Day Six
"This is Ron Paul, coming to you from inside the belly of a Texas steer. I have cut it open with a sword made of purestrain gold in order to provide myself with warmth, shelter and protection. I know the goons from the FDA are after me, so I must remain hidden for now. But fear not my children, I will make my next transmission soon. For now, retreat to your dirigibles and await my next communique. Signing off for now, keep ya heads up."
Nathaniel turned off the radio with a sigh. The pirate signal faded and the Rachel Maddow show came back on. His friends had always called him Nate, but with the whole world going to shit, he figured a return to respectability had to start somewhere.
"Nathaniel, why is the FDA after him?" she asked, as the countryside flew by them.
"Hope is the opiate of the masses. He views it as a drug, and any hope not given by our dear leader of the New American Caliphate..."
"Who? Oba-"
"HE MUST NEVER BE NAMED. The listening posts are everywhere Olivia. His thugs are difficult to spot. They can tell if you are speaking ill of him. Yes, him. The FDA is now regulating speech now along with the FCC."
It had only been a few days since Nathaniel had met Olivia. Less met than rescued really, but Nathaniel was still fairly shy about this fact. She had been a youth leader at her mega-congregation in California but had been sick with mono and bedridden for the inauguration and the ensuing days of horror. She slept, ate and read - she had never found much time for TV or the internet. After Olivia emerged from her self-imposed quarantine she biked down to her church. It was a fairly long bike ride, but she always found it invigorating. At 19, she was in good shape but always trying to shave off a few pounds here or there. She had a very eerie feeling while riding to her church; barely anybody was on the road. The people that were seemed to be in some sort of protective headgear and clothing, like the scientists in E.T. but all black. She thought it was strange but was concentrating on breathing and envisioning herself in that modest, but alluring red one piece she couldn't wait to wear in a few months.
The church parking lot was packed, but all the cars were empty. No one could be seen walking back and forth. It looked like a Ford dealership, all these pickup trucks and SUVs with no one inside. The "It's a child, not a choice." and "Smile! Your mom chose life!" were the only giveaways that she was in a church parking lot at all.
Nathaniel saw her from afar. He noticed the glint of silver first, then her riding the bike, her long hair flowing behind her, blowing freely in the wind. He had been waiting to see if anyone else would show up, anyone that didn't get the news. He just wanted to save one person, stop one person...but he was at one of the further entrances. She got off her bike and walked into the church, not purpose driven but sort of nonchalant. He ran as fast as he could, but got there after she was already inside.
The first thing that hit her was the smell. The second thing was Nathaniel, tackling her from behind, holding her head down and covering her eyes.
"My name is Nathaniel and you have to trust me. I'm sorry. I'm not here to hurt you, but you have to come with me."
She was screaming before he started speaking. She wished she had payed more attention in the little self-defense classes the church held on their retreats. She wished she had not just been sick and unable to really yell. She wished that her body would not be violated. She wished more than anything to be safe. But then she listened to the voice in her ear, felt that she wasn't being hurt, that this man was being as gentle as a man holding you down could be. She listened to the soothing words he was saying, repeating over and over again, "My name is Nathaniel and you have to trust me. I'm sorry. I'm not here to hurt you, but you have to come with me." She felt her own body relax, feel the warmth of the man on top of her, both in his body and in his voice.
"I'm Olivia," she said. He didn't hear. He kept repeating. "My name is Nathaniel..."
She clutched his hand with hers and he stopped.
"I'm Olivia," she said.
And he heard.
####################################
Rick Warren, after giving the invocation at the inauguration, was whisked away to the OEOB and told of Obama's plans. The re-education, the transformation, the "rebirth of a Nation in need". He told them that he needed some time to think about everything he heard, some time to process all of this. But he was lying. His mind was already made up. On the drive back to the hotel he made preparations. He arranged for a press conference to be broadcast immediately following Obama's inauguration speech. The fake speech he wrote while being overseen by Obama's thugs was a ringing endorsement of the new president, a soaring address that equaled the rhetoric of the HNIC himself. But Warren was no fool. He may have been a virulent homophobe, a man looking to set back human rights a millennium, and a man that used religion as a mask to hide the backwards thinking. But he was not a fool. The other sermon was being composed in his head, stored for when the time came. As the car pulled up to Pennsylvania Ave. and 17th Street he whispered into his aides ear.
He walked briskly to the room where the press conference would be held. Robert Gibbs, press secretary for Obama, arranged for Warren's speech to be simulcast on all major networks, live streamed to Youtube, Hulu, Vimeo, twitterized, homogenized and pasteurized. No one would miss it.
The Saddleback Church marquee was set up behind a large desk, flanked by a California Flag and an American Flag. It was perfect. Except for his aide. He was nowhere to be seen. And Obama's people were still in the room. They needed to be removed. They would ruin everything.
"30 seconds to live Pastor Warren."
He almost smirked at the irony. He adjusted his tie, giving no indication of the panic running through him. He looked around calmly, but his eyes darted frantically.
"Counting down, Five, four..." The producer gave a silent three count with his hand and pointed to Warren.
He paused briefly. Looked to the thugs posted at the door, looked at the teleprompter silently shouting for him to begin reading his prepared remarks, looked up to the heavens to ask for forgiveness - and began.
No one jumped to stop him. No one cut off the cameras or the sound. He preached calmly and when he finished his instructions were put on a graphic on the screen along with a link to Rickwarren.com. He whipped out his iPhone and went to his homepage.
"My God..." he stammered. His homepage had already been changed to include this speech as well as his instructions.
"Yes Rick. Your God," Obama sneered, bursting through the marquee and knocking over the American flag. "Thank you for doing your part. Your invocation and final sermon were wonderful."
"What did Matthews say?" he asked to no one in particular.
"He said-" began one of his many aides.
"I remember now Jon. A thrill up both of his legs! Ha indeed Chris. Ha indeed. Come Rick, we must head underground now, something is about to happen."
"You madman-"
"MADMAN? MADMAN, RICHARD!?" His eyes burned with anger, with rage. An aide stepped forward. Obama waved him off. He regained his legendary cool as quickly as he seemed to lose it.
"Hardly. Come, you still have work to do."
The bomb felt like a small earthquake from the bunkers underground. Rick said the last rites for tens of millions around the country, the devout followers that would listen to his call to follow him to heaven and leave this broken world behind. He ended his prayer; raised his own gun to his head. And pulled the trigger.
The video of Warren "returning home" followed the news reports of the bomb dropping. Churches around the country filled up that night, sometimes overflowing. Parents shepherded their children to the afterlife first. Anyone who couldn't do it themselves were also taken care of. Then they turned their weapons - be it knives, guns, swords, hammers - on themselves.
####################################
"Olivia. Please. Keep your eyes closed. I'm going to take you out of here. We're going to go away from here."
He pulled her up to her feet, closing his own eyes as well as he could. But he could still see. And now that his head wasn't nestled in Olivia's long, silky, fragrant hair, he could again smell. He led her out of the church. Into fresh air. Away from the horror. They walked towards Nathaniel's car.
"Nathaniel, why are you still covering my eyes?"
He removed his hand quickly, almost embarassed. Her eyes adjusted and she saw him for the first time. Tall, curly hair, kind but tired eyes. He must have noticed her gawking, and he stammered out the first thing he thought of.
"I'm Nathaniel."
"I know. I'm Olivia."
"I know."
Nathaniel turned off the radio with a sigh. The pirate signal faded and the Rachel Maddow show came back on. His friends had always called him Nate, but with the whole world going to shit, he figured a return to respectability had to start somewhere.
"Nathaniel, why is the FDA after him?" she asked, as the countryside flew by them.
"Hope is the opiate of the masses. He views it as a drug, and any hope not given by our dear leader of the New American Caliphate..."
"Who? Oba-"
"HE MUST NEVER BE NAMED. The listening posts are everywhere Olivia. His thugs are difficult to spot. They can tell if you are speaking ill of him. Yes, him. The FDA is now regulating speech now along with the FCC."
It had only been a few days since Nathaniel had met Olivia. Less met than rescued really, but Nathaniel was still fairly shy about this fact. She had been a youth leader at her mega-congregation in California but had been sick with mono and bedridden for the inauguration and the ensuing days of horror. She slept, ate and read - she had never found much time for TV or the internet. After Olivia emerged from her self-imposed quarantine she biked down to her church. It was a fairly long bike ride, but she always found it invigorating. At 19, she was in good shape but always trying to shave off a few pounds here or there. She had a very eerie feeling while riding to her church; barely anybody was on the road. The people that were seemed to be in some sort of protective headgear and clothing, like the scientists in E.T. but all black. She thought it was strange but was concentrating on breathing and envisioning herself in that modest, but alluring red one piece she couldn't wait to wear in a few months.
The church parking lot was packed, but all the cars were empty. No one could be seen walking back and forth. It looked like a Ford dealership, all these pickup trucks and SUVs with no one inside. The "It's a child, not a choice." and "Smile! Your mom chose life!" were the only giveaways that she was in a church parking lot at all.
Nathaniel saw her from afar. He noticed the glint of silver first, then her riding the bike, her long hair flowing behind her, blowing freely in the wind. He had been waiting to see if anyone else would show up, anyone that didn't get the news. He just wanted to save one person, stop one person...but he was at one of the further entrances. She got off her bike and walked into the church, not purpose driven but sort of nonchalant. He ran as fast as he could, but got there after she was already inside.
The first thing that hit her was the smell. The second thing was Nathaniel, tackling her from behind, holding her head down and covering her eyes.
"My name is Nathaniel and you have to trust me. I'm sorry. I'm not here to hurt you, but you have to come with me."
She was screaming before he started speaking. She wished she had payed more attention in the little self-defense classes the church held on their retreats. She wished she had not just been sick and unable to really yell. She wished that her body would not be violated. She wished more than anything to be safe. But then she listened to the voice in her ear, felt that she wasn't being hurt, that this man was being as gentle as a man holding you down could be. She listened to the soothing words he was saying, repeating over and over again, "My name is Nathaniel and you have to trust me. I'm sorry. I'm not here to hurt you, but you have to come with me." She felt her own body relax, feel the warmth of the man on top of her, both in his body and in his voice.
"I'm Olivia," she said. He didn't hear. He kept repeating. "My name is Nathaniel..."
She clutched his hand with hers and he stopped.
"I'm Olivia," she said.
And he heard.
####################################
Rick Warren, after giving the invocation at the inauguration, was whisked away to the OEOB and told of Obama's plans. The re-education, the transformation, the "rebirth of a Nation in need". He told them that he needed some time to think about everything he heard, some time to process all of this. But he was lying. His mind was already made up. On the drive back to the hotel he made preparations. He arranged for a press conference to be broadcast immediately following Obama's inauguration speech. The fake speech he wrote while being overseen by Obama's thugs was a ringing endorsement of the new president, a soaring address that equaled the rhetoric of the HNIC himself. But Warren was no fool. He may have been a virulent homophobe, a man looking to set back human rights a millennium, and a man that used religion as a mask to hide the backwards thinking. But he was not a fool. The other sermon was being composed in his head, stored for when the time came. As the car pulled up to Pennsylvania Ave. and 17th Street he whispered into his aides ear.
He walked briskly to the room where the press conference would be held. Robert Gibbs, press secretary for Obama, arranged for Warren's speech to be simulcast on all major networks, live streamed to Youtube, Hulu, Vimeo, twitterized, homogenized and pasteurized. No one would miss it.
The Saddleback Church marquee was set up behind a large desk, flanked by a California Flag and an American Flag. It was perfect. Except for his aide. He was nowhere to be seen. And Obama's people were still in the room. They needed to be removed. They would ruin everything.
"30 seconds to live Pastor Warren."
He almost smirked at the irony. He adjusted his tie, giving no indication of the panic running through him. He looked around calmly, but his eyes darted frantically.
"Counting down, Five, four..." The producer gave a silent three count with his hand and pointed to Warren.
He paused briefly. Looked to the thugs posted at the door, looked at the teleprompter silently shouting for him to begin reading his prepared remarks, looked up to the heavens to ask for forgiveness - and began.
No one jumped to stop him. No one cut off the cameras or the sound. He preached calmly and when he finished his instructions were put on a graphic on the screen along with a link to Rickwarren.com. He whipped out his iPhone and went to his homepage.
"My God..." he stammered. His homepage had already been changed to include this speech as well as his instructions.
"Yes Rick. Your God," Obama sneered, bursting through the marquee and knocking over the American flag. "Thank you for doing your part. Your invocation and final sermon were wonderful."
"What did Matthews say?" he asked to no one in particular.
"He said-" began one of his many aides.
"I remember now Jon. A thrill up both of his legs! Ha indeed Chris. Ha indeed. Come Rick, we must head underground now, something is about to happen."
"You madman-"
"MADMAN? MADMAN, RICHARD!?" His eyes burned with anger, with rage. An aide stepped forward. Obama waved him off. He regained his legendary cool as quickly as he seemed to lose it.
"Hardly. Come, you still have work to do."
The bomb felt like a small earthquake from the bunkers underground. Rick said the last rites for tens of millions around the country, the devout followers that would listen to his call to follow him to heaven and leave this broken world behind. He ended his prayer; raised his own gun to his head. And pulled the trigger.
The video of Warren "returning home" followed the news reports of the bomb dropping. Churches around the country filled up that night, sometimes overflowing. Parents shepherded their children to the afterlife first. Anyone who couldn't do it themselves were also taken care of. Then they turned their weapons - be it knives, guns, swords, hammers - on themselves.
####################################
"Olivia. Please. Keep your eyes closed. I'm going to take you out of here. We're going to go away from here."
He pulled her up to her feet, closing his own eyes as well as he could. But he could still see. And now that his head wasn't nestled in Olivia's long, silky, fragrant hair, he could again smell. He led her out of the church. Into fresh air. Away from the horror. They walked towards Nathaniel's car.
"Nathaniel, why are you still covering my eyes?"
He removed his hand quickly, almost embarassed. Her eyes adjusted and she saw him for the first time. Tall, curly hair, kind but tired eyes. He must have noticed her gawking, and he stammered out the first thing he thought of.
"I'm Nathaniel."
"I know. I'm Olivia."
"I know."
Labels: caliphate, it's a child not a choice, obama, rick warren, thugocracy series
posted by Boofasten at
12:36 PM
2 Comments:
Hey guys, please stop sending me so much Ron Paul/Nathaniel slash fiction. I'll try and get there eventually, but all these e-mails are really bogging me down!
no joke, this is the most enthralling literature i've come across in while. can't wait for the next installment! (seriously.)
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