Dear NSA: A Collection of Politically Incorrect Short Stories

by Harmon Cooper

  “You want a drink?” Bill asks. “I just picked up a six pack of Tecate from Claire’s. Hell, who am I kidding? You’re a guest. How ‘bout a shot of tequila followed by a fresh Tecate.”

  “Been a while since I drank tequila. I think I’ll just stick with the Tecate.”

  Bill’s face puckers inward. “I’m offering you a shot of tequila, Sheldon. Feeling just a little disrespected here. This is my house and damn if we don’t get ourselves good and liquored up on some of Mexico’s finest.”

  “No disrespect.” Sheldon opens Elvira’s case. “Sure, Bill, give me a shot. Speaking of shots, you interested in doing some shooting outside? I figured we could unload a quick round before the storm rolls in.”

  “Now you’re talking! You didn’t bring your Ruger did you?”

  “Nope, I figured I’d just pick up some ammo from you today.”

  “Fair enough,” Bill pours two shots of tequila from a half empty bottle of Jose Cuervo. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, I picked up a Beretta Nano from Cabalas last month. I’ve got to show you this little bastard. Small enough to fit in your drawers but boy does she pack a punch. Kickback reminds me of Wyatt’s Colt 45.”

  “A little Beretta firing like a Colt 45? You’re shitting me,” Sheldon says, taking the shot glass from Bill.

  “I ain’t lying to you.” Bill slices through a lime with his pocket knife. “Hell, I’ll show you in just a minute here.”

  “All right, then.’ Sheldon picks up a slice of lime from Bill’s cutting board and throws back the shot, wincing at the tequila burn. He sticks the lime in his mouth and sucks it for all its worth.

  Bill starts talking about a story he heard from Wyatt about some guy in Austin inventing the first 3D gun. Sounds real stupid to Sheldon: he’ll take a real gun over a plastic gun any day. Then Bill’s going on and on about some kid in West Virginia who got suspended for wearing a pro-NRA shirt with the phrase Protect Your Right across the chest. Idiot school board.

  Sheldon turns his attention back to Elvira. He attaches the gas tube, opens the fly and locks it into place. Next is the bolt carrier. He slides the bolt into the black groove of the bolt carrier and twists the bolt into its proper notch. He sticks the bolt carrier into the gas tube, makes sure it’s flush, clicks it into place, and glides it towards the barrel. He watches Bill bump into his couch, nearly dropping his brand new gun. He always was a sloppy drunk.

  Bill sets a box of ammo onto the kitchen table. “Damn ,you almost ready?” he asks. “I didn’t expect you to have to assemble her.” He pours another shot of tequila for himself and downs it. He sighs audibly, happy to be good and liquored.

  “I cleaned her yesterday, so I got to do some reassembly. It’ll only take a minute,” Sheldon says. He clips the spring into its proper channel on the charging handle. Check cleared. He loves that sound. He puts the dust cover over the spring and secures it down into the charging handle with two smacks from his fist. By the time Sheldon double checks everything and puts the magazine in, Bill is already outside firing into the woods.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  “Damn,” Sheldon says, stuffing his earplugs in. He grabs Elvira and opens the back door just in time to hear Bill yelling, “Woooo!”

  Bill’s wasted, trying to shoot with one hand instead of two. He was always a dumbass like that, always trying to show off even if it wasn’t necessary. From high school into his late forties: some people never learn. He’s shooting at an old box in front of an ugly shrub sixty feet away. He’s got this look on this face that could only be described as drunken abandon.

  “Careful now, Bill,” Sheldon says.

  “Oh, ain’t nobody out there.” He fires off two more shots. The bullets hit the box; he always had decent aim.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Bill is still firing when George comes from around the other side of the house.

  First thing Sheldon sees is George’s red shirt, then his blue eyes, then his A&M ballcap. He’s got that George look on his face, kind of stupid but stupid with a mix of wisdom, stupid wise maybe. Sheldon nods at him. Bill pauses for a moment, mesmerized by the power he holds in his hand and completely unaware that George is coming from around the corner. He steadies his aim on the box. “Fellas!” George calls out in that split second and Bill’s reaction is instant. He turns to George and fires two shots directly into his chest.

  Pop! Pop!

  George’s body flies backwards followed by a thin stream of blood. Bill yanks the gun down. “Shit!” he yells. “Ah shit!” George is on his back with his legs twitching. Bill’s dropped his gun onto the table and is running over to George.

  Sheldon clicks the safety off. He presses the butt of his AK-47 against his shoulder and aims at the back of Bill’s head as Bill runs towards the fallen George. At the squeeze of the trigger, percussive rounds discharge from Elvira’s cold black throat. The bullets pierce Bill’s body before Sheldon’s finger has even let go of the trigger. The bullets hit the back of his head and the flesh opens like rose petals. Bill falls forward just feet away from George.

  It happened that fast. Sheldon’s fingers are trembling and there are two fresh bodies lying on the bricked path in front of him. George is coughing blood, reaching his hand in the air. Bill is lying on his stomach, blood bubbling from the wounds on his back of his head.

  A numbness spreads up Sheldon’s arms. He feels vomit rise in his stomach and swallows it back down. He clicks the safety on and sets Elvira down on the table next to Bill’s Beretta. He can barely open Bill’s back door his hands are so shaky. He finally manages to twist the handle open and walk inside. He sees the tequila bottle and takes a big pull off of it, damn near finishing it. He tosses the tequila bottle to the floor. Glass scatters. He curses until his voice is hoarse. He sees Elvira’s case and carries it outside.

  Bill has stopped moving, but George is still convulsing. Always was a tough sonuvabitch. Sheldon will remember that about him, but now isn’t the time for sentiment. Truth be told, he’s never shot a human before. He has, however, shot a zoo’s worth of animals and knows they die the same way we do; knows that sometimes you got to put them out of their misery. And he doesn’t want to do it, but he owes it to George. He knows he’d do the same for him.

  Sheldon picks up the Beretta and steps over Bill’s lifeless body. Elvira’s done enough talking for the time being. He stops just before reaching his old friend. George is staring up at the sky, trying to raise his hands into the air. Blood is dripping off his fingertips and lightning is crackling in the sky above. The drifting heat is as oppressive as it’s ever been.

  “George,” Sheldon says, trying his best not to choke up. He feels the tears stinging, but he wipes them away for now. There will be time to cry later. “Can you hear me buddy?”

  George coughs up a small puddle of dark blood onto his chin and neck. No sound aside from the sucking sound of shallow breaths. He tries to curve his head forward to look at Sheldon but he can’t. Small droplets of rain start to fall from the unnatural darkness that has settled over Bill’s property.

  “Buddy, I’m going to finish it. I’m sorry for this,” Sheldon says, almost sobs, but stops himself. He can’t look at George anymore. Instead he looks at the spot where his shirt is tucked over his belly and into his jeans. He’s just an animal. He looks at the two bullet holes and the crimson stain. He looks up briefly at his friend’s neck and face and raises the gun with his eyes closed.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Sheldon can barely breathe now. His stomach is pulsating and his hands are shaking so hard that he nearly drops the hand gun. He turns back towards the plastic table where Elvira is waiting for him. He sets Bill’s gun down on the table and picks up Elvira.

  They’d be coming for him soon and he needed to prepare.

  The End

  Please Review Dear NSA if you enjoyed it. This book continues to reach people, and your reviews make this possible. Thanks for reading!

  Harmon Cooper

  Back of
the book shit

  Reader,

  I predominantly write fiction, lately focusing on sci-fi/techo thriller series as well as a psychological thriller called Boy versus Self (available here). I am more or less a professional short story writer. It is my job under a different name to write eight short stories a month or more, which keeps me pecking away at my computer at all hours of the day. Short stories are fun, and I am particularly interested in telling stories in new ways.

  Why the satire then?

  Some of the things that happen in the world are too real not to satirize. One doesn’t have to look very hard to find something that makes no sense, or better, only makes sense satirically. For example, an Organization called Business Executives for National Security gives the Eisenhower Award for those who have essentially helped the weapons and war industry the most that year. For those who’ve actually read Eisenhower’s speech on the military-industrial complex, an award in his name seems somewhat ironic.

  ‘In the councils of government, we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist.’ – Eisenhower

  Of course, satire is to be interpreted and someone at BENS could argue that I’m wrong, saying something along the lines of ‘we are helping to guard against the unwarranted influence and at the same time, strengthening our nation’.

  The pictures doesn’t need getting.

  As I grow older, I become increasingly convinced that the world doesn’t run on fuel, nor does it run on money or power; no, I’ve become entirely convinced that it runs on irony. When I see the people chosen to lead the world, or read something like The O’Reilly Factor is the most watched ‘news’ program in America, it creates within me a sense of doom that only satire can explain. Some people get it – John Oliver, the Daily Show, The Bugle Podcast, hundreds of others, but it seems as if the majority simply let stupidity reign, as long as it isn’t knocking at their door.

  I digress, there are so many problems that are tied to the various countries we’ve all been born in that it is hard not to laugh – maybe this is why I write what I write.

  So without further ado, and knowing that this rant has gone on for far too long, please review the book if you enjoyed it or visit my author profile on Amazon here.

  If you’ve come to me through my politically incorrect satire, I recommend my series Life is a Beautiful Thing. It might take some getting used to, but once it gets going, larger pictures and the current world problems begin to emerge.

  Sign up for my reader’s group here to get the first two books in the Life is a Beautiful Thing series for free. I host a contest every month with exclusive prizes from Asia and send out book recommendations. Connect with me, but not like Human Centipede. Please.

  A final thanks goes out to Kay S. in Scotland for her helpful suggestions. She’s the best reader a writer could ask for, and this collection would be a lot messier if it weren’t for her keen eye. Arigato gozaimasu!

  Samples on the next page. Continue forward, reader.

  Harmon Cooper

  Writer.harmoncooper@gmail.com

  Reviews for Book One:

  'Read it, then read book two!!' - Amazon reviewer

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  'Mesmerizing, dark dystopian thriller. The action never lets up.' - Amazon top 500 reviewer

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  'If Palahniuk wrote Trainspotting as a dystopian futuristic sci-fi, it would be this book...smart, funny, stylish, quick-moving, and cyberpunk-sexy.' - Amazon top 500 reviewer

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  'Strangely thrilling; imaginative and depressingly fresh, Cooper introduces a freakishly diverse cast of characters in a futuristic setting that is, sadly, a feasible reality in which to devolve.' -Liquid Frost, Amazon Top 100 reviewer

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  'This book will make you want to read the entire series.' - Amazon reviewer

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  'Crazy, funky, mind-boggling view of a whacked out future.' - Amazon reviewer

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  'Imaginative and fast paced.' - Amazon reviewer

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  ‘Love it or hate it – this is stunning!’ –KS

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  'Definitely cyberpunk (William Gibson meets Phillip K Dick) with a side order of Clockwork Orange sums it up.' - Goodreads reviewer

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  'Serious page turner.' -Amazon reviewer

  (Sample) Life is a Beautiful Thing

  BOOK ONE

  Harmon Cooper

  Edited by George C. Hopkins

  Available on Amazon here

  ZERO∞

  **A note from the author before you get started**

  This book hops right into the fray with Meme, a human therapist for Humandroids (read: androids) who is at a bar in LA using what are known as pollutes. He’s just met Nelly, a pregnant woman who will have a huge impact on his life as the series progresses. He is on the verge of meeting Sauria, a powerful businessman and CEO of a company called Executive Executions who will later call for his death. Meme is also about to encounter Yeshi, a Humandroid escort who, like Nelly, will greatly impact his life.

  Whew.

  I tell you this for the sake of clarity. I read loads of novels, and it is always helpful to get a grip on things before diving headfirst into a series, especially one that is as bizarre as Life is a Beautiful Thing.

  Books two through four are out now and available here. The madness begins on the next page. Enjoy and strap yourself in.

  --Harmon Cooper

  ONE∞

  Currently, I’m getting wasted off pollutes with a pregnant woman three days before Halloween at POLLUTION CLUB 512 in Los Angeles. Nelly is a tall chick with a silver glaze on her belly caused by a recent application of C-Baby. She’s in a cheesecloth shirt, topless underneath. Conservative compared to most at the club tonight.

  As I speak to her, Nelly closes her eyes and logs into iNet. I really don’t care if she’s paying attention to me or not. I’ll have her soon enough. I reach for a pollution mask, strap it on. Inhale, exhale, repeat. Life is a beautiful thing.

  ‘So, do you want to switch bodies or not?’ I ask her. I push the pollution mask to the top of my forehead. No sense in wasting time when time wastes you. The bulge of her pregnant stomach touches something primal inside me, reminds me of my own time in the womb, a glorious nine months. Rattle dasein!

  ‘I’m talking to my friend Carloza about it,’ Nelly says with her eyes closed. ‘It’s complicated when you’re pregnant.’

  ‘So you’ll think about it then?’ I ask. ‘Let me get the next round.’

  ‘Okay, just a little though.’

  I set my pollution mask on a hook in front of the bar. The mask resembles a plague doctor’s mask with emerald polypropylene eye lenses. It has a long beak-like nose to allow excess pollution to linger. The nose is connected to a series of distributor cables tucked under the bar. The designer ones are made from real leather and on some occasions, endangered animal skulls and other fine materials.

  I glance back at Nelly. She reaches for her mask and pulls it down over her forehead. She’s calm and collected, ready to inebriate. There’s something different about her gait, as if she isn’t used to coming to this pollution club or perhaps, not used to the commotion on the ground floor level. Intriguing to say the least, fascinating to say the most.

  ‘I’ll have one Naked Lunch and one Loathing Hunter,’ I tell the bartender. He pulls out one of his dreadlocks and starts cleaning the inside of a shot glass with it. He positions the dreadlock above the first shot glass. An antifreeze-colored liquid trickles out of the end of his dreadlock. Nothing like getting high off fresh pollutes.

  ‘You want an Ayahuasca topper?’ He looks at me through a pair of old leaks.

  ‘Sure.’ I nod towards Nelly’s stomach. ‘It’ll do the baby good.’

  The bartender pours the drinks into a grimy tube connected to a series
of pipes attached to the bar. I hear a hissing sound as the drinks are instantly vaporized into a fresh pollute. I point to the tube connected to Nelly’s pollution mask. She nods and pulls her mask over her face.

  We inhale to exhale.

  TWO∞

  Let’s get this out of the way.

  You’re a tall person, or maybe you’re short. Perhaps you’re between tall and short. You’re a fat person who is skinny at heart, or a skinny person who wants to be larger as to appear more intimidating. You’re a mixture of tall and fat, fat and short, skinny and tall, or simply medium sized. Nothing wrong with being medium-sized. You are almost above average and we’re both mediocre.

  You’re my grandmother on the verge of her seventy-sixth birthday, five hundred and thirty-two in dog years. You’re my ex-girlfriend who is mad at me for breaking up with her over iNet. You’re Columbian. You’re a mix between Irish and Brazilian. You’re a protomartyr with a penchant for self-righteousness. You’re white and your grip on the world has finally started to subside. You’re Asian. You’re a librarian and you have a small pen in the shape of a Kalashnikov. Your mother is from Malaysia. Your father is from Niger and he rode velocipedes as a child. You were born in Melbourne and are a closet kangatarian who is into auto asphyxiation.

  You’re unique, you’re angry, you’re patriotic, you have an addiction, you don’t give a shit about politics, you love your country, you’re racist, you’re funny, you’re a thief, you’re good in bed, you’re a war veteran, you believe in magic, you aren’t sincere, you think too much, you say too little, you’re pathetic, you love your television, you hate your country, you routinely French kiss your spouse, you’re a sex offender, you loathe your brother, you dance while no one’s watching, you listen when no one’s speaking, you’re going to die tomorrow (goodbye!), you have a long life to live, you’re aggressive, you believe the fortunes in fortune cookies, you worship God and despise the heathens, you day trade in crypto currencies, you’re the ninety-nine percent, your mother is dead, you’re a virgin, you have an eating disorder, you’re lactose intolerant but you always crave cheese, you suffer from coulrophobia, you have traveled the world in search of nothing, you were born over international waters, your uncle is nuts, your sister is getting married soon, your half-brother sells frozen yogurt for a living, you’re a victim of senescence.