battering me with debris before I fell over.

I couldn't see. I coughed, and blinked, groaning, trying to wave the dust away. I got to my feet unsteadily. My uniform was torn; my sidearm was missing and I'd lost my helmet completely. I picked up my walkie-talkie.

"Captain Tailor, Alpha Squad. Do you read me?"

I paused. No reply.

"I repeat, Alpha Squad. Situation FUBAR. Do you read me?"

There was still nothing. My walkie-talkie crackled for a long time before I let it drop out of my hand.

I limped down the street aimlessly. I didn't know where I was going, I didn't know how to get out of here. Everyone else was dead. Nobody was responding to me. I was all alone in a dead city full of armed whackjobs.

Suddenly I heard a voice. I grabbed at the cord of my walkie-talkie and desperately pulled it up, before grabbing the device and holding it up to my head.

"-- in front of you, on the right. Go in."

I ran this over in my head for a minute, then pressed the button. "What?"

There was a slight pause before the unknown voice repeated itself. "There's a door in front of you, on the right. Go in."

I shambled forward like a zombie, looking for what they were talking about. Which door? There were lots. Then I saw it, down the street. It was hanging open.

Carefully I approached it, then sliced the pie into the opening. It was empty, but it led down a staircase.

What the hell? I had nothing left to lose. I walked down it. It kept going down and down, then bottomed out in a room. There were three people there. They looked up at me. One of them had headphones on, plugged in to some machine.

"You're from the government," one of them said. "Well, I'll be."

He reached for his weapon. I didn't give him the chance. I shot the three of them with one burst, and put an extra bullet in as they hit the ground. I gave one of them a kick and checked my ammo. It wasn't good; I was nearly out. I patted them down and took the pistol off of one of them, and grabbed a few magazines that were lying on the table, checking to make sure they fit. Maybe they had the wrong size bullets. I didn't care anymore.

"Did that feel good?" crackled the walkie-talkie.

"What?"

"Do you feel more free? Superior? They died because you were stronger."

"Who the fuck is this?" I demanded.

"Go through the door in front of you."

I hesitated, then opened it. There was a hallway on the other side. It looked like a sewer, but it wasn't. It didn't even smell in there, which was a welcome relief. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

"Go to the left and keep walking," the voice from the walkie-talkie said. I followed its orders. What else could I possibly do?

I kept walking down those dark hallways for what felt like hours. Every so often the voice would give a new order, and I would follow it without thinking. It was like a maze in there. The deeper it went, the more fucked I would be if I decided I wanted to get out. I had no choice.

Eventually I walked to the end of a hallway and came to another door. "Open it," said the voice.

"What's on the other side?"

"I said open it," the voice responded.

I closed my eyes briefly. Then I opened the door. Inside was a massive computer bank. Blinking lights coated every surface. Computer monitors showed scenes from all over the city. There was a chair in the center of the room, facing them. As I stepped into the room it turned around. There was a man sitting in it. He was overweight, his hairline receded and gray. He was wearing a business suit. It took me moments to recognize him. It had been a long time since anyone had seen him.

"You're Glenn Beck," I said, gaping at him.

"Please," he said, smiling. "Call me Glenn."

I pointed at him. "All this... all this shit is your fucking doing, isn't it? You did this."

He raised his hands. "I gave freedom to the masses. I liberated a people from the shackles of their oppressive government. I... I gave people their rights back."

"You're a murderer," I said. "And a liar." I drew my pistol and raised it at him.

He only chuckled, and raised a hand. He was holding a little device, a cube, with a button on it. I stared at him. "What the fuck is that?"

"The Second Amendment," he said, "guarantees every citizen the right to bear arms. I know you haven't read the Constitution, you illiterate mongrel, but that's what it says. Gone are the days when the government tried to take the guns away from its citizens. I defeated the fascist menace. I defeated our communist government. Every citizen has the right to every weapon." He smiled again, bitterly. "Including nuclear devices."

"No," I said.

He pushed the button.

“Inspiration” By TLM3101

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411875265&forumid=1

Independence, USA. 2027

I squint against the glare of the sun as I step off the plane, sweat immediately starting to soak through my shirt as the heat hits me square between the eyes. I haven't slept for 20 hours, and it's barely even noon here. Fucking jetlag. My fellows in the delegation look like shit. Not surprising. They're not young people. Neither am I. Only our bodyguards look crisp and unruffeled. Then again, they managed to sleep. All of them military, of course, the finest our country can train and equip. Even in neat, understated suits they manage to look perfectly deadly. An errant thought flutters through my consciousness; Will it be enough? I wipe my forehead with my handkerchief, banishing the thought. It will be enough. It has to be.

Our welcoming committee is already here, of course. Not the leader himself, but his chief lieutenants. As I shake the hand of the head of their delegation and introduce my colleagues, I have to stop myself staring at the slightly glassy eyes, the vacant smile. His handshake is just a little too firm, lasts a little too long, his sandy hair swept back too neatly. He looks like he's made of plastic, somehow.

Their clothes are worn. Not shabby, but the contrast to our own suits is clear. They, too, have brought a security detail, and the first thing I can think of is 'child soldiers'. The youngest can't be more than ten, his eyes as empty and cold as carved marble. I will myself to ignore it. We were prepared for this. Briefed. There were videos... I shove the thought away. I don't want to think about it now, not with the people we are here to meet right in front of me. It does, however, lend a special tension to the meaningless pleasantries we exchange on our way to the cars. I wait for the Question. It's going to come, but will it come now? During the trip? When we're in the city? I mask the slight flutter of nervousnes in the pit of my stomach with more inconsequential smalltalk. When the time comes, all I have to do is be honest.

Of course, in Independence honesty can be a hanging offense. Or worse. That was also in the briefings.

There are five cars. Two for the security details, three for the respective delegates. The leader and I (curious how I have forgotten his name already) get a car to ourselves. It'll be during the trip, then.

Like everything here, the cars are close to, but not quite up to the standards they should be, given the nature of our visit. We are, after all, foreign dignitaries, or the closest thing Independence has had to such. It's an older model, a grossly inefficient petrol-guzzler that went out of style (and fell out of favour with consumers) a decade ago. Here, it's a goddamn status-symbol, just another way for the elite of Independence to show their contempt for the Federal government and international opinion. At least it's a smooth ride, though the stink of petrol is a little nauseating and the roar of the engine sounds unnaturally loud. I catch myself wishing I had insisted on electric, then stop myself again. They wouldn't have worn it. We have to be diplomatic.

The drive itself is... odd. Flat scrubland baking in the sun extends to the horizon in every direction, only broken by the occasional hillock. And, of course, in the distance ahead, the shimmering outline of the City. Independence itself.

"You're armed, right?" He catches me by surprise, but after a moment, I realize what he's asking and nod, pulling aside the suit-jacket to show off the shoulder-holster and the gun nestled just below my armpit. Horrid thing. I'm a decent shot, but I shoot for sport. My opposite number nods, looking absurdly pleased. "Good," he mutters, then repeats himself more clearly. "Good. Guess it's a relief to finally be able to wear it like a free man should, am I right?"

"It's certainly different," I reply, plastering on my best smile. He nods rapidly, taking it the way I hoped.

"You damn right it is! I can't even imagine what it must be like for you people, comin' from where you do, to be able to be free of tyranny even if it's just for a day or two!!" He laughs too loudly, and claps me on the shoulder. I chuckle and nod. His eyes have a fire in them now, and I suppress a shiver as a prickling sensation starts up between my shoulderblades. A true believer. A zealot. I've seen eyes like that before, among the Mujahedeen of Sahara and in Afghanistan. Intellectually, I knew it, of course, but the reality...

"Well, I'm glad to know that there're people out there who've seen the Truth and're willing to fight for it," he continues, apparently missing any sign of my discomfort that might have slipped. I can hear the capital letter slip into place. "It gives me hope, it really does. We'll win the war yet!"

"Well, there have always been people who've seen the truth," I reply, doing my best to disragard the sweat on my palms. "People who have known what the problem is and wanted to do something about it." He nods aggressively, reminding me of a bulldog straining at the leash.

"Good," he practically barks, again. "You're thinking of doing something like what we've done then, fella?" His eyes are boring into mine, hideously intent.

And there it is. The Question. If I get this wrong, there's a very good chance I die here and now, in this dirty old car, rattling along a pot-holed road in the middle of the US. I take a moment to think, pursing my lips as I glance out the window. We've reached the barrios. The slums stretch for miles around Independence proper, populated by the vast underclass the City has created for its own ends; failed former citizens, the poor, the desperate, the unwanted, the true believers who followed their beliefs to see them broken, those whose skins were too dark or names too outlandish. All end up in the vast pool of misery that is the barrios. The sight hardens my resolve. I nod.

"Yeah. Something like that." My voice sounds harsh, even to my own ears. I soften it a bit. But not too much. "We want to show this to the world, starting with our own country. An inspiration, if you will. People need to see Independence, see that it's even possible to build what you've built here." The fire in my fellow passenger's eyes blaze for a moment, but with approval, not censure. I plunge on. "There's so much we can learn from this place," I explain, taking in the barrios and the city beyond with a gesture. "And unlike the US, it may not be entirely too late for my own country. We can use the systems that have been built up to change things for the better, to truly implement the lessons of Independence on a national scale." I've made a mistake. His expression hardens, and he opens his mouth, but I'm not going to stop. "You have to understand. Our current political government will fall in the next election, it's absolutely certain. I have seen the polls." Now I'm the one staring intently, and I can see realization dawn in his eyes. "They will fall, and something new will replace them. If we can get the news out, if we can just show everyone what you've achieved-" I stop, breaking myself off and force myself to take a deep breath. I don't have to say anything else. He has the picture.

"... You really think you can do it?" He wants it to be true. So very, very much. I nod, decisively.

"I know we can. With Independence as inspiration."

"All right," he murmurs, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "All right. I'll see what we can do."

I slump back in my seat, relieved. "Thank you," I murmur. "You have no idea what this means to me." And I know it's true. I haven't lied to him, or said one false word. The government will fall. Their numbers are in the toilet. And they will be replaced. Independence, USA, will be an inspiration for my people, for my nation.

However, like with so many things it's all in your point of view.

When we've shown our people what Independence, USA really is, what this view of society truly entails, the outrage will discredit the right-wing dream of 'free markets' and 'self-regulation' forever. All the clap-trap idiocy, the voodoo economics, the crack-pot notions of labor that the right wing in the US has so busily exported to the rest of the world will be swept away. My stomach knots as I see the children, some of them no more than ten, gathering at the gates, trying to offer us their 'services', written out on grubby, misspelled placards. Their sallow skin and hollow cheeks is like a physical blow to the gut, but I grit my teeth, fighting down the outrage and the tears. The best thing we can do is exopse this. Show the rot. Show everyone the hell that the zealots have created here, the hell they wish for all of us, not just themselves. Maybe then, we can help these children.

"Thank you," I whisper under my breath as we roll through the gates, leaving the child-prostitutes behind. In my head, the old song is starting, the words still crisp and clear in my memory as I descend into the pit; Arise, ye workers from your slumbers. Arise, ye prisoners of want...

“Women's Work” By Bobbie Wickham

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411894678&forumid=1

Tramping through the wreckage was almost fun, until you slid on a rotted piece of something meat-based (raw? cooked? dead animal? fell off someone's body as they fled the tanks?), reached a hand out to steady yourself, and cut your gloves and hand on a rusted piece of cyclone fence. The protocol for contamination was immediate and severe: your hand (foot, side, left elbow, whatever) was wrapped immediately in plastic and CDC-issued "medical tape" that was basically duct tape on steroids. A cocktail of antibiotics, antivirals, antitoxins, antiseptics, and a (very) mild sedative was jacked into your air tank, courtesy of one Sister of Mercy while another one wrapped the injury up in duct tape and plastic. They hustled you off-site then, to one of the waiting medical vans for more pre-emptive treatment, quarantine, and a slew of tests. The sedative had traces of cannabis and MDMA in it, to make the process less stressful for everyone involved; many a Sister had been bitten by an aggressive, often delusional patient, which required her to go through a round of treatment and tests. Being high made the process much more tolerable, they had found.

Until the first injury of the mission, though, Reiter almost liked the walk into Independence. It was like hiking, climbing over half-standing fences, burnt-out cars, piles of rubble, and basically anything that hadn't once been alive. You could almost imagine that you were just in a crappy part of Detroit in the 00's, until you heard that first injury alarm, saw that first severed finger or scattered handful of teeth. At least people in Detroit hadn't been half-inbred and fighting with each other over the biggest morsels of tapeworm. Plus, Detroit had Motown, and that was miles ahead of the crap Independents released as "music."

Reiter wasn't on the walk-through that day; he had been stuck by a stray needle a month before. It was just a hollow needle, about two inches long and broken at the blunt end. There was no telling what it had been used for, so he was deferred from active duty indefinitely. The quarantine had only lasted three days, at least. His test results, all negative so far, were still trickling in. He wouldn't be cleared for active duty for at last another month; in the meantime, he was doing desk work for Chloe, a civilian charged with sorting through the “social aspects” of Independence.

“I’m warning you, this stuff is pretty depressing, and a lot is just out-and-out horrific,” she had told him on his first day. “And a little ironic: I think this is the world’s first anti-social society.” Chloe wasn’t the first person to dub the all-women medical corps “The Sisters of Mercy,” but something about her joke had made it stick. She delighted in the Sisters, for some reason—probably because the Independents were afraid of them. The women were mostly civilians, doctors and nurses and EMT’s who responded to a call for medical personnel to serve their country and fellow Americans. Sick, diseased, brainwashed, malnourished, borderline-retarded Americans who were going to shoot at them, refuse treatment, and fight these selfless nurses tooth and nail. They were given intensive training that was relentless, a constant bombardment of information, practice, and drills. It was a screening process as well as training: anyone who couldn’t stick it out was assigned to off-site hospitals, and everyone who made it through was put on the front lines. The vast majority of graduates were nurses, and thus, mostly women. Something about a group of women with sidearms and syringes, dressed in sleek haz-mat suits, calling out orders and making life-and-death decisions, absolutely terrified the Independents who greeted the military with shoddy rifles and IED’s.

“Republican motherhood,” Chloe called out. She tossed a clear bag of pamphlets to him from her desk. “An oldie, but a goodie. It’s kin to the ‘Kinder, Küche, Kirche’ of Germany. They’re sterile; I just have them bagged to keep them together. I need you to organize them by author, then by title, so we can pass them off to the library for cataloging.” He opened the bag and pulled out the top pamphlet. A woman in colonial-era clothing smiled beatifically from an oil painting, her left hand on the shoulder of a little boy. In her right hand was a rifle. A smartly-dressed gentleman stood at her side, and a few children of varying ages surrounded the pair. Under the idyllic scene was the question: “Is YOUR Family Prepared For the Future of Independence?” Opening the pamphlet revealed a number of bullet points (with graphics of actual bullets). “Our Founding Mothers;” “What the Bible Says;” “The Second Amendment;” “Education for Boys;” “Education for Girls;” “A Happy Marriage is an Unequal Marriage;”” “How to Help Your Church;” “Duty to Husband = Duty to Independence.” He pulled more pamphlets and booklets from the bag: “Why Men ‘Cheat;’” “The Hazards of Birth Control;” “Feminism: The Socialist Lie;” “Biotruths and You.”

“What is this crap?” he asked. Chloe glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to her computer. There was a hint of a wry smile as she answered.

“Their college textbooks.”

“The Coyote Underground” By anonumos

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411904289&forumid=1

[excerpt from Library of Congress]

The Objectivist Experiment, 2015-2105

Item 38 of 1100

The Taped Interviews of William W. James, Journalist

CREATED/PUBLISHED
Rev. ed.
Austin, TX Austin Chronicle, 2042

SUBJECTS
The Objectivist Experiment
Independence, USA
Liberty Park
The Learning Center
Ayn Rand
Glenn Beck
Peter Theil
“pure strain”
The Second Business Plot, 2019
Objectivism in the United States—Fugitive Indenture
Slavery in the United States—Anti-slavery Movements

MEDIUM
Digital audio >100MB MP3, Digital transcript 700 pgs PDF

CALL NUMBER
E914 .HD60 2042

PART OF
American Labor (21st and 22nd Centuries)

REPOSITORY
Library of Congress Rare Book and Special Collections Division. Washington D. C. 20540

TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS

[Recorded audio of conversations between William W. James, Austin Chronicle, and Richard E. Jones, PE., leading figure of the “Coyote Underground”, a movement to liberate indentured servants from the city-park-micronation of Independence, USA.]

William W. James [W]: I’m glad you decided to speak to me, Mr. Jones. I can’t tell you what an honor it i—

Richard E. Jones [R]: Spare me, you coked-up hack. Let’s get on with this. I may not have all day…

[Recording captures the sounds of intense, wracking coughs and a series of loud snorts.]

[W]: OK! Are you feeling better? I am, so we can continue whenever you’re ready.

[R]: <wheezing slightly> You should lay off that shit. That’s what got me on this ventilator.

[W]: Haha, it’s all part of the creative process. Besides, I’m young. But thank you for your concern.

[R]: Whatever. You wanted me to talk about The Coyote Underground, huh?

[W]: Yeh, well, now that everyone knows about it…

[Another loud snort is heard.]

[W]: ...still, no one knows the details. The name is all over the news, and even your name, since you went public.

[R]: That’s a joke. I was outed, but whatever…it’s still the truth.

[W]: So The Coyote Underground was your idea?

[R]: Yeh…

[The recording goes on for several minutes of simultaneous snorting and coughing.]

[R]: Seriously. Lay off. This isn’t a party. You asked me…but you’re going to be so blasted you won’t understand a word I’m saying.

[W]: Ok, Ok.

[The sound of clinking, a lighter, and faint bubbling.]

[W]: That’ll do it for now. I’m stoked for a while. Now <sniiiiiiff> how did you come to start The Coyote Underground.

[R]: Well, that’s not where things started. I didn’t get the idea of calling it that, or organizing anyone else until much later. I started as a part-time contractor for the electrical distribution system inside Liberty Park.

[W]: Inside Independence, USA?

[R]: Well sort of. They were both inside each other, really. It’s pretty hard to wrap your mind around it. <cough> Especially when your mind is wrapped around a so many drugs.

[W]: Just explain, I’ll follow along, I swear.

[R]: Sure. Sure. <unintelligible mutters> damn you. Anyway, I was brought in to fix up that shit they called high voltage regulation. I tell you, whoever they hired to build the park was a double-plus moron…but that was just the park. The town just grew. Nobody watched anything, people just hooked up wherever they could for utilities. When I arrived, the town was in full swing, and everyone working at the park, visiting the park, or even just thinking about the park lived in the town. But the town was inside the park, too. The park was inside the town. It was all fucked up…

[W]: So, there wasn’t a town per se, people just set up shop around the rides and stuff?

[R]: Yeh, the attractions provided a sort of structure, a skeleton of a town, and homes sort of grew from it like some kind of anemone. Ole Glenn Beck didn’t care what they did, as long as they kept out of sight of the tourists. The main paths had to be clear, and the landscapers were kept extra busy planting hedges and trees to keep Independence Town out of sight. But he left plenty of uncultivated land, which people rented, co-opted, or just squatted on, however they felt and however they could get away with. Beck’s security forces were pretty tame in the beginning, so people go away with a lot.

[Another series of wracking coughs interrupts the recording…]

[W]: Here, have a sip. Medicinal.

[R]: <still coughing> Thank you. Nurse Dee will kill you for this, but that’s good whiskey…

[R]: So anyway, the park was having all kinds of trouble. Power cutting out, people trapped on elevators, those moving sidewalks disabled. It was a mess. They called my crew in to untangle it all. First, I should say that my boss at the time was a real prick. Followed Ayn Rand to the T. Even told us once that we only got overtime because of, he said, “God forsaken parasite regulations.” A real winner, but he had connections with the brass at Liberty Park and we got the job. I thought it would be pretty cushy, billionaire owned theme park and all. But when we got there…

[More coughing]

[W]: Here. Let’s cut for lunch.

[R]: <wheezing severely> Sure. And I’m telling you, man, lay off the blow!

“A Boy's Life in Beckistan, Part Six” by Vienna Circlejerk

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411915439&forumid=1

As quietly as I could, I crept through the night, stepping carefully to keep my hard church shoes making any noise but avoiding grass to keep from triggering any yard alarms or anti-squirrel pellet guns. Those could sting pretty bad.

Following the brown woman and her cart in the darkness eventually brought me to the gun factory foreman's home, the large estate in whose guest house Eric and Jenny's family lived. As we approached, I began to realize why Jenny might know a great deal about the brownies, or "night people" as she called them.

The entire grounds were bathed in the soft light of small, portable lanterns. Everywhere, brown men, women, and children worked, trimming bushes, sweeping sidewalks, and mowing the lawn with quiet rotary push mowers. I realized then that I had never seen anyone mowing the foreman's lawn, even though I had seen my dad and most of our neighbors out mowing theirs with noisy, gas powered lawnmowers. I felt simultaneously enlightened and confused: so this was how the foreman kept such such a nice yard without doing anything, but why didn't the brownies take care of our lawn, too?

The woman pushing the cart continued past the foreman's home, but I lingered in the shadows, watching. After a few minutes, a familiar voice called out softly near me, causing me to almost jump out of my skin.

"Dawn day est ass?"

It was Eric. I was sure of it. I had no idea what he said, but I was sure it was him. I got ready to run for it, but then I heard a feminine voice, strangely accented, respond, a bit further away in the shadows. "Shh. I am here."

I heard movement, and a giggle. Then there was just whispering. Slowly and carefully, I moved in the opposite direction. I was sure Eric was doing something that he wasn't supposed to do, and the last thing I wanted was for him to catch me here, or for me to get caught with him.

One by one, as work in the different parts of the yard was finished up, the softly glowing portable lights were extinguished. I was able to creep closer to the foreman's estate, moving further from Eric and his unknown friend. The brown people gathered together near the gate of the electric fence that surrounded the foreman's estate. In the remaining light, I was able to see that they were many different shades of brown, some almost as light as me, others much darker. For just a moment, I thought I caught a glimpse of the old man who had the garbage cart last week, and possibly a small figure beside him.

The group began to move in the direction of the park. I followed from a distance. I could hear whispered conversation but couldn't understand any of the words, and I realized that the brownies must have their own language. Occasionally the voices would rise a bit and there would be shushing sounds. Clearly they were doing their best not to be heard, and I wondered again what all the secrecy was for.

As we approached the park, I saw more soft lights as well as several open bed trucks waiting. Here and there, brown people stepped into the softly lighted park from other parts of the nearby neighborhood. There were also several men--normal, daytime men, that I had seen around before--waiting around near the trucks. As the brown people streamed into the park, the daytime men got into the front seats of the trucks and the brown people climbed into the backs.

For just a tantalizing moment, I saw Rob Waylow, plain as day, being lifted by the brown old man into the back of one of the trucks. Even though I knew better, there was a moment where I rashly considered calling out to him. But before I could do anything else, I heard running feet behind me, and suddenly someone crashed into me with a shout.

As flashlights found me, I picked myself up from the ground to see a brown skinned girl about Eric's age on the sidewalk beside me, rubbing a badly skinned knee. There was shouting, and some of the men were running towards us. Some of them I recognized as friends' dads. There was nowhere to run. I was caught.

“Requiem for a CEO” by Erenthal

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411921824&forumid=1

Forty floors beneath me, the streets are burning. An orgy of violence, a theatre of the macabre, is playing out all along Founders Avenue, where once we held parades and processions to celebrate what we had accomplished. Fires have gutted most of the buildings lining the avenue, thick black smoke roiling like a vortex in the heat.

The boardroom is empty, the detritus of hastily abandoned entrepreneurship littering the conference table. They all fled hours ago, when this all started. I don't know if they made it or not, and I don't really care either way. Most likely their corpses now join the countless others choking the alleys and thoroughfares of Independence, but it's not impossible that some made it to the walls, and then outside into the plains where the National Guard and FBI wait at their so called cordon sanitaire. Fine, let them join the parasites if they so wish.

There is a constant thrum inside my head now, a faint pounding pain behind the eyes, and a growing sense of nausea. Maybe it's the slow poisoning from the smoke, or maybe I'm coming down with something. Sweat trickles down my forehead as I brace against the window. My knees buckle, and I fall

into a lake, black and impenetrable, surface like crystal. I stare down into the depths, shapes swirling beneath me, fleeting and fluttering at the edge of my vision. One comes closer. It's a young woman, serene expression on her face as she smiles at me even as she grows plump with rot. Another shape detaches from the abyss, and it comes after her. This one is a lion, mane floating lazily in the current like a corona. Embracing the woman it rakes her with his claws, great chunks of her bloated flesh being torn away. Still smiling, she reaches through the surface without any effort. She takes my hand, her grip like a vice. Pressing an object into it, she quickly closes my hand above it, before she sinks into darkness. Looking down at my hand, I can feel something small and hard and I

catch myself before hitting the floor, legs shaking. Shots are being fired outside, a staccato reminder of reality. I leave the boardroom, taking the interior stairwell up to my penthouse office.

When were the seeds sown? I can still see president Franken at the press conference, declaring that the federal government would at last crack down on the various micro-nations that had sprung up these last few years. We all watched, with varying emotions, as they kept their promise.

First to go was Libertopia and who can forget the live broadcast of Patri Friedman, filth-caked beard reaching down to his knees, as he and his equally bedraggled cronies were dragged, cuffed and bowed, off of the rusted deathtrap they had until recently ruled over? After that, and the media circus of the trials that followed, most other micro-nations gave in fairly easily. Bookworld, The Wulong Foundation, Freepville, the list grew each day. They even sent a company of Marines to some god-forsaken island of the coast of Africa, a place known only as Malatora, but they found only gigantic heaps of garbage and human waste. Of the Malatorans themselves nothing remained but for a dozen or so dried-out corpses huddled together in an earthen dugout, all dead from starvation and covered in super-glue and plastic reptile scales. Independence was not going to go the same way. We had the 2nd Amendment on our side, and we intended to use it.

Have you ever seen a Phalanx CIWS? It's a beautiful thing, a marvel of American engineering and ingenuity. With it's computerized targeting systems it can shoot down anything from a small bird to a cruise missile, switching targets every second. Nearly every building over three stories in Independence has one mounted on the roof, along with missile batteries, old surplus anti-aircraft artillery and everything else that makes this the best god damn country in the world to live in. Problem is, all this wonderful weaponry cannot protect you if the enemy comes from inside.

I reach the door to my office, and walk inside. Everything is as I left it, and I pour myself a double scotch from the mini bar. Across the avenue, Wagner tower is being gutted by the raging fires. I see small explosions going off on the roof, as the ammo and warheads cook off in the heat. None of the hundreds of weapons scattered across the skyline ever fired a shot. Two hundred million dollars worth of flaccid cocks, rusting under mold-stained tarpaulins.

My stomach protests the sudden alcohol intake, and my vision swims as the dull whine in my ears grows into

the growl of fire, as I survey the parched landscape. There's a moat of tires, a hundred meters deep, stretching from horizon to horizon. It's burning, and among the flames are human figures. They writhe and moan as they burn, human fat mixing with liquid rubber. I turn around. Now it's night, and there's a dumpster in front of me. A man is standing in it, wielding a bat. It rises and fall with clockwork precision, the end of it gleaming with blood. The man's face is inscrutable, as his lips start to form words but I cannot hear him over the

buzzing of the intercom on my desk. I open my eyes, and the taste of vomit is on my tongue. Glancing at the CCTV-monitor by the intercom, I see that there are people in my ground floor lobby. It's the high and worthy of Independence society, Founders to man if I'm not mistaken. The Great Chain, as they call themselves. The Great Chain of Turds, is more like it. They look like hell, covered in soot and wounds.

“Yeah?” I growl into the intercom.

One of them, I cannot recall his name for the life of me, looks up into the camera. He pleas for help, pathetic promises of remuneration and eternal gratitude. In the pale light of the lobby, his head looks like a hard-boiled egg that someone drew facial features on with ballpoint pen as a crude joke.

“This is private property,” I say, “would you kindly fuck right the hell off?”

Of course they ignore me. Oh, how little convictions matter when it comes to life or death. These fat fucks who just a day ago preached the gospel of self-reliance and hate for the parasite, now come crawling like beggars, principles scattered to the wind. They disgust me and I press the button to activate the defences without a second thought.

The shutters close, and they look surprised. One of them experimentally gives it a shove. I turn of the sound, as the gas starts to fill the room. Eyes grow wide as they suddenly start to gasp for air. Now they pound the shutters, clawing at the unyielding steel. As the oxygen grows scarcer, they grow more frantic. Skin split and nails splinter as they beat the doors and shutters, bloody smears blooming on them. They collapse, cyanotic muscles spasming as piss and shit run down their legs. I turn of the monitors too. There's a gun in my drawer. It feels solid in my hand.

Will you think me a villain if I tell you that I am the one responsible for this? That it was I that opened the gates for the parasites, that I helped smuggle in the subversive books and pamphlets, the underground union organizers and socialist rabble-rousers? I am willing to accept your judgement. I ever only acted on my principles. Freedom isn't free, and sloth breeds complacence. If Indepence cannot fight to preserve itself, it deserves to burn. Like fire proves gold, I set out to test our commitment to the ideals of our Founders. We are lacking, it seems.

I sit back, emptying the rest of the glass. Alarms are going off. It seems that the mob as breached the building, pent up anger and jealousy buoying their steps as they charge their oppressor. Checking the clip, I count eight rounds. How I'll use them depends on what reaches me first, the mob or the fire that's now consuming this building as well. I close my eyes and

open my hand and look at what I was given. It's an acorn, and I smile in comprehension. It is good that it should be this way.

They come.

“The Rise of Independence: A Personal Account” by A Terrible Person

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411997501&forumid=1

Hello? Is this thing on? Okay. This is John Piper and I was from Independence. I know I don't really need to clarify where that is but, just to be safe... Independence, the Theme Resort park. Independence, the blight upon the face of humanity; the smoldering wreckage of what was supposed to be a bastion of the american dream. I'm going to try my best to tell the story of how it all got started. I feel its important for future generations to look back on what happened and not wonder if it was possible but, rather, know how it came to be and perhaps how to prevent it from ever happening again.

For background, I was raised in a very, very conservative family. Republican, of course; we had some Libertarian leanings but I didn't know that term back then. My family was highly religious, too. Some vague denomination of christian which the family claimed was Catholic, but we really could have been anything so long as it was very, very Jesus-centric. And very, very big on looking down on others, too, whether they be black, welfare-recipients, or gays. Especially gays. Also anyone who ascribed to more liberal ways of thinking or political leanings. Anything that they were for, we were against. Religiously. In fact, I wound up going to a college for conservative christians. Well, it was more like a diploma-mill than a college, but you understand. In any case, my family was incredibly excited when the Independence Theme Resort was announced. They were the very first people to mention it to me, my parents practically shrieking that I needed to get in on it.

I really didn't think much of it. Glenn Beck was kind of on a downward swing insofar as the country was concerned. Sure, the media would bring him up whenever he said or did anything particularly weird. But he was crazy, too; even Fox News kicked him out! But... Hell, I'm not even sure myself. Apparently enough people still listened to him to the point where he was able to bring in money for his project. I don't know if it was hype alone or if he had some investors on the side, but... I mean, I'm not really aware of that portion. I'm pretty sure what follows will actually show quite handily how ill-informed I was about basically everything.

Let's move along.

Beck got the funding necessary to lay down the groundwork for what he wanted to do. It was a... it was advertised as a theme park. A resort of some sort. He compared it to Disney; he said he was going to have his own place where people could see the true american spirit. How americans would be able to come in and produce just about anything on their own. It was supposed to be a self-sufficient society that went back to the ideals of an america that may or may not have even existed. I think- well, I know at this point that it was more-or-less a combination of frontier justice and "fuck you, got mine" ideals.

The groundwork for Independence got started in about 2014, I believe, or maybe midway through 2013? In any case, I'd say the place was mostly functional by mid-2014 considering that was when I was about to graduate. It was announced around that time that there would be an amazing new sort of internship program for the right people at the park. Being at the type of school that we were at, me and a few others were able to get in on the ground floor. Beck wanted anyone with any sort of media knowledge, people who were getting into business, folk who understood a little about agriculture... the call went out for specific workers and people like me answered.

I wound up working under Glenn Beck, in a way. I was on the.. not really the film crew. It's hard to say that any of us were really on his film crew, though, because a lot of his original people came along when he moved to Independence. Those were the people who actually knew what they were doing. But I'd say a majority of the media staff was interns. The folks who knew what they were doing gave us grunt work for the most part. At the beginning I mostly did janitorial because, truth be told, I was a bit of a slacker and really didn't know what I was doing. I didn't pay too much attention in school and was actually hoping to use the internship to learn stuff on the job but, due to my lack of initial knowledge, I more-or-less got shoved into a bunch of unskilled positions.

Independence itself was located right in the middle of fucking nowhere. I mean miles and miles from the nearest city, far off from any major freeway. I guess we were kinda near an airport, but we were pretty isolated just the same. Once most of us arrived to this shiny new facility that wasn't even remotely like a park yet- I mean, it was bare bones. I suppose I'll get to this all as I describe the place, but suffice to say that it was originally just a spot where Beck could make his show. We were given these internships but, that was the key point there: they were internships, they were unpaid. That's where the fun part comes in, though.

Most of us went out there without even thinking. We didn't have jobs; we didn't have money; most of us didn't even have vehicles to get from place to place. Even if we had cars, the nearest city was at least a good hour or two drive away, y'know? We were told that we could have a month or two of free lodging in the dorms and, if we wanted to continue interning there, we'd have to find a way to either commute to the media center from who-knows-where or else rent rooms at the park. Which, on their own, were a joke. We had, like, at least five people to the room. Per room. A few of them were slightly larger and cheaper, but were for ten people instead of five. Everything was more-or-less communal, too. The dorms had a single lobby that had living spaces and a kitchen off to the side. Each floor had a single bathroom, no AC, and very narrow halls. Essentially, it was more a place to file people away than it was a place to live. There was a small living area, like I said, but the rooms themselves were quite simply just for sleeping. There was barely enough room to get dressed if more than one person was in there at a time.

But, moving on, we were each given about two months to figure out where to go and what to do. And, frankly, there was no way most of us were actually going to be able to live away from the park. Which meant that we'd have to get second jobs on-site.

Our options were the media center, a facility for making Beck's shirts and other merchandise, and the ranch. The merch factory, as we called it, was nothing special. We generally got the shirts and stuff sent to us premade and then folks just did a little bit of screen printing and distressing. I wound up working on the ranch. That was where we were supposed to learn about living off the land, animal husbandry, that sort of thing, but... it was more a place to work than a place to learn. We'd get seeds from a number of companies, we'd plant them, we'd raise the animals. There were a variety of plots where different people worked; sometimes we worked in conjunction, sometimes we worked alone. Spreading manure, seeds, pesticides, herbicides; I didn't learn too much on the job there because, again, I was a total fucking slacker and I had no idea what was coming to me. It was all surprisingly functional, though. At least, compared to what the place later turned into. At the beginning, though, it was fairly efficient. We had garden style plots instead of outright industrial farming, enough for a few people living in the situation where we were. We grew a lot of corn, beans, a variety of vegetables; we raised chickens, pigs. No cows. I mean, Beck was terrified of the damn things.

So, basically, we mostly stuck to two livestock animals and a variety of basic vegetables. Most of the food we actually ate came from the commissary, though. Even if we raised it, we weren't given free reign to just sit down and eat it. We didn't have access to anything; no convenience store, no gas station, no grocer of any sort. There was more-or-less just a company store. We'd go in, purchase any supplies we needed... we were forced to purchase our own supplies for on-the-job stuff, by the way. At least, in the media portion we were. If we wanted to take notes, we needed our own notebooks and pens. When we needed to eat, we were purchasing ranch produce, macaroni, snack packs, juice boxes, things like that. Usually at an exorbitantly high price. Almost everything was either at or past its expiration date, too. I'm pretty sure Beck or whoever ran the place was buying outdated stuff that was going to be destroyed and then selling it back to us at triple the wholesale cost.

But we made do.

Another thing I should mention is that we never got hired in anywhere that we were working. The folks who were interning on the ranch would work in the merch factory or the media center. The folks who were interning in the merch factory were working at one of the other places. Or, like me, interning at the media and then working at the ranch or the factory. The important thing is that we didn't work for any of those places. We actually worked for BeckTemps, which was a hastily thrown together temporary agency where we would sign up before being placed into a job. Like any other temp agency, BeckTemps would negotiate with the hiring company and then pass available jobs onto us, usually at a reduced wage. Whatever sort of wages were offered officially by the company, BeckTemps would pass on a fraction of that to us. Generally it ended up being anywhere from a little to far below minimum wage, depending on our skill. I usually made about $3.50 an hour, but I sometimes was only able to pull in about $2.00. It really depended on the job.

Between interning and working at a secondary job, most of us were pulling in anywhere from fourteen to twenty hours a day. Some of us would actually try to do more than that, but those guys tended to burn out pretty fast. I should probably mention that there was no medical center of any real sort. A couple of guys would start to break under the pressure and they pretty just wound up leaving. I mean, there was no psychiatric wing, no counselors or psychiatrists to talk to... they really weren't into that sort of thing there. It was either man up, pull up your bootstraps, or get the fuck out. Sometimes that also went for injuries. They'd try to cover it up as best as possible but... you're probably going to laugh at this. Or maybe not, considering what went on later. But, early on, the only qualified medical doctor on-site was the ranch veterinarian. You can imagine how well that went over. There were plenty of complaints. But the general consensus among those who ran the place was, again, either man up or get out. We were supposed to be proving to the world that any person, through the sweat of their own brow, could get ahead no matter what the circumstances. And they put us into some pretty tough circumstances, at least as far as a civilized society would offer. We were given next to nothing and expected to muscle through.

I'm not sure how long went by. Some number of months, I guess. But the simple fact that we survived so long energized Mr. Beck. He and his cronies and allies in the Senate, along with basically every right-wing lunatic across the country, were trying to champion us as some sort of underdog story of real American ingenuity and hard work. I think the true park actually started getting built early 2016. We had been advertising ourselves very, very heavily at that point. Just about every show that we did during the last two months leading up to then was about how amazing we were, how every little bit could help if you just invested into the dream. We would show what real American ideals were and just how far we could take it if given the chance. If the legislators in Congress would give us a hand, if the state of Texas would give us a little more leeway, and if viewers like you would reach hard, reach deep, and give what you could. And it worked. It worked spectacularly. I don't know to just what extent, but suffice to say that they were building by 2016. We really didn't see too much of what was going on first-hand, my coworkers and I. The company hired contractors, brought in all kinds of supplies, started building things up day-by-day. At that point we were even giving guided tours of the sections that were nearly finished. We made a big deal about going through and interviewing selected workers, carefully selected workers, to tell about how great it was in Independence and what sort of amazing things were on the way. They rushed the construction as fast as they could while broadcasting every minor advance. They wanted to keep the momentum going without falling out of America's view.

The park was officially up and running before the end of 2018. They worked very fast, as I said. The place was huge, too; hundreds of acres. They ran into a small problem by opening the place early with only half the attractions ready, all while charging full admission. The early birds didn't like that very much. But, once it was completely finished... I cannot describe how crazy the original park was. I'm not sure if anyone remembers it now, but there was this place called Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia. It was a place you could go and see costumed actors talking in old-timey american english about churning butter and taking care of houses and what life was like in historic Virginia. The Beck version was like a cross between that, a film studio, and some of those ancient Disney attractions where they had animatronics and screens and all kinds of cheesy bullshit. Independence had the technology on hand to do some half-assed holograms, plus they got actors to play Revolutionary soldiers and whatnot. They got folk from a local reservation to play "authentic Indians." They hired in the parasites... shit.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. The place gets to you and doesn't let go easy. It's no excuse, but... They hired in some African American people, portraying slaves and house servants for the most part. They tried to whitewash almost everything they could. It was totally revisionist history playing right into the pocket of Beck and his investors. Another thing most might not remember was the Creation Museum. Oh, my parents were huge fans of that place. It was essentially a roadside attraction where lunatics could go see how Jesus rode dinosaurs and whatnot, and Beck turned a toned-down version of that into an entire theme park slash resort. They were getting all kinds of anti-gay, conservative businesses to invest in building the resort lodging, attractions, semi-historically-accurate housing, that sort of thing. Everything was themed based on a different time period as white-washed by guys like David Barton.

When the place was fully opened, radicals from across the nation came flocking in. It was kind of slow at first because people weren't sure if we were actually, officially, finally open. There were still some bad reviews floating around from people who came for the partially completed version. Most of us who were interning got hired in as actors. When they opened the marketplace, for example, they had unskilled folk like me stand in as salesmen of one form or another. That was another big thing: not a single person in the park was anything but an actor with some small talent in one skill or another. We were working a trade while acting like we were entrepreneurs or whatever. The whole thing was a charade. We were just as fake as the park. But the thing is, people bought into it. We were viewed as a radical right-wing success story. We were showing the American people, folks who were already ready to believe, that such a place could work. I mean, all it was was a bunch of kids pretending to be hoighty-toighty businessmen while hawking 1791 Supply merch for the park; nobody really cared, though, and most of them didn't want to see through the act.

The troubling part was when people started coming in with their RVs. I mean, sure; we had a very large parking area with places where people could set up if they wanted to camp. If they didn't want to stay in the hotels, they could roll up in their motor homes and park for a fee. We had full-service areas with restrooms and other modern amenities for that. What was really frightening was the people who would roll in, park, hook up, and then never leave. I mean, these were people with families who would come in every day to shop and see the sights, then retire in the evening to sell baubles and nick-knacks out the back of their trailers. There were literally whole communities of these people springing up around the parking lots. It became a security issue. The company would try to chase them off, discourage them. They were distracting to the legitimate tourists who came to see Independence for Independence. I mean, these guys were definitely not a part of the show.

Unfortunately, somebody high up got the idea in their head that the squatters were actually good for business. That the folks who were coming in and camping out just outside the park grounds, the ones trying to sell knock-off DVDs and things like that? These people were apparently some grand sign that we were attracting True American Businessmen, real entrepreneurs. The salt of the earth folks who were... I mean, the picture they painted to us at one of the park meetings... They got us all together and told us the folks outside were not to be discouraged anymore; they were to be encouraged. Little did we know that they were actually still on park land. The company owned massive, massive tracts of land. I don't know how or when they purchased it, but enormous areas surrounding the park were still park grounds. All those people camping out there were in the park, even though they were "officially" outside the park. The parking area that was supposed to be just outside the gates? That, too, was technically part of the park itself. It was the craziest damn thing ever.

So you've got all these people; men, women, children, just camping out and setting up their own little communities. Dirty children would play under water hoses while the craziest shit would start showing up in stands and stalls. Driftwood carvings and rattlesnake boots... The boots are what really got me. I thought the guy who was selling them would run out of stock and disappear almost immediately. Truth be told, though, the guy who sold them was actually going out into the surrounding area and skinning random animals to restock his merchandise. Truly, that was the sort of thing that Beck was hoping for. I think the park used him in a documentary at some point, part of one of our programs on Business in Independence. Try to draw more people in. Now that I think of it, he actually was a major marketing gimmick. I think we hired him on as a mascot at one point, too. That man actually pulled a paycheck by wandering out in the desert and nearly getting killed by native species he was barely familiar with, then turning their skins into boots and jackets and things. It was crazy. But he was exactly what Independence was looking for. He was the thing they wanted to advertise, and the advertising worked. After we ran that first show featuring him, more and more people started flocking in. People with barely anything more to their names than a tent and some hope.

Over the next few years entire shanty towns started popping up. Not full towns at first, but there were a bunch of campers, trailers, trucks, tents... Any sort of temporary domicile for somebody to live that you could think of. People were just showing up everyday and setting up stalls. It was like a flea market from hell. But they were sticking around. They were making a profit. I mean, the legitimate park visitors thought it was quaint. They purchased products they otherwise didn't need because they thought it was part of the charm of Independence. They bought into it; hook, line, and sinker. As the people moved in, more and more of them... as I said, they were like shanty towns, miniature rv parks, and tiny mobile home communities. They weren't sanctioned by the park explicitly, but, in reality, they kind of were. It's hard to explain without getting a headache. Officially, we weren't supposed to know what was going on outside the park's walls. Everything out there was "independent." At least, that's what we were supposed to say. I don't really know how it worked, which is frustrating. I get the feeling that, if I knew a little bit more about that, I'd be able to give more insight into what happened later. Because it wasn't just shanty towns that were popping up.

In my defense, we were very restricted insofar as what we knew of the outside world. The folks who lived and worked in the hotels, they had access to the wifi necessary to get online and see what various news organizations and so forth had to say about us. The rest of us were in a dead zone. I don't know how they did it, but laptops and cell phones were useless. They'd turn on and operate their basic functions, but you couldn't get online or call out. Everything was landline, and of course access was restricted to certain areas; generally few and far between. We were in an island of ignorance. We only knew what those who had access would tell us and, considering most of them were idealists and zealots, that information was distorted. Heavily. But we could still see with our own eyes. If you took a step outside the park you'd see people being evicted from the parking lots and set to growing new expansions in the fields beyond. All unofficial, of course, so we wouldn't have to deal with the growing infrastructure problems of an expanding population. There was no running water out there except for at a few restrooms. There was no sewage or plumbing save for what people could throw together. Aside from some RV waste stations, there was nothing. People would be taking buckets and dumping their shit down a hole in the ground. That's where the waste went. Maybe there was just a hole, maybe it went under the park or out to the nearest town. Who knows? That was all people had. But, despite those restrictions, more people moved in.

It wasn't long before real businesses started showing up along with the people. We got our first gas station cum grocery store... when was it? 2018? 2019? That was the biggest sign that things were starting to get really out of control, at least to some of us: the fact that, although they were apparently on park ground, businesses were being built that were separate from the park. They were separate from Texas, too, so far as we were aware. Then the manufacturing plants started coming in. Nothing tied to a large name, of course, but the sort of thing that could only be made by... I'm not sure the term. A holding company or shell company perhaps? The situation where large companies filter money down through small, anonymous groups that actually managed the construction and operation of shady businesses. The sort of thing a big company could plausibly deny years later if things went sour which, obviously, they did. That probably goes a long way toward explaining the relatively small number of convictions to come out of that fiasco. But we're talking about machining plants, roll-forming joints, basic manufacturing shops. It was pretty much the shit people would normally send to China, except now they're getting away with sending it to some place within the United States. Some place that, through some trick of the system, was able to be written off in one way or another. Again, the specifics are beyond me. However they managed to do it, they did it.

New manufacturing, new industry... and this is above and beyond the small businesses that were coming in. We had plenty of Mom and Pop Shops that totally exploited their own families, popping up here and there selling everything from groceries and furniture to blankets and shoes. Anything that could be manufactured fairly easily and then marketed. There was a market for just about anything here. We're talking about a small community at this point! I mean, yeah; it was built around a theme park, but it required all the modern conveniences of a small town. Once enough people started moving in, there were more and more business opportunities. More people to exploit, if you want to be perfectly accurate. We had all these crazy nutjobs pouring in in hopes of becoming the next American Dream success story. They wanted to.... I don't even know what they wanted, to be honest. They heard the call and came. That's the best I can say. I mean, there were people who came with absolutely nothing. The homeless... we had a very bad problem with that at one point. We tried to chase them off as best we could, but the simple fact was we weren't equipped for that; our in-home security couldn't handle it and the police, for whatever reason, wouldn't touch us. So we had to figure it out for ourselves.

That's actually, if I remember correctly, around the time American Dream Labs slowed down on their special effects manufacturing and started moving towards guns and munitions. Small stuff at first, non-lethal arms mostly. Turns out they had a knack for it. Also, whenever they hit a snag they'd just hire someone off the streets who knew more than they did. There were plenty of people who were interested in that sort of thing. Guns, that is. Given the sheer amount of goods and raw material being imported, they were able to throw together a basic shotgun fairly easily. A simple handgun after that. Considering we were able to pick up people who had the knowledge to make that stuff just milling around the park, you can imagine how quickly shops like that started popping up outside. Yeah, they had less equipment, but they had the know-how. Take a bunch of fanatics with a little knowledge, some ingenuity, and a metric ton of scrap metal? These guys started making weapons. Outside a theme park. As part of the economy of said theme park. It was crazy. Crazy! I mean, inside the park, people like me were starting to get nervous. There were plenty of us who were fresh out of college, thinking they were just doing something to make their parents proud while making some money, y'know? High school to college, a little internship to get their name out there, refine their skills, get some hands-on experience, and from there they went to fucking Lunaticville to be 100% honest. Yeah, we had plenty of True Believers, even from the beginning. Folks who thought that this was the promised land for american ingenuity. The sort of people who figured that pulling one's self up by their bootstraps was the only true method to become rich. Those were the guys who got exploited the hardest. For as bad as it got, there were legitimate businesses in Independence who were profiting. Most of them, to this day, have never stepped foot in a courtroom or faced any sort of charges dues to the fiasco. But I guarantee that, out of almost every major corporation running now, nearly all of them had a finger in the pie that was Independence. I mean, the number of deaths they caused is inexcusable...

Twenty-Twenty. Dawning of a new decade. We actually had a town by then. We had a park with a town built up around it. When we lacked in industry, and people came in to fill the niche. I'm not sure how, really, to describe what came next other than Renaissance. That's the only word that comes to mind. You've got a theme park and its core purpose is to further a brand as run by, essentially, a charismatic madman. It wasn't just a brand, though, it was an ideal. I mean, yeah, it started off with one man with one goal: to further his empire above and beyond what it already was. But he had investor friends, politician friends, he had an entire audience with ideals and ambitions beyond even his wildest dreams. And he was a lunatic! Essentially what you wound up having was all these people drawn to a single location with the promise of getting what they believed was the True American Dream. What they wound up finding was destitution for the most part. There were successes, though; there were a few amazing successes. People who came there with virtually nothing and moved up the ranks to redneck millionaires. Based off nothing at all. Yes, there were success stories. But it was only due to the massive exploitation that was allowed in Independence.

The people within the park treated it as business as usual. Nothing within the park proper actually changed. We treated the outside world, anything beyond our borders, as nonexistent. We were taught to treat anything outside as though it was happening an entire world away. So, we did our thing, we played our roles, we manufactured, we sold, we acted, we pulled very meager paychecks. Which, I don't know if its important, but it was mildly amusing that... one of the draws was the tax-free initiative of Independence. None of us payed Federal Taxes, State Taxes, FICA, anything that could distract from the sheer monetary "there's your labor, here's what it's worth, here's what we're willing to pay you." It was a massive draw, even if we were working under the minimum wage, however they pulled that off. I'm still not sure. But none of us paid taxes! It wasn't until later that I pieced it together from news stories. The simple fact was they were drawing from our paychecks, drawing from our purchases at the company stores and so forth, and then setting it aside to feed it to the Federal government without our knowledge. When tax season came around and our deductions came due, they had an entire fleet of lawyers on hand to take advantage of every tax deduction imaginable. Things your average person couldn't figure out. Things your average tax professional wouldn't be able to understand! But, due to who started the park, the company was well prepared and had an entire legion of lawyers on hand. Folk who knew such things as tax law, zoning laws, industrial law... anything you can imagine, these guys probably knew the ins, outs, and especially the loopholes. So as far as I understand, we never paid taxes; but the company paid taxes for us. The number of contracts we were signing towards the end and the things we were signing away authorization for were so many and so extreme that I don't doubt they'd slip a couple 1040s in during tax season without us noticing. I can't say the company made a killing, but they probably considered it a smart investment. Company money goes in, they pocket the returns a year later, and the workers are none the wiser. So we thought we were living in a tax-free environment. People on the outside figured we found a way to cheat the system. Nothing that was really nationally reported, but not exactly a huge secret or anything. It was a major drawing point. It didn't work on the outside portion of the park, but at this point we'd gotten so very large that most Federal Agencies didn't want to fuck with us, to put it simply.

I can't say things came crashing down. I wish they had at that point, looking back. But, on the inside of the park, everything was still immaculate. Straight to the books, 100% legal, everything was wonderful. On the outside, though, it was some twisted confusion of jurisdictions. No one could figure out how to touch the townsfolk. By the time they had something to pin on them, a surefire way to mobilize and take them out, the place was just too large. They had a manufacturing base, people living there, people working there; it was a goddamn city. It was a full-fledged economy based upon mom and pop shops and unscrupulous business practices.

Eventually the big names started backing out. They slowly distanced themselves from the town with minor lay-offs here and there, hiring fewer people even in busy seasons. They began shutting down in a way that most of the outsiders, the folk who actually dependended on those positions, didn't even notice. They claimed it was just a downturn of the local economy for whatever reason. Enough recessions had happened nationally that nobody cared or noticed anymore. Eventually the factories closed up completely. Not for very long, though. The folks that started off selling minor things? They began banding together, pooling their resources, and simply laying claim to whatever empty buildings would suit their needs. They began replacing the businesses that disappeared with their own companies. Nothing could be shipped out at that point, but there were plenty of people to sell to locally. Enough to keep the factories running while maintaining the economy for those who were living there. Everything went back to business as usual. Most people had jobs, most people had something to buy, and there was always somewhere to go for work. Remember that every jackass who moved in there was going to be the next Sam Walton, Koch brother, or John D. Rockefeller. Each of them figured they'd be the next Monopoly tycoon. Having talked to some of these folks, though, I get the feeling they didn't even know what they were shooting for. They claimed to be idealists, but what it ultimately what came down to was screwing over the next guy and cheating as much as possible. They usually thought of it as just meeting the bottom line or trying to get by.

You probably noticed me saying that I met some of these people. It's true. I didn't hide away inside the park like some of the others. Whenever I got time, I'd venture out and get a look at what was going on. I mean, hell, I was on the ground floor of something historic! There was no way I was going to miss it just because things were a tad shady. I went out less and less as time went by but, during the relative calm of the expansion period, it was safe enough to wander. One thing people don't seem to get is how few of the people out there were outright evil. It's easy enough to look at what's happening now and assume that everyone who lives there started off as black-hearted monsters who'd literally kill their mothers for a bargain. Most of them were actually nice enough folk who just had some strange ideas about the world. They could easily have been your neighbors.

I remember meeting the kindest old man out there some time before I finally escaped. A grandfatherly old gent who ran a small business selling camping supplies and repairing appliances. His entire business was staffed by his children and their friends, folks who actually knew more about the trade than the owner himself. That nice old man fucked over his entire family and every last one of his workers simply so he could make an extra dime. Every last one of his personal bills was paid for by the business, even if it cut into his children's wages. This man literally believed he was helping out everyone he was related to, even while he was screwing them over. They worked the minimum he would pay them, as little as they could live on, because he convinced them that was all he could afford. He had an astronomically large stockpile of cash while his workers were under the assumption that the business was barely squeaking by. And he made it seem like the saddest story possible. I believed for the better part of a year that this kindly old man was unable to make it ahead in a niche market, that they were only able to make a slight profit, barely surviving paycheck to paycheck. His family? His workers? They believed it, too. They had their doubts, of course, but they wanted to believe. The simple fact was this old man was robbing them of their own futures to get himself ahead during the twilight years of his life. As far as I could tell, he actually believed he was destitute and barely making it by. Never mind that he was rich beyond his family's wildest dreams. The worst part was that his family was dependent on the success of their business, yet they had no say into where the profits went. They often wound up buying their own tools and equipment just so they could get their jobs done. I stopped visiting when I spotted the grandkids getting trained to work with an arc welder; apparently Uncle Joe wouldn't work for free anymore and somebody had to pick up the slack. The boss' new car looked amazing, though. Things like that happened everyday as far as I'm aware, across the entire town.

Back inside the park, I was a gruff, slave-owning soldier for the Civil War reenactment. It was intentionally kept ambiguous whether I was a good guy or bad guy, because you didn't want to offend the folks who were pro-Confederacy or deviate too far from the message. We were practically a step away from having the war be downgraded to a mild misunderstanding over coffee, with the slaves just begging to go back to work while whistling Dixie. I tried not to think about it. I played a role, people came to watch, I got a paycheck. I could barely afford rent. Hell, almost none of us could. I'd say we had people walking off the job on a day-by-day basis, but there was always somebody itching to replace them. I walked out sometime after the gangs started moving in. Most people, depending on where they're from, think of the Italian or Russian mafia, Crips and Bloods, Los Zetas and MS13, whatever. It doesn't matter. Almost none of the usual suspects were involved. Sure, just about every gang had a presence if they were pale enough to blend in, but they weren't the ones causing trouble. The real gangs in Independence were more ideological purists than anything else, staking claim to districts in order to enforce how they thought the perfect Libertarian town should run and how its citizens should act. The Patriots held the East side with a lead fist, for example, while the Randians patrolled the Northern heights demanding absolute purity of thought. They still brought in as much violence and illegal trades as you'd expect, but most of those markets were already in existence. We already had a thriving gun trade, why not a drug trade? Why not bring in prostitution? Why not bring in anything else for that matter?

So I got out as the gangs were moving in. The drug trade was in full effect by then and prostitution was at a record high. Beck tried to pretend the bordellos and meth factories weren't there. Just about anything that he considered immoral was supposed to get swept under the rug; it was below our concern. It was something that would wipe itself out as the more faithful, righteous, and mature stopped doing that sort of business. The invisible hand of the market would clean it all up. The idea was that all the corruption would go away due to market pressure. Because we were such a bastion of morality, since we were the height of the american ideal, none of that sort of thing would flourish, but... they became the main trades. They outstripped everything else. Guns, drugs, and prostitution. I mean, we treated women like shit. Honestly. Anyone who wasn't a white male was stomped on, both figuratively and literally. I think by the time I got out, the number of non-white workers was less than ninety-eight percent. I hate to lump myself in with the "we's" but it's true. That's the way it was. I'm not holding anything against the women who felt that selling themselves was the key to their upward mobility, either; I can understand, accept, and respect that. But the simple fact was, by that time, selling themselves professionally was often the only option they had other than some form of outright slavery.

That's kind of the end of my story. I wish more people would speak up like this, but they probably won't. I knew people who didn't have any idea what was really going on on the outside. Literally. They were closeted in their own ignorance. I wish I could say the same was true for me, but I was aware. I ventured out into the city. I saw the depths that humanity was willing to sink to to make a quick buck, and I had to get out. I'm not surprised with where things are right now. I can't see anything happening other than it getting worse. By the time I left, any sort of enforcement of any sort of rules whatsoever was at a standstill. The park put itself in a choke-hold. They had an internal security force that made sure everything on the inside was as close to legal as we could get it. Outside, they said it was a free land. And that's what they had to live with. I'm assuming the guys who made these decisions didn't think that freedom would take us in that direction, but I honestly don't know. The fact that they let it go as far as it did and, to this day, are letting it continue... I just don't know. Maybe they have some sort of end goal in mind, that everything is going according some insane plan? What I do know is that things are just going to get worse, the town will get bigger, and the people inside will be certain the Invisible Hand will save them.

I just hope they're right.

“Sunset” by Jr.

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=411997501&forumid=1

I've always liked the way the sun sets here. Just like the Liberty Bell--pieces of bronzy polish through the sooty plumes from the factories on Henry Street, shining above the plaster and razorwire of the Freedom Limits wall. Teach' at the Learning Center said they built it to keep the leeches and parasites out--that they were jealous of our success and they wanted to steal it for themselves without working for it, so we needed to make a wall to preserve our way of life. One of the guys at the elcee asked if it was to keep us in, once. I don't think I saw him after that. Teach' said something about "sedishus axe". I don't know what that means. American Dream Carter tried to explain it to me, but I still didn't get it. American Dream is way smart, but they don't let her into the elcee. It's not a woman's place to worry about that stuff, uncle said. He said Dream is a "toxic wasp in my head". He hates it when I talk to her, because she makes me think about bad things. She said he hates her because she makes me think at all.

Night-time is getting close. That orange sky is turning grey again like it always does when I'm walking home from the elcee. The streetlamp on the corner of Property and Jefferson flickers on. I hold my pistol tight in my jacket pocket--it makes me feel safe when I'm alone on empty streets like that. I've started waving to Private Expediency--Speedy, even though he never waves back. He just lies on the street with his helmet crushed, and his busted-up moped in a puddle of oil a few yards away. I guess he crashed a week or so ago, and nobody picked him up. He's been there ever since. He's the only person on the street here besides me anyway, waving seems like a proper thing to do.

The packing plant is a few more blocks away. I hope I won't be late again. Last time I was late, Boss made me clean the floors with hai-droh-floor-ic acid. It makes me feel really sick, but it gets the floor really clean. I guess that's why he calls it floor-ic acid. He laughs when he says it. I laugh too, but I can't laugh too hard or I cough really badly. Boss is a newcomer here, he used to work somewhere in the Government Oversight--Kansas maybe. He likes to tell people how he outsmarted some worthless government guy named Osha by moving his meat packing company here, since only the good workers are here. All the other ones are whiners and parasites. Says he makes a lot more here where he doesn't have to worry about paying taxes and benefits--says you can't just get benefits, you have to earn them. He doesn't send any product outside the walls.

I saw a letter on his desk once from the Government Oversight. "Outrageous work conditions". "Appalling business practices". "Not fit for human consumption". "Far exceeds maximum safe levels of heavy metals". I don't get it. Meat is meat. If you worked hard enough to afford it, why even complain? It's just rat and possum, nobody ever died from rat and possum. Well, rat and possum and last week, Samuel Adams Harris. Sam was working one of the deboning machines, fell right in. I don't think I can ever forget the way he screamed as the big mechanical fingers pulled him in. Some of the other separator guys tried to pull him out, but those machines work quick. I think Paul Revere Donovan got fired over that, 'cause he was really good friends with Sam and he kicked up a huge fuss about pulling the hairs out of the meat later. Makes me glad I'm one of the cleaning guys, and not working with the machines. I'd hate to lose my job over something silly like that after the Minister of Information said unemployment hit 61% last night. To be honest, those machines scare me. Uncle said I don't have anything to be worried about because the Free Market will take care of us, and I should be glad I have a job at all, but I sure didn't see any invisble hands pulling Sam out from the scraper. That sounds like something Dream would say, maybe uncle is right.

I've got about fifteen more hours until my shift ends. After that I'll probably buy some soup at the Canteen and head back to the elcee. It should be light by then. I haven't slept in a while, but you can't make money while you sleep. And why bother doing anything if you're not making money? Mr. Beck said learning is important. So I have to go to the elcee after work, so I can be a captain of industry too. When I leave it'll be tomorrow and I can maybe sleep a little before going to work. I like the walk from the elcee to work. I've always liked the way the sun sets here.

“Mummy” by Whybird

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=412002858&forumid=1

By now, the other girls have developed a sense for when they need to send a man to Lois' room.

It's not an easy call. At first glance all customers look the same. The paunch, the swagger. The cheap, chemical aftershave.

Men. Their lives would be so much simpler if they could understand what they wanted.

Take this one. Snakeskin boots. Gunbelt at his hip. Everything he's wearing is calculated to say: this is a winner. This is a master of his destiny. This is a man with no doubts in the world, not a shred of weakness.

And it's lying. From the dilation of his pupils, he's had a noseful of confidence on the way here. In a city where men hold all the power and all the money he still needs chemical assistance before he can work up the nerve to pay money for sex in a dirty room with a girl in a cheaply-made negligee.

That'd be one for Lois, then.

There's a certain art to getting a punter to pick the girl you want him to pick. Fortunately, Elsie is on the door, and she knows how to play this one. She's already slipping effortlessly into her patter.

"Of course, sir," she is saying, "and I'm sure any of our girls would be delighted to spend the night with such a fine man as yourself. Except -- oh, Lois is very picky, you know. So I would have to --"

It'd be depressing how regularly it worked if it wasn't what put bread on the table. He is, of course, demanding the opportunity to see Lois. He is insisting that he is a big player, and they wouldn't want to see him angry.

Satisfied, Lois retreats behind the door and gives her room a final check. Adjusts the vase; checks the temperature of the oven; positions herself on the sofa.

Her client stops in surprise, as they all do, when he enters the room and sees no bed, and no whore, but a modestly dressed lady in her late middle age. The pause is important. It gives her the time to seize control of the conversation.

"Do come in," she says, patting a seat on the sofa. "I've been so eager to hear about everything you've been up to in Independence."

And she's away. He's sitting next to her and talking up his big Captain of Industry act. Telling her about the factory, and the parasite he laid off after it lost a limb in the machinery, and the -- yes, here come the tears, right on cue, as the mask he's been wearing since he arrived in the city snaps like a twig.

"Oh God," he burbles, as she folds her arms around him. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..."

They say that the men of Liberty only have room in their world for two kinds of women: sluts and whores. But Lois knows that isn't true, and that knowledge has made her and the girls very rich indeed. It's a dangerous power, precarious, but it's hers and hers alone to wield.

"Hush," she coos to the sobbing man as she cradles him in her arms. "hush. It's okay. Mummy will make it better."

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way” by BooDoug187

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=412010778&forumid=1

What’s on TV in Independence Park USA?

Glen Beck stood at the large window that over looked the nasty, dirty streets of what was supposed to be his utopia. From high up on the top floor of the Freedom Tower he could see the black clouds from the factories, the cheap buildings that were falling apart, the streets littered with rotting trash.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Beck said quietly, sadly to himself.

He was saying this a lot, every day, almost every hour for the last five years. He couldn’t tell you when it all fell apart. He couldn’t tell but his backers, those with the title of “Town Founders”, could sense that the writing was on the wall and left quickly. Of course they couldn’t go back to the “real” US. They scattered to South America, Europe, or somewhere that would be a red tape nightmare for the US to get them. The crimes they done in this city were nurmous and all around evil. It didn’t matter that the “founders” were rich, powerful men before they came to Independence. After their time here they were criminals, no way they could buy their way out of jail time, on in this case, a death sentence.

Beck could have left too. He had plenty of chances to.

But he couldn’t. There was too much at stake if he left.

The wall behind Beck was covered with TV screens. Only six of the screens were on. These six screens were the TV networks of Independence. All six were at one time the bastions of truth for his city. Now they look more like cable access channels. Beck had these screens on 24/7 but never really watched them. The first screen showed the main reason Beck felt he couldn’t leave.

On the screen was a man wearing black BDUs. He stood at a podium and was speaking. Beck had the sound off but he knew what that man was saying.

The man’s name was Ambrose Liberty, and he was a full blown neo-Nazi.

Ambrose took over what use to be “Local Independence Network” some time ago and made it his mouth piece. He would take the stage and for what seemed like hours talk about why Independence was falling apart. It wasn’t because of greed, or the lack of laws.

It was because of the blacks, jews, a-rabs, gays, carpet munchers, and the godless.

It was almost the kind of thing Beck said back years ago, except he didn’t come right out and said it, he hid it in somewhat flowery prose of bullshit.

Beck felt that Ambrose would take over Independence in a heartbeat if he would have left. Ambrose and his followers have control of section 5 of the city. Beck’s Patriots gave him reports of how Ambrose’s followers have tried to spread out to other sections but were pushed back. Beck wanted to have Ambrose removed but he knew that doing that would make him some kind of martyr. No can’t have that…

On the next screen was hard core porn. It was smuggled in sometimes ago. The channel use to be a “classics” network, showing old episodes of tv sitcoms from the 50’s “before the liberals took over the airways.”

The problem is there is only so much “classic” shows you can show on a 24 hour basis. The thing was the “classics” channel was black for a while because three years into the beginning of Independence the rights holders to the old shows demanded that their shows be removed from the closed networks. Beck didn’t want to have too much bad press because of some old episodes of The Andy Griffith Show so he had the shows removed and the network was for a time off the air. It was about year 8 when someone took over the station and was showing porn. Since Independence didn’t have a FCC (because FCC was censorship, Independence was anti-censorship) the network with no name remained on. This “network” showed mainly interracial porn. On the screen right now a white girl was surrounded by a number of nude black men. The girl had a smile on her face as the men started to work.

The funny thing was. People complained mainly because of the interracial scenes, not because of the porn itself.

The next screen was someone response to the no name interracial porn channel. It went by the name Homegrown. When it first started it was mainly amateur porn made by the people of Independence. Married couple or in most cases hidden camera stuff from the many whore houses in Independence. But now the Homegrown network mainly showed what became Independence main export.

Child Porn.

Beck could see reflected on the screen what was being shown on the Homegrown network. A young girl, maybe 8 or 9 years old, was in a nasty looking room. The girl looked sick and dirty. Most likely she was from either the “slum” sections of the city or from one of the Patriots’ Orphanages. The girl looked off camera with a tired look. Either she was drugged or had been doing this for a while. A man walked on screen, nude and was about to start with the girl.

Beck hated it. He hated that this was happening to his city. He tried to stop this. When he heard they there was child sex slaves in his city, that child porn was made and sold in his city, that families were whoreing their children out for food and water Beck wanted it stopped.

But he was out voted. The town founders argued that it was just fine that this was happening. They came up with flimsy excuses as to why it was ok for young children to be used for sex.

“If we can have children apprentice in our factories and offices then why not let them… explore their sexuality in safe ways?”

Beck remembered the person who said that. He was an overweight man who funded a large amount of the building of Independence so he was able to buy himself a seat as a “Town Founder”. The overweight man was one of the first to flee the city. Before that some video of the fat man with some underage boys was leaked out to the “real” US. Beck found out that the fat idiot was arrested in Bangkok. He was sent back to the US and sentenced to four life sentences. Beck knew the idiot probly tried to make plea deals, tring to throw Beck or anyone else under the bus to save his skin.

But the US government wasn’t having it. The idiot was the first of the Town Founders captured and the US made him an example. His trial was in secret. The American public didn’t really know the man was captured until the news reported that he was found guilty of his crimes.

When the founders escaped Beck thought about stopping the child sex trades.

But he couldn’t. If he shut down the Homegrown network, the child whore houses, cracked down on the people using the children he would be labeled a “lie-beral”, a hypocrite, a traitor.

Beck couldn’t have that, not now. He sighed as he saw the screen reflected though the window. Another little girl, another man. It made Beck sick but he couldn’t do anything about it.

The next screen was a network that wasn’t made in Independence. It was news networks from the “outside world”. It reminded Beck of the old Radio Free Europe. The news was being beamed in by the military blockage. Beck’s Patriots’ tried their best to block the signal but they didn’t have the equipment or know how. To tell the truth Beck didn’t mind or care that these news networks were being broadcast in his city. Hell there was no real news in his city any more.

Reflected in the widow Beck could see Fox News was on. He chuckled. He remembered when he was going to build his city. The suits at Fox News secretly tried to get a studio in his city, offering Beck large sums of money. Beck turned them down. In a way he felt that it was their fault that he was this deep in shit. They built him up to be a major mouth piece. He became the “leader” of the tea party. Fox stuffed his head full of hype. Until he bit the hands that fed him.

Lashing out at anyone and everyone on either side of the government who either spoke out at him or didn’t want to be on his show. Fox got tired of his shit and kept him on ice, shutting down his show, keeping him off the air except his radio show and his internet show.

Beck almost wished he could go back to those days. Just collecting his paycheck and waiting for his contract to expire. At times he watched the Fox broadcast on what he called “Radio Free US”. This version of Fox News was shockingly honest. There was no super conservative slant or overly jingo-esc tone. It was normal, honest news. It made Beck wonder if this version of Fox was shown all over the US or was just for his city.

“Finally fair and balanced.” Beck said.

The last two screens were blank. One use to be Beck’s own network, The Blaze. It was for a time his main network. When the founders were escaping the techs who ran Blaze also escaped. Beck kept the signal on but he couldn’t make any kind of show if he wanted to. The last screen was a pirate station.

Beck looked at his watch. It was close to 5pm. He turned around and looked at the screens. He wondered what the “other” network would be showing.

At 5pm every day one of the networks would be taken over by the pirate station. Today it interrupted the Homegrown network. A black silhouette of a person using a voice coder appeared on screen. This person called himself “The Adversary”. The Adversary would come on and would speak about the evils of Beck, the founders, and the patriots. Today the Adversary talked about Beck’s past.

“How can you follow a man like this?” The adversary asked angrily to his viewers before he played a clip from Beck’s old 80’s morning zoo show. Beck remembered the clip. It was when he called a rival DJ’s wife, making fun of her recent miscarriage. It wasn’t his finest hour but in light of the recent events he wished he was back doing morning radio. Making stupid jokes and phone calls, playing shit music.

Beck wished he could go back, wished he could take this all back.

Something on the “Radio Free US” caught Beck’s good eye. It was a press conference at the white house. Beck muted all other tvs and started to watch the white house.

The female president walked up to the podium. She had a stern look on her face. The caption on the screen read “President’s address about Independence Park”. Beck held his breath. There was only two things that this could mean:

1) The US will cut all ties with Independence, making the city an independent country or…2) The military is coming in.

The president looked into the camera.

“My fellow Americans, for the past ten years the city of Independence has been dodging justice. We have demanded to let humanitarian efforts to enter the city. They have repeatedly denied our help. In the recent years we have been hearing more horror stories of what has been going on behind the walls. FBI, Interpol, and Homeland Security have evidence of child sex slavery being done, in the open, in the city. EPA has sent reports about the poisoning of water and the air in and around the city. The city of Independence has become an evil cancer upon our country. A cancer that will be removed. I have issued a full military invasion of the city.”

Beck sat there. As soon as the president said that “Radio Free US” went off the air. He knew that any moment Patriot leaders will rush into his office, demanding orders to defend themselves from the enemy. He knew there would be some panic (if anyone in the city watched that network).

Beck saw the other networks seem to change.

Ambrose seemed to become more excited. No doubt telling his followers this was their chance to take over.

The unnamed porn network stopped playing porn, on the screen was a image of the American Flag with the words “God Bless America” imposed over it.

During the press conference it looked like the Homegrown network got control back from The Adversary. Whoever was running it must have also watched the president’s speech because on screen they were showing a “live” sex scene involving a girl about 12 years old and a man in a crappy looking US military uniform having sex.

The Adversary was on the last two networks. Beck put the sound on both those networks. On screen was aerial views of the city, the Adversary telling people where safe areas would be and to not attack the US troops who have come to help them.

Beck watched these screens, and smiled.

“Oh thank God it’s almost over.” He said out loud.

"Patriots Don't Cry" by LJHalfbreed

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=412082257&forumid=1

I am so so proud. I didn’t cry today. Patryutts don’t cry.

I sat and I stared at her. I felt kinda happy, kinda good. And I didn’t cry. Momma was dead. I was alone. That’s it.

I stood, staring at the floor near where Momma had laid and given up, all brown and covered with empty joosboxis and mreez we stole from Mister Layton’s house next door. Her bed smells. The joosboxis smell. The smoke from outside smells even though I used the ducktayp on the holes to stop tearorizms. Everything here smells bad, including Momma. I hated her smell the most.

I brushed off some yuck from my pants… can you call them pants? I don’t think so. They are just yucky and brown. Unclean, like what the pairasytes wear. I didn’t want to be a pairasytes but that’s what I am now, just like Daddy said. Dirty and brown, just like parasites, that’s me. Soon I will get a job and get real money (not feeyat money!) and buy new pants! I’ll do really good too!

Well, I want to do good. But I’m little. And now I’m alone. And I don’t know what to do. I’m pretty sure I’m a pairasytes now, just like Daddy called us when Momma told him Georgie was sick and needed medsins but Daddy said he would get better if he would just try and Momma called him the badwords about patryutts and they yelled and Daddy hit Momma a lot. I was glad. She was a pairasytes and pairasytes should never ever say bad things about patryutts. That’s what Daddy said.

I wish I was better. I wish I was a patryutt, so big and strong and smart and free. Daddy was a patryutt. Momma was a pairasytes. Momma wanted me to hate Daddy for being so mean and busive. But momma was a Pairasytes wanting handowts and freebeez for Georgie. Daddy was mean and that was bad, but I hated Momma more because she was worthless.

I didn't cry when Georgie died. I hated him. Everybody in the house had to take care of him. I had to share my food. He was too tiny to even help get the food. Just small and stupid. He didn’t do anything except make it smell bad and cry. So many bad smells. So much crying. He is why Daddy went away. Because he was a pairasytes, just like Momma, and now just like me.

I miss Daddy so much. I cried when he left. That was the last time I cried, because patryutts don’t cry. Didn't you know that?

I’m too little and small and tired to carry Momma to the garbage outside. Plus the Outsyders are still there. Not close, our house is too far from the wall to hear good, but if you go through the crawlhole Momma and Daddy made to Mister Laytons, you can poke your head out the roof and hear their proper gandas. I don’t know what else to do and I am hungry so I crawl through and leave stupid Momma there, dead like all pairasytes should be. Maybe I can hear something good that will make me madder at the Outsyders that I am at Momma.

I crawl through the hole, and forget how dark it is in here. Mister Layton died one day and Daddy didn’t tell anyone because it wasn’t our bizness. Mister Layton had a nice house even though he put boards on all the windows and doors when the Outsyders came to The Wall. He was a patryutt. He had guns and mreez and joosboxis and books and a teevee. He worked on the roll acoastur in the park. He was real smart about tearorismz. Daddy said Mister Layton didn’t pull himself up by his bootstraps and didn’t pay his bills before the Outsyderz came, so the other patryutts said he was a pairasytes and made his lectrik off. But it was good then because then we had some food and stuff that we used from Mister Layton’s house to get full and not be so thirsty. Mister Laytons was a nice man and I am glad he was able to keep so much stuff in his house away from the pairasytes. I would be dead and dumb just like Momma and Georgie if we couldn’t take what is rightfully ours from Mister Laytons because he was dead. That was what Daddy said and Daddy was right.

My eyes got used to the darkness finally and I looked around. So many books of so many patryutts! I wish I could read more better. Momma said I needed skool but Daddy said that she was a badword because we would be pairasytes for not teaching ourselves. I think Daddy didn’t realize how dumb Momma was. Pairasytes don’t know nothing, and patryutts do, and that’s a fact, like Daddy said. And now she is dead, like a dumb pairasytes should be. But she made me a stupid dumb brown pairasytes and I don’t wanna die. I still wanna be a patryutt. I’m gonna try hard and make Daddy proud.

I see the backs of the books that show the names of them, all dusty and forgotted. One time when we had a light we came in here and Daddy read to me the best stories about Glennbeck and Adam Smith. If I wasn’t such a dumb pairasytes, maybe Daddy would have stayed with us and finished reading his favorite book. I will never get to find out who John Galt is, and this makes me sad. It makes me remember Daddy leaving so I stop thinking about it.

I miss Daddy but I know if I can stop being a stupid dumb pairasytes and so brown and dirty he will come back. I look at the guncases as I wander around, remembering Daddy, so big and strong and smart. I saw the shadows of the salt ryfels locked away good and tight to prevent pairasytes from taking away them all. Guns get you freedom, did you know that? Daddy told me! I didn’t know how to get the guns and ryfels out of the case, or I would have tried to get some freedom right then. I’m pretty sure it tastes way better than joosboxis or mrees. Or maybe it feels good like new clothes. I can’t remember real good what freedoms was, but I know I want some!

I walked to where Mister Layton had his stash. Stupid Momma and dumb Georgie ate a lot of these. Momma said she didn’t make any more milk because she was sick. Of course she didn’t make anything, she was a pairasytes like Daddy said! Stupid pairasytes! Instead she would open up the mreez and chew them up and then try and put them in Georgies’ mouth. It was so gross. I couldn’t believe Georgie was so stupid and a pairasytes so bad he couldn’t even work for himself. Momma made us bad and worthless pairasytes, just like Daddy said.

I had to go potty, and since I was by the turlet in Mister Layton’s I just did. I hate it. It hurts bad to pee and is always brown, like a dirty pairasytes. There was a tiny light that Daddy said made work by solars or something, and I am afraid of the turlet so I usually turn it on. Momma said this was a bad thing to do because then patryuts would know that we were there and would find us and do bad things. I would always turn it on just because patryutts need to know that Momma is here and is a pairasytes and then maybe by turning Momma in, Daddy would come back.

They never came. They never saved me from Momma. I miss Daddy so, so much, but I’m not gonna cry. Patryutts don’t cry.

The light makes sure none of the monsters come out of the turlet at me. I’m still afraid one day the rockobama monster will come out and take my rights away and then I wont be allowed to use the potty or eat mreez and drink joosboxis anymore. Daddy told me all about the rockobama and the other monsters, but the light protects me. I go potty and it hurts extra bad now, like when my teeth went bad and started to come out of my mouth. I look in the turlet and now it is red and dark, like how Georgies’ diapers looked before he finally died and made things better. I was so glad when he was gone. Almost as glad when I realized Momma was dead just like Georgie was that one day. She made us talk about God and Heaven and how Georgie was there now, but I already know that pairasytes don’t go to heaven because that’s what Daddy said, and both Momma and Georgie was pairasytes.

And now I’m one too.

I have the pairasytes in me and now I am one and now it’s going to make me dead like it made Momma and Georgie dead. And then I really won’t get to see Daddy again. This made me feel really bad and then I started to almost cry but I stopped it. I haven’t cried since forever and I am not going to now. Patryutts don’t cry. Daddy told me, remember?

I take some joosboxis and the mreez and poke up to the attic where Mister Layton kept his old stuff away from pairasytes. I have a good view of the smoke outside, and sometimes if the wind blows just right, it doesn’t smell like tires and garbage. Momma said it was smoke from garbage, she is so dumb. Daddy said it was from the Outsyders taking away freedoms, like being able to see the sun. One day I even saw the sun a long time ago, but I think that was because the Outsyderz were busy because the smoke came back and they took it away again. I sit on my special soft bed of stuff, and I open up the mreez and start smooshing the bags real good with a book edge. I don’t got any teeth anymore and I cant eat them otherwise. I’m really turning into a for real pairasytes now, just like stupid dumb dead Georgie, and it makes me a little sad, but I don’t cry about it. I’m strong, just like a patryutt, see?

I’m ready to eat up my mreez and have already drank some joosboxis, and that's when I hear them. The Outsyderz have their loud voice going again! It is not real loud but I can hear em. Daddy said they was using proper gandas to tell their lies to make Mister Glennbeck sound like a bad person and a pairasytes. They lie so, so much, did you know this? They said they had medsins (a lie, because who would pay for someone elses medsins? Nobody, because it is your own sponsy biltys!) and food (who cares because I got lots of joosboxis and mreez to feed me for mostly forever! don't turn me into a pairasytes for touching your freebeez!) and safety (I don’t know how you can be safe when there are pairsytes who will take everything you made with your own hands because they are lazy and brown and dirty. I hate pairasytes so much!)

I try to lay down and listen so I know how to be ready for when the Outsyderz take all our freedoms, but it’s hard. When I got hurted the other day, I got a big scratch on my arm. Now it’s all hot and red and has yuck coming out of it. I squirted some joosboxis on it because it tastes good and has vitamins and that should make it better, but it keeps hurting more and having more yuck. This is what happens to you when you become a pairasytes. God punishes you. You get sick. You die. And Daddy leaves.

But I lay down in a big pile of Mister Layton’s old clothes and pillows and stare at the sky, listening to the stupid proper gandas. I know Daddy will come back one day, he is being a good patryutt and fighting the Outsyderz from taking our freedoms and rights. The sky starts to dim, and I hear the proper gandas of Miss Redcross begging to come in and help. HA! See? All pairasytes are beggars and want to come in to Independence where we still have our freedoms and rights and sponsy biltys and solars lights to keep the rockobama from not letting us go potty! Such a liar! I hope Daddy makes her dead to so her stupid dumb pairasytes voice stops talking.

I hear the bangs faraway of the ryfels and guns, shooting tearorizms and gayajendaz and Outsyderz probably. It’s Daddy, trying to protect us and Independence and Mr Glennbeck from them. I still don’t feel good but I drank lots of joosboxis and ate a bunch of mreez today so I should be big and strong tomorrow! I got them myself so they should be extra strong. Also both Momma and Georgie are dead and they won’t be making me a pairasytes so much no more. The thought of Daddy protecting us out there makes me feel a lot better, and before I know it, I am too tired to cry so I am getting better and not being as much a pairasytes so Daddy might come back for me tomorrow.

Goodnight, Independence. Goodnight, Mr Glennbeck. Goodnight Daddy, I miss you so much.

Don’t worry, I didn’t cry. I just went to sleep. Patryutts don’t cry.

“Gaulticus: Blood and Rand.” By Schwza

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=412094400&forumid=1

The shriek was excruciating; a massive metal fist, thumb erect and pointing to the sky, began its slow pivot. A crude metal hand connected to a giant, grinning statue of The Blind Prophet. Well, it wasn’t the most flattering of portrayals of our Founding Father considering its soft copper shell had been stripped the night it was put up to signify the 30th year of the founding of Independence and Liberty Arms’ newest line of self-defense grenades. Nothing could stop a fleet-footed scrapper’s insatiable copper lust. Damn parasites…

The fist finally ground to a halt but the shrieking went on. Then it hit me; the crowd was screaming, imitating that auditory nightmare. I loathe them. The parasites couldn’t make their own noises?

Through my cage I could see the attorney heft his hammer, the maul a mighty gold-plated hand, above his head and cave in that salesman’s skull. A pink mist lightly floated on the air only to stain the dirt, and the attorney’s boots. The Free Market had spoken.

I have to admit I wasn’t fond of the Amendment in 2025 to allow Corporations “that the free market had chosen” to hire attorneys to stand for them in Legal Battle. But, rules were rules and it’s not like I could make a law to change it. Laws are what LIBberals use to control the Sheeple and parasites and I’ll take a shift in the Pharmalons Applied Research Lab before I do something a Kenyanist would do.

As the children rushed the arenas floor to through the dead plaintiff’s pants I began to reconsider that offer. FYGM Limited, a holding of Rand Corp, offered to buy out mine, and any other “down on their luck” patriot’s debts if we signed a contract of five years labor in the Uranium mines. We would be paid a stipend to live off the company store and could buy out our contract, if you were frugal enough, within two years. What they didn’t tell you is that after a year in the mines you would have inoperable tumors due to all the radiation from the unshielded reactor built above them. But it might be a better offer than this.

Now, I am no parasite, and I know that I have some debts from investments gone awry, but in my defense that quaint little opium den in the Atlas District was in a good neighborhood the week I built it. Wasn’t my fault that the Cartels decided to take that block in a hostile buy-out. Those guys are well practiced in the ways on the Free Market.

But here I am, in debt 400,000,000 GBs, and it wasn’t even my fault. Plenty of other people lost money on that buy-out and they weren’t in my place. Those investor luncheons were full of zealous buyers with similar finances to my own and I haven’t heard anything about their trials. They all must have had other businesses to fall back on. Not me, I put all of my GBs, my Randbucks, and even my Pure Strain into that opportunity on the urging of a few new friends I met at the meetings. They said that they would follow my lead because they could tell I was a future Captain of Industry. I wasn't planning on going down so easy. I'd take them on in the Courts!

They dragged the battered corpse off the dirt and the crowd quieted down. A tall, thin man wearing a button up shirt bearing the badge of Independence walked into the middle of the arena. The bailiff raised a microphone to his wide lips.

“And the Free Market speaks again!” he cried, the crowd erupted. “That will remain a lesson for anyone trying to sell cutlery: Rusty’s Knife and Blade has the rights to all sales in the Freedom District. Praise the Free Market!”

“Rea-Gan!” the crowd chanted back.

“Our next Case is docket number 1339902-k, A Mr. Gaulticus Rand v. Letrac Investing Solutions LLC. The Defendants are using their right, under the Eighth Amendment in the Constitution of the Independent State of Real America, to allow an Attorney to stand for them. Ladies and Gentleman! May I present to you to dish out the Justice, the Hitta’ from Virginia, the Drafter of Disaster, Thomas Deatherson!”

The name felt like a kick in the stomach. He is in the BARs hall of fame; a legal warrior second to none with hundreds of court decisions in his favor. If they are letting him go against minor debtors this must be an advertisement. My trial is being used to further his brand. I admire his skills; the Free Market truly shines upon him.

“BRING FORTH THE PLAINTIFF,” cried the loudspeakers from within the massive, stripped statue. The Blind Prophet always spoke of the Free Market guiding us to our destinies. The Blind Prophet spoke about a lot of things, actually. That’s why they are able to keep his voice around long after his death. He recorded his wisdom to be used for all of Independence’s trials, he was the voice of the Free Market and he would judge all those who would stand against it. And now he presided over my trial, sparks flying from his eyes as he spoke. “PROCEED.”

A guard prodded me with a crude cudgel to step into the arena. A wall of boos hit me. A steady stream of juice boxes rained from the bleachers, all aimed at me. The Bailiff gave me the microphone.

“I’m Mr. Galticus Rand,” my voice wavered as the boos continued, “and I was taken advantage of through deceptive means…” I trailed off. No one could hear over loud howls of the crowd.

“Moocher!”

“LIEbral scum!”

“Obamailure!”

Each insult hurt more than the last. Maybe they were right. I wasn’t taking personal responsibility like Reagan did. Had I been forsaking the Free Market? No. Of course not. I was going to be a Captain of Industry and no bad deal would stop that. I was too big to fail!

“As legal recourse, I choose pistols!” I shouted into the microphone, inspired by what I felt to be the presence of Reagan. The crowd screamed in ecstasy.

The Bailiff took the microphone from my trembling hand. “Pistols! An interesting choice! We all know that Thomas Deatherson favors the Armscorps’ Patrioteer .50 BMG snub nose," the crowd went wild, "What will our Plaintiff be using?”

I hadn’t brought my own pistol as it was seized in the asset forfeiture. Luckily Liberarms was running a special to any Plaintiff: A free lease of one of their new production models as a way to advertise affordable defense to the parasites. “I’ll be leasing a Coulter,” I replied over the hisses of the crowd

“A Coulter!” the Bailiff shouted, “One of the best choices to defend your rights, even if you are low on cash. By Liberarms!”

A Court Clerk handed me my weapon. Now, I was never a gun aficionado, but calling the Coulter a pistol, even a gun, certainly was a stretch. It was nothing more than a pipe and a spring loaded firing pin with a handle that the used would pull back and let slide forward to strike the primer. The Free Market sure is innovative.

The Statue erupted in sparks again, “LET THE TRIAL BEGIN!” The crowd began to cheer as I walked to my “Bench”. It was little more than a metal post to mark distance from Thomas Deatherson. I could see his snub nosed revolver, hanging from his belt down past his knee, glinting in the smog filtered light. The winds picked up and dust began to fill the arena. Juice boxes tumbled past me.

“LET THE FREE MARKET CHOOSE!” cried the statue. I pulled the Coulter up and trying to aim but the dust burned my eyes. Through a squint I could see Thomas Deatherson raise his Patrioteer. Nothing happened. The dust must have caused a jam in his pistol! Reagan Be Praised! For surely the Invisible Hand guided me today. My whole life flashed before me. This is where He wanted me. The Blind Prophet was right and the Free Market made its choice. It chose me! I smiled and lined up the Coulters sights as Thomas Deatherson tried to un-jam his faulty weapon.

The ringing is worse than the sound of the statues fist turning. I look down to see a bloody stump where my arm once was. The dirt burns as it clots my wounds. That damn thing must have exploded. I must have forsaken the Free market by using a parasites weapon; leasing? That must be the parasites word for charity. I tried to stand up but I just flailed in agony on the ground. The thumb was pointing downward and the crowd shifted and flowed like the reflecting pool during the 4th of July jet-ski race.

He sauntered over, pointing towards The Prophets thumb. He had managed to un-jam his pistol. His foot nearly broke my ribs as he stood triumphantly over my blood stained body. Thomas Deatherson show boated for the crowd, flexing his massive arms. He didn’t earn this victory but he was taking all of the credit. The parasite! He didn’t build a business like I did! He didn’t work long days and hire useless parasites at next to nothing to make his money selling Hentai in the Rand District! I did all of that! He didn’t get scammed out of his entire fortune by the Cartels! No that was me! I deserved this victory! I am entitled to it! This gun pointing at my head is mine and mine alone!

I built that.

“San Antonio” By BioEnchanted

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=412166962&forumid=1

Richard Kyanka looked out of his office window. The Independence Debacle of 2012 had had a profound effect on Something Awful.

It began in General Bullshit, as a thread making fun of a libertarian fantasy. Stories had cropped up, some of them completed novellas, and a few inspired Goons had collated them into a book. Of course they obtained permission from the authors, they gathered PayPal accounts to reimburse them, but they had no idea how quickly or how suddenly their popularity would explode.

The book started on Amazon as a PDF. In the first night there were but 300 copies sold, mainly to other bored goons with too much money. However, they showed the odd story to families and friends, and they were hooked on Goon-fiction, as the Genre became known. As the web of interest spread the authors had too much money and had no idea what to spend it on. After they had bought all they needed from life, they donated huge chunks to the man who had brought them all together, Rich ‘Lowtax’ Kyanka. Bored, and with no idea how to use the money himself, he bought an island in the centre of the Pacific. He figured, “Why not?” He thought it could be fun. Goon Island, the working title, became a reality.

In order to show up the Libertarian crazies and the insufferable Tea Partiers, he decided to become a symbol of everything they hated. He allowed anyone, from any country in the world to come live with him. Preference was given to Carpenters, Bricklayers, Doctors and others who could build a competent infrastructure at first. Bored entrepreneurs showed up, and invested their money in the upkeep and initial startup costs.

After the first 6 months, $200 Million worth of materials had been put into the island, and it showed. Plumbing, waste disposal and health care had been given precedent, with the funding from the entrepreneurs being used to pay their wages. With a minimum wage of $9 per hour, the people didn’t mind when the taxes came, as they knew where they were going: To the upkeep of the Hospital, the School, the roads and pipes, the Carbon Fibre internet line. After the first year, bridges had sprung up to manmade neighbouring islands and the intelligentsia had moved in. Researchers, Physicists, doctors and others had heard that Kyanka had planned a vast university, and the department funding was first come, first serve.

10 years later, thanks to the inspiration of Independence, USA, Goon Island (Since renamed San Antonio by popular demand) had become a true Utopia. Competition was healthy for better and better goods and services, as the regulations created a ‘floor’ for product quality that no one dared cross, and so they reached for the skies instead. ‘Cheaper’ became longer lasting and more efficient, and new forms of energy were viable and widely used. Richard Kyanka looked out of his window… and smiled contentedly.

“Untitled” By Bobbie Wickham

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=412188856&forumid=1

"...a reason we recommend taking it to a lawyer first, ya dip. And your doctor, and your family--did you even read the damn thing?" Dr. Boland's clipped, impatient voice came into Reiter's hearing. She was standing at the gate into Independence, arms crossed as she argued with a man Reiter hadn't seen before. The man chewed on a cigarette, a smarmy little smile playing on his lips. On his face was a pair of large aviator sunglasses; from the way he kept sniffing, Reiter presumed they were hide the bloodshot in his eyes. He held his phone up to Dr. Boland's face as she spoke.

"Would you care to explain why I have to wait a week to come in? In excruciating detail, if you please. Unless, of course, you have to be vague." Dr. Boland slumped one shoulder slightly, just enough to cock her head a little and express disdain for the man in front of her. Reiter glanced at Chloe, who raised her eyebrows in response. They had been summoned to the entrance by Dr. Aminatu; there was an unscheduled reporter demanding entrance into Independence. He had been given all the forms, waivers, and information packets required by everyone who wanted to enter Independence, but apparently he decided to barge in without his paperwork. Now he was being barred entry into the settlement itself. Dr. Aminatu begged Chloe to "keep the little bastard occupied" until the paperwork was settled.

"This place is an absolute health hazard: it'd be more sanitary to swim in a sewage tank than walk in there without a haz-mat suit and the full round of vaccines. It takes five days for all the vaccines to become fully effective, so we extended it to a week, in case there are adverse reactions. We can't even guarantee that you won't come out of here with something in your blood stream. There are unidentified pathogens in here that could be fatal and/or cause severe mutations in your children. Hence the offer by the CDC to store sperm or eggs from workers and visitors before they come in, and the subsidized vasectomies and tubal ligations."

"That's awfully generous of the government, isn't it? Has to be expensive, vaccines and operations for all these people?"

"It's that, or flipper babies," Dr. Boland replied. "And they'd only be flipper babies if we're lucky." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "You know we put all this info out there for the general public, to warn them away from Independence. And to cover our asses if any uppity little two-bit 'journalists' come strutting into the place to go gonzo on us, fuck up our research, and then try to sue the government when their brains turn into Swiss cheese from a prion disease. But, then," she gave a sarcastic little laugh, "what kind of reporter actually does research before an assignment?" The door of a trailer opened, and Dr. Aminatu appeared. She descended the stairs and approached Dr. Boland and the reporter. Dr. Boland gestured to her co-worker. "Dr. Aminatu is running this particular site; she'll be happy to explain why you're a jackass, in excruciating detail." She pulled down the hood of her haz-mat suit and walked away. The reporter's face lit up when he saw Dr. Aminatu.

"What luck!" he exclaimed. "I've been granted an audience with a Nubian princess." Dr. Aminatu stopped in her tracks. She was slightly thick, but an attractive woman all the same, somewhere around fifty years old. Her skin was dark, verging on purple in certain lights, which made her an object of fascination and disdain for the residents of Independence. As such, Reiter felt a little thrill in his heart when her eyes narrowed at the reporter.

"Excuse me? 'Nubian?' Nubian? You actually just called me that?" The reporter's smile faded slightly. "Do you have any idea how many times I get called 'fleet-footed' in a week by these people? And that's a compliment to them. I have to deal with them and their condescending crap, I do not have to deal with you and your condescending crap. So if you want to come in here ever, you will cut the crap, sign the paperwork, and get your happy ass over to the medical center for your shots. Then you'll go to the orientations, read your damn packets, go on whatever tours Miss Chloe here is willing to take you on, and be grateful, okay?" The reporter nodded. His face was still frozen in a dim smile, a nervous reaction he always had when he was dressed down and had no response. Dr. Aminatu waved Chloe and Reiter over.

"This is Chloe, and Private Reiter. They'll be your tour guides for the week. Enjoy the show." The doctor turned smartly and started walking to the trailer that served as an on-site lab. "And by the way, my grandfather was from Africa; I'm from Georgia."

"The Handicapped Man and the Sea" by Tea Party Crasher

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?action=showpost&postid=413898280&forumid=1

The shoddily made wooden bridge swayed slightly, making Terrence Quincy stumble from side to side. He'd always had weak legs, a fact that he hid from the Board of Administrators when he attended the Independence Freedom Training School for Juveniles. It was a secret he maintained into his adulthood through the use of metal braces he made himself, concealed under patched khakis. It was necessary for him to oil the braces every morning, in order to not rouse any suspicion by squeaking as he walked. This would give him time to meditate and plan out his day.

There was no sympathy for cripples on this island; in fact there was disdain for them. Independence was built on the water for great men and women to escape the tyranny of America and create a self sustainable city with their work. Most would not find Terrence to be fitting in that kind of society of idealistic, perfect people. To seek out a doctor would be admitting to weakness, Terrence believed, and to do so would be suicide. He did not wish to become the center of some medical experiment, and he had heard stories of organs being harvested from the sick in order to be ground up and made into meat supplements that would be sold in the worker's market. Terrence would rather jump right off the bridge he was on, drown, and be eaten by the fish.

The fish there had developed a taste for human flesh over the years since Independence's founding, for this spot Terrence walked over was once used as a disposal for bodies of those killed by illness and asbestos. Being the only one with the will to do it, Terrence had the workers from the fishing business he owned remove the bodies with nets in order for him to expand the borders of the city from this very port. These same workers then began construction; for Terrence didn't wish to spend the GBs to have some contracting company do any even worse job.

If all went according to plan, Terrence's Fishing Co. would have be able to establish distribution right by the water side where they could sell it from ice chests shortly after they've been caught. Currently, it was required of the fishermen to bring the fish to the further in-land building. Usually starving non-patriots would mug the fisherman and steal these goods, and that was becoming all the more frequent. Not good for business at all.

Things were not going according to plan, though. If things were going to plan, Terrence would not have to traverse over the water on these wobbling walkways and instead be in his home greasing up his braces. The supervisor of the construction project and Terrence’s right hand man, Gillian, had contacted Terrence over HAM radio to inform him that there was a conflict with another business in the area. Terrence could see what this conflict was for himself once he got there; an Adams’ Seafood Etc. fishing vessel that had used its bow to divide a section of makeshift port. On the side of this vessel was a profile of Adams himself, with slick black hair and a chiseled chin that supported a wide toothy smile. This face triggered hatred in Terrence.

“It’s going to be a long god damn day,” Terrence uttered as Gillian broke away from a small group of workers and approached to elaborate on the situation.

Gillian was a short man, with a narrow face that brought his eyes and mouth too close to his nose. He never wore a shirt so that all could see the tattoo on his back depicting Atlas carrying the Earth. It was clear to Terrence that Gillian was a man of ambition, which would be admirable were it not for the worry that Gillian sought to overtake Terrence’s meager empire. For the time being, though, he was helpful. The future was for later.

Gillian slapped Terrence’s back, making his boss struggle for his balance. His legs silently creaked. “These jaq-offs have gone and thrown a wrench in our plans, boss,” Gillian said. “Or a boat, I guess.”

Terrence shot a look at his half naked right hand man. “Do you expect me to laugh when I could be losing a lot of money right now?”

With a sour expression Gillian compacted his facial features even further. “No wonder you’re such a tight-ass all the time.”

Deciding it wasn’t worth his time to address personal insults from a worker he returned to the original subject. “Have you tried making them move?”

“Of course boss, but they’ve got us outgunned.” Gillian pointed up to the back end of the vessel, where a hefty machine gun was mounted. “Decker went back to his place to get some dynamite from his stash.”

“I don’t want you to blow it up, for chrissake,” Terrence said. “That might cause even more damage then they’ve done already.”

"You've got a better idea?" Gillian asked.

"Always," Terrence answered and made his way to the vessel, getting as close as possible without stepping on broken wood. He shouted up the ship's side, "Hello! This is Terrence Quincy of Terrence's Fishing Company! I'd like to ask what the hell this boat is doing halfway through my new project!"

Over the side a wiry young worker leaned and said, "We're fishin'."

Pointing to the ruined wooden structure, Terrence asked, "Was this necessary?"

"We're just taking orders from Mr. Adams," the young man answered. "I don't think it's any of your business."

Terrence sneered. "It is my business, I was building a new expansion here. You can't just destroy my property like that."

"Property? This is the open water, you can't own that just by floating some wood on it."

"Floating some wood? I've not only been paying a fortune for these materials, but I've had to pay these parasites from day one!" Terrence turned to Gillian. "Not you, of course."

Gillian nodded.

"That reminds me," said the young man, and then he disappeared from the edge. A few moments later he came back with a small sack. "Adams said you'd be whining to us all day if we didn't compensate ya', so here." He tossed the sack down and with a mix of momentum and weight it broke through the bridge.

Terrence snapped up, "What was that!"

"Copper wires," said the young man. "It's all we could give."

Turning his furious stare to Gillian, who was absent-mindedly standing there, Terrence commanded as he pointed downward, "What are you waiting for? Go get it!" He then began to storm off but the structure below was shifted by a small wave, and after regaining balance he decided on a slow exit instead.

Gillian sighed.

***

From his apartment window Terrence looked over the recently developed shantytown that presided where his business use to be with melancholy. The building had been stripped down for the materials to be used in the building project in order to save money. He had figured that this new venture would pay off well enough to make up for this temporary lapse of time with no money flow. Seeing that Adams' Seafood Etc. fishing vessel in his mind made his blood boil. Trying to calm himself down, he returned to greasing the middle gears of his leg braces that supported his knees.

His condition had gotten considerably worse sense he was a child. Before his legs were not pale discolored, and the lack of hair was understandable. As he had aged they had hardly grown, looking thin in comparison to his upper body, which had grown normally. Even with the braces walking was a challenge for him because his small, floppy legs only had more to carry.

They're like two little fishes, he thought, and his mind once again spiraled down into a mental pit of anger. A knock on the door alerted him, and he exclaimed, "Don't come in!" Reaching for his khakis next to him on the mattress, he carefully slipped them on one leg at a time. The knocking continued. "Just a second!" Terrence said as he put on his belt and bent slightly to see if he creaked. No sound was made, so he limped to the door and after forcing himself into good posture opened the door to find Gillian standing there soaked, holding a sack in his hands. Before Gillian could greet himself, Terrence said "Put it on my table," and walked back to his mattress were he sat.

"Yeah, you're welcome boss," Gillian grumbled while placing down the sack on the desk, which was naturally lit with sunlight from the window across the room. Scattered all about the desk were scribbled notes and graphs, along with photographs of a young Terrence leaning against his father in a fishing boar right outside of Independence while it was still under construction. The saturated bag of copper wiring was placed on top of a pile of diagrams for the new port project, right next to the HAM radio. Gillian picked up from the desk an envelope and asked, “What’s this?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to deliver,” Terrence answered. “I don’t want you opening that. That letter is purely confidential. Just take it to the address you see there and slip it under the door.”

“Ah, secrecy, a staple of the Independence economy,” Gillian said, flicking a corner of the envelope. “I don’t even get to know what the purpose is?”

With squinted eyes, Terrence tried to project his bitterness out the window as he said, “To deal with Johnny Adams and his fucking company, that’s all I’ll say.”

Gillian walked over and patted Terrence on the back, which earned him an angry sneer. “Come on, boss, don’t get hung up on this. Maybe you just weren’t meant for the fishing business.”

Terrence rolled Gillian’s hand off his shoulder and slowly stood himself up to place his palm on the window and lean against it. “I’m not backing out with just a bag of copper in my hand! I’ll have what’s rightfully mine soon enough. You know, my father brought me to the city on a fishing boat, so we could live freely on this island, in this city, and earn money as we say fit without intervention from the government, or anybody.”

Holding up his hands Gillian said, “You’ve told me this a million times, and it doesn’t change the fact that you aren’t as successful as Adams.”

“That’s because he nearly has a monopoly,” Terrence explained. “He’s got ports on every corner of this island, and you can’t go the edge without seeing one of his ships. He’s trying to wrestle me out like all the others so he can control the price of fish on Independence. If I give up, he’ll control everything! He’ll be like a god!”

“Of fish?” Gillian asked.

Turning around, Terrence went on: “It’s the primary food source of Independence; there’s more power to it than you think.”

Gillian pressed on. “So you want to balance out that power?”

“You could say that,” Terrence answered.

Gillian shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss,” he said. “How’s about I go and get this on it’s way for you?”

Flicking his wrist Terrence gestured Gillian to the door. “If you’d be so kind.”

“It’d be my pleasure,” Gillian said, and without saying goodbye left the room and closed the door behind him. He walked down the stairs, each step whining underneath his weight, and passed through the empty first floor lobby. Upon exiting the building and walked through the surrounding shantytown. There was a distinct smell of cooked leather, a common meal amongst the common non-patriots that had no GBs to their name.

When Gillian felt he was no longer in view from Terrence’s window, he opened the envelope and looked at it’s contents; inside was bank notes which all added up to the value of 300 dollars, a picture of Johnny Adams with his signature smile, and a written letter that read:

“Here is a quarter of your pay. Once again, the man I want you to ‘remove’ is Johnny Adams of Adams’ Seafood Etc. If you follow through, you’ll get the rest of the money, and I may even get a cushy position for you when my operations start to earn me more capital. Make it look like an accident. – T.Q.”

***

To null the pain in his legs as he walked about town, Terrence would count each step to take his mind off of it. Having done this for a long time Terrence knew approximately how many paces it took to get from his apartment building to any of the locations in the city he frequented. It was 160 to 171 to get to the food market, 235 to 244 to get to the general good store for grease, and 296 to 303 to get to the rail station to get to the edge of the city where his workers operated. Today he was making his way to the general store and he was 106 steps of the way there. He kept his hands in his pockets with his right hand gripping to a .38 revolver in case any non-patriots tried to mug him.

107, 108, 109, Terrence counted in his head as walked on the side of the street. No cars here, so traffic in the roads were human beings. Terrence use to walk with the crowd, till a horrifying event that involved him being pushed by a man who was late for work and was nudging people out of his way. There Terrence laid with people stepping over him with no one trying to help. They all had places to go, their own things to do; if a man couldn't get up that was his problem. 20 minutes later after the crowd thinned out he was able to crawl to a streetlight and pull himself up. So, he walked outside of the crowd from then on.

This added time to his trips, though, for whenever he wanted to cross the street he would have to wait for the people to dissipate. This could take five minutes, or half an hour. When he was across the street from the general store he counted the same number in his head over and over.

214, 214, 214.

As he stood there, he looked around and noticed that in the direction he came from three other men were walking his way. They were clearly a group; Terrence could see their lips move as they replied to one another while fixing their eyes on him. Non-patriots are what they looked like, dirty and unshaven, with un-patched holes in their clothes.

Now suspicious, Terrence considered his options. He considered staying were he was, figuring that if anything were to happen people in the crowd would help him. He then thought back to that day he spent 20 minutes being stepped over and on, and realized that was a dumb idea. Even if someone decided to help, they'd probably shoot without discrimination before learning who should be defended or otherwise just for the joy of getting to use their gun.

So he was on his own. He couldn't simply outrun them due to his condition, so he had to find a location where he would have some advantage over them. He began walking again to see if they'd continue to follow him.

215, 216, 217.

Coming upon an alleyway Terrence entered it and followed it to a corner, where he leaned on the wall and looked back. Close behind the non-patriots he suspected had in fact followed him in, so there was no doubt that something was afoot. From his pocket he pulled out his .38 and waited for them to come closer.

241, 241, 241.

Terrence fired. The bullet tore through the arm of the center non-patriot, making the others each jump to the side as the center one clutched his bleeding limb and screamed. Terrence fired again, hitting the already injured one in the leg, bringing him down to his knee. The other two hid behind piles of discarded garbage, which had been thrown from windows above, and returned fire. Pulling his head and hand behind the corner, the brick wall caught the bullets instead of Terrence. Having little confidence in his aim in the first place, Terrence attempted to scare them off by blind firing around the corner.

Several shots later the hammer clicked and no bullet burst from the barrel. With shaking hands Terrence opened the revolving cylinder and tried to ease bullets in his thumb. His heart pumped with intensity, giving him the feeling that his chest may just burst on it’s own if the non-patriots don't gun him down. When the two men who were antagonizing him stepped around the corner with their pistols aimed at him, it nearly did. Closing his eyes in preparation, Terrence prayed in a whisper.

Instead of killing him with a point-blank shot to the heart, they whipped him over the head with the grips of their pistols and knocked him unconscious.

***

It was the smell that Terrence first noticed before he opened his eyes. It was the poignant smell of rot. The sort of rot that Terrence was familiar with: decomposing fish.

Upon opening his eyes Terrence found himself to be in a room that was dimly lit by a hanging light bulb swaying back and forth over the bolted down table before him, one with dull colored walls of metal that showed their age and rust. From the rocking motions, he deciphered that this was the interior of a boat. Terrence himself was in an uncomfortable wooden chair, though was surprised to find that he wasn't harnessed down. When he tried to stand up was when he realized that his leg braces have been removed from his person. Remaining seated, Terrence gripped tightly to the arms of his chair and breathed deeply to try and calm himself down, counting upward in his head.

They didn't want him dead, because they could have easily killed him in that alleyway. This brought him no comfort, because that suggested the possibility of torture. He cursed his weak legs, his father, Independence as a whole. I just wanted to sell fish, he thought. Why is this happening?

With a creak the heavy metal hatch across the room opened, and in stepped a shadowy figure. It was now nighttime, Terrence could tell, for no sunlight poured into the room. The shadowy figure moved into the light of the hanging bulb, and his face made his identity unmistakable: Johnny Adams, with that smile of his as he held up Terrence’s braces in his hand. The smile was no different from the painting of his boats, seeming two-dimensional, artificial.

It surprised Terrence when Adams' lips moved to say, "Mr. Quincy, I feel this meeting is long overdue. We affect the lives of each other so much and yet this is the first time we've been face to face." Adams had a smooth voice, one of a real salesman, but it still clawed at Terrence's brain like a feral animal. Leisurely Adams sat opposite of Terrence at the table and put the braces down.

Terrence asked as his voice chocked up, "Are you going to explain to me what's going on here?"

"Just business as usual," Adams answered. “Independence style.” From a jacket pocket Adams pulled out a rolled paper, which he flattened out beside the leg braces and then with a pen he pulled from the same pocket signed it.

“You didn’t have to have me kidnapped if you wanted to discuss business,” Terrence said with an angry tone.

“It occurred to me after I found out you arranged for me to be assassinated,” Adams replied, smiling wider as he saw the color leave Terrence’s face. “It’s alright, I understand it’s nothing personal. You just want to be top dog, and I get that. Everyone wants to be top dog.” He ran his hand over his chin as he paused to think. “People will always do what’s in their self own interest. Hence me ordering that boat to go through your project, and you wanting me dead. Well, tonight might just be your lucky night.” Slipping his hand into another pocket, Adams pulled out the revolver Terrence was carrying when he was attacked. “Don’t worry, it isn’t loaded yet.”

Terrence leaned forward and asked, “Yet?”

“I’m getting to that, Mr. Quincy,” Adams said as his face relaxed into a neutral expression. “As you know, you aren’t in the best shape.” He pointed down, showing he was talking about Terrence’s legs. “I would be doing the fine patriots of Independence a disservice if I were to let a simple cripple limp alongside the greats of our society as they strut.” He brought his finger up and pointed it at Terrence’s chest. “You’re no ordinary cripple, though. Instead of asking for help, you stood on your own to legs and helped yourself, like a true objectivist. You, you take charge; a master of your own destiny!”

Adams rapped his hand against the table with his free hand in excitement, making Terrence pull back in his chair. “I, uh, appreciate that, Mr. Adams.”

“I could easily kill you and dump you into the water,” Adams went on, “But because of my newfound respect for you, I won’t do that. Instead, I’m going to give you a fair chance against me, your 50 percent against my 50 percent.” He turned the paper around for Terrence to read. It was a contract. “Essentially what it says is that if one of us dies, we inherit the others business.” The pen was handed over to Terrence.

“Are you proposing a god damn duel?” Terrence asked.

“No,” Adams said, his smile returning. He reached once again into his pocket and pulled out a single bullet and loaded it into the gun. Then he realigned the cylinder and quickly spun it. “I’m proposing a game of Russian Roulette.”

The blood in Terrence’s veins ran cold. This is insane, he thought. While terrified by the possibility of killing himself, he knew that if he didn’t agree Adams would probably just shoot him. Also, there was something alluring about the chance of seeing Adams blow his brains out.

“Alright, I’m in,” Terrence said as he signed the contract.

Adams nodded enthusiastically. “Good, good,” he muttered, and then pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple. “I’ll go first, as a showing of good faith. May the greatest man win.” Adams pulled the trigger.

Click.

Adams chuckled to himself and handed the gun over to Terrence. “Your turn,” he said.

After taking in a quick breath, Terrence held the gun to his head, closed his eyes, and after some hesitation pulled the trigger.

Click.

Taking the gun from Terrence and bringing it up to the side of his skull, Adams said, “Isn’t this invigorating? Letting the fates decide who lives to rule the fish of Independence?”

Now Terrence understood why Gillian gave such a confused look when he took the matter of who controlled the fish supply so seriously.

Click.

When Terrence felt the weight of the gun in his hands when it was passed back to him, he realized how much his palms were sweating. His brain was on fire as his chances were dwindling with each pull of the trigger. “You know, you didn’t take something into consideration, Mr. Adams,” he said. “Human beings are greedy things, and they’ll always do what’s in their self interest.” With that said he lifted the gun and pulled the trigger, firing a bullet point blank into Adam’s head, making a clean hole right through and spattering his blood and brain matter on the wall behind him.

Terrence let out a sigh of relief. Grabbing his leg braces, he hastily put them on and stood up, walking round the table and looting Adam’s body. He asked to himself aloud, “Where did he put my god damn pants?”

***

In Terrence’s apartment room, Gillian laid on the mattress. He had already hung up some pictures, and put some memorabilia on the desk such as an old baseball, and a Luger pistol his father gave him, both of which were under the light of a candle on the desk. Terrence’s old memorabilia was in a trash bin. “I could really get use to this,” Gillian commented to himself.

There was no time to get use to it, though, for the door opened and there stood Terrence with a revolver in his hand, a fierce look in his eyes as the candle light reflected in them, and he appeared to be wearing a new pair of nice pants.

Gillian jumped from the bed and onto his feet. He stuttered, “B-boss!”

“Don’t give me that ‘boss’ bullshit,” Terrence said. “You looked at that god damn letter and let Adams in on my plan.” He raised the revolver, and Gillian flinched. “Adams is gone now, though, and I won’t be having any trouble from his company anymore. Still, that leaves you, the filthy parasite who betrayed me. Don’t worry, today I learned exactly why you did what you did, though, so don’t feel too bad. You’re just human.”

Bang.

Gillian’s body fell to the floor, and Terrence blew out the candle and stumbled to the mattress. He wasn’t worried about some coming and check in on what happened, it didn’t concern anyone in Independence who heard it, and they knew that.

Lying down, Terrence closed his eyes. He needed rest, for tomorrow was going to be another long day of work.