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Post-Bush Cleanup (A Fictional Story from a Parallel Universe)

'Twas the night before anarchy...

Post-Bush Cleanup (A Fictional Story from a Parallel Universe)

'Twas the Night before Anarchy....

The Bush Regime fell, leaving in its wake a series of war crimes trials. While the international courts were cleaning up the remains of the fascist regime, Americans were demanding justice against those among themselves who had snitched for the state. Over time it became clear, as it had happened in Argentina and Chile, the false opposition known as the Democratic Party fought against justice and called instead for a period of national reconciliation, offering amnesty to the Bushista thugs. This did not sit well with the victims of the Bushista reign. They were determined to exact justice, whether or not the state assisted. When it became clear that the state wanted to wash its hands of its own past, the anarchists took matters into their own hands and began a decentralized effort to take out the snitches and other traitors who had only a few years before openly waged war upon them. It was a time of mysterious violence. The silence of night was occasionally broken by the sound of the spray of bullets, followed by screams and moans. Members of the Free Republic, Protest Warriors and other pro-Bush thugs spent their nights in fear wondering if this would be the night they came for them. And they did come, one by one, removing from the Earth the scum who had made Bush's reign of terror possible. Some considered this period of revenge to be uncivilized, but those of us who had suffered the deeds of Bush's scum enjoyed each burst of gun fire during the night and savored the moans of the dying snitches.

When the news broke that the former attorney general had been jumped on the streets of Missouri and pummeled to death by an angry crowd only to find himself hanged by the feet, his dead body swaying in the breeze, by a rope from a lamp post, a loud cheer could be heard from every house and every bar. The giddy mood of revenge was hardly containable and party-goers broke out into toneless renditions of "Where Eagles Fly", which always ended in laughter and a loud unified burst of "He's a jolly dead fellow, he's a jolly dead fellow..."

The giddiness and joy only increased as video of a sullen George Bush in an orange jump suit standing before a judge at the Hague filled television sets around the word, echoing the judge's declaration "we find you guilty, guilty, GUILTY" of genocide and sentence you to life in a cage at Guantanamo, to which the audience replied in unison, "and may Satan have mercy upon your soul - NOT, you motherfucker!"

The evidence had already come out showing that the former President of the United States had ordered the attacks of 9/11 in a bid to usurp power. The international courts had spirited the former dictator out of his native land out of fear that he might be lynched before he had a trial and so, for the dictator, being in front of the international court was a life saver. On the domestic front the name "George" became as reviled as "Adolf." Some Americans sharing this name of shame had already changed theirs to something more respectable. Reports from town halls all over America confirmed that virtually no one was naming their child "George" any more. The courts had planned on trying Cheney next, but he took his own life when he discovered that Halliburton would not take him back. The dock, however, was still full and next in line was Donald Rumsfeld. Poor Donald, he still seemed to believe that he could use "logic" to talk his way out of what he had done. His long arcane sentences, however, did him no good as photo after photo of young Iraqi boys being raped at his orders flashed before the judges of the tribunal.

But I have digressed, for this story is not about the revenge brought against the masters of the regime. It is about the revenge brought upon the ordinary citizens who, lacking in heart and ethics, had done their best to finger others during the reign of terror. Their own reign of terror was now beginning and this is a story about them and the people who loved to kill them.

Killing a Brownshirt

Thousands of brownshirts were killed during this period. It became customary to hold a revolutionary tribunal at a secret location, find the accused guilty and sentence the guilty to death. For security reasons the guilty were never brought before the tribunal. The were tried in abstentia and the verdicts were never released before execution. While this was not just in the sense that the accused had no opportunity to defend themselves, the strategy was intended to impose psychological terror on anyone who had snitched. No one knew whether they were going to be tried in secret or whether they had been found guilty or whether or when they would be executed. It was clear from the start that it would be impossible to track down each and every offender, so that fear was intended to be a private psychological punishment against those who would never feel a bullet passing through their brain.

Executions were carried out by self appointed squads, usually at night but occasionally during the day. The convicted was always confronted by his or her executioners, informed of the charges and conviction and then executed with a single bullet to the head. A message was always spray painted on a wall within the room were the executed lay, "Tried, Found Guilty and Executed for Crimes Against the People."

This story, however, is about a specific assassination, or should I say, execution of sentence against a brownshirt. Our convicted de jour was a business owner. While enjoying his charmed life, he waged war against numerous Americans, always anonymously. He sought to destroy lives with his harassment and in many cases he succeeded. Now, on this quiet moonless night, it was his turn.

The squad of three had positioned themselves on a hill behind his home. His home was in a semi deserted location. The stars were bright and all that could be heard was the occasional cry of coyotes seeking prey. The three watched the house. They were dressed in black - black pants, black socks, black boots, black shirts and black masks. Each carried a rifle and a pistol. Night-vision goggles made surveillance beneath the starlight a piece of cake. They watched as one light after another went out in the targeted home. Previous surveillance revealed the sleeping location of the target. They already knew where the wires connecting the house to the grid were. The motion detector lamp had been disabled during the day. One of the assassins softly made her way to the power junction connecting the house to the grid. She expertly severed the connection and the last of the nightlights went out, leaving the house in complete darkness.

Next, they sat and waited. Sometimes cutting off the electricity would trigger various devices within a home. This time they were lucky. Nothing but silence....

After a half hour of observing the dark house, each walked up to a different window surrounding the room where the convicted slept. They knew that the convicted and his wife were the only two occupants and they knew they slept in the same room. The plan was to violently smash three windows at the exact same moment, force their way into the house, and fire upon the convicted. This would be noisy, but that was OK. They wanted the neighbors to spread rumors of screams in the night, for that was part of the game.

At the instructed moment, each of the assassins threw a large boulder through their assigned window. Following the boulders, each threw a flare into the room, blinding the occupants. With hammers they knocked out the remaining glass, placed blankets over the window sills to protect themselves from the glass and slipped in. This operation had been practiced many times before and they were able to make entry in about five seconds. Once in, they grabbed the convicted, screamed the charges and sentence and put a bullet though his head. His wife was tied, gagged and bound. They dragged her outside to avoid burning her in the fire started by the flairs and left her in the yard. The three disappeared into the desert, while police sirens could be seen lighting up the sky behind the silhouettes of hills and cactus.

It was just another night.


meet the new boss, same as... 11.Oct.2004 22:03

gag reflex - Stalinist macho rhetoric makes me puke!

were the author's fantasies always this violet, or did these sort of infantile wishes for omnipotence only start when the erectile dysfunction became treatment-refractory?

Protest Warrior has his panties in a wad. 12.Oct.2004 02:05

Reader

I liked the story. It's called fiction. Now putter along PW boy.