by Bright,R. F.
The other Peregrines drifted higher. The pilots had realized they were on the wrong side. This was a fool’s errand fueled by the blind obedience of Captain Jack Wunchel.
Captain Jack rushed the crowd again with the nose of his Peregrine, but closer. The first four rows put their arms out to their sides and heaved backwards with all their might, but the crowd was unaware of their plight, and pushed them to less than ten feet away from the mercenaries.
“Last chance to save your commissions,” shouted Captain Wunchel. “Come down and help me, or I will blast these terrorists into the Stone Age.”
“You’re out of your mind, Cap’n Jack. Always have been,” said his wingman.
Captain Wunchel curled his lips into an angry slit. “When will you people wake up?” He hit a button and a Gatling gun rotated out from under his Peregrine.
The crowd’s panic failed to slow the push from behind.
Captain Jack’s angry face took on a martyr’s pallor. He aimed for the shrinking patch of First Avenue between the crowd and the mercenaries and pulled off one round. Chunks of asphalt flew. Screams were heard all the way back to Times Square. Everyone froze.
Captain Jack had expected a mad rush away from the UN, but this march was on too grand a scale for that. He repositioned and cued up three rounds.
For the first time in days, the crowd took a step back. Suddenly, the sky went dark. Everyone looked up and found it filled with Peregrines stacked in layers and traveling faster than seemed possible, one massive shadow charging toward Captain Jack.
In the lead Peregrine, Admiral Carson sat boiling mad, aiming a boxy, fire-engine red controller at Captain Wunchel’s Peregrine. He whacked the joystick with a flick of his right index finger.
Captain Jack’s Peregrine was tossed like a matchstick out over the East River and beyond the horizon.
A gentle turbulence from the Peregrines carried Lily’s hair into Fred’s face. He brushed away the tickles it made on his rosy cheeks and laughed. Max stared straight up into the cloud of Peregrines, until the look on Lily’s face caught his eye. He beamed an impassive smile at her. They had arrived. They were merely spectators now.
More Peregrines banked out of the side streets and in from the East River. There were thousands. The mercenaries, in a panicked retreat, pressed back to the UN Complex. Admiral Carson’s Peregrine glided into the space above them, dipped its nose, and rotated its Gatling into the ready mode. All the other Peregrines did likewise. The standoff was so absurdly lopsided that the mercenaries dropped their weapons, peeled off their armor, and raised their hands.
Bishop Virginia McWilliams Hendrix, wearing her majestic cube-hat and an uncertain smile, was in the midst of her trance-like opening:
“My children! The wrath of God is upon us.”
“For we have gravely offended thee.”
"We are consumed by thine anger,” she called out serenely, one ear detecting the muffled sound of a cheering crowd. How strange…
“And by thy . . . fury we are . . . troubled," the congregation stuttered — something was amiss. Out of nowhere, a manly figure marched across the darkened stage.
Bishop Hendrix was too enraptured to notice until the man walked straight into her pink spotlight. The crowd gasped and applauded wildly. It was the brutally handsome Brian Stahl — star of everything. Virginia faded cautiously from the spotlight.
“I have an announcement to make,” Stahl said flatly.
A dull silence stifled the sycophantic clamor of the parishoners as the room went black. Then the house lights came on! Brian Stahl, in very unflattering light, raised a hat adorned with an upside-down martini glass, and shouted, “The party is over! The great charade has been cancelled. And all of you who’ve taken advantage of it . . . you are done.”
A confused grumble buzzed through the Council Chamber. Representative Murthy’s head pivoted wildly. Where’s Thomka?
Brian Stahl shouted, “This! Whatever the fuck this is . . . is over.”
Those few who had anticipated this eventuality rose and calmly made for the exits. Those of the best and brightest who hadn’t, the vast majority, hung in a perplexed fog. Murthy slid lower into his seat and hid beneath his absurdly large wig weighing his options, which were few and shamefully inconvenient.
Brian Stahl faced the camera and spoke directly to the TV audience. “I have several declarations for this — gang.” He pointed with grave disdain at what the home viewer might assume was a test tube of slimy pustules.
Each and every Representative was suddenly wearing a who-me? face.
“First! The dollar will no longer carry the ‘full faith and credit’ of the United States of America. Our debt-soaked dollar is from this moment forward null and void. It will be replaced by a fully transparent digital currency — The Common. We will start anew, with a level playing field. Where no one has a cash advantage.
“Two. New money will no longer enter the economy through private banks, as debt. It will be allocated to work, innovation, infrastructure, research, distribution systems, and paid only when proof of work is shown. The farce of the Central Bank is over. Banking has been a scam since before Jesus threw you assholes out of the temple. Amen.”
Oddly, some answered, “Amen.”
The Representatives suddenly recognized themselves as the villains in this sermon, and began easing toward the doors.
“Third! This puppet show you call a government is dissolved. There will no longer be . . . representatives. No parties. No donors. No lobbies. No contributions or bribes. The actual people will govern, presiding as a network. Those who choose to participate will determine policy, directly. We are now a Participatory Democracy. If you want your voice to matter, you have to participate. Otherwise . . . shut the fuck up.”
Sheer disbelief cast the representatives into a state of contrition, all looking as innocent as newborn fawns. They funneled into a pedestrian-jam at the doors, searching for security or their personal bodyguards. None were found. The entire complex was occupied by exceedingly unfashionable men in tattered fatigues, flak jackets and pea-coats.
Bishop Hendrix, realizing the jig was up, back-pedaled quietly into the wings as Brian Stahl continued.
“Fourth! All debts, foreign and domestic, are hereby vacated. The U.S. government bonds issued by your predecessors have been paid in full by any and all moneys you’ve deposited in foreign accounts. All off-shore accounts have gone to pay those and other outstanding obligations. There was more than enough.”
A mad dash was full-on and accompanied by the gnashing of very expensive teeth as a howl rose from the middle of the chamber. Representative Dan Burfield stood and proudly raised a flask of fine, New Jersey made, Irish Whiskey, toasting and laughing uncontrollably. He did ‘drink a little’, but he was no fool. He had been on to Petey’s treachery from the start, as executor of the NPF trust fund, and had been key to this insurrection.
“Fifth! All shipments of American materiel to foreign countries are terminated until we can determine who owns what. Proof of Work will be the determining factor in all distributions of material wealth, in a free marketplace, unencumbered by big government or big business.” He raised both palms to the ceiling.
The few who were actually listening were flummoxed. It was all gibberish to them. They didn’t get it. It just didn’t add up.
“Sixth! All property acquired after the Great Withdrawal will be held in escrow until its ownership is determined. In order to apportion the wealth stolen from those who fought and died to create it, we now evict the perpetrators of that theft from whatever properties they do currently hold claim to. The situation you created for our heroic veterans will now apply to you . . . thieving shit bags.”
Brian Stahl had promised not to ad-lib, but couldn’t help himself. “The wealth you squandered over the last fifty years could have eliminated poverty and despair. The very things that cause war — the most expensive mistake we keep making. Whatever tradition, superstition or political i
deology was used to justify that stupidity, is now vanquished forever.”
The former representatives scrambled like bees from a fallen hive. Some ran straight to their banks, only to find them closed; it was Sunday. To their shock and horror, ATM machines showed they had a zero balance. Their account activities listed the transfer of all their money to an account in Malta — designated only by an upside-down martini glass on an acid green screen. With sinking hearts, they ran to their skyscrapers, only to find them locked down. Where had their private militias gone? Where would they go?
Jubilant crowds mocked them, inviting them to join in a new game. Surely they could deploy their self-proclaimed superior attributes and regain their status; after all, they were the best and brightest. Their natural gifts should carry them. But the faces of those now evicted from their extravagances showed no signs of confidence.
“Seventh — and last!” shouted Brian Stahl. “A new governmental system will be established, based on principles to be set forth in a new and appropriately modern constitution, written by the people who live in this new world. The people who live here now. Open to all who care to contribute to a collaborative commons and a Direct Democracy.”
Brian Stahl could no longer restrain his glee in watching the rats desert the sinking ship. He raised both hands, mocking Bishop Hendrix, and shouted, “And that shall be the content of thy cup.”
Virginia McWilliams Hendrix scuttled across the sculpture garden in a panic and came to a screeching halt upon seeing Petey’s greenhouse barges headed for the open sea. She had not anticipated any of this and it took her some time to comprehend Petey’s betrayal. One he’d obviously been working on for some time, right under her nose.
Mahesh Murthy, having discounted every option that might leave him less comfortable than he believed he deserved, did what he had always done— he ran to Virginia Hendrix. She stood in her crazy hat on the granite docks staring after Petey’s barges steaming toward the harbor. For once in her life, she was absolutely speechless.
Petey stood in the pilot house of the ocean-going tug, scanning the harbor with binoculars. He was ecstatic, but not yet out of the woods. His escape had gone off without a single hiccup, but until his flotilla crossed the harbor, the victory celebration was on hold. His coal barges-cum-luxury-island only drafted sixteen feet of water, so he’d had security lower all the mines between the UN Complex and the Atlantic Ocean to eighteen feet.
With two tugs, the flotilla quickly accelerated to twelve knots. At this pace, they’d pass between Battery Park and Governor’s Island and into one of the deepest natural harbors on earth in less than two sphincter-clenching minutes. A time to reflect?
Petey had listened to Brian Stahl’s screed on shortwave radio and laughed himself silly upon hearing that Tuke’s big weapon was the dissolution of the dollar. A currency transaction. Once again, he, Petey Hendrix, had anticipated his opponent’s every move. Meticulous planning and unscrupulous play had again proven him the better man, and most worthy of total victory. His final move had been buying the Central Bank, trading his now worthless dollars for their gold. The ultimate short. A subtle joy enveloped him as he declared himself the winner, just as his flotilla caught the harbor current. A sense of dominion, as self-ordained as any article of faith, filled him with pride. The great scorecard of wealth and power proved the truth of his faith. He was the winner, and the sore losers were now knocking the board off the table. Pathetic!
The flotilla cleared the tip of Manhattan at the stony battlements of Battery Park, and picked up speed as the Hudson River swept them into the middle of the harbor. Only one hurdle remained, Governor’s Island, home to the East River mine layers. If the insurgents had taken Governor’s Island, he might be in trouble.
The Island lay off their left side, so all hands were dispatched to the port gunwales to watch for mines. The captain made a right turn, towards New Jersey, steering away from Governor’s Island and into the middle of New York Harbor. As Governor’s Island moved off their mid-ship line, Petey exhaled and declared victory.
He had for a lifetime been planning the party of a lifetime, just for himself. He set his binoculars down on the vinyl-padded dash, nodded his approval to the captain, and left the pilot house. Across the patchwork of aluminum gangways he trotted, reassured by the rock-solid stability of his vessel — five barges abreast and seven abaft. He smiled serenely and opened the door to a barge with 3 of 35 painted on its bulkhead.
3 of 35 was, as were all the others, thirty-five feet wide and two hundred feet long — seven thousand square feet of floor space each. But there was only a small path along the forward bulkhead inside 3 of 35. The rest of it was packed with gold bars, stacked wall to wall in a bed three feet high. They’d have stacked it higher, but this was all the gold the Central Bank had, their entire reserve. This was what it all came down to: ten percent of the nation’s debt. That was all that was left, and it was in gold. This, and his floating city, was Petey’s departure bonus. A true golden parachute. Well earned, as he saw it, numb to the fact that it had come from the stolen prayers of people who actually worked. And that, according to Petey, was how it should be. As Natural Law dictates. What idiots.
And right on cue! Down the stairs danced three leggy women, chosen by Petey according to his tastes and the need to populate his newly minted world. A blonde, a brunette and a dark woman of indeterminate ethnicity, certainly the most exotic of the three, approached. They were dressed in lavish outfits and carried bottles of champagne, trays of canapés and a bucket of barbecued ribs. They smothered Petey in kisses, then arranged everything on the solid gold bed. Glasses were filled, niblettes of caviar and Kobe beef were stuffed into hungry mouths, and the good times were underway.
The brunette grabbed Petey and pushed him up against the bulkhead. She put her glass out and the blonde overflowed it with champagne. She tipped it back, spilling most of it on herself, then put her lips to Petey’s and filled his mouth with champagne from hers, much of which spilled down his face. Interlacing her fingers behind his neck, she stepped back against the sweeping bed of gold and slowly lowered herself onto it, Petey in tow. She spread her legs, revealing a prodigious arrangement of piercings, and wrapped them around his waist.
The blonde snuggled up behind him and reached around to unbuckle his pants. The exotic girl pulled his head up by his hair and smeared an entire rack of ribs across his face. He snatched it from her as his pants dropped over his shoes and tore the flesh from it with his teeth. He hurled the bones against the wall, rubbed his saucy hands over the reclining beauty’s belly and breasts, then commenced to lick off every drop. The blonde had Petey’s member in hand, in preparation for some very smooth sailing, but he was only at half-mast . . .
The tugboat captain signaled the crew to stand down from the port side watch, now that Governor’s Island was no longer an issue and they were safely in the deepest part of the harbor. The first mate entered the pilot house, took his position next to the captain, and picked up Petey’s binoculars. He looked straight ahead, out beyond the Verrazano Narrows and into the Atlantic, all clear. He lowered the binoculars and looked up the Hudson. “Oh, my God,” he said, “those fuckin’ Leprechauns.”
The mine-string Jon Replogle and Captain Banjo had set adrift wrapped itself around the flotilla. An explosion unlike anything this ancient harbor had ever seen sent Petey’s party to the cold, cold bottom of the harbor.
Virginia and Murthy stood in a putrid cloud of their own absurdity watching the barges gurgle under, her radiant gown pale in the pure light of a new sun, head buckling under the ridiculous cube-hat. Murthy’s silly man-suit and monstrous wig were reduced to the arrogant residue of insidious extravagance. These two were as ossified as any of the statues that Petey had left behind. Neither noticed the self-renounced former Representative Al Thomka as he entered the far end of the sculpture garden.
Al searched and quickly found the object of his redemption — Mayor Abraham De Peyster. Now that Abe wa
s down off his pedestal, he was able to embrace him in a warm and manly hug. He shivered with delight, and said as if to an old friend . . .
“Oh! Have I got a story for you.”
THE END
Afterword
Look For
THE GATEKEEPER’S DAUGHTER
The first book in my
Clotiel LeClemon
mystery series.
Please visit me: www.rfbright.com
