The New American Apocalypse, Pt. 17

(The New American Apocalypse

Table of Contents: Part One; Part Two; Part Three; Part Four; Part Five; Part Six; Part Seven; Part Eight; Part Nine; Part Ten; Part Eleven; Part Twelve; Part Thirteen; Part Fourteen; Part Fifteen; Part Sixteen;

Part Seventeen: …)

I try to run away, but I don’t get far.  Between the cruel bonfire of the cultists and the Scanners, my ability to maneuver is, ah, limited.  But I do my best.

I make it about fifteen feet.  Maybe twenty.

Hey, I give myself credit for even getting that far.  These things are super-cops, remember.

I’ll skip the more embarrassing description of the “confrontation” (I can’t call it a “fight” on account of how terribly one-sided and brief it turns out to be) — but suffice it to say it’s largely composed of me screaming in a pitch that is not necessarily “manly” while multiple officers strip my man-bag away from me and get me into a pair of cuffs.  The actual choreography of this action is graceless–a blind fumbling–much like two teenagers trying to make out for the first time ever, but considerably less pleasant.

And with a considerably larger amount of tentacles.  I assume.

Needless to say, I end up in the back of a cop car.

They don’t even bother to cuff me.  Maybe protocol changed while I was blacked out, but I’m pretty sure handcuffs are generally favored by the Law & Order set, but I’m guessing they don’t expect much of an escape attempt from me after the pathetic display I mustered up when I first saw them.

I wonder how to explain this to my comrades-in-arms–that I’ve been arrested and am therefore no longer quite capable of accomplishing my mission.  Not that it had been going well, to begin with.

One Scanner watches the road, guiding us to whatever destination awaits, while the other keeps its camera eye planted on me.  I shift in my seat.  For the nth time in the past few days, I ask that damnable question, the one that’s haunted me ever since I first laid eyes on these creatures from beyond our keen: “What do you see?”

The camera lens whirs and focuses.  The beady little eye inside shrinks.

It replies with one word: “Weakness.”

I wait for more, but no more comes.  “Man, I could’a told you that.”

The Scanner looks away.  If it knows more, if it saw more, it says nothing.  It makes me think: is that all there is?  I know I’m a man of weaknesses, but I’ve always assumed I had more going on than merely weakness.  Do I have flaws, or I am merely flawed?

The rest of the ride is quiet and uneventful.  We drive for a long time.  I couldn’t give you specifics, but it’s nearly dawn before the vehicle comes to a halt.  The door opens and I’m hauled out by the shirt collar.

“Citizen Hughes,” a new Scanner stands before me, this one garbed in nicer clothes.  “Your bail has been automatically subsidized by JPMorgan Chase Bank.  To receive this privatized subsidization you must agree to be released into their recognizance and to serve the time until trial as an employee at McArbyKing’s.  Do you agree to receive this subsidization?  If not, we have forwarded your headshots and resumes to other, more senior inmates in holding.”

Yes, these are the grim options I am given, held aloft by a dozen tentacles.

“You know,” I say, “I have some experience in minimum wage work!”

“Let it be shown that Citizen Hughes has agreed to the terms of the Employment Camp and is now being processed as an employee until such time as a trial is able to be held before a Judge of the Great Dark Ones.”

And without much further ado, I am handed a W-666 form to fill out.

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thesrhughes

I'm a writer of horror, dark sci-fi, and dark fantasy.