People say if you don’t got variety, life sucks, or some shit like that. Goes to show people are idiots. A big bowl of Dinty Moore Beef Stew every night’ll do me just fine. Got two shelves full of ’em. Just grab one, pour it in my bowl, zap it in the microwave, and I’m good.
I got so much of the stuff flies are buzzin’ around the empties piled high in the trash. Back in the day, the idiots made us separate ’em from the other trash—like the stupid cans were prized possessions that were gonna save the planet. That’s the way it was, then. Like it was so heroic to save your cans. Savin’ a kid from a burnin’ buildin’? Amateur hour in comparison. Okay, I’m stretchin’ it a bit. But I can’t believe we fell for that bullhonkey for so long. Ain’t gonna make a damn bit of difference if we recycle or not if the rest of the world don’t. Our Great Leader taught us that. What’s the point? If they don’t do it, why should we? He said. So we scrapped all that jazz. Like Great Leader told us too. He’s no idiot.
Got a little fired up, didn’t I? Better cool off cause it’s hotter than a flamin’ bag-a turds out there tonight. Which ain’t nothin’ new. I get the sweats all the time now. Beads runnin’ down both sides of my head. See which one’ll get down my neck first. Cheap entertainment, I guess. When the races heat up, I know it’s time to put on my Great Leader Ice Vest. It’s got the Great Leader seal and everything. Fill it up with Great Leader bottled H2O, keep it in the ice box, and when I need it, strap it on and cool off. Only 999 bucks from The Great Leader Emporium. Not a bad bargain. Got mine on sale, limited edition—although it’s been back by popular demand more than a few times. But I got one of the firsts.
Nights like this, I strap on my vest so I don’t stick to my Lazy Boy. No joke. Without it, I sound like a slab of Velcro peelin’ away when I get up.
Vest on. Dinty Moore in my Great Leader Dinner Bowl. A sandstorm whippin’ around outside, hopefully blowin’ contagion away. What more could a single successful fella need? ’Cept maybe a blow job. I got me a Great Leader Auto Suck for that. A real nice one. Maybe a little too nice. Not now, though. Maybe later. After the fights. The fights are kinda like foreplay.
Fights are on all day, but they save the best for the evenin’ entertainment. Starts gettin’ good round dinner time, than gooder and gooder as the night goes on.
Goddam!
You hear that?
A helluva big boom just blasted the desert floor.
Whole damn camper shook.
I pull the blinds aside. It’s too damn orange and hazy with sand swirlin’ to see anything. I kinda see a mushroom cloud off in the distance. Maybe. Might be imagining it. A boom like that though, gotta be one out there somewhere. Must-a been a contagion hot spot found out. They got radar detection and all that to find ’em. No messin’ around anymore. Find ’em, kill ’em. Annihilate the virus, dead. That’s what the Great Leader says. None of that isolate yourself namby-pamby liberal crap like the old days. Just wipe it out. Too many damn people anyway. Course, gettin’ rid of the Dems helped correct that problem. Only the best people, the Great Leader says. That’s what we got now. Mostly. There’s still stragglers that need eliminated. But the Great Leader’s workin’ on it.
Out here in the Mo-have, I ain’t got no neighbors. No stragglers that I know of neither. Not for miles, ’cept maybe some hiddens in the foothills. No neighbors. No stores. No nothin’. Without Great Leader Whirlybird Drone Delivery, I don’t know what I’d do.
The rattlin’ and rockin’ settled, I turn the Great Leader Box to Great Leader Liberty 2. That’s the best channel in my opinion. Not that Liberty 1 ain’t good. It is. Great Leader 24 Hour News is important. It’s how I stay up on things. And Liberty 3, the Great Leader Emporium Channel has all the best deals on only the best Great Leader products. But ya can’t beat watchin’ the fights on good ol’ Liberty 2.
Looks packed. Not an empty seat in the arena. Tonight’s fights are in GLLA—Great Leader LA. So not all that far from me. That’s if this old camper still had an engine that motored, which it don’t. Not that I could find or afford gas around here anyhow. So I guess it ain’t all that close after all. That’s okay. I’d rather watch from the comfort of my Lazy Boy, anyway.
I’ve always been an alone kind of guy, truth be told. I had me a crush on a cashier at Carl’s Jr. once—long time ago, back when people still went to good restaurants. That was before we got rid of all the Dems and the virus took a whole lotta everyone else. I wonder sometimes if the virus got my girl. Sometimes I still see her bitin’ her bottom lip all pretty like she did when she was stuck on things, like how much change to give back. Look at me reminiscin’. Enough lovey-dovey, it’s fight night.
Tonight’s fights are in GLLA, but they got ’em in GLTX too. Bein’ in El Paso, right on the border and all, those ones get pretty wild. Sometimes they show the whole thing. The capture, the processin’, then the fight. But those are mostly special occasion fights. All day events on days like No Elections Day. That’s the day we celebrate the uprisin’ when everyone wised up and said, whadda we need elections for when we got the Great Leader? No Elections Day was mostly the Great Leader’s idea. Go figure. Everybody was already all riled up about pretty much everything—he just gave us the guts to do what he was thinkin’. And we done did it.
Speaking of the Great Leader, he’s on now. His racoon-eyed pudgy face and puffy light brown hair fill the screen. Great Leader’s got the look of a guy who thinks he’s better than us. A guy you’d normally want to give a good ass-kicking. But funny thing is, Great Leader is kinda like one of us, too, ya know, one of the guys, even though he’s not really. He’s our Great Leader.
Every fight night starts the same—with a few words from Great Leader. It’s taped, and he says the same stuff most of the time, but there’s always a few twists and turns here and there. Listenin’ to him now, I’m pretty sure I know what’s comin’.
“Finally,” he says, “Somebody did something about the immigration problem. Nobody could’ve done it but me. I know more about taming the illegals than anyone else. It had to be me. It had to be done.”
That’s standard fight night talk, right there.
“Tamin’” is a funny way of puttin’ it. Kinda makes it sound like he’s puttin’ ’em in their place. He’s puttin’ them in their place, alright. Half of ’em, the losin’ half, are goin’ in the incinerator. Winner gets their freedom. Just like that, the Great Leader cut the illegal problem in half. Pretty smart, right?
Funny thing is, not ha-ha funny, but ain’t it odd funny—with the Dems gone and the virus runnin’ wild, illegals ain’t even that big a deal anymore. I mean, a lot of ’em are murderers and rapists, so says the Great Leader, which is pretty bad, but what I’m sayin’ is, if we’re talkin’ like sheer numbers, it’s not like we don’t got room for more people after the uprisin’ and everything. But then where’s the fun in sayin’ the hell with it and just lettin’ everyone in? There ain’t no fun in that at all. There’d be no more Fight Night. What are we supposed to do without fight nights? I guess I could auto suck myself all night long, but even that gets old after a while. Gotta have fight nights.
Up on the TV, Lee Peckerwood’s singin’ Live Free or Die Tryin’—the Great Leader Fight Night theme song. Personally, I think Peckerwood’s a phony. He’s got dollar signs in his eyes more than he’s got allegiance to the Great Leader. Mister I’m so patriotic Peckerwood never even sticks around to watch the fights, like maybe he’s too sissy to hack it.
Lee done soakin’ up the limelight, the crowd starts chantin’ “Hell no, we won’t vote.” A throwback to what started it all—kinda like our victory chant. Can break out anytime, anywhere, in Great Leader Land. Don’t rhyme worth a shit, but it always gets everyone all riled up and feeling’ good about what they done.
First fight’s about to get underway. They still fight in octagon cages like the old days, but these fights ain’t nothin’ like those.
I set my empty stew can on the rug. Get ready.
“You kiddin’ me?” I says out loud to the TV, accidentally fartin’ at the same time. This first dude, Flaco, that’s what they called him, there ain’t no way he’s gonna last long. He’s a skinny little runt—not a muscle on him. Poor kid’s shiverin’ and shakin’ like a baby kitten’s first bath.
Flaco’s opponent, Angel, don’t look like no Angel. He’s got darkness in his eyes like back-alley doorways to places nobody wants to enter. He’s bigger than Flaco, too. Not like muscley bigger, just blobbier.
Honest to truth, I think I could probably take ’em both if it came right down to it. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s not like I get jacked workin’ construction no more. But I still got a little juice in me, I think. Maybe. I don’t know.
Now, ya might be wonderin’, say Billy, what if neither of ’em wants to fight? What then? Fair question. But don’t think the Great Leader didn’t think that one through. Look up to the right, way above the cage, can’t see him right now, but there’s a sharpshooter up on the rafters. A minute goes by without action and he takes ’em both out. So far, I only seen that happen a couple-a-times. And it wasn’t because they didn’t wanna fight. It was because they were too bloodied up and tired to keep goin’, so mister sharpshooter put ’em both out of their misery. Splat. Done. Which is funny in a what a shame kind of way, because one of ’em was so close to gettin’ their freedom. So close, but yet so far away, as they say.
Jesusfuckin’shit!
I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on tonight, but that was another dern close ka-blamo. Closer than the last one. I could hear the bomber buzzin’ overhead, escapin’, unless I’m imaginin’ things, which I ain’t. Almost lifted the whole damn camper right off the ground, that blast did. Must be a virus colony on the move way out here for them to be bombin’ this close.
I peek through the blinds, but can’t see a damn thing. It’s like after the towers fell. Just thick and ugly air whippin around with nothin’ you want to breathe in. Not that I remember the towers droppin’ in the here and now. But I’ve seen the footage. It’s been said that Great Leader was one of the first ones to respond that day, leadin’ the cleanup. Said by him, mostly. He wasn’t even Great Leader back then, but there he was, large and in-charge.
Fight’s underway, sorta. Flaco’s just standin’ there, scared and not knowin’ what to do. Angel’s standin’ there, too, until he ain’t. Eyes widenin’, nostrils flarin’, he bull charges Flaco and slams him into the cage. Angel can’t hold on though, and Flaco slips away. Lucky for Flaco, or this mighta been over real fast.
Angel’s eyein’ Flaco like he wants to charge him again, puffs of anger fumin’ out of his big bull nostrils, but Flaco’s wisely moved to the center of the cage so he don’t get pinned to the fencin’. That don’t stop Angel from attemptin’ a charge. Flaco dips to the side like a matador. Angel charges a few more times. No luck. Flaco’s a wiry little fella which is keepin’ him alive. Angel’s brows arch and his face is boilin’. He’s got the look of a demon who’d claw Flaco’s heart out and eat it to a bloody mess right there in front of everyone if he had the chance.
First round ends.
Ninety seconds zip by and Round Two starts where they left off, Angel circling Flaco. Crowd’s gettin’ restless and the sharpshooter’s probably gettin’ itchy finger to pop ’em both. Somethin’ better happen lickety if one of ’em wants to survive.
Angel fakes a couple charges, then let’s loose, committin’. Flaco dashes to the side, and holy Moses, sticks out a leg, catchin’ Angel’s ankle, sendin’ him face first to the mat. I jump forward. The crowd erupts. And Flaco pounces on top of Angel. Flaco’s wailin’ on him, throwin’ blows to Angel’s head as fast as he can. More like flailing at him. By the looks of it, Flaco’s never thrown a punch in his life. Better learn to do damage fast, cause he’s likely stirrin’ up the beast inside Angel.
Angel somehow pushes himself up to his knees which ain’t good for Flaco, at all. Flaco ain’t got no choice but to stop punchin’ and hold on as Angel climbs to his feet and starts spinnin’ round and round tryin’ to throw Flaco off. Kinda makin’ me dizzy, tell ya the truth.
Flaco ain’t lettin’ go.
Angel, gettin’ dizzy himself, wises up, stops spinnin’, and falls straight back onto the mat, crunchin’ Flaco like an aluminum can beneath him. Classic big-time wrestlin’ move. Flaco’s arms drop. Angel flips over on top of him and starts pummelin’ Flaco’s face. Truth be told, Angel’s punches are kinda sissy too, but with Flaco just lyin’ there, plenty of blows land. Blood gushes from Flaco’s nose. His face looks like a smooshed-up tomato.
Ding-ding-ding.
Saved by the bell.
Falco’ll live to see another round, maybe. I don’t know, he’s lookin’ pretty limp.
The corner crew comes out and drags Flaco away. I’ve seen worse come back for more, but things aren’t lookin’ too rosy for Flaco, other than his bruised, pummeled face.
Once they drag Flaco off, they don’t show him. This part always seemed suspect to me—like maybe they’re givin’ Flaco smelling salts right now. Or jabbin’ him with one of those long needles that pump life back into ya instantly. Nobody wants a fighter to croak between rounds. What’s the fun in that? Fans want more blood.
Sure enough, they must-a given Flaco somethin’, cause he’s back on his feet to start the next round.
But not so fast.
A colorful doodad flashes onto the screen announcin’ “Weapons Round.”
Weapons Round is exactly what it sounds like.
The camera takes us to a blonde-legged beauty with big gazoobas standing next to the Weapons Wheel. Looks like the wheel from that TV show, Wheel of Fortune. Might even be it, resurrected for better use. The blonde is a sexpot from the Great Leader Modeling Agency, no doubt. The Great Leader is legendary for his vaginal exploits. Nobody knows more about beautiful women than him. But this ain’t about that right now. We got a fight to the death goin’ on.
Names of weapons are written on pie sliced sections of the wheel: Chain, Brass Knuckles, Bat, Chainsaw, Hammer, Nun Chucks and Lance. Angel’s name is on screen in white type below the wheel—which means first spin’ll decide what he gets. The sexy little fox spins the wheel and round it goes. It slows, tricklin’ toward a stop, almost fallin’ into the “No Weapons” slice, which would be great for Flaco, but it don’t, it stops on “Lance.” That’s a deadly one for sure. Not easy to handle, but deadly. So we got a lance in the fight. Angel’s name vanishes and Flaco’s pops onto the screen. Miss sexpot spins the wheel again. Round and round it goes, where it stops—Brass Knuckles. Huh. Guess it’ll give Flaco more punching power. Problem is, the skinny little runt can’t throw much of a punch.
And we’re back.
Both of ’em got their weapons.
You can see the heaviness in Flaco’s arms, like he’s a gorilla draggin’ knuckles as he walks toward the center of the cage. Angel’s holdin’ the lance, its razor-sharp tip pointed toward Flaco. Gettin’ closer to each other, Angel thrusts the lance forward—eww—right into Flaco’s gut. Everybody gasps. Me. The people on the TV. Everyone watchin’ at home too, I’m sure. It’s like Flaco zombied right into it. Ain’t he got no reflexes? Lance stuck in him, Flaco slumps to his knees. There ain’t a sound in the arena. Other than Flaco gurglin’—blood bubblin’ out of his mouth. Angel lets go of the lance and Flaco falls onto his side with it stuck in him like a pig. Sheesh.
The crowd starts cheerin’, like they’re all just realizin’ at the same time, that’s it, fight’s over, Flaco’s dead. I lean back in my chair. I don’t think any of us were expectin’ a finish like that—it was like one of them Samurai suicides. Whaddya call ’em? Hairy Cary’s? A half-ass hairy-Cary, that’s what we just seen.
Flaco. Damn. Rest in peace ya skinny little bastard.
A sad, no-singin’ version of Live Free or Die Tryin’ plays as the death cleanup crew takes Flaco away. They place his sagging body on a conveyor belt that leads to the incinerator. Lights up and down the conveyor belt flash on, and the belt starts movin’—takin’ Flaco to his destination: a big metal mechanical construct of the Great Leader’s face. Looks like a scary metal clown to be honest, but I’ll deny I ever said that.
The whole incinerator setup’s like one of them old baggage claims at the airport, only instead of luggage comin’ out, Flaco’s goin’ in. As Flaco nears the Great Leader’s giant metal face, the Great Leader’s mechanical jaw opens up big and wide and Flaco disappears inside. The Great Leader’s jaw slowly closes back up. Flaco’s burnin’ to a crisp inside the belly of the Great Leader. Hell, it’s kind of a dignified way to go if you ask me. Gettin’ swallowed whole by the Great Leader’s a lot better than havin’ worms crawl through your eyeballs.
Heavy stuff.
.
I get up, take my slushy vest off, and put it back in the ice box. While I’m at it, I grab a Dr. Pepper freeze pop to suck on. I like to indulge every once in a while, why not. Just pour some pop in a baggy, put it in the freezer, let it get all freezed up, than suck on it. Now that’s a tasty treat if there ever was one. I got cases and cases of Dr. Pepper stored up so I don’t go thirsty. Beauty is, technically, Dr. Pepper don’t ever expire. It’s kinda like the cockroach of long-lasting good choices.
Goddam—here comes another. Steady, Billy, steady. Hold on. Ride it out.
Vee-yoom!
Damn plane buzzed my house and lowered the boom not more ’n a few miles from here. Somewhere out in the foothills, felt like. Great Leader Box got all static-y for a second like I was gonna be screwed for the night, which woulda sucked, but it cleared up.
I turn up the Great Leader Box.
Normally, there’s three live fights a night. Four if you’re lucky. And if you’re really lucky, some Friday or Saturday nights, five. But I’m guessin’ tonight’s a three-fer. Right now though, a filmed earlier fight from Great Leader Studios is startin’. They’re always kind of amusin’. Like little short entertainments while the crew’s gettin’ the cage and fighters ready for the next live fight. They play ’em up on the Great Leader Jumbotron for people inside the arena.
Looks like we got ourselves a good ol’ western gunslinger scenario. Two confused-lookin’ illegals are squared off on a dusty street in front a fake saloon. I gather by the big titty Great Leader Modeling Agency beauty in a pretty dress watchin’ from the saloon porch that the storyline has the two saps fightin’ over her. A winner takes all, includin’ the girl, type-a thing. In fantasy land only, though. Ain’t no way the Great Leader’s lettin’ an illegal soil one of his ladies. The two illegals been told otherwise I’m sure. Incentive and all.
I’ve seen this scenario before. Neither of these fools can just start pow-powin’ at each other. Their guns’ll jam if they do. They gotta wait for the clock tower at the end of the fake street to strike noon, then they can start blastin’. At the moment, the two sad sacks are twitchin’ like a couple-a nervous. Boobs on a stick ain’t much of an actress, but the camera sure likes her. Little beads of sweat from the heat are tricklin’ down between her boobies. People at home probably reachin’ for their Great Leader Auto Sucks.
Just as I’m gettin’ a little tingly down yonder, the camera ditches boobs on a stick and zooms in on the clock tower. The long hand’s just about to hump the stubby hand. The camera zooms back to the illegals. The corny western music stops. Alls we hear now is the sound of heartbeats thumpin’. It ain’t real heartbeats. Someone behind the scenes is makin’ it—but it’s a nice touch.
Dong.
Both draw their guns clumsily and start blastin’, steppin’ toward each other as they do. Blam, blam ba-bam—a lot of bullets unloadin’. They both drop. One in the fetal. The other crumples to his knees. Looks like no one’s gonna get the girl—who’s still glammin’ for the camera. For what? Why do they even want to come to Great Leader Land? There ain’t nothin’ goin’ on round here no more.
Shhh. Can’t think that shit, Billy.
Anyways, sometimes scenarios work. Sometimes it don’t. Gangs of New York is a fun one to watch. Instant bloodbath, with gangs of illegals goin’ at it. Chains whippin’, butcher knives hackin’. Whereas Tijuana Ninjas is hit and miss—since hardly any illegals know how to use nun chucks. Space Lion is good—two astronauts on a spaceship fight to the death, while avoidin’ gettin’ eaten by an alien space lion that mysteriously found its way onto the ship. I know, sounds ridiculous. Ya just gotta go with it. The lion is a space lion because it’s in space—that’s it, nothin’ else is different about it. Can’t overthink it. No one else does.
But enough of that nonsense. The real deal’s on.
This time, a couple desperate-lookin’ chicks are squarin’ off. I always thought I’d like chick ones more. Ya know, chick fight ’n all that. But not really. No one gives a solid log about two dudes bustin’ each other up. Chicks is harder to watch. Maybe it’s just me bein’ all pathetic thinkin’ one of ’em might be my girlfriend one day or somethin’, I don’t know. It’s more real, I guess. Girlfriends are chicks. Sisters are chicks. Moms are chicks. Grandmas are chicks. Two old grannies fightin’—that’d be somethin’. I’d have to watch that one, just to see what happens.
One of the chicks, who looks like she’s been battlin’ ever since she popped out of her mama, is bouncin’ up and down on her toes, loosin’ up her neck, and wigglin’ her shoulders like boxers used to do.
Damn.
Again?
More rattlin’ outside.
Nothin’ as loud as before, but somethin’s goin’ on.
I wait for a boom. But it don’t come.
A rat-tat-tat jumps my spine.
That ain’t no bomber. That’s from over my shoulder.
I turn down the volume on the Great Leader Box.
Could be the wind, the sand whippin’ around.
Just heard it again. It ain’t no wind. I’ll be damned if it ain’t someone rappin’ their knuckles on my camper door.
I ain’t never had a visitor before. That’s kinda the whole point of livin’ way out here.
Should I say somethin’? They already know I’m in here. Not like I can hide.
I pop outta my chair.
I sure as heck wasn’t expectin’ this tonight. Or ever.
“Who’s out there?” I yell. My voice crackly, bein’ I don’t use it so much.
No answer.
I yell a little louder.
I hear a faint ding-ding on the TV. The fight’s startin’. I glance at the TV and see the girl who was bouncin’ up and down charge the older girl. I turn my attention back to the camper door.
Who or what’s out there, I have no idea. I ain’t sayin’ I’m brave or anything, but I kinda gotta open the door and find out. Maybe I should grab a knife, but I ain’t got nothin’ more deadly than a busted up Swiss Army, which ain’t gonna do squat if there’s someone or somethin’ on the other side that wants to end me.
Screw it.
I open the door.
All I see is darkness. Sand whippin’ and hazy particles stirrin’ out in the void from who knows what kind of weapons been droppin’ tonight.
Whoa—
“Hey,” I says.
I almost step back as I says it, I’m so surprised. Right down in front of me, so small I almost missed him, a little runt of a pipsqueak wearin’ a dirty mask with cartoon animals on it, a tattered T-shirt and ripped up jeans.
I can’t tell if he’s smirkin’, scared or what’s goin’ on behind his mask. He’s just lookin’ up at me with sad, skittish gray eyes.
How the hell’d this little chico make it way out here? Little guy can’t be more than five or six years old.
At least it don’t look like I’m gonna meet my maker tonight. Not that I thought I was. Okay, maybe I did a little. Hell, I didn’t know what was out here waitin’ for me.
So what do I do?
Nothin’. Not my problem. I go back inside. Lock the door. Turn up the volume and forget I ever seen him.
Shit.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He don’t say nothin’.
“Where’d you come from?”
Nada.
“Who’s your mom?”
Aww, crap. That one draws a sniffle out of ’im.
Well, hell.
I open the camper door all the way and stand back and to the side, still lookin’ at him. He don’t move.
“Come on,” I says.
He don’t come on.
“It’s okay. C’mon,” I says again.
And up the two little steps he climbs, into the camper.
I don’t know where from, but he’s been on a journey, that’s for sure. Little fella’s got cuts and scrapes up and down his arms. Even his neck looks scratched up, like he was standin’ in the middle of a sandstorm gettin’ pelted.
I motion toward my big and comfy for him to sit. He don’t. I pat the seat back and head nod toward it. Still unsure, he lifts his skinny little body up and into the chair. He’s comfortable for just a flash, then his eyes jump big and wide.
I turn to the TV and see why. The hyped-up Mexican girl is beaten the other illegal’s face to a smooshed mess. We’re right up in there, close in on all the blood. It’s bad. Sick is what it is. I grab the remote and zap the TV. The light from both sides of the screen zoom to a pinprick hole in the center, suckin’ the image into darkness with it.
The kid’s eyes shrink. I can feel his little poundin’ heart slowin’ down.
“Ya ever have a Dr. Pepper freeze pop?” I ask him.
He don’t answer. Not that I was expectin’ him to.
“You’re in for a real treat,” I says.
I go to the ice box.
Two Dr. Pepper freeze pops, comin’ up.
END