Department of Student Loans, Kidnap & Ransom

by Christian Hale

  *****

  “So, Mick, where are you from?” asked The Executioner.

  “You don’t know?” asked Mick, already on his third beer.

  “I’m not the NSA, I usually only have fragments of info on the people I am tracking. Just enough to find them: name, face, approximate age, student loan debt outstanding…that sort of thing. And often the names and ages are fake. So sometimes I only have a face.”

  “Oh…Well, I’m from Illinois.”

  “Me too. What suburb of Chicago are you from?” asked The Executioner.

  “Why do you think that I’m from Chicago?”

  “Everything about you. You don’t strike me as being from anywhere outside a big city or its suburbs.”

  “People from Chicago identify as being from Chicago, not Illinois,” said Mick. “If I was from Chicago, I would say so. I’m from a small town in southern Illinois.”

  “Seriously? Where?”

  “Do you know Metropolis?” asked Mick, unhopefully.

  “Yeah, I’m downriver from you.”

  “People live downriver?”

  “Yeah, in Cairo. You ever been through there?” asked The Executioner, also unhopefully.

  “No. But my sewage has.”

  “Yeah, you and everyone else’s sewage on the Ohio River. Thanks for that.”

  “Have you been to Metropolis?” asked Mick.

  “When I was a kid my mom took me to the Superman museum. I was into comics back then. It was the highlight of my summer that year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, life on the river is not all that exciting. But it gets worse,” said The Executioner. “I also went there when I was older. My friend was getting married and some of the guys thought it would be fun to go to the riverboat casino in Metropolis. So that’s it, one museum trip and one gambling trip. All I did was play a few of the slot machines at the bottom of the boat with the rest of the degenerates.”

  “Well, those days are over. The anarchists burned down the boat,” said Mick.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they didn’t claim it because they ended up killing three cleaning ladies who had the early morning shift. But of course it was them: the Insurrectionary Anarchists,” said Mick. “They had been up and down the Ohio River, lighting up all the casino boats – for the good of the people, of course. They can’t just sit by while the irresponsible working poor throw quarters into slot machines, can they?”

  “So how did that work out for Metropolis?”

  “I can’t say that it was met with acclaim by the locals. And the casino was in no mood to rebuild. Insurance these days doesn’t cover acts of war and rebellion – which the insurers claim anarchists attacks are.”

  “Did you have a chat about that with your anarchist buddy Alison?”

  “No. But she said something about her group having learned their lessons from their early phase of extremism and ill-advised attacks. And I didn’t feel like debating with her about it. I barely know anything about the incident. The arson happened while I was in the army.”

  “I’m surprised that you served in the military, to tell you the truth,” said The Executioner.

  “It shouldn’t be surprising. I’m from a small town on the Ohio River. I’m from a lower middle class white family. I served in the US Army,” stated Mick. “I’m not an anarchist sympathizer.”

  “So what are you?”

  “I’m a cowardly moderate,” said Mick.

  “Yeah, everyone is a moderate these days. Or rather, everyone is a militant moderate.”

  “Don’t ‘militant’ and ‘moderate’ cancel each other out?”

  “Not at all…Take Indonesia, for example,” said The Executioner. “Over the last century it has carried out two waves of mass murder. One against the communists back in the day, and one against the Islamists more recently. They killed the left wingers and then they killed the right wingers.”

  “I don’t know much about this part of the Muslim world, but I know the Middle East pretty well,” said Mick. “And what you described sounds a lot like the authoritarian governments there that have, at one time or the other, killed all opposition, whether from the left or from the right.”

  “Yeah, but here the militancy of the moderate is embedded in society. Like, uh… For example, the killing of Islamists and the militant attitude towards them was not a government directed operation. Maybe the anti-communist thing was a government initiative, but this purge of Islamists was a movement from the core of Indonesian society.”

  “This all happened recently in history, right?” asked Mick.

  “Yeah, not even twenty years ago. People here will still talk about it. They are proud of it,” said The Executioner. “They say the Islamists were trying to destroy Indonesia and join a global caliphate, or something silly like that. But, of course, not silly at all. The Islamists were killing westerners, Chinese, non-Muslim Indonesians, moderate Indonesians, religious Indonesians who weren’t religious in the right way. All the usual craziness. Nothing the government tried was working. But then one day the Islamists attacked a private British-style local school and killed a couple hundred little kids because they were getting an infidel education. The country went berserk. Within one month every Islamist on the watch list – I’m talking hundreds of thousands – was dead or out of the country. Mobs of people went into horde mode and destroyed any neighborhood that was home to a significant number of Islamist sympathizers. All the businesses belonging to Islamists were destroyed. Their children that were young enough were confiscated and adopted off. But often their kids burned in their homes with their parents.”

  “Sounds pleasant,” said Mick with a frown. “How is it now?”

  “People here are still Muslim, obviously. But it’s a private affair, except for the religious holidays. And it has affected people’s behavior in other ways as well. Nobody will publically criticize the way a woman dresses, or harass a foreigner because he’s not a Muslim, or say anything bad about a restaurant that serves alcohol, or complain about a Chinese pork butcher. That sort of behavior will get you a visit from the police. And away you go…never to be seen again.”

  “So it’s basically an authoritarian paradise for foreigners who like pork, alcohol and women?” said Mick.

  “Well, watch yourself with the women thing. But full speed ahead on the bacon and the beer.”

  “Not a problem for me, but can you date local women?”

  “Christian and Chinese Indonesians are fair game,” said The Executioner. “But with the girls from Muslim families…it depends. If the girl has a job, speaks English, wear jeans and a tight shirt, then there is a good chance that she is from a family that would be cool with it. But…”

  “What?”

  “There are lots of low-rent Americans around here. ‘Cockroach’ is a term that is well used in Indonesia,” admitted The Executioner. “So, often a family’s objection to their daughter dating an American has nothing to do with the fact that he is foreign and not a Muslim. The objection is economic – who wants their daughter to marry a heavily indebted guy on the run from his defaulted loans? Plus, there is a definite informal caste system among the expats here, and the locals are not always sure where you fit in it. Are you an investment consultant, or an English teacher? They both look the same to an Indonesian. But they figure if you are an American that lives in Indonesia long term, then you are probably a loser. A cockroach.”

  “You ever get called a cockroach here?”

  “Occasionally. It’s usually kids in passing cars or drunks on the street. You get used to it. They aren’t trying to pick a fight with you. They don’t hate you. They are just…drunks and stupid kids having fun.”

  “Overall, how do you like the country?” asked Mick.

  “I like it here. It eventually worked out. The people are fine. The country is friendly. But I feel like I need a change, I guess…Plus, it seems Blue Team now knows where I live. I’m not sure where I would g
o next. I don’t want to go home to America, so probably elsewhere in Southeast Asia.”

  “Why not America?”

  “I would always be looking over my shoulders,” said The Executioner. “There are lots of people who want to kill me, as you may have noticed. I’m safer living overseas.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get into the debt collection, kidnap and ransom business? Were you in the military or law enforcement before?”

  “No. Nothing. Not even mercenary or war tourist experience. I was an English teacher.”

  “Seriously?” asked Mick.

  “Seriously.”

  “How did you end up as a student loan debt collector?”

  “It’s not a short answer.”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere. Let’s hear it.”

  “OK. I was working in China. It was dodgy work. Eventually I had to leave China. The government was kicking me out. But I had the choice of destination if I paid for my own ticket. I was told by some random guy that there was work in Indonesia, and I was desperate. So I came here on a tourist visa and started to look for employment. I couldn’t find anything decent, so I became an English teacher.”

  “Don’t they use VR to learn English here?” asked Mick.

  “Well, there is a percentage of the population here who believe that virtual reality is only for immoral people. So they refuse to learn English in VR like most normal people. They prefer real people, and white Americans are in demand. Well, not high demand. But I got by at first. I thought it was temporary, but then I realized that I was stuck.”

  “How was that?”

  “Monotonous. Tedious. Dead end.”

  “I did paperwork and archival work in my last year of military service, so I understand.”

  “Yeah, but you had a salary, free food and health care,” said The Executioner. “You had a powerful organization protecting you. I had none of that.”

  “Sure, OK,” said Mick, agreeing with the comparison.

  “And eventually more and more Americans showed up here – almost all of them fleeing their student loan debt. Pretty soon there was some steep competition for the few English teacher positions. The wages then started to drop. And then one day I fell off my bicycle pretty badly and my phone broke, plus I cut up my leg. Three days later, some insane bacterial infection that was resistant to antibiotics starting spreading through my leg. The drugs I needed to buy, plus a new phone, wiped out my savings. I was living off of instant noodles. All this plus my rent was coming due. I was broke – in every sense. Imagine that: a small bottle of pills and a cheap phone costing you all the money you have in this world. And on top of that, you don’t know where you will be sleeping next month.”

  The Executioner paused to open another bottle of beer. The waiter was now putting down new bottles as soon as any one of the two got close to finishing.

  “I had been surviving, but just barely. And then all these Americans showed up. They had been given everything by America. Everything. I had been given nothing,” said The Executioner, now slightly drunk. “And you know, from the moment I was born, I was told that I was white trash. My schools and my community were holding pens. And when we got out, there was nothing. Just nothing. That’s why I came to Asia. And here I was – scraping by. And the people who had helped tear down America came here and took away my livelihood: my stupid little job teaching English. It’s like they had followed me all the way over here to tell me that I was still white trash, and that they would be taking my job, thank you very much.”

  Mick wondered if The Executioner was talking about him indirectly. But he said nothing in return.

  “I worked to conceal my feelings around the American expats here, because you never know what opportunities might come up if you are a decent networker,” said The Executioner. “I got to know lots of them. Including one guy named Chase who admitted to me that he owed over half a million in student loan debt. He also talked about his family, and I figured out from what he said that they actually had a decent amount of money and property. But they weren’t, like most people, enthusiastic about the idea of helping a family member to pay off his ridiculous student loans. So here he was, running from his debt to society. And there I was, broke and desperate. I was in a foreign country with no money and no way home.”

  “So you turned this guy Chase into your first debt collection?” asked Mick.

  “No, not really. I had no idea how to go about doing that. But this was at around the same time that a few of the debt collectors who worked overseas were showing up. Generally, they were looking for the few people who owned assets overseas – usually dual citizens. I met one of them here. He was investigating a couple of Indonesian-Americans who had done OK for themselves in the import-export business. He was collecting insider info for the local lawyers who would then bring a case against the Americans who owned the business. There is some old treaty between Indonesia and the US that allows for lawsuits over delinquent debts from other countries, including student loan debt. Anyways, he told me about the commission that the company he worked for got. They collect up to $200,000 of the debt, and the rest goes to the original lender. But for a big company, that wasn’t very much. They were after his assets, which under a newly passed law, goes to the debt collector as additional compensation.”

  “This is a really long backstory,” said Mick.

  “I know, but I’m almost done,” replied The Executioner. “So this debt collector tells me that all the debtors with assets immediately started to move their money and companies to the countries where they were not vulnerable to a lawsuit. He said that because of that, he couldn’t see his current line of work lasting more than another year. That’s where I came in. I asked him if these student loan debtors, the ones without big assets overseas, if they were worth anything based on their family’s assets and property back home. He said that he had thought about it, but that he couldn’t come up with a legal way to do it.”

  “So you two came up with an illegal way?” asked Mick as he finished off another beer.

  “Basically, yes. Within a week we had grabbed Chase, stuck a dirty bag over his head and made him contact his family. He was begging for his life. The family paid up. And then, a little later that year, a bunch of laws stripping rights from debtors were passed by Congress. And the president gladly signed it. The most draconian part of the law, as Blue Team would describe it, was what the law did to debtors overseas. It made runners fair game in so many ways. It’s sort of a long technical explanation, but it paved the way for a bunch of guys to get into the debt collecting business. I did a few more jobs with the same guy, and then eventually I got passed on to his friend who had amazing connections and resources back in the US. He identifies debtors overseas, I track them down, and he gets a commission. And sometimes I find the debtors, but I need his help with moving the money from their families back in the US. I still work for the same guy.”

  “Are you seriously saying that you invented this kidnap and ransom tactic?”

  “Well, as far as I know I was the first to apply it to student loan debtors, yeah.”

  “Man, that was like the worst superhero origin story ever,” said Mick.

  “What?”

  “Your origin story. The Executioner’s origin story. It goes like this: He was broke and pissed off, in a general sort of way. And one day he fell into a vat of toxic American expats. When he came out, he had the powers of debt collection and an iron bar.”

  “I can see why this Alison chick got rid of you,” said The Executioner with a laugh.

  “But, serious question, what is the involvement of the US government and the big debt collection agencies? Are they involved?”

  “No. Not at all. The US government outsources its dirty work. Its involvement is indirect. And the larger debt collection agencies back home don’t see the overseas market as worth their effort anymore. They are fully focused on the domestic market. Here overseas it’s only small players and spec
ialists like me. All bad people, of course.”

  “Yeah, you don’t have much of a fan club. Alison seems to want you dead or very dead.”

  “I’m a symbolic target I suppose. She should go after the big debt collectors. But their headquarters are protected by some serious security. Plus, attacking some no-name workers at a collection agency building in Delaware or Houston won’t get the anarchists very much press. And apparently I’m someone that would get some media attention. Well, not me; but rather my grossly exaggerated persona. Did she say what they wanted to do to me?”

  “She and her friend said they want to bury you. But I’m not sure if they actually meant digging a hole in the ground and then throwing dirt on top of you. I think they just want to kill you in whatever way possible.”

  “Hmm.”

  The conversation went through a very brief pause as Mick ordered more beer, despite his drunkenness.

  “I’m curious, you didn’t say why you first went overseas. Do you have student loan debt?” asked Mick.

  “No. Why do you think that I would have student loans?”

  “I don’t know. Your description of Indonesia and other stuff makes it sound like you’ve been to university. Plus, if you’re from Cairo, you’re poor white trash,” said Mick, emboldened by the alcohol. “So you would need loans for college.”

  “High school graduates can actually read. You know that, right?” said The Executioner. “Anyways, from my years of chasing university graduates, I would have to say that some of them are the dumbest people I’ve ever met. Education doesn’t make people smart; life does.”

  “You notice any difference in how Americans here in Asia adapt? Like those with a college education versus those without? Are…is one of those…them….not fitting? Fitting in?” asked Mick, now heavily slurring his words.

  “No. Not really. Not a big difference that I can see. It often comes down to hard work, common sense, and flexibility,” answered The Executioner. “Of course, the most successful of the runners are frat boys with business degrees. That seems to really annoy some of the other debtors.”

  The Executioner had by now cut himself off and switched to juice mixed with tonic water. As for Mick, his inebriation had passed into a new phase. It was time for a mild tirade. And something clicked in his head when he heard the word ‘flexibility.’

  “Yeah, Americans are flexible. If you offer them a raise in their social status or economic position, they’ll shit on the flag and run off to whatever country: as a mercenary, a propaganda loon for the website of some enemy state, a breeder, a convert, whatever... They have zero loyalty. Do you know why? Because Americans have never had their loyalty tested. We’re not Jews or Armenians or Koreans or some other nation that had to truly fight for our survival, we always lived as #1. It was easy. But at the point in time when there was both hardship and a way out, Americans took the easy way out. And these people now say ‘I do not live in the US. I am not American anymore.’ They’re like those Americans that ran away to the Soviet Union because they thought they would be promoted to some sort of alpha-citizen. Stalin ended up putting a bullet in their heads. Probably because they were so useless. That’s what we have now: useless runaway cry-babies who think hot Asian girls will flock to them.”

  “That came out of nowhere. Are you describing yourself, or your friends? Or me?” asked The Executioner, slightly amused by Mick’s monologue.

  “Yeah, sure. Me too. I’m flexible also. But not in the good way you used the term.”

  “And are you a useless runaway crybaby as well?”

  “Uh…”

  “I’m quoting your words back to you. Are you a useless runaway crybaby?”

  “Oh, no. Certainly not,” replied Mick. “I’m a member of the intelligentsia – the thinking class of non-productive losers.”

  Mick’s slurred voice had now been raised to the volume one would expect from an American overseas – or, rather, from an American oil worker overseas on his weekend bar visit. Fortunately for Mick, it was still below the decibel level achieved by the large table of Chinese men across from them. And there were no Brazilians or Russians in the pub, so it was entirely up to the Chinese to drown out Mick’s rambling.

  “We’re losers. Cockroaches!...”

  “You don’t have to tell everyone, Mick. They know.”

  “That’s what I am…A ruined and adventurous offshoot of the bourgeoisie.”

  Mick paused yelling to drink while The Executioner said ‘bourgeoisie’ into the search app on his phone, not knowing exactly what this word meant.

  “I’m all of it!” yelled Mick. “I’m a nomadic former soldier. I’ve been in Mexican jail a couple times. I’m a runaway student loan debt slave from America. I’m a con artist! But I’m no pimp. I’m no ragpicker. I’m no knife grinder. I’ve never begged!”

  “What’s a ragpicker?” asked The Executioner, now thoroughly bemused.

  Mick then slid under the table, his hand grasping drunkenly at the plastic table cloth.

  “Lumpenproletariat! I’ve been downgraded to a card carrying member of the lumpenproletariat!” Mick yelled from underneath the table.

  The Chinese looked over and laughed.

  “OK, you’re not even speaking English anymore. Let’s get you home, Mick.”

  The waiter, having gladly taken the generous tip and sharing part of the blame for the drunken state of Mick, helped The Executioner support Mick on his way out of the pub.

  Mick, summoning all of his remaining energy and brain power, spoke to the waiter, saying “And now you are a porter. A porter! You are one of us. One of the…the whole indefinite, disintegrated mass!”

  The waiter tried to ignore him.

  “The French! The French, they have a word for it…”

  Mick then vomited on the street.