CONFIDENTIAL
INTEROFFICE MEMO
International Aid Society of Boise
“No One Is Free Unless We Are All Free”
From: Chett Hightower, CEO
To: Abdul Jaleel, Head of IT
Date: December 15, 2016
Subject: Russian Hacking of Our Servers
Suggest you prepare evidence that our servers were hacked by Russian/KGB elements that allowed them virtually unlimited access to all applications and files. We should be prepared to disavow any document, email, or file as being “planted” in case the need should arise.
On a personal note, I’m sorry that I suggested you change your name. I now believe your heritage may be useful in case we need a little “plausible deniability” around here.
Let me also reiterate that I appreciate your position concerning the files you found on my workstation labeled “Abdul’s Jihadist Comments” and fully understand your decision to delete them.
That just adds to the cover story, right?
Thanks for your support!
INTEROFFICE MEMO
International Aid Society of Boise
“No One Is Free Unless We Are All Free”
From: Chett Hightower, CEO
To: All Staff
Date: January 18, 2017
Subject: “Temporary” Transfers to our Toronto Office
I want to congratulate our Chief Operating Officer, Gigi Beufort, for establishing our newest location in Toronto, eh? Gigi was able to get a sizable piece of prime office park just before prices skyrocketed. We now think that space similar to ours is commanding 2 or 3 times what we’re paying.
I am however, troubled by the number of staff wishing temporary transfers to Toronto. To be blunt, I’m not buying ANY chemical dependence issues related to LaBatts or the number of people suddenly parenting hockey “phenoms” playing for the Maple Leafs who need adult supervision.
Let’s be real. Transfers to Toronto (ToTs) will be handled based upon the needs of that office.
I have also heard your cynicism about my plan to work virtually from Toronto. Remember, the board approved all Executive Team virtual placements.
And realistically, we may as well acknowledge that helping people ENTER the US is a joke UNLESS they are planning to become day laborers on Trump’s Mexican wall.
INTEROFFICE MEMO
International Aid Society of Boise
“No One Is Free Unless We Are All Free”
From: Chett Hightower, CEO
To: All Staff
Date: January 25, 2017
Subject: “Consuelo”
In light of the measures announced today, we have initiated a new project, code named Consuelo, that is to be implemented immediately. Please adhere to the following ASAP:
1.We actively encourage all staff to speak English around the office. In fact, English has always been the official language of the IASB and we are going to rigorously enforce the policy. Mi casa no es su casa anymore, comprende?
2.We are going to review all I-9 citizenship verification documents to make sure that we have proper papers on everyone. If for some reason your paperwork isn’t up to snuff, now might be a good time to go on permanent vacation (and if the namesake of our special project is reading this, I’m quite possibly talking to you, sweetheart).
3.We are obtaining Oval Office funding to investigate illegal voting in the election. Our Unique Selling Proposition is that our extensive work with immigrants totally qualifies us to rat them out for voting scams. (If this stance alarms any of you, I suggest you harken back to that classic Dire Straits tune “Money for Nothing.” Wink, wink, and all that.)
4.Previously prohibited hate speech related to immigrants, including such derogatory terms as “wetbacks” or “illegals” is now officially encouraged in all Federal grant applications when placed properly in context, e.g., encouraging the rigorous enforcement of the Administration’s rules on illegal immigrants. An example from a recently submitted grant application: “IASB will provide expertise in identifying any wetbacks illegally consuming the ripe fruits of our American society. We will help make America Great (and immigrant-free) Again.” This is just an example; I expect you guys to be more creative—nothing is off the table.
INTEROFFICE MEMO
International Aid Society of Boise
“No One Is Free Unless We Are All Free”
From: Chett Hightower, CEO
To: All Staff
Date: April 5, 2017
Subject: Farewell Party for Former Board Member Madeline Albright
It is with mixed emotions that I announce our farewell gala for former US Secretary of State and former Board Member Madeline Albright.
I believe her deportation for having registered as a Muslim in the ICE Muslim Registry is a cautionary tale for us all, and I reiterate my strong statements that the registry is not a platform for political statements of any kind, unless you want to end up in Lahore, Pakistan.
The Gala will be held at the Boise Hilton on Saturday, April 15, 2017 from 7–9 p.m., to be respectful of Ms. Albright’s curfew (assuming she will be allowed to travel to Boise on that date.)
INTEROFFICE MEMO
FAID-Ps of Toronto
“Money Talks, Bullsh*t Walks Back Over the Border in the Rain”
From: Chett Hightower, CEO
To: All Staff
Date: June 22, 2017
Subject: Our New Beginning
It is with great pleasure that I announce that we have repositioned our twenty-two-year-old International Aid agency for the next four years and beyond.
You’ve seen this coming, people, so let’s smack this mother in the ass and get her done, so to speak. We are now called “Formerly American Internationally Displaced People of Toronto, and our new mission is to help everyone seeking to leave America find happiness in Canada and elsewhere. We’re still kicking around our motto, but I like the millennial-facing, hip hop–inspired sentiment expressed in one staff submission: “Don’t Throw Shade, FAID.”
We have already secured cornerstone funding from many prominent American foundations in exchange for subletting them space in our Toronto office park, which, if I may say so, was a truly inspired turn in our Post-Election Strategic Plan from Hell (PESPFH).
We have also secured massive operating funding from the Canadian subsidiaries of the American car companies, partly as a result of our groundbreaking research project entitled “If You Tax It They Will Move.” If you recall, this showed that a large number of car-buying Americans were moving to Canada anyway, so the Trump Administration could take their thinly-veiled tax threats and shove them up their keisters.
Lastly, two pieces of creative genius I wanted you to know before we launch them on social media.
First, we have a new jingle. Sung to the tune of “Give Peace a Chance,” it’s called “Get the Hell Out.”
Second, we have a PSA airing soon starring Alec Baldwin from his SNL stage as You-Know-Who, entitled “Make North America Great Again (You Canadian Sons of Bitches).”
While this has been a rocky road, our next report to our board will show that revenue is up three thousand percent, and we’ve never been busier.
Thanks for your support!
BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE
Ted White
They burned down my block today.
I saw them. They had flamethrowers, big tanks on their backs like backpacks, and black nozzles that spurted flame. I was across the street, just coming home, when I saw them.
They were big men, more than a dozen of them, dressed in black. They’d kick in a door and then torch the place. They were efficient, systematic. In less than ten minutes, that whole side of the street was burning.
I ducked into an alleyway on my side of the street. No sense letting them see me. I saw what they did to the people who ran out of the burning buildings or dropped from windows to the street. They shot them. They do that every time they burn a block.
; It was all going up in flames—my little hideaway, with my cache of paper books, so very flammable, tucked away in the center of the block. My home.
Suddenly a grimy arm locked around my neck from behind and I felt myself being yanked backward and nearly off my feet.
I thought I recognized the arm—and the smell that enveloped me. It was the smell of primroses.
He pulled me into a narrow doorway and whirled around to close the door with his butt, flinging me loose to stumble toward a dilapidated armchair. I almost sat in it before deciding it probably had bugs.
“Well, missy, there it all goes!” he said, gesturing in the direction of the street. “How long till they do this block, huh?”
Rudolph was a deceptively stringy-looking man, shambling in appearance, but very strong. He could probably pick me up with one arm. He dowsed himself with cheap fragrances because he never bathed.
His little hole was no bigger than mine had been, a roofed-in and closed-off space between two older buildings. It’s illegal to do that, but pretty common. I hadn’t built mine; I found it. Someone had died there and it had been abandoned and mostly forgotten. I’m not sentimental and I’m not squeamish, so I moved in. Now I’d have to find a new place. But not Rudolph’s. Among other reasons, it was too close. Odds were it would be burned next.
Rudolph was giving me the eye.
“Yer a scrawny kid,” he told me, “but yer female, and I could use me one.”
“In your poppy dreams,” I said. A knife appeared in my hand. It had a long blade and I kept it sharp.
“Hey, now,” he said, backing away from me. There wasn’t much room. “A simple no would do it.”
“You got it,” I said. “No.” I looked around the dimly lit room. Boxes had been piled, on their sides, against all the walls, creating uneven shelves, filled with objects that looked like and probably were scraps, stolen from Dumpsters in the affluent areas – broken appliances, plastic tubs filled with mismatched nuts and bolts, and stuff I couldn’t identify. A battered sofa took up one end of the room. I could see it wasn’t the kind that opened up. I couldn’t imagine sharing it with Rudolph. “You’d have to sleep in the chair,” I said.
“Why don’t you just get the hell on out, then,” he said. “Take your chances with the fire troopers, huh?”
“I think I will,” I said, moving to the door. I could see it was made of planks bolted to crosspieces. I recognized the carriage-bolt heads when I opened the door and saw its outer side.
“It’s yer mistake, missy,” he said as I pulled the door shut.
The alley dog-legged just beyond Rudolph’s door, and I moved around the corner quickly. The air was full of smoke, which was a bad sign. The wind could blow embers across the street. This block might be next, and sooner than Rudolph thought. So many old, wooden buildings with tar roofs, crammed together, a tinderbox just waiting for a match. I had to keep going, cross another street, hope for the best.
Dusk was coming. That was both good and bad for me. Good, because I’m stealthy and I can get around without being noticed. Bad, because there’s a whole different crew out on the streets after dark, and my chances wouldn’t be great if I encountered the wrong people. Normally I’m home, holed up, after dark. Now where would I go?
I decided to head for Hooker Street. That’s its real name—I think there was once a General Hooker—but it’s now also a good description. I cut through the alleys that snaked through the blocks. I grew up here. I know them all.
I found Jonny. Or maybe he found me. That prosthetic eye of his has some kind of built-in radar, I think.
“Hey, Shivvy,” he said from somewhere close behind me. That’s his nickname for me, because I’m good with a knife. I didn’t jump. I recognized his voice. “Change ya mind?”
I turned to face him. He’s a kid, like me – but not very much. Jonny got put through the mill when he was twelve and had to be rebuilt. I used to wonder who paid for it. But I figured the reason he started running girls was to pay it off. He looks almost normal, until you realize that all his uninked skin is fake—and that’s his right arm and the right side of his face. Fake skin won’t take tats.
“I been looking for you,” I said. “They burned my block down. I need a new place.”
He grinned at me. “I can fix ya up,” he said. “But wha’choo gonna do fer me?”
“I won’t cut you,” I told him. “How’s that?” I smiled back. Two big guys pushed between us as if neither of us were there, heading for the door of a juice house. Jonny in turn ignored them.
“Choo’know,” he said, “when ya get ridda that scowl, ya don’t look so bad.”
“I’m not gonna work for you, Jonny. You know that.”
“It won’t be work. It’ll be fun.” He laughed, saw my reaction, and held up his hand. “I’m not asking’choo ta work for me.”
“Yeah?”
“Nah. I wan’choo to live with me. Now, hear me out.” His face got serious. “I got respect for ya, li’l Shiv. Ya someone I trust wit’ my back, you know what I’m saying?” He grasped my arm with his left hand, the real one, and pulled me into a barred doorway. I think we both felt exposed on the street.
“I been thinking about’choo. This fire thing just pushed it together. Ya need a place to stay, and I need ya. Win-win, right?”
“Uh-uh,” I said, shaking my head. “Not if you want to sex me.”
“Aw, come on now,” he said, he voice getting all soft and husky, his pimp-voice.
“Not ever,” I said. “No. I’m not one of your girls.”
“Choo breakin’ my heart, girl.”
“You got a crib you’re not using?” I asked. “Some place I can use for a few days?”
“Then what?”
“Then whatever. I’ll move on, quick as I can.”
“Choo don’t wanna crib,” Jonny said, shaking his head. “They trade ’em off, hot beds. One after another. Never empty long.” He squeezed his eyes shut to show me he was thinking. “An’choo not willing to get in my bed, so…” He brightened. “How about a rich man?”
I wasn’t going to tell Jonny that I’d never let any man get my clothes off, nor any woman either. I never had and I could think of no reason why I ever would. But a rich man…that offered new possibilities.
There are two kinds of people in the world: The rich and the rest of us. I think there’s been a genetic drift. I don’t think the rich are quite human any more. I think they’re a new race.
They think so, too. I can read, and I read a lot. Mostly I read books, which I always picked up wherever I found any, but I’ll read anything—even the newscreen captions I spy through windows. And sometimes I sneak into the Closed Zone, where there’s free stuff I catch on my tab. I shouldn’t have had a tab, of course, and now I don’t. It must have been destroyed in the fire. But I had found one somebody lost. They’re useless outside the CeeZee except for what you put in the memory, and basically you can’t access anything to put in the memory unless you’re in the CeeZee, so I used to sneak back in for new ebooks when I got bored with the ones I had. Delete a few, add a few—and then make a quick exit before I was noticed by the cybercops.
But I know what the privileged people think. I eavesdrop on them electronically when I can, and I read all I can. Most of what I read is written by them, for them.
They believe they are superior. They talk about breeding a super race. Past tense. Like they’re already more highly evolved. So “uber.”
Now some of them have decided to get rid of the rest of us. They regard us as vermin, wallowing in filth. They’re exterminating us. They’re burning us out. But there are a lot of us. It’s going to take time.
“They see us as disease-ridden,” old Nellie once told me. “Like we ain’t healthier than them. But we got immunities. So that’s why they use fire and don’t let nobody escape. Disease control.”
“They shouldn’t worry so much about us,” I said. “They should worry about the mosquitoes.”
&
nbsp; “The mosquitoes?”
“They’re what carry disease,” I told her. “Like, you know, all those viruses. Zika, dengue fever”
“Wassat?”
“Tropical diseases. Now that it’s warmer, we got tropical diseases.”
“Yeah? You sure know a lot from them books you reading,” she said, shaking her head. “But that old-times stuff, that won’t do you no good now, here. You gotta get your head outta them books, you want to live to grow up.”
She was shot, out on the avenue, by a block cop who was aiming at somebody else, a few months ago. I hadn’t thought about her since then. But having your block burned down sharpens the memory, I think.
Jonny’s “rich man” was, he said, an infrequent customer, a man who descended from his no-doubt high-rise place in the CeeZee to go slumming in the badlands for some hot sex. I tried to figure out how I could turn him to my advantage.
Actual sex was out of course, but maybe the lure of sex? Unfortunately, I don’t look much like a street girl. It’s not just that I don’t dress like them. I’m kind of skinny, narrow-hipped and flat-chested for my age. I’m not pretty. And I wear my hair and clothes so that from any distance you’d take me for a boy. Jonny tells me he thinks that’s sexy, but it keeps most of the male predators at bay. Jonny has his own problems.
But Jonny tells me his rich man isn’t looking to sex me. He wants to meet me because Jonny told him I read a lot.
“What is he, some kind of kinky?” I asked.
“He’s smart. And he reads, too.”
And, when I met him, he was nothing like what I expected.
We met in an eatery tucked behind a fight club, Jonny introducing us. I was impressed with Jonny, being able to get in touch so quickly with his rich man, and setting things up right away. It was possible I might have a place to sleep tonight. Well, there’s always somewhere to sleep, but I sleep better when there are no rats sniffing around me. But I should have considered the implications of this speedy meeting.
Welcome to Dystopia Page 18
