Contents
Title
Copyright
Author's Note
Memos From The Wasteland!
Undelivered
Internal memos from the IRS Bunker
Rabia's Diary
Post Apocalyptic Office Politics
How to Cook Meat
More Recipes
"Activities"
Bonus Preview Chapter from A Happy Bureaucracy
A Happy Bureaucracy
About the Author
M.P. Fitzgerald
Seattle
MEMOS FROM THE WASTELAND!
By M.P. Fitzgerald
This is a work of fiction, Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. And, for the love of god, do not actually file “Activities”.
Copyright © by M.P. Fitzgerald
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First printing, 2018
M.P. Fitzgerald
420 Wall St. #216
Seattle, WA 98121
https://revfitz.com
Cover Design by Dan Van Oss, Covermint Design
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Author’s Note:
Contained in these pages are memos, letters, diary entries, and distilled lunacy from the survivors of the nuclear holocaust. Only the IRS has survived. You have been warned.
M.P. Fitzgerald
Undelivered
Dear Arthur,
No one told me that it was still raining ash.
I can’t exactly say what I expected to see when we came topside. I knew that the world in which I was raised was gone. I knew, intellectually, that the United States would be decimated. I remember discussing Hiroshima and Nagasaki in my history classes. I remember learning about the shattered and radioactive concrete, I recalled learning about people’s shadows being burnt into the walls from the brightness of the blast. What I am trying to say, is that I knew that we were not going to be greeted with sunshine and rainbows. But no one told me that it was still raining ash. No one told me about how silent it would be.
I realize how foolish this is. There is no one to deliver this message to you, despite the mad belief from the other auditors that the Post Office is somehow just “dropping the ball”. Even if it were delivered, you are still too young to understand most of this. I still cannot believe that they expect you to be working this young. You just learned how to count. You are not old enough to realize that daddy is not doing this on purpose. Believe me, son, leaving you and the IRS’s bunker is the last thing that I wanted to do. I honestly hope that the image of you begging me to stay, accusing me of leaving because I did not love you, that that terrible memory is not the last one I have of you. But, well, I guess I would not be writing this letter otherwise.
I don’t know how you are going to get this letter. Maybe you will come across it on your own excursion topside. Maybe I will get to deliver it to you in person. But I doubt it.
They want me to count heads. The world has ended, the IRS knows that, but what else are they to do? We do not know it for sure, we have not been contacted by anyone else in the government, but right now, it looks like we are the government. All of it. The IRS either has some damn good foresight with their detailed reclamation efforts, or are incredibly naive, but the mission is still the same. The Emergency Operations manual clearly states that in the event of a nuclear war the IRS is to conduct a census of the population and resume tax efforts to help build back society. Any employee of the IRS regardless of pay grade or job can be reassigned for any duty deemed necessary in the state of an emergency. That's how your old man was promoted from janitor to auditor. Funny that none of the higher-ups have joined us. (Linked Comment)
So, please believe me that daddy did not want this. Our place in the bunker has always been tenuous. They made themselves very clear: if I wanted to stay employed with them, I had to go out and count heads. If I didn't I'd get the boot, and I would have to take you with me. You would have to leave the only safe place in the world. The only place with electricity. The only place with clean water. They have to know that being fired is akin to banishment. God help us if they are as stuck to their bureaucratic ways as I fear them to be.
The thing that I could not admit to you then, is that daddy knew that either way he was probably going to die. There are so many things that can kill me up here. Radiation, sickness, dehydration, starvation. We have not seen any animals yet, but if they survived the destruction of the world they are going to be as hungry and desperate as we are. So this was my choice: die topside and watch my precious boy die too, or die alone knowing you were safe. It was a no-brainer.
It is not fair that you will grow up without me. It is unfair that your mother did not make it to the bunker in time. Everything about this world is unfair, maybe that is a good lesson to learn so early on. Maybe I am the one at a disadvantage learning so late in age.
So, as I write this, ash falls from the sky like morbid snow. As I write this I have seen more skeletons than I have met people in my life. We spent a week combing the pieces of the city that did not make our Geiger counter screech. We found no one. We are trying the country now.
What scares me son is what is left of humankind, what is ultimately our legacy, is not the grand things I hoped they would be. No one told me that the golden arches of McDonald’s still stood. I know that this is something that you will not understand, but that is truly horrifying.
Future excavators won't find the pyramids. They won't find an ancient copy of the Torah hermetically sealed. The milestones of our human culture and the grand things that we accomplished that could stand for our greatness, that could truly represent our potential for good and are genuinely inspiring, they won't be the first things they see. No. It will be the immortal plastic bottles of Coca-Cola that they will dig up. They will find dilapidated billboards for a reality TV show about a billionaire's harem of desperate and failed actresses. They will find the golden arches of McDonald's on every corner in every city.
As I walked through the dead city we once called home, I have to wonder how we will all be judged by history. Will there be any context for these things? Will they just assume that these buildings that share a symbol and advertise happiness to be temples? Churches? Would they be wrong?
We did not leave behind a testament to humankind's greatness. I saw little evidence of what was good of us as we sifted through rubble, ash, and bone for canned food. Our intelligence, our wisdom, our capacity for kindness and compassion? They can't be found. But our capacity for willful ignorance, cruelty, and hatred, that is on full display. It always was, I suppose. No one told me that the city would look like a winter morning as ash fell from the sky, but as I watch it I cannot be surprised that it came to this. Was there any other conclusion for a species that built more Starbucks then schools? For a community that required consumer debt, ignored racism, and insisted that The Apprentice was a good show.
The Apprentice was not a good show, Arthur.
We never stopped to consider exactly what our children would inherit from us. At least not as a culture. We never thought about any of it. If things did not literally explo
de in our faces, if society kept on chugging, was this something I could be proud of handing to you? My generation, the ones before it too, we inherited a world where scarcity was merely a tactic to keep a class of people out of power. Half of the things from The Jetsons, half of the things from Star Trek had been readily available for purchase as consumable products for years. The golden promises of the future, the things held by Vulcans and robot maids, all of it available in twelve different colors, all of it sold by Apple. We inherited shiny things and greed.
You, my son, have inherited a wasteland of fear and loathing. Assuming that you are not the last generation, which might not be a fair thing to assume, I can’t imagine that your generation will leave anything behind but desperation. For this, I am truly sorry. I wanted you to go to college, to be the first McDowell to hold a degree. When your mother first held you with pride, we saw nothing but good things ahead of you.
How delusional were we?
I write this to you, knowing full well that you may never see it, on the eve of our first contact with our fellow man. We spotted them a day ago, saw their camp fire’s smoke rise out of the rubble on the horizon. It is our job, maybe even duty, to go to them, to these people who survived the blasts without a bunker. To these people who actually saw the world burn. Tomorrow, we go to them as representatives of the old world. To remind them that their taxes are late.
I know fear. I’ve known nothing but fear since the bombs fell. But we had food in the bunker. We had water that was not irradiated. These people have had to sift through derelict plastic bottles and bones to find tiny morsels of food. How desperate will they be? I’ve known fear, but them? They know desperation. The others, the ones that were auditors before the bombs fell, they are nothing but optimistic. I am not. They will kill us, Arthur. They will do so because they need to survive. We have everything, they have nothing. It is an old equation for bloodshed that never fails.
I’ve convinced the others to wait. Told them that we should not bother them until morning. They have agreed, but only because they insist that it is outside of business hours. I am hoping that we lose them. Maybe they will leave and go scavenging somewhere else, maybe I can live another day and hand deliver this to you. This letter that you cannot understand. But I know that they won’t. I know that I won’t. I know this because we incubated cruelty and ignorance while everything was new, while everything was still thriving. We reap what we sow.
Arthur, there is so much that daddy wants to tell you. So much that he wants to teach you. Shave with the grain of your face. Make eye contact when you talk to people. Crying is not a weakness. Always say please and thank you.
I love you son.
But most of all stay away from The Apprentice.
Internal Memos from the IRS Bunker
3.2, 20 years after The War.
As this fiscal year comes to an end it is important to remember that as Federal Agents, we are likely going to be the only part of the government that most citizens will interact with. As such, remember that you are, to the majority of those being audited, the very face of the United States government. They don’t have to like that you are there (very few will when being audited), but that doesn’t mean that they won’t like you. It is important that you represent yourself to the best of your abilities, here are a few things to keep in mind:
Make sure your hygiene is impeccable.
Remember to smile, be friendly!
Wear the appropriate clothing, you are working, make sure you look like it.
Be respectful.
This last point has been an area of contention for many auditors who survive going out topside. It is a sad reality that many of you have to be escorted and protected by Enforcers. The outside world has become a very dangerous place, and much of our government has passed the buck on to us. Just remember, those citizens are exactly that: citizens. They have a right to their property (so long as they are paying their taxes) and they have a constitutional right to own firearms. Respect is your first line of defense out there.
With that said, there are certain provisions and office supplies that we are running low on. It is always important not to waste these items, as soon we will have to ration them out sparingly. With the New Economy it is acceptable, even encouraged, to substitute the collection of US currency with items for barter. Be on the lookout while you are out topside, the following items are worth double their value until provisions are at an acceptable level:
Pens, black or blue ink only.
Stamping ink, blue, black, and red.
Feminine hygiene products (tampons, maxi pads…etc.) worth triple.
Coffee filters.
Toilet paper worth triple.
Of course, the citizen gets to decide what he/she uses to pay their taxes. If they have one of these items, and they would rather pay with bullets or something else of value, this is their prerogative. With that said, you can definitely suggest what they use to pay their debts to the federal government. Don't push them, but make it clear how much less you will need to collect if one or more of these items is used to pay their taxes. Of course, in the unfortunate case of the citizen's death upon collection (a very grim and unfortunate reality of today's auditing efforts), you may use your discretion on what items to take.
Never take more than what is owed.
Keep all of these things in mind and be safe out there!
3.9, 20 years after The War.
Another Caravan has set up their stations for trading (now that they have been audited) and it is imperative that you remember that no amount of SPF protection on a sunscreen can keep you safe from the fallout radiation poisoning much of the United Wastes. Those who make such a promise are charlatan hucksters hustling quackery at the expense of your naiveté. There are many things that these caravans offer that can be of use (returning caravans are bringing back pens and paper) and their wares and business acumen have been of great benefit to the continued operations of the Internal Revenue Service. However, many of these citizens have made a living selling various kinds of "snake oil", and an "SPF 900 Sunscreen and Radiation Protection Kit" is a known (and maybe timeless) trick of theirs.
The only thing that can keep you safe from radiation is a leaded radiation suit (available only with the approval of someone ranking as Deputy Commissioner of Operations or higher and with a properly filled out form 16-C which is printed on mauve and not the mulberry that form 16-B is printed on) and your standard issued Geiger Counter. The perfectly easy saying to remember is: “if your counter clicks continuously, confer to count your ceasing step!” or your “six C’s!”
3.14, 20 years after The War.
This memo is in response to the outcry associated with the withholding of leaded suits given the recent unavailability of form 16-C. The Internal Revenue Service prides itself on transparency and accountability, as such, it is important to the higher grades in the bunker to let you know about the issue at hand, and with full disclosure.
It is an unfortunate reality of the United Wastes that many tribes and settlements set up their camps near, or on radiated areas, being fully unaware of their dangers. This is either because of the rampant illiteracy that permeates the first generation "wasters", or because they lack the equipment to detect it. Of course, these settlements and camps do not last long, but they may last long enough that you, as an auditor, will have to visit them for the auditing and collection of taxes. With this in mind, the heads of the IRS have done their best to provide the proper equipment to keep you safe in this endeavor. Our resources are limited, however, and thus form 16-C came into circulation to allow the leasing of our leaded suits.
Unfortunately, the mauve paper stock that has been assigned to form 16-C is no longer in stock. This has led many to erroneously file a similar form (16-B), even though it is clearly printed on mulberry and not mauve. These requests have of course been denied due to the discrepancy. This system has been put in place for a very specific reason and we hope that this is recogniz
ed. The Deputy Commissioner of Operations, Henry S. Boyd recognizes the necessity of a leaded suit when dealing with radiation, and is taking measures to ensure that this problem is resolved.
Of course, no requests for the suit will be approved until we can replenish our stock of mauve paper.
3.21, 20 years after The War.
The following items are worth double (or more) of their amount. Keep an eye out for them while you continue to make the IRS proud and audit the United Wastes:
Pens, black or blue ink only.
Stamping ink, black and red.
Feminine hygiene products (tampons, maxi pads…etc.)
Coffee filters.
Toilet paper worth triple.
Mauve paper stock worth triple.
Also: Happy Birthday Susan Cardenas!
3.28, 20 years after The War.
The most recent excursion to the tribe of people that set up camp out in the dust plains was very successful. The professionalism and efficiency displayed during that audit were admirable! Unfortunately, the irradiated dust storm that engulfed our auditor was disastrous. To the family of Susan Cardenas, we offer our condolences and respect.
Memos From the Wasteland Page 1
