(The New American Apocalypse
Table of Contents: Part One; Part Two; Part Three; Part Four; Part Five; Part Six; Part Seven; Part Eight; Part Ten; Part Eleven; Part Twelve; Part Thirteen; Part Fourteen; Part Fifteen; Part Sixteen;
And this is the truth: we’ve always been heading in this direction, since the inception of the nation, a delicate curve of roadway getting tighter and tighter up until now, until it became a spiral, a corkscrew turn downhill into madness, abomination, destruction…death. And I threw caltrops and oil over the asphalt in front of the car, in front of the half-blind American public squinting through the windshield, and the car lost control. It spun out, careening in squealing 360s right up until it crashed through the guardrail and plummeted into darkness…and as if all that knowledge isn’t enough, as if knowing now what I know isn’t enough…I also have to accept the knowledge that the public at large, the great mass of the American Republic…don’t care. That they, for some reason, imagine the car tumbling through darkness into endless cleavage and some aberrant mutations of Truth and Justice nobody in their right minds would recognize. The truth is, Mr. Swift is right. I only ever added the straw. The rest of it, well, we did it to ourselves. Staring into my scotch, the Feed playing on low volume in the background, I know nothing so well as I know this. We did this to ourselves.
So now what? Is there some emergency parachute in the trunk of this Great American Car, a Ford of some metaphysical, archetypal variety–or are we truly lost? Can we be saved? And if so, what are we being saved from? Is this what we really are? Is it all we’ve ever been?
I imagine the future, as directed by the Great Darknesses:
In this future, the streets are patrolled by mutant cops, Cthulhu from the waist down with big badges and giant, blocky guns clutched in their six-fingered hands. They scan into our souls with their camera lenses, they read our minds with their sensors, they stand at the ready with truncheon and tentacle to act on the merest hint of sedition. They fall upon protesters and under-privileged youth with ravenous bloodthirst, fanatical in their devotion to the ‘Greater Good.’ Remember: your enemies walk among you. They could even be your neighbors. They could even be yourself. Remember: you are only safe if everyone else is dead. Remember: you can trust us.
In this future, the great priests of the Church of the New American Jesus lead us in Megachurch Prayers for a small pittance, a tax-exempt tithe taken from our corporate-controlled bank accounts. They have bombed out all the abortion clinics and banned sex for any purpose except for reproduction. Gays and other sinners are lynched by the dozen in the name of the new American Christ, whose blond-haired blue-eyed John Doe visage gazes smilingly down on us from towers of opalescent wealth. Muslims and Atheists soon join the queer fruit hanging from the trees, but eventually other sacrifices will be necessary, too. The Jews, again? Or the Buddhists? Or will the New American Jesus soon demand the blood of a different Christian sect? One whose teachings are less in-line with the Corporate-Approved Scriptures? The Quakers, maybe. Unitarians. Anyone who strikes out against the booming declarations of the morally Right American Jesus and his Hobby Lobby Apostles.
In this future, the Eldritch Abominations strut through board rooms in crisp suits, their unreal faces ignored by the numb, mindless population. They smoke cigars and drink $5000 cognac and carry suitcases made from leathered human skin. Their bank accounts are padded by selling children into sex slavery after the poor kids lose too many fingers trying to put sneakers together. Exploitation after exploitation, not unnoticed but simply unpunished. Because nobody cares, mesmerized by reality TV and celebrity gossip. They don’t even glance up from the screen as the Cannibal Class and its Dark Masters devour their neighbors, more meat for the market, more food for the horde. The middle-management types, the zeds with a little extra brain in their skulls, tell the toiling workers that if they try hard enough, they, too, might one day earn a comfortable living. In the meantime, it’s toil, toil, toil, and pray to New American Jesus that you keep your job until your debt is paid off (and it never will be, the Abominations have seen to that–at your current interest rate, it will take the rest of your natural life plus twenty years paying from the grave.) The homeless and other inferior economic specimens will be shuttled to work camps, yes, like Gypsies in the old days. They’ll be housed, of course, and given cots on which to rest their weary heads, so that should be an improvement over a park bench, shouldn’t it? Never mind the fact that the showers aren’t connected to running water…
Never mind that, at all.
In this future, the Cult of M’Ra persists through allotment. It has found a brother organization in the Church of the New American Jesus and so its teachings are allowed to filter through to the docile public. Women will be ushered out of the workplace. It will be taught across the nation that their brain power is diminished by the blood requirement of menstruation. And with all the calculations going on in their tiny, adorable heads in search of an appropriate mate, how can there be room for extra maths? These things can’t be helped–it’s just the way we’re built, biologically. It’s not sexist, remember, it’s science. And they will teach these things instead of Evolution, a silly theory if ever there was one. Remember: men have challenges, too, and they shouldn’t be ignored. The Cult of M’Ra has several pamphlets regarding prostrate cancer. They haven’t put any money into research for a cure, and they haven’t exactly assembled an awareness council or even staged a march or a marathon…they just want you to know that it sucks, that they have to deal with it and you don’t, that their problems are very pressing, more pressing than your own concern over safety or privacy or rape culture or the breast cancer eating you alive from inside.
Don’t vote. It doesn’t matter, anyway. When has one vote changed anything? Come and sit down. Read a Bible. Watch Keeping Up With the Kardashians. Do you see what’s on Bravo, now? Aren’t these Housewives hilarious? Take these pills. What do they do? Oh, it’s nothing. They make you feel good. Isn’t this a funny show? Don’t you feel better about life, now? Oh, those people? They’re your friends. They live in your apartment. Sorry, did I say your apartment? I misspoke. It’s their apartment, now. You’re going to go live in one of the labor, er, Employment Camps with the other welfare recipients. It pays minimum wage. No benefits, but you’ll get cable TV. Voting? You won’t have time to vote. No, no, no. You have to work. To pay the bills. You only make minimum wage, after all. Do you really want to take time off to register a vote that hardly matters? Of course not. Don’t stress about it too much. There’s always Kim Kardashian. Look at her little baby. Look at her oiled up ass. Take these pills. No, I’m sorry, there’s no running water in the showers, but if you’re tired of feeling dirty all the time if you’re tired of all the sweat clinging to your pores if you’re just tired, tired, tired of the whole filthy world, I can turn one on for you. There we go. It’s not so bad, is it? Shhhh. Shhhhh. Just close your eyes and let go.
I finish my scotch. This is the Great American Dream, huh? This is where we’ve all been headed.
To hell with that.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
For a long time: silence.Share This: