by Jack Yeovil
PRESLEY: It’s a pleasure to be here, suh.
HARDACRE: Thank you, Colonel. Some of us have parents who remember your name in a different context, that of a popular entertainer in the ’50s. How did you get from there to here?
PRESLEY: I figure no one really recollects the old days, Mr Hardacre. It was a world of time ago. I went in the army and turned my thinking around, came out after my hitch was up, didn’t like what I saw back in civvies, and went in again for a 20-year spell. I saw action in Central America. When I retired, I started up the Hound Dog Agency. I figured things had changed a whole bunch more, not for the better, but one man could make a difference. That’s what I see as the job of the Sanctioned Op, making a difference.
TURNER: Yes, indeed. I’d like to put in that I agree with Colonel Presley. In troubled times, Joe Citizen rests easier knowing Sanctioned Ops are out there, guarding the walls of civilisation against gangcults at the gates.
HARDACRE: The client list of the T-H-R Agency is a mite different from the sort of folks who go to Hound Dog. You mainly represent multinats for fat fees or go after fugitives with big bounties on their heads, while Hound Dog advertises its services to folks with no other resources, widows and orphans and such.
PRESLEY: I’d like to bet a dollar Mr Turner is going to say “yes, indeed”.
TURNER: Yes, in… ulp. Actually, it’s true we service a different sector of the market. Diversity is what caring capitalism is about, Brunt.
HARDACRE: And our third debater is Senator Robert Redford of California, the Golden Boy from the Golden State.
REDFORD: Good evening, Brunt.
HARDACRE: I hope the camera crew remembered to take the glare off that grin, Senator. I’ve a nasty feeling your teeth just blinded a fourth of our viewers.
REDFORD: Very amusing. I was led to believe this would be a serious debate.
HARDACRE: That’s how we are at ZeeBeeCee, Bobby. We’re funny as all get-out on a Tuesday afternoon, but we get to the heart of the issues and dig around until we’re comfortable. Since this is supposed to be Nostalgia Newstrivia, we should start by reminding ourselves what all the fuss was about back in the ’80s. I think it’s fair to say the first four or five years of the decade just saw everything in America going all out to hell in a steam-powered handcart.
TURNER: Yes, indeed.
HARDACRE: I knew you’d say that, Tad. We hit 1980 with Spiro Agnew in the White House and the beginnings of heavy environmental problems. For reasons no one has got around to explaining, the whole of Middle America was seriously turning into the blighted desert we have these days. Some loons say it’s all uncontrolled emissions from industry and toxic wastes from polluting plants, but that seems mainly to be anti-corp propaganda spread by dissatisfied eggheads. Others are suggesting that perhaps the climatic changes are more likely to be caused by uncontrollable cosmic forces. UFOs or whatever. Maybe even a sneaky plot by the Pan-Islamic Congress or the Central American Confederation to wreck our glorious ecosystem by pumping in desert germs. A lot of folks at the grassroots believe things like that, though there are less grassroots around these days.
At the same time, our country’s law enforcement infrastructure was showing all the gumption of a dried-up cow turd. Tribalism became a force in American society and gangcults sprang up all over the place, at first mostly founded on religious or political splinter groups or simple style decisions. Old gangcults—like the Ku Klux Klan, Satan’s Stormtroopers, the Sons of the Desert, the Los Angeles Crips, and the Amboy Dukes—became street-corner superpowers and began to run communities for their own profit and amusement. In 1984, gangcult-related violence was a bigger killer in America than lung cancer. New names blazed into the headlines in bursts of semi-automatic gunfire: the Virus Vigilantes, the Psychopomps, the Frat Boys, the Flying Circus. And the Maniax, a loose confederation of motorsickle crazies who rapidly absorbed lesser groups and became a bigger, better-equipped, more dangerous outfit than any other armed force based in the Americas. In 1985, it was estimated the average family spent as much on self-defence as on food, either by purchasing more of the weaponry that flooded the market or by subscribing to one of many protection-insurance schemes.
When Spiro Agnew—whose name, incidentally, is an anagram for Grow A Penis—left office in ’84, it was obvious the Prezz no longer ran the country. Big Charlton Heston, who took up the reins, announced recovery programmes and moral drives and vowed in his inauguration address to retake Washington State from the Maniax. We all remember how the Navy Seals got whupped by the Grand Exalted Bullmoose in the Battle of Seattle, the most humiliating defeat suffered by American troops on American soil since the Brits burned the White House in the War of 1812. At this time, history called. A true hero emerged from the dust of disgrace to make this country a place you could again be proud to call your own.
TURNER: Yes, indeed.
REDFORD: Hrrmpph grrmpph.
HARDACRE: I mean, of course, Senator Thomas J. Enderby. A man of vision, a man of courage, a man of spirit…
REDFORD: A man serving twenty years in a re-education programme for gross corruption.
HARDACRE: Still a controversial issue, Senator.
TURNER: Yes, indeed. I firmly believe Senator Enderby was the victim of a liberal-anarchist conspiracy to discredit the Enderby System. The Filipino houseboys who brought the accusations against Tom were never proved…
HARDACRE: That case is still under appeal, Tad. We really can’t allow you to comment further.
REDFORD: The only real discredit to the so-called Enderby System is the bloodthirsty kill-crazies who call themselves Sanctioned Ops. Let’s face it, most agencies are licensed gangcults. Take the Good Ole Boys of the South, whose affiliation to the outlawed Knights of the White Magnolia has been proved by independent investigation…
HARDACRE: Mighty controversial there, Bobby. You’re getting ahead of yourself. I reckon from the feedback in my ear that a fair portion of viewers just bounced a Pivo can off abusable teevee monitors. Our Death Threat Switchboard is jammed.
REDFORD: Believe me, I’m trembling with fear. The agencies are so used to gutlessness they always resort to facile intimidation like this. It underlines my point about the interchangability of the average Op and the average gangcultist.
HARDACRE: You’ve made your point, I reckon. Tad, could you tell us a bit about how T-H-R got into the Sanctioned Op business.
TURNER: Yes, indeed.
REDFORD: Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. Yes, indeed. It’s like a broken doll.
TURNER: … Yes, indeed… To answer your question, Brunt, we were aware the Enderby Amendment was on its way to becoming law. We sought financing from insurance companies, pension funds and other conservative investment groups. Our reasoning was that most agencies would specialise in local and specific problems, so we should look at the macro-picture and be an interstate, even international, organisation. Mr Ramirez and I both had a background in law enforcement; when I was its financial comptroller, the Cincinnati Police Department showed a profit for the first time in fifteen years, and Mr Ramirez supervised the re-establishment of the penal colony on Alcatraz Island. We were fortunate, of course, to land Redd Harvest so early in her career. She was a solo, very much like Colonel Presley, but we persuaded her of the benefits which would accrue if she worked with a big outfit. She was on the board almost from the first.
HARDACRE: Some say she’s just a glamour figurehead. She gets on the cover of Guns and Killing every month. Since Delia Sheppard played her in that miniseries Redd Dust, she has been the most sought-after Op of all.
TURNER: Yes, indeed. Though I know for a fact that she’s not personally a fan of this publicity flack, it’s certainly raised the profile of T-H-R in, uh, unexpected ways.
HARDACRE: Actually, Ms Harvest doesn’t seem keen on the fuss at all. She’s been getting snazz at shooting the lenses out of those flying spy newscams. Homer Hegarty, the gorenews commentator, has brought a personal injury suit against her after
a recent injury, has he not?
TURNER: Yes, indeed. I have to accept Ms Harvest is certainly more, uh, newsgenic than Mr Ramirez or myself.
HARDACRE: You guys, you’re basically Desk Ops?
TURNER: Yes, indeed. I’m sorry… what I mean is that it’s vital T-H-R have a strategic force. Ms Harvest is a hands-on Op, which means she gets photographed for magazine covers or sound-bitten for newstrivia bulletins. Her skills are certainly as valued in the boardroom and on the field. But you shouldn’t forget the importance of such unglamorous number-crunching aspects of the job as accountancy.
PRESLEY: Man, I wish I made enough to be able to afford an accountant. I just have to help people and hope to get paid off in home-grown produce. Say, anyone here wanna buy a truckload of powdered rutabaga?
HARDACRE: Do you admire Redd Harvest, Colonel?
PRESLEY: We’ve met. She’s a right purty lady. And a mighty competent Op. Can’t say much for her taste in company though.
TURNER: Yes, indeed. While she’s out there, ordinary people are safer. That’s what woolly headed politicians never understand…
REDFORD: At this point, I feel I have to state that I have never brought specific charges against the individual under discussion. I understand cases are pending with regard to some of her actions, but no conclusions have been reached.
TURNER: Yes, indeed. That’s because the scumbags Redd zotzes are usually too dead to complain to mommy.
REDFORD: I hope viewers paid attention to the last comment from Mr Turner, because I think they’ll find it revealing about the attitudes of the agencies. As a breed, Sanctioned Ops take to fighting fire with fire so enthusiastically that we may not have an unburned inch of America left by the turn of the century. Faced with a genuine problem, the gangcults, we chose not to examine our society to find out why people allowed gangcults their power but to create a bunch of semilegal vigilantes and turn them loose. Naturally, the results have rather resembled all-out war than social reform.
HARDACRE: Bobby, you say we should send nuns and social workers against Maniax and Psychopomps?
REDFORD: No, I say we should send nuns and social workers, as you put it, into the NoGos to reach the kids before they join the Maniax or the Psychopomps. The Policed Zones of our cities have shrunk and comfortable people have built higher, thicker walls. Things have got unbelievably rough out there. I say we should extend the basic rights and protections our country used to offer to all its current citizens. We have to make our own society a thing people want to be a part of because it is fine and just. We cannot terrorise the people into wanting to be with us. We cannot make the children of the NoGo solid citizens by pointing guns. Eventually, the “innocent bystander” may go the way of the dodo and America will be one huge warzone with an entire population of combatants.
HARDACRE: And you blame the Ops?
REDFORD: No, I blame money-minded munitions manufacturers who, deprived of international markets in the 70s, flooded America with cheap weaponry, then set about creating stresses in society which increased the demand for deathware. Now I blame the media, the agencies and the multinats who keep this intolerable situation running, as the kill-count gets up there with a World War, simply so they can keep showing a profit. Every corp on the big board has semi-legal subsidiaries which filter product through to the big customers in the black economy. So-called commentators like Homer Hegarty and, with the utmost respect, you yourself Mr Hardacre, actually encourage gangcult depradations simply so you can fill up airtime and shove photogenic explosions between the ads.
HARDACRE: Harsh words, Bobby. Colonel, do you have anything to say to refute the senator?
PRESLEY: Gosh, um, uh, a lot of what he says makes sense. If he can make a decent world, I’d be the first to turn in my gun. I’m getting on in annos and I’d appreciate sittin’ on a porch in peace, strummin’ a guitar for the rest of my days. But till then, there’s people who need help and can’t afford the fancy fees Mr Turner levies. I’m an independent Op, and I’ll stay that way.
REDFORD: Colonel, you have my word you are not one of the villains I’m aiming to bring down.
HARDACRE: That’s touching. What about Mr Turner?
REDFORD: Brunt, as I’m sure you are aware, there are laws of slander.
TURNER: They’ll only take my guns away from me by prising them from my cold, stiff, dead fingers. Yes, indeed.
REDFORD: The only things your fingers ever touch are computer keys, salary-man. My guess is you’ve never been shot at in your air-conditioned office.
TURNER: Umph grumph…
HARDACRE: Hold on guys, let’s keep our sleeves down. There you have it, a regular rough-house debate just like in the old days. Mr Turner thinks the Ops are doing a fine job keeping the filth in their place; Senator Redford thinks Mr Turner is full of bullstuff; and Colonel Presley is just trying to keep his customers satisfied. Me, I sleep better knowing my blonde-haired little nine-year-old is protected by Estevez and Blunt, who have a 100 per cent kill-rate in kidnap cases. If this debate has worried, disturbed or upset you, get that bitch to haul another six-pack out of the icebox and suck down a couple more Pivos until the pain goes away.
Next week on Nostalgia Newstrivia, in our “Living Memory” slot, we look back with misty eyes to last year, 1994. Liz-Beth Hickling, the look of last year, brings back the people, the places, the faces, the fashions, the music, the massacres. You haven’t yet had time to forget, but we’ll remind you all the same.
The Book of Blood
I
12 June 1995
In the quiet of the morning, Judge Thomas Longhorne Colpeper uprolled the blinds and took a look at the peacability. From the window of his study, on the top storey of the clapboard courthouse-cum-town-hall, he could survey the Main Street of Spanish Fork, Utah, and be satisfied with the world he had made.
Everything was still except the creaky sign of the Feelgood Saloon, which was electronically jiggered to waver as if in a breeze even when the wind was down. The town slowly came to life. The scissor-legged shadow of Christopher Carnadyne skittered across the street like a stick insect as the undertaker took his morning constitutional. Carnadyne doffed his crepe-ringed top hat to Mrs Dolley Magruder as they met in the street and exchanged pleasantries. Cash crop farmhands with a bellyful of big bean breakfast broke out of the Chow Trough and headed off to the fields for a hard day cultivating the Whoopee Weed. Small children played with dogs. Honest traders opened for business. O’Rourke’s Security Goods offered a special summer price on Kevlar.
The judge was proud of the town. His town. He liked to think of Spanish Fork that way. It was certainly the way most folks had come to think of the old place. The judge was a contented man. Spanish Fork was a peaceful community, a friendly town like they weren’t supposed to be any more. They had some laws, but not so many a man couldn’t cut loose a little. They had a deep-water well which still ran pure and was under 24-hour guard. Murder wasn’t necessarily a capital offence in Spanish Fork, but stealing from the well was.
The town had a few deputies who had made names for themselves and decided to settle down. Job Fiske had been with T-H-R until they’d parted company over his disrespectful treatment of a Japcorp oyabun, and Matthieu Larroquette had made the cover of Guns and Killing when he’d brought in the serial killer Hector “Chainsaw” Childress in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Nice, regular, deputy-type guys, they made sure the peace was kept, or at least as much of it as the town decreed desirable.
The sun was high already and Main Street baked. Without the well, Spanish Fork would have parched up and blown away like all the other towns hereabouts. The place had once been called New Canaan—it was in the county records—and the sand had flowered through the miraculous agency of that deep water. Then, the fruitfulness had excited envy and a parcel of no-good Josephites and Indians had fallen upon New Canaan, massacred everybody and razed the place to the ground. There was an ugly memorial by the old corn exchange. Judge Colp
eper had learned the lesson of history. This time, Spanish Fork was ready for whatever varmints came out of the Des, sniffing after the precious nectar.
From one end of the street, a figure strode on powerful legs. It was Matthieu Larroquette. In town, he walked everywhere, tireless. The first biker who thought the pedestrian deputy would be easy meat soon learned about the kick Larroquette packed in his amended arm. Things were so quiet, the judge could almost hear the jingling of Larroquette’s spurs. Carnadyne raised his hat and stepped aside, letting the Deputy past; the undertaker’s toothy grin suggested Larroquette was good for his business.
You could tell it was a civilised community. Colum Whittaker had a 25-foot polished wood bar in the Feelgood Saloon, the Reverend Boote kept a nice little church nobody shot up too much, Chollie Jenevein ran a world-class auto repair shop with spare parts for everything from a ’55 Chevrolet to an orbital shuttle, Dolley Magruder’s sporting gents and ladies entertained nightly at reasonable rates at the Pussycat Palace on Maple Street, and Judge Thomas Longhorne Colpeper was in charge of a picturesque gallows with facilities to handle five customers simultaneously.
Just now, Colpeper only had one set of guests to be bothered with and he had a sense that they could be handled.
