FAR Future, Episode 65: Run, Run, Run, Run Away

You know, I was so looking forward to writing this one.

Saturday, August 20, 2022
Run, Run, Run, Run Away

Wingnutistan delenda est.

I can’t imagine there’s much of it left, anyway — they did their “strategic redeployment” from Planet Georgia night before last. The news has been burning up the phone lines all over the place, about how they all disappeared overnight. Turns out a lot of vehicles were found at the Atlanta Airport — in this area, they must have all drove to the airport, drained the remaining fuel from their vehicles, loaded up, and flew away. Atlanta’s been one big street party since the word got out; most of the army wasn’t exactly married to the junta (even if they didn’t defect) so they handed the baton to the local cops and retreated to Fort McPherson and Fort Gillem.

The local 'Riots got disbanded, I guess… I bicycled by one guy’s place yesterday, one I know who was part of the gang. He had a big truck parked sideways across his driveway with a hand-lettered sign on the side:

NO TRESSPASING
WILL BE SHOT

Someone with more moxie than I have wrote across the bottom of the sign: But can you please get this truck out of my driveway? Cute. I haven’t heard any reports of Riot-cleansing around here, at least outside of Atlanta metro. They might get laughed at a lot, though… after carrying water for the junta, being the local bad dogs, they were abandoned to their fate.

If you had your TV off the last few months, I can’t really blame you… but now is a good time to turn it back on if you have juice. There’s a lot of news — real news — being broadcast. It turns out the junta bolted for Texas. Or “The Republic of Texas,” if you want to call it that (they do). Sounds more like Iran with a cross in place of a crescent, if you ask me — that fat televangelist from San Antonio, one of those monopolizing the TV until recently, is part of the inner circle, with the title “Minister of Moral Values.” The Taliban had their “Virtue and Vice Commissions,” looks like the Rotters (Republic of Texas → RoT → Rotter) have a Moral Values Ministry. Iran is dead, long live Iran. The question is whither the oil, as it always is these days… I suspect that if they want their own wingnut homeland, most of us would be happy to let them have it. But only if they don’t try playing games with the resources, and power tripping is what those guys are all about.

It’s good to see the President on TV again — he’s on his way back to Washington. His term expired while he was in exile, but I don’t guess there’s a problem with him running a caretaker administration until they get things put back together. He’s taking the train cross-country, stopping along the way to talk to people, and spending a lot of time on the phone. He’s called all the surviving congresscritters to come back and help, demanded the resignation of the Supreme Court (who went along with the junta), most of the Court of Appeals (ditto), and much of the lower federal courts. I suppose that the reconstituted (ahem) Congress will impeach and remove the ones who don’t go on their own.

At least the army is the US Army, and not the Grand Army of Wingnutistan or something like that. The Joint Chiefs issued a joint resignation, claiming that the laws didn’t allow them to take sides in a political conflict but they understood that there would be bad blood if they tried to stay on. At least we heard from Rene: “Hola, y’all. Still can’t talk about what we’re up to, but glad to be working for the good guys. Manny deserted, but the rest of us are on the job. Hope to be home soon.” The President has already said that he would honor the service-for-citizenship deal that the junta offered to the signees, but they’re cutting it off at the end of the month. That came up in one of the status reports that he delivers in the evenings, wherever the train has stopped. After the brief, he takes questions from the locals. One question that comes up at just about every stop is a variation on “When will we start getting fuel again?” The answer, “Probably never. We need to make other arrangements,” usually doesn’t go over too well. After 10 years, you’d think that people would have started getting used to the idea that we depend(ed) way too much on a finite resource that was running out. I’m amazed that some people still think we can bring back the glory days of SUVs and Outer Suburbia… or maybe I’m reading too much into the question. Maybe people don’t understand that what used to be the prime world supplier is now a radioactive no-go zone. Or maybe they’re hoping to hear that Pacifica came up with a techno-fix during the junta days and was just waiting to gift the rest of the country with it when we got back together.

It might sound a little early, especially since people like us are still sleeping outside where we can get some cool air, but the President has already started asking people to get together and make sure all their neighbors can stay warm this winter, or at least not freeze to death. I’ve never been able to figure out why people won’t think of these things themselves, but when the junta didn’t seem to care about what people were going through, it never occurred to many people to just go out and take care of business. At least we’re getting some prompting, and with enough lead time to think about what needs to be done before it starts getting cold.

Hey, the net’s up! Off to get this posted while I can…

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 64: Summertime, and the Junta is Sleazy

I’m hoping to have something to say, and the opportunity to say it, this week.

Friday, July 1, 2022
Summertime, and the Junta is Sleazy

As hot as the weather’s getting, it’s getting even hotter for the junta. It was probably like this for Argentina: their junta started the Falklands War to distract the people from the problems at home; after they lost the war, it was pretty much curtains for the junta. Freedom is eating its way into what was once (and soon may be again) America, a piece at a time, and the junta just can’t seem to stop it. (Having an army that won’t shoot seems to have that effect.) Anyway, whoever my benefactor is at the local junta office/outpost is still looking out for me. I had occasion, and enough fuel, to ride into town and pick up a few necessities this morning. After making my rounds, I came back to find an envelope taped to the handlebars. That took me back… seven years. It seems a lot longer than that since the Pat-Riots came blustering into FAR Manor to take Guillermo and his family to some unpleasant fate, and went away empty-handed.

Kim and Serena still have about a year left in their hitch. Rene got signed for three years, so he won’t get out until after they do. We hear from all of them, especially Kim since he’s at some version of Camp Baker, but from Rene we only get variations on “I’m still here, doing OK, love you guys.” I guess that’s why military intelligence is an oxymoron: you don’t know what they do, and the brass prefers they don’t know what they do either. Serena says they tool around the base on electric golf carts nowadays; Germany went big into solar a long time ago so they have enough juice to keep them charged up. Christina looks forward to Kim’s twice-weekly calls, and otherwise spends her time finishing up her education. She’s looking into interning at the university, with the possibility of getting on as a professor. From there, she figures she could get Kim in, either teaching ESL (English as a Second Language) or Spanish. Or both.

But I digress. The envelope, please. It contained a printed email. I’ve reproduced it here, redacting info that might identify my mole (as much as I’d like to know who it is myself):

From: HQ
To: XXX
Subject: SR Preparations

The Council has determined that Strategic Redeployment may be necessary in the next 6 months. It is beyond the scope of this Memo to detail the reasons for SR, or the timeframe. Orders to all Field Offices are as follows:

1) FO Post Commanders are tasked to keep the FO orderly and ready to redeploy at any time.

2) PCs are to notify detached personnel [Patriots? –FARf] to take precautionary measures, as they have been targets of unlawful action after FOs redeploy in many cases. Advise all detached personnel to complete outstanding reports ASAP and to deliver any signed-out materiel to the FO immediately. Avoid informing detached personnel of any pending redeployment.

3) PCs are tasked to identify staff who are: a) essential to the day-to-day operations of the FO; b) available for redeployment.

4) PCs and essential staff are tasked to identify essential personal items and effects. It is preferred that all such items and effects fit in a duffel, but in any case must not exceed the capacity of a single standard foot locker. Do not include toiletry and similar items as they will be provided after redeployment. Keep essential items packed and ready or, if necessary, ready to pack at a moment's notice.

5) Non-essential staff should be dismissed as soon as possible without disrupting day-to-day operations of the FO. Such staff should not be informed of the potential for redeployment.

6) PCs are tasked to identify the vehicle(s) necessary to redeploy staff and materiel. Such vehicle(s) must be maintained and have as much fuel as possible at all times.

7) If a redeployment order is given, time is of the essence. The identified redeployment vehicle(s) should be packed with all files and materiel ASAP. It is recommended that packing and movement be performed overnight. The actual redeployment order will include route information, including emergency refueling stops.

8) No FO should be redeployed before removal (preferred) or destruction of all files and materiel that could be exploited by the enemy. All fuel stored on-site should be removed, even if it requires extra vehicles to transport.

It is important to maintain morale at this critical juncture. Redeployment will allow us to concentrate our strength and eventually recover lost territories. Further details are of a strategic nature and will be distributed only on a need-to-know basis.

I can’t imagine them needing to bug out from Planet Georgia, but I might be underestimating the amount of resistance around here — it’s not exactly smart to post a personal ad saying “Looking for friends who are just as tired of Wingnutistan as I am, here’s my number.” What I do know is that it’s really hard to go anywhere right now. We get enough fuel to run some farm equipment and chainsaws, and to go get more. I could bicycle to town, but at my age it’s getting painful, and the RoadTrain is shut down anyway. I got a text from a friend in Atlanta: “Bus and train run at rush hour, not much else. Amtrak shut down. Everyone is stuck, but where would we go?”

Indeed. It seems like my world has been shrinking for a long time, and now it’s contracting to FAR Manor and the few places I can walk or bicycle to. It’s not like there’s anything better out there, though… not even Moscow or Dallas are choked with traffic these days. Maybe I can catch a train to the beach when this is over with. But for now, I’m stuck here and jonesing for coffee. We ran out last week, and it doesn’t stay on the shelves very long. I attempted to bribe a cashier to stash a couple cans away for me, but she wouldn’t go for it. I guess only the managers get to take those kind of bribes.

continued…

A Reprieve(?)

Warning: this is not fiction. Do not adjust your browser.

The Citgo station close to the office is selling gas under $1.50 a gallon, and I managed a 6 under par in Wii Sports golf this evening. In other news…



I remember $1.50/gal gas back in 2000. At that price, it’s now roughly 1/3 the price it was during the late summer (assisted by a couple of hurricanes, if you remember the fun we had in September). Here I issue my OOPS: I never expected to see this. $2, maybe. If I’d been asked to name a “floor” price in July, the absolute lowest we’d ever see again, I probably would have said $2.50.

So… what happened?

The easy answer would be, “the credit bubble popped.” A more involved answer would involve the general drubbing the economy has taken since the housing bubble popped, which led to the credit bubble popping, which led to just about everything else we’re seeing right now… including the FAILouts for the banking and auto industries.

Actually, a lot of this (excluding the FAILouts) was predicted by one of the Peak Oil models. The general plot is that as high oil prices drive up the price of pretty much everything, people cut 'way back on purchases to buy gas and the economy collapses; demand craters, oil prices plummet, lather rinse repeat. But I think even that model didn’t predict that oil would get downright cheap again. Some pundits are predicting $25/bbl, and that might actually happen briefly… right now, distributors are building inventories during a time that they usually deplete them to avoid inventory taxes. Once they reach capacity, that particular price prop goes away. Normally, I’d say something like “fat effing chance it gets to $25/bbl,” but maybe I’ve learned my lesson.

The big question is, what happens when low low oil prices start to stimulate the economy? I think that’s going to put us right back in the soup. The “free market” is reactive, but not quickly… which is at least part of our problem here. The market reacted to demand hitting absolute oil supply constraints earlier this year, and sent oil prices skyrocketing. When that happened, gas prices spiked to $4/gal, higher in some places, and diesel was even worse. Since pretty much everything depends on oil these days, prices of pretty much everything went up (i.e. inflation). Without a corresponding rise in wages (yeah right, in a Bush-league administration?), people started watching their spending — they either had to buy gas to get to work, or buy bus tickets, so they let everything else slide… which meant the retail economy went to hell in a handbasket. The US economy depends far too much on people buying stuff they don’t need, and don’t particularly want, so there was a huge ripple effect.

But while oil prices have collapsed, so have the business models of “non-conventional” production like the Canadian tar sands and many of the deep-water projects… at $40/bbl, they lose money, so I don’t expect to see them going for much longer. The “fun” part is, the world oil production figures reached a plateau in late 2005 and have been there ever since. In 2008, the numbers went up a bit, but included tar sands and some deep-water projects. In 2009, there will likely be a significant drop in world oil production — partly because of peak oil and partly because OPEC is chasing down demand. The question is, will the world ever be able to reach 2008 production levels again? I suspect not, partly because the oil companies will shut down expensive projects which would be needed to offset normal depletion rates. But as depletion sets in, it’s fairly likely that the economy will start to recover… and push up demand for oil. And this is the jumping-off point for FAR Future.

As slim a hope as it is, I thank God that Obama got elected. If anyone can at least slow down the biggest problems coming our way… it certainly wouldn’t be a Republican.

FAR Future, Episode 63: The Peasants are Revolting

I’m probably going to be scarce through the rest of the month. Never fear, episodes will continue to auto-post every Monday at 7 a.m. until the holiday season lets go.

Sunday, May 1, 2022
The Peasants are Revolting

It’s interesting to watch a government unravel, especially when you’re not a fan. Ironically, it looks like Philadelphia is once again the epicenter of the American Revolution.

With a little encouragement from New England, Pennsylvania joined the “Rebel Alliance” last week. According to Sammy, people poured into the streets of Philly to celebrate, and as night fell the celebration turned into a thorough Pat-Riot cleansing. As much as I despise some of those yahoos, arson, assault, and even lynching… goes a little too far. Of course, the junta agreed and sent a battalion to “restore order.”

And thus the junta forced the issue onto the soldiers. Many of the grunts, even “fast-trackers” (i.e. Latinos recruited with the promise of citizenship) had no intention of turning their guns on American civilians. About half of them deserted along the way (or defected, as you’ll see) and the rest almost started shooting each other as they approached the city on I-95. The deserters, ironically, put an end to it — they regrouped and followed the remnant north, then demanded their surrender as they argued among themselves. The grunts were relieved and quickly switched sides; the junta loyalists, mostly officers, found a clue and gave up without any serious bloodshed.

In the next few days, about half of the entire military has either deserted (junta’s claim) or defected to the rebels (Sammy’s)… and I’d say some of both is going on. Naturally, the regular news channels aren’t carrying this info — in fact, they’re not carrying much of anything. The TV seems to have been given over entirely to certain televangelists, mostly preaching some variant of Hebrews 13:17 (“Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls, as those who will have to give an account.”) — funny how they never quoted that particular scripture back before the junta, huh?

From what I’ve been hearing from Atlanta and other places, the army (the side that hasn’t defected) is patrolling all the cities under junta control at the moment. You wouldn’t know it from here, a few hours away on the RoadTrain, but Atlanta is all but under martial law right now. I guess that also goes for New Orleans, St. Louis, DC, and probably everywhere. The army may be alert for looters and insurrectionists, but a certain street preacher pretty much goes where he pleases and draws a crowd wherever he puts down his cardboard box. I got hold of a smuggled video, never mind how. :-) Hush now, The Prophet is about to speak:

Hold fast, Jerusalem, for the Lord has heard your groaning and your cry for help. I say again, hold fast, for you will be oppressed only a little longer. But behold, the day of deliverance is drawing near! Be vigilant, Jerusalem, for you know not the day nor the hour of the Lord. Though you have only a little oil in your lamps, use it wisely and it will be unto you like the oil jug of the widow in Zerephath, which did not run dry until the day the Lord opened the heavens and sent the rain.

Keep the Lord’s commandments, and ignore not the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faithfulness. Share what you have with those who have not, feed the hungry, clothe the naked, be blameless in your conduct, and you will receive the crown. But to those vipers, who have polluted the church with their greed and lust for power: pray for their souls, that the Lord may forgive them in His day. For thus the Lord commands: bless those who curse you, pray for those who persecute you, for some may yet be saved.

For there was a king, who conquered a distant province. He sent ten of his servants, saying “serve the people, heal their hurts and comfort them, and tell them of my mercy and kindness toward my faithful subjects, that they may not rebel against me when I come.” And the servants went through the land, and were favored by the people. But after a time, the servants began to speak among themselves, saying, “Behold, these people do not follow our laws, and the governor does nothing about it. Let us see to it ourselves.” But one of the ten said, “The king has appointed the governor to enforce the laws, and us to tell of the king’s mercy. Let us do what we were appointed to do.” The others turned away from him, saying, “You fool, if the people do not obey, how can the king show them mercy?”

And so the nine servants went through the province, demanding that the people obey the king’s laws, and the other servant went his own way. When he would speak to the people of the king’s mercy, the people jeered and said, “Those other servants, they have spoken to us of the king’s laws and chastised us for not following them, though we knew not what the laws were. And you speak to us of your king’s mercy?”

After a time, the king came to the province and found the people in rebellion, so he called his servants together to demand an accounting. The nine said, “Your governor, whom you appointed, did not make the people obey your laws. We were dismayed, and saw to it ourselves — except for that worthless servant there. He did only what you commanded.” And the king grew very angry, and the servants all trembled before his wrath. “You wicked servants!” he cried. “Would that you had done as this other servant did — what I commanded, and no more! For once the people loved me, I would have given them my laws and they would have gladly obeyed them. For the sake of the one servant who obeyed me, I will spare your lives, but for seventy years will you have no authority, and live in the land as pariahs.”

One of them said, “Sir, what of the one who obeyed? Does he share our punishment?”

The king said, “He does, but it will be no burden to him, for he was serving the people and not abusing his authority. His light will shine forth and he will again find favor with the people.”

You who have ears, hear what the Spirit says to the churches.

People have typed up transcripts and went around nailing it to church doors. You can imagine how that’s going over in many churches, especially around here. But some churches, and I’m glad to say including the one I go to, are taking it seriously and praying about their role in the community. Someone has developed group prayers of confession, like the ones in a communion service, and distributed them through Sammy and other means. It’s already got a name — the Penitent Movement — and I do hope it spreads.

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 62: Slip-Sliding Away

Hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving weekend. I’m still here, another year older and still refusing to grow up…

Monday, March 28, 2022
Slip-Sliding Away

With Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota — along with Chicago — joining the so-called Rebel Alliance, the junta is growing ever more paranoid. Colorado, Pennsylvania, Maryland, are all wavering in the east, Colorado and New Mexico provide the western counterpoint… rebellion in stereo! Indeed, there are few places that the junta can consider safe territory — most people agree that the Final Oil War was botched (sound familiar?) but are happy to see most of their loved ones safely stateside.

There’s been some selective discharges of “non-essential” troops, although it seems to be mostly from states thinking about breaking away — which means that Rene, Kim, and Serena aren’t home yet. Serena’s still in Germany, in fact, but things have been mostly quiet there. They’ve “suspended” the draft, so Christina at least doesn’t have that to deal with, but the service-for-citizenship program is still going. So Kim’s still teaching English to Hispanic recruits, but Rene has “gone dark.” He sent us a quick email after he got stateside: “Holá, y'all. Being redeployed, no leave, can't talk about it. Sorry. Let you know more when I can.”

We’re all relieved that he got back, but are concerned about what he’s doing now. I certainly wouldn’t put it past the junta to use their EDID units against the “enemy” here in the fragments of the US. ’Course, the spooks were tapping MAE-EAST (the major east-coast Internet hub outside of DC) in the Bush-league days, and probably before. I’m not sure why they’d need a military unit involved now.

Kim, at least, is making the system work. He finds out who already speaks passable English in his classes; usually 10% of them do. Those he assigns to help their classmates who need it most — nobody sits there bored, and the grunts who need extra help get it. Meanwhile, the junta actually wised up and brought back fuel rationing. Having a farm at last means we get some gas and diesel — not as much as we’d like, but better than nothing. The “rebel” states are in at least as bad shape, supply-wise, but they do get fuel from Canada and Alaska. Again, not as much as they’d like… like the rest of the world, with a few exceptions. Rumors from Russia and Norway suggest they’re experimenting to see how much oil they can take off the domestic market and sell to the rest of the world without triggering local insurrections.

I wonder if the junta ran into the same issue everywhere that they did here: the Pat-Riots and official junta reps would tool around in their faux-military trucks like nothing ever happened, and several of them got bricks through the windshield — or hijacked for their fuel. Now they get around on foot, hoof, or bicycle like everyone else. Emergency vehicles have diesel, but nobody’s going to begrudge an ambulance or fire truck using fuel on a call. Guillermo caught someone trying to steal some cattle earlier this month, and held them at gunpoint for a couple of hours until the cops arrived. “Next time,” they told us, within earshot of the perps, “just do the three S’s: Shoot, Shovel, and Shush. We don’t have to hear about cattle rustlers unless they actually get away.” Yipe!

It’s already getting warm. We’ve let the wood stove go out, and still have a pretty good stack of firewood left. Oh well, we’ll use it next winter. It’s that much less wood we have to cut. Since the draft is over with, we’re going to get DD and Dean married off shortly. I was hoping to do it Friday, which would be April 1, but they both insisted on Saturday. Dang. But they’re looking at places to live close to town, at least for now (Dean would like to get them both back to Seattle, which I can understand). DD is looking into remote teaching, since the school district is turning toward facilitating home schooling rather than running their own facilities — they see their role as making sure the students have material and help if needed, more than anything else — and there will be plenty of kids needing tutors while their parents are handling the emergencies of everyday life. Dean did academic training in his previous life, so maybe he can work with older kids if the school district is willing to pay for it. I think school taxes mostly go toward paying catering bills for school board meetings these days.

So anyway, if Dean and DD leave soon, we’ll be down to five at FAR Manor: the two “older” couples plus Christina, who’s doing some graduate-level work in between consulting on biofuel recovery projects for anything from individuals to wallyworlds. I’ve been urging Guillermo and Maria to go with her on her consulting trips, but now that they can travel at will they seem content to stay here. They’ve gone to a couple Latino-centric wallyworlds, but other than that they pretty much stay put. To be honest, I doubt that we could have held FAR Manor together without their help; they’ve jumped into every task with both feet and looked for more. But they should still be able to get a vacation once in a while.

Speaking of vacations, my job dried up a while back… just in time for me to retire. I have to admit, I never thought things would quite turn out the way they have, but isn’t that what John Lennon said? Life is what happens while you’re making other plans?

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 61: It’s All Over, Rover

The war’s over, not the story. Just to make that clear. Anyway…

Wednesday, January 5, 2022
It’s All Over, Rover

I guess everyone will be coming home… as soon as they can get them out of there, anyway. For all intents and purposes, the war’s over, the Foxaganda has that much right. Anyone who knows what’s going on there are much less confident that we won, though. Truth be told, I think everybody lost.

Rene’s in a kind of awkward position; I don’t want to ask him for any info that will jeopardize his service record, even though he’d have to really spill some beans before they’d whack a decorated soldier who was all over the media just a couple months ago. But Rene isn’t the only soldier who isn’t fond of the junta — especially right now — and some of the others don’t have to worry about their citizenship. So, as always, Sammy has pieced a likely story together out of various reports, accidental true statements blurted by junta spokesdroids, and the like.

Rene didn’t even get to finish his mini-vacation in Dubai before things started going pear-shaped. The junta had repeatedly warned Russia and China that Iran couldn’t continue an offensive and expect the fight wouldn’t be taken to them, and the Saudis finally took matters into their own hands. They have their own jets, of course, and they started raiding Bushehr and other ports on the Iranian side of the gulf, and any oil installations they could reach. Meanwhile, our guys were busy hunting down all the Iranians that slipped across Iraq and were wreaking havoc all over the place, both in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.

If anything, the war of words was even hotter — both sides accused the other of being allied with Israel, being enemies of Islam, all that happy crap. (Israel issued a statement along the lines of “a plague on both your houses” and offered to transport any Palestinians that wanted to take sides to Egypt or Jordan — one way, of course.)

Over the next few months, the land war bogged down along the Euphrates, and the Saudis and Iranians lost enough jets to redeploy what was left in a defensive posture (leaving the junta in control of the sky). Everyone’s navies were bottled up, and the Iranians made attempts to unplug the straits impossible.

Then the missiles started flying. The junta insists that Iran launched first, and Sammy hasn’t found any evidence to the contrary. The junta’s navy, stuck in Dubai, was a flock of sitting ducks. The junta pretty much had to respond, and began a bombing campaign designed to cripple both Iran’s military and oil production. So way back when, Bush-league was accusing Iran of trying to develop nuclear weapons, while Iran insisted they were interested only in electricity. And both were half-right: why make a nuke when you can buy one? Where it came from — Pakistan, North Korea, Russia during the collapse years — Iran wasn’t telling, and it really doesn’t matter now.

Thankfully, Rene had gone back to some nowhere in the desert — because last week, Iran nuked the big Ghawar oilfield. Even in advanced decline, it was producing a significant percentage of the world’s oil supply… but not anymore. The Saudis didn’t have their own nukes, and we weren’t about to give them any, but they did have a handful of dirty bombs. Take a big bomb, wrap radioactive material around it, set it off. All the fallout without the crater. There had been rumors since the Bush-league days that they planned to use dirty bombs to scorch their own oil fields if they were invaded or some internal group were to overthrow the Sauds, but they may well have converted them to offensive use. Turns out the Israelis weren’t the only country to have a working Masada Option… they ruined what was left of Iran’s oil fields and those in southern Iraq to boot. Iran had a second nuke, and they used it on the straits, making the UAE an unhealthy place to be.

And that must have been it. Kuwait and the rest of Iraq weren’t bombed, but they have fallout issues to worry about. Anything that’s not contaminated, or probably just a little contaminated, will have to be pipelined through Turkey or Syria from now on. The war’s over: Saudi Arabia, the UAE, and Iran have collapsed, Oman is tottering, any news coming out of Bahrain or Qatar is not exactly good, and the junta is retreating to the Red Sea to ship everyone out.

Rene was allowed to contact us with a brief message to my Gadget: I’m OK, not sure when I’ll ship out yet. Hope to see you soon.

You know the rest of the story: with a third of the world’s oil supply either turned radioactive or still burning, pretty much everything is shutting down. Russia may have won the war without firing a shot; they’re now the world’s largest producer and they have no problem throwing their weight around. For all the junta tough talk about “we’ll walk before we kowtow to Moscow,” we’re not going to be able to defend Europe very well if an invader has oil and we don’t. I suppose if Europe can string them along for a few years, Russia will run out of export capacity and they can all go back to fighting on horseback. What we’re going to do here is anyone’s guess. I certainly hope the junta grows a brain cell and realizes that a critical resource can’t depend on the market to allocate it properly.

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 60: In the Tank

Friday, August 20, 2021
In the Tank

Rene continues his story…

The major gave us orders as Manny started back on the comms: “You heard all that. Five minutes. I figure seven before the cavalry arrives. We need to stall ’em for two minutes.

“Spread out. When they start down the hill, open fire on the center tank, the one that Kittycat came out of. Aim for the tread on your own side. It’ll give ’em something to think about, anyway. He’s got to know that there’s more than two of us out here, but he doesn’t know how many. So you guys need to be firing and reloading just as fast as you can. Alternate your fire between the center tank and the one on your side, but move each time so you don’t eat return fire. We’ll beat it up the hill while you guys cover for us — we’ll go under the back of the tent, and the tent itself will keep us out of sight for a little bit — then we’ll set off the EMP when one of the tanks takes out the tent. If we’re lucky, we’ll bury the SOB. Questions?” Neither of us had any. “Good. You got four minutes to get ready.”

Sammy T and I used a couple minutes to spread out as ordered — we figured if we were going for the treads, being farther off to the side would help — and we saw the major and Manny slip under the back of the tent. They moved up the dune slowly, looking back, making sure they didn’t lose the cover of the tent. The time went fast… I checked my watch, and they gave the major all five minutes promised before revving up and starting down the hill. We opened fire, and dang if Sammy T didn’t score one for the good guys! Kittycat’s tank slewed and came down the hill at an angle, almost hitting the tank on his right but he didn’t notice. Their turrets were coming our way, but we were moving already. I got my next shot off a second or so before Sammy did, and blew a hole in the tank’s armor on my side but nothing more. Sammy missed, no score. They returned fire, toward the spots we’d already vacated, and we weren’t planning on staying in one place longer than we had to.

We each got one more shot off before the major yelled, “Here’s the cavalry!” A second later, two pairs of jets zipped overhead and circled around. “Tobias! Cardenas! Regroup, back to center! Stay out of the line of fire!” I went down the far side of the dune, figuring that would get me out of the zone fastest, and then started working my way to where the major was. Long before I got there, the jets came back overhead, trailing explosions.

Sammy got there before I did, looking wild-eyed. “That was too close!”

“You shoulda gone downhill like Cardenas,” the major said. “I told you to stay out of the line of fire, right? That’s what I meant. But you done good. Both of you. Manny, ask ’em if they’re done yet.”

“Rabbit 2 here,” Manny said into his radio. “You guys about finished? Anything left down there?”

“Just some kitty litter for you guys to scoop out. Your tent is in shreds, though. Dooby’s sending an evac unit, should be here within the hour. Just part of the friendly service.”

“Thanks a heap, guys,” the major said, taking the radio. “We owe ya one.”

What parts of the tent hadn’t been shot to pieces were burning or already burned up. The Iranian tanks weren’t in any better shape. None of them had reached to where the tent stood. Sammy T and I kept an eye on the tanks, just in case one started moving or coughed up a kittycat, while Manny and the major dragged what was left of the tent out of the way. Fortunately, the hatch was still clear and we went down to bring out the most important gear and our personal stuff. It was dark down there, because the generator was probably one of the first casualties of the battle (I saw pieces of it strewn among the tanks), and we had no idea whether there was a surge. But that wasn’t so important at the moment. We each grabbed a wind-up flashlight, we kept them all around the caisson in case the power died anyway, and used them to break down the gear and box it up. We got it all topside just as the evac choppers topped the dunes and landed on the far side of the tanks.

“Need a lift, boys?” we heard one of them call over Manny’s radio. We had the gear and ourselves on board in five minutes, and the major dropped a grenade into the caisson before boarding (we didn’t want to use the EMP bomb, it would have disabled our ride out of there). It collapsed on itself as we lifted off, and the sand started filling in the hole immediately.

“Nice piece of work back there,” the pilot said over the intercom. “Holding off three tanks like that. How’d they penetrate this far without anyone else noticing, anyway? That’s what I want to know.”

“No telling,” Major Shevchuk said. “They’re probably swarming in scattered and hoping some of them get through. Won’t take many to make a lot of trouble.”

They gave us each a medal and some extra leave. I was hoping for an honorable discharge and getting sent home, but no luck with that. With the straits blocked, it’s not like we’d be getting much farther than Dooby-Dooby anyway. The major says they’ll redeploy us after our leave is up. With any luck, we won’t have to worry about enemy tanks again, but I’m afraid this is going to turn out like Iraq - the front line will be everywhere. The equipment is mostly okay, the surge took out a couple of power supplies when the generator went down, but all the collected data on the flash drives was intact. We’ll have all new gear at the next post.

Me? I’m just glad he’s OK. I had to take Guillermo and Maria to a Catholic church though; they wanted to light a few candles in thanksgiving.

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 59: Tanks a Lot

Guess what? Another cliffhanger!

Friday, August 20, 2021
Tanks a Lot

Yes, that was Rene’s unit that the newsies turned into celebrities. How could they resist the drama of four guys standing off a trio of Iranian tanks? But it’s Rene’s story to tell. They’ll probably hound him for interviews forever if he doesn’t tell them to slag off…

Hola, y’all. We had some excitement out in the middle of nowhere, and I guess everyone’s heard about it by now.

The Iranians sent a suicide squadron down the Basra route. It was meant to draw the bombers, and it did a fine job of that. Meanwhile, they slipped a bunch of tanks up and around, then through the Empty Quarter and into Saudi while they ran small boats across the gulf overnight. They were all over the place before we knew what was up. We were getting some chatter from our normal channels, but nothing about this. They must have figured out that we could tap their comms.

So Monday started out like any other day out here: hot, sunny, and quiet. We had a little marine radar up on one of the dunes, and it started pinging around 1000. We had to wake up Manny, and he was pissy about that, but the major got everyone at attention and reminded us that we had a plan for this. He sent me and Sammy T out to get a visual. I carried the binoculars and the radio, and Sammy got an RPG.

It was shimmery out across the dunes, like it always is, but I made out three tanks. “Hey Manny,” I said, “you think they can hear our radar? If they can, it’ll lead ’em right here.”

“Roger,” he said, and cut it off. Probably a little too late; they were either headed right for us or were going to miss close.

“Assume they’ll find us,” the major said. “Keep an eye on ’em and let me know when they get closer.” They were getting closer all the time, but I figured he meant something else.

Manny must have left the mike open, because I could hear it when he started calling Dooby on the comms. “This is Rabbit 2,” he said. “We got bogeys, three tanks incoming. Need air support chop-chop.”

“Copy, Rabbit 2,” they responded. “Your situation is Rice Cooker.” That meant it would take 20 minutes to get someone here.

“Bogeys will be here inside 10 minutes, sir,” I said. “Ask ’em if they can use the microwave or something.”

“Confirm Rice Cooker,” Manny said, ignoring me. “Might as well be forever,” he told the major. “If they advance, we got nothin’.”

“I know. Boys, get back inside, double-time. We need to charge the EMP and talk real quick.”

We ran back to the tent. Major Shevchuk told Sammy to go below, charge the EMP, and bring the remote detonator. He talked loud and down the hole so Sammy could hear. “Tobias, Cardenas, you two take the RPGs and fall back to the tops of the dune behind us. Velasquez, you and I will see if the kittycat wants to talk. We will not fire the first shot, understand? Good. Sammy, bring the evac kits and the weapons up with you. Let’s move.”

We got up and over the dune just in time, keeping the RPGs and ourselves out of sight. We’d have to get lucky to take out three tanks with RPGs, and I had a feeling our luck had run out. I figured we had about twelve minutes to wait for the cavalry. The tanks topped the dune opposite us and stopped; they were probably trying to figure out who was crazy enough to pitch a tent clear out here. That bought us another two minutes, then the commander hopped out and started down the dune.

“One walker coming down,” Sammy rasped over the radio.

“We see him,” Manny said. “We’re watching out the tent flap. Cut the chatter.”

They waited for the kittycat (Persian… army slang) to reach the bottom, then Major Shevchuk and Manny stepped out with their rifles at right shoulder arms to meet him. The kittycat looked a little startled, but not much, and loosened his sidearm but didn’t draw. He had bigger guns already pointed at our guys. But another minute had gone by. Nine to go.

“I suppose I will need to speak English,” the commander said (Manny was wearing his headset and had the gain cranked up). “Tell me, what are American soldiers doing in this part of the desert?”

“Beach party,” Manny said. “The tide went out a lot farther than we expected, though.”

The commander looked both annoyed and amused. “If you were the king,” he said to the major, “you would have a court fool at hand already.”

“But I’m not the king, fortunately. I am, as you guessed, the post commander though. Major Robert Shevchuk. This is Corporal Manuel Velasquez, our communications officer. And you?”

The kittycat gave his name, which I can’t remember. “Two American soldiers in a tent,” he said. “What do I do about this?”

“Well…” the major pulled off his cap and scratched his head, looking at the sky and buying a few more seconds. “I suppose you could go around us. It’s not like we’re any threat to a squadron of tanks, two guys with rifles.”

“You know as well as I: that is impossible. I can offer you surrender, and in return I will guarantee that you will be treated better than your people treated our brothers in Iraq.”

“Hm.” The long look at the sky again — eight minutes? seven? “Maybe you can give us like ten minutes to think about it?”

“Five. If at the end of five minutes, I do not see you coming out unarmed and hands up, we will open fire.” Kittycat about-faced and walked back up the dune, and the major and Manny went back in the tent.

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 58: A Dispatch from the Rear

Tomorrow is The Day. If you haven’t early-voted, get out and vote.

Monday, June 14, 2021
A Dispatch from the Rear

Rene sent an email…

Hola, y'all. We're here, wherever that is. Well, we have a pretty good idea we're somewhere in Saudi, but I couldn't tell you where. Major Shevchuk would prefer nobody knows. We've gone through our evac route, not that we'd live long enough to march to anywhere from here, but there you have it.

I can tell you this much: we're in a little hollow spot in the desert. They choppered our gear in, with a big backhoe, and it dug enough to flatten out a spot for our inflatable caisson and got our cooling pipe laid. We blew it up, attached the heatsinks and re-bars, and buried the whole thing after letting it harden. The latest in desert computing technology, I guess.

So once it hardened up, the backhoe pulled enough sand off the surrounding dunes to bury it good, and we stuck an Arab tent up on top of it to hide the satellite dishes. We've got a gennie and solar panels to run air conditioning and our equipment, and the caisson has enough room for all of us to bunk in. The fan noise makes everyone sleep pretty good. So from the air, we look like some desert nomad out in the middle of wherever. It took us a day to get operational, and it's been eat, work, sleep ever since.

There's just a few of us out here. Major Shevchuk, who's our commander, I think he’s from Michigan like Farf-Dad. Cpl. Manny Velasquez, from “by God Texas,” works our comms. He’s got the attitude for Texas, alright. I think he’s trying to forget any Español he ever learned, seems to think he’s not Mexican just because his granddad slipped across the Rio before my dad did. But he knows his stuff, and he’s OK as long as you don’t try talking politics with him. Sammy T is the other grunt here besides me, he's a black guy from DC, pretty quiet but a good guy. Sammy and me swap between day shift with the Major, and evening shift. Manny takes night time. 'Course, all of us are on 24-hour call if we're needed and kind of back up the posted shift when we're not sleeping. Not much else to do out here besides study, read, or listen to music. We can pipe in whatever music we want off the satellites, and download ebooks off the Army library, but Major Shevchuk wants any of us to be able to run the whole post if we have to, so we spend a lot of time with that. The major is a wizard on a computer, way better than Farf-Dad. But by the time we get home, we'll be able to rebuild a diesel generator in our sleep without having to stop cracking enemy codes or debugging a program, jejeje.

Really, though, the post runs itself now that it's set up. Manny checks the satellite dish alignment every day, me and Sammy T inspect the EMP bomb (which we'll set off if it looks like the post is going to get captured, it will fry every chip in the bag) once or twice a week, and all of us try to keep the dust and sand swept up and out of the filters. The gear's all raised off the floor, so it would take a lot of sand to clog things up, but Major Shevchuk is used to computer labs being clean. We also inspect our arms… not like we have much, just the usual sidearms and a couple of RPG launchers, but it all needs to be kept clean and ready for action. Basic was far too easy, shower-wise. We don’t get a shower out here, we just get a “French Bath” (wipe the sweat off with a damp cloth or wet-wipe). We don’t notice the smell, but I’ll bet it makes the barracks seem like a flowerbed by comparison!

And that's about it from here. Love you guys.

I'm sure glad he's out of the main action. The news was all over the Iranian sea invasion getting repelled last week; they must have decided the best defense was a good offense and got their war on. I suppose the overland route through Iraq is coming next, especially since the south is pretty friendly with the Iranians anyway, although they’ll likely get bombed into the sand going that way. The Russians and Chinese are threatening the junta with “an attack on Iran is considered an attack on us,” with the junta responding, “if that’s the case, then you’ve attacked us first — stop it or we’ll make it stop.” But the only way you would know that the Iranians sunk a couple of their rented tankers in the Straits was that gasoline is suddenly becoming unobtanium. The SPR is probably wide-open for business now, but if the junta has any sense they'll focus on producing enough diesel to keep the farmers and trains going. The gas they'll grab for themselves and their cronies, as always. There are rumors that the Saudis have a pipeline running clear across the country to a mothballed terminal on the Red Sea, and they’re supposedly opening it up now, but I’ll believe it when the imports start coming in again.

Serena and Kim lucked out — she’s now an MP at Ramstein in Germany: vulnerable to terrorist attacks, but you could say that about anyone. Kim is still stateside, and he got the job Rene wanted, teaching English to Hispanic recruits. Seems that the junta extended the service-for-citizenship plan to anyone south of the border, they’re signing up in droves, and the junta wanted a white guy who is fluent in Spanish. When Rene found out about it, he demonstrated his abilities in Standard Military English (nod to David Brin on that one) and laughed his skinny butt off. Kim gets to call Christina a few times a week, and Christina says she’s working on a hormone that can be dispersed over a wide area to make people rational for a change and put an end to this war and junta nonsense. I think she’s joking… I think. But if anyone could pull off a stunt like that, it would be Christina.

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 57: Marching Orders

Happy Hallowe’en!

Friday, March 5, 2021
Marching Orders

Rene said it was like hitting five numbers in the Lotto — not the jackpot of teaching English to other Latino recruits stateside, but he won’t be on the front lines either.

He got assigned to an outfit called EDID (Enemy Data Interception and Decryption), which is a fancy term for military intelligence (yeah, I know, I know). There isn’t a lot more he can tell us, which I suppose is SOP for these folks. He did say that they only do the decryption part; they bounce the rest stateside where they have experts in Farsi and Arabic who can translate what’s actually being said. But he said they’re training him in computer tech (which he seems to be good at), conversational Arabic, military Arabic and Farsi (if things get closer than they expect), and “a bunch of stuff I’m not supposed to talk about.” At least he’ll have email.

As for Kim and Serena, they both got their draft notices today. Since I was the one who hiked down to get the mail, I seriously considered tossing them in the wood stove — but that would only bring the recruiter out here to pick them up. It must have been on my face when I came in the door though, because Serena just looked at me and said, “It came, didn’t it?” I nodded and handed her the envelopes.

“Two?” she asked. Then, “Oh. Kim too.”

Christina cried when she found out. Kim and I tried to cheer her up by pointing out that the married guys should get first dibs at the non-combat positions, but she pointed out that it didn’t seem to make a difference in Iraq. As it is, they have a couple of weeks before they have to report — I guess it doesn’t matter if they give draftees a little time to settle their affairs. Volunteers though, especially ex-fugitives like Rene, they don’t want to give any time for them to change their minds (especially after their family has residence permits). I suppose if this drags on for a while, Christina will have to register… and I don’t think they do student deferments anymore. Dean feels bad for the kids, and Daughter Dearest has threatened him with great bodily harm if he enlists in sympathy (she really doesn’t threaten his life twice a day, even if I tease her about doing just that… maybe just once a day).

“Maybe I’ll write a play about Army life,” Serena mused at supper this evening. “Maybe a musical. If it’s good enough, they’ll have to throw me out.”

“Yeah,” Kim said. “Maybe call it Hamlet in Dubai or something.”

This, more than anything anyone else said, seemed to cheer Christina up finally. “Ha. Wasn’t there some song about being waist-deep in the big muddy something? You could have an idiot General Mayhem that leads everyone into something ridiculous.”

“Waist-deep in the Big Muddy, and the dang fool said to push on.” I quoted. “But I knew General Mayhem — or one of the junta people I called that back when. He’s not that stupid, but he also isn’t in command. Maybe General Confusion is the guy you’re thinking of.”

“That’s the song! But hey, if you’re doing it to get kicked out, make it obvious. General Junta has a nice ring to it, no?”

Maria shook her head. “Sobrina, do not make grande gestures. They probably put you in jail instead of send you home for… for…”

“Sedition.” Guillermo suggested.

“Sí, sedition. You be good, sobrina” (which is both Spanish for “niece” and a long-standing and, at first, unintentional pun on Serena’s name). “You are a talented girl, maybe they put you on a nice base and you write the instructiones for the machines. Or you write for their newspaper. You make us proud of you.”

“Too bad Rene’s gone,” Daughter Dearest said. “You could have let him knock you up, and then you could get a deferment.”

I snickered and Mrs. Fetched rolled her eyes, the other adults (including Dean) gaped, Serena blushed and Christina giggled. I never know when DD is going to come out with something like that, but I can always count on her to lob a verbal smoke-bomb when it’s really needed.

Serena recovered quickly. “I guess it’s your fault,” she said, looking at me. “If we didn’t live with a known troublemaker, I probably wouldn’t have gotten drafted.”

“Blame the dog,” I said. “He brought you home and wanted to keep you.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” DD said. “Blame the dog. He ain’t even here to defend himself now.”

“Yeah… but he could loft some serious hang time! Remember?” I waved my hand in front of my nose.

Guillermo spoke up after we stopped laughing. “Isn’t there an organization that performs entertainment for the soldiers? Serena could produce theater for them, maybe, then she would be safe.”

“The USO,” I said. “But I don’t know if they’re a part of the military, or a civilian organization that does things for the military. But maybe she could write telenovelas for Armed Forces Radio.”

“Telenovelas on the radio?” Maria asked. “That would be interesting. I used to watch El Mundo del Amor… all the time.” She sighed. “I miss seeing it… but our home is here now. Our son has bought our place here, perhaps at a terrible price, and we will not dishonor his sacrifice.”

However it pans out, the nest is going to be a little less crowded now. I just hope they can all come back in one piece… and with all their pieces.

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 56: A Letter from Boot Camp

Pretty weird: wandering around at Gold Rush, I saw a booth emblazoned with “Georgia Department of Defense NOW RECRUITING!” Turns out not to be a militia, it’s actually a part of the state government. Whew.

Speaking of recruits…

Saturday, February 20, 2021
A Letter from Boot Camp

Rene gets to write home on occasion. At least we know he’s doing more or less OK.

Holá, y’all. I told Farf-Dad if he wants to put this on the blog, that’s fine.

Farf-Dad says about writing stories, sometimes, it’s best to begin at the beginning, so that’s what I’ll do. I signed the papers, the recruiter swore me in and gave me the residence permits for my family, we went to the courthouse and got Kim and Christina a marriage license, then ran to the church and got the wedding done. Next morning, the recruiter put me on the RoadTrain to Atlanta, and told me to show my papers to any soldier at the station and they’d tell me where to go next. So I got put on the bus to Fort McPherson, which is in Atlanta, and they swore me in (again) and put all of us Latino ex-fugitives in our own barracks. I didn’t really get to know any of the other guys, but some of them had lived with citizens like I did, and most were part of an underground that none of them wanted to talk about. They also gave us our uniforms and a duffel bag for our “civvies” (civilian clothes) and anything else we brought with us. I have a notebook to write in, a few pens, and that’s about it. Most of the other guys didn’t even bring that much.

They hauled us out of bed really early, like 4 a.m., and took us to the Amtrak station. They had a special car for recruits, and a guy gave us a run-down of what we’d be going through at boot camp. It didn’t sound like fun, and the reality is even worse, but that’s getting off-track (jejeje). He asked us in Spanish, how many of us didn’t speak English. There were eight or ten who didn’t. They asked us how many of us hadn’t gotten the bad flu in the last two years, and there were maybe twenty. Then some medics came in and gave all of us shots for stuff and took blood, they told us that they’d quarantine and care for all of us if anyone had the flu now. The guys who didn’t know English got taken out to get some lessons, enough to get them through their first day of camp anyway — one of the Army people said they’d be doing all the training during the day and get English lessons in the evening, so they would have it pretty hard. It turns out we all get English lessons, whether we need them or not.

It took most of three days to get to where we were going, somewhere out west in the desert. They said they wanted us to get used to the desert, because we’d be seeing a lot of it in the next two years. While we were on the train, they took us in groups to another car where they had exercise machines set up — weights and treadmills and so forth. They said they wanted to get an idea about how good of shape we were in so they knew what they had to work with. I’ve been doing farm work since I was little, so I expected to do pretty well. Most of us did, naturally — fugitives don’t get the cushy suburban life, not that the suburbs are a decent place to live anymore anyway.

So we got to Camp Baker (that’s what the sign said, I guess it’s because they’re baking us “raw” recruits into soldiers), and the drill sergeant started screaming at us before we even got off the bus. The usual boot camp greeting I’ve seen in movies. Push-ups, marching, bellowing Yes, SIR! back at him (no Español allowed in boot camp), drilling, handling our guns… trying not to nod off in English lessons, because I think I speak English better than some of the non-coms (and I hope they don’t read that!). One morning, on a rare break, I heard a couple of them complaining about a computer not working. I asked if I could look at it, they said permission granted, and I got it fixed.

Christina talked about the wallyworld being smelly; I can’t imagine it smells any worse than this barracks we sleep in. We each get like three minutes of shower time a day, they said so we get used to not wasting water in Saudi Arabia, but if you’re not done when the water cuts off you’re done anyway. Some of the guys are taking their showers only every other day so they have more time, but when you’ve been sweating outside all day that doesn’t help the rest of us. Farf’s daughter would just say “It’s a guy thing,” and laugh at us I guess. She liked to say things like that a lot, anyway.

We’re supposed to be done with Basic week after next, and then we’ll get our postings. I’ll be surprised if we’re not all assigned to the front lines, but we can always hope. They need people to teach English to the rest of the recruits, so maybe I’ll get lucky. Sgt. Gonzales says we’re the sorriest bunch of Mexicans he’s seen come off the train, but I guess he says that to all the guys, jejeje. They just called five minutes to lights out, so I need to finish this. I love you guys. No regrets here, I’m doing this so my family can be free and legal, and so Kim and Christina could really be married. Whatever happens, I’ll be OK. I’ll let you know when I get my posting.

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 55: Caught in the Draft

Monday, January 11, 2021
Caught in the Draft

With last year’s Really Bad Flu getting people to take a real close look at the junta, they needed a spectacle to distract everyone… so naturally they jumped into another oil war. The Saudis have asked the junta flat-out to defend against an Iranian invasion, and the junta is only too willing. The Wahabbi yahoos have issued a fatwa to the effect that “all men, even the infidel, willing to defend the Holy Land from invaders may enter, only that non-Muslims must not enter the holiest cities” (Mecca and I think Medina). I suppose it was a matter of time, what with the two largest population centers having broken off (and the Midwest seriously considering it), until they ran out of willing cannon fodder. But the neocon way of thinking has always been, “We just start the wars, let someone else do the fighting.” So the next logical step was a draft. They may have held the Midwest by promising them priority shipments of heating fuel, although I wonder if it will stick.

Kim and Serena are known residents, so there really wasn’t any question about their registering… in fact, a Pat-Troll paid what they deemed a “courtesy call to help them fill out the paperwork.” They gave Kim the big stink-eye when he checked “M” on the Marital Status line; I confirmed that he’d been married nearly a year (first anniversary next month!) and they rolled their eyes and got on with things. But the junta threw in a little wrinkle for Rene: they’re offering amnesty for any “fugitive Latino” volunteering who’s not wanted for violent crime. Even bigger is the promise of immediate citizenship upon honorable discharge (or KIA) and residence permits for family members while serving. Of course, a citizen’s family gets to stay in country permanently. We tried to talk Rene out of the idea, but (as he writes):

Holá, y’all. If you’re breathing, Uncle Sam needs you. And he’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse. Not only that, Sammy says the junta is actually keeping their word about amnesty for us fugitives. All the adults think I’m crazy, but I’m doing this for my family — I mean, we all like living at FAR Manor (especially Christina, jejeje), but it would be nice if we didn’t have to hide. Besides, I got it in writing that Farf-Dad gets the amnesty for helping us too, so he or Farf-Mom won’t get in trouble either.

I’m also doing it for Kim. He’s probably going to get drafted soon; if Christina has a residence permit, they can get married for real and maybe they won’t put him in the combat zone. Farf-Dad thinks that’s where they’ll send everyone like me first thing, though. But I’ll make sure they have all the papers for everyone before I sign. I don’t totally trust these guys, even if they need to be trustworthy this time.

And that’s that. Rene is going to sign up tomorrow and they won’t wait to ship him to boot camp, even if his sister is going to be married. But we’re not going to waste time getting Kim and Christina hitched “for real,” either. In fact, we’re making the arrangements, and we might be able to take Rene to sign up, go to the church to attend the wedding, then he can leave in the morning. I guess there are advantages to being the go-to guy in a church; when you really need something done you can call in a lot of favors.

Guillermo and Maria are proud of Rene, of course, but very worried that they’ll never see him again. But they’re also excited about being able to move around freely (not that there’s much moving around these days). Their existence and location have been more or less an open secret for a long time now, but as long as we didn’t openly flaunt it…. Anyway, all that’s going to be over with soon. 'Course, if the war drags on for a while, which neocon wars always do, Christina will likely get drafted as well. I don’t know how the Army deals with biochemistry geniuses; they’ll probably put her in some bio-warfare research unit.

Christina, of course, is really excited about the wedding. Kim, too, from the way he’s been acting. Serena and Rene will stand with them tomorrow, and we’ll keep the ceremony short and low-key. I know it will be easier for her to do her biochem research when she doesn’t have to hide, but she’s done a lot of work here at the manor — she’s been compiling a set of school textbooks, and a publisher has expressed interest in what she’s put together so far. I helped her out a little with the layout and formatting, but the coup de grace is the illustrations she’s including in the lessons. The publishers thought they were great, especially since they didn’t have to pay someone else to do that work.

Kim and Serena both dread seeing the mail come in on Fridays; they know that they’ll be getting the “report for duty” notice soon or sooner. Serena was pretty upset about Rene leaving, even though they never got past the “friends” stage (that I’m aware of). She said her next play is going to really rip the junta a new one for this.

Dean’s in a bit of a quandry though: he hasn’t registered for the draft (not being a junta subject), but if he and Daughter Dearest get married then there will be questions about citizenship and the like. I suspect that, even with his papers, trying to return to Pacifica would just get him diverted into boot camp. So… Guillermo’s family will soon be free to move around, but our newest guest won’t. One thing after another at FAR Manor, huh?

continued…

Slip-Slidin’ Away

The credit meltdown continues with the occasional temporary break in the action. Looking at the 5-day Dow(n), it looks like the shorts temporarily took over yesterday — running prices down through the day, with a partial recovery in the last hour or so as they unwind their positions and get out. Today, though, the minor blip up turned the other way and down she went. Another 500-point drop. OUCH.



The bailout package, as I expected, has done little to fix the problem — or even calm the “markets,” which I expected it would for a couple of weeks. It seems that CEOs don’t like the restrictions on their salaries or golden parachutes, so many have decided to “tough it out” and not take the bailout money. After all, the companies they run can go to hell as long as their own prosperity is ensured. The occasional punch in the face is small potatoes compared to leeching $300 million out of the company treasury, right?

In 1969, we fought the Vietnam war, sent some people to the moon and back — and balanced the budget. Of course, the highest income tax bracket at the time was 70%. If you look back, the most prosperous years of American history (that is, low unemployment, high savings, the most good for the most people) coincide with high taxes on excessive incomes. We lost our way, partly because we reached national peak oil in 1970–1 and became a net oil importer about the same time, and partly because we embraced this Randroid notion that wealth somehow equates to virtue. Then Reagan blew “morning in America” sunshine up our pants, and we took our eye off the energy ball.

Over the next few decades, wages essentially stagnated (except for the top execs, of course) and debt became a way of life for both individuals and the government. There was a brief period in the 1990s (the Clinton years), when the tax structure temporarily got saner, wages and employment improved markedly, and we had several years of budget surpluses. But that blip was followed by Bush-league and his record deficits and declining wages (almost as if he was trying to make up for lost time). So now we’re facing a huge glut of debt.

There are essentially two ways to destroy the excessive debt clogging the economic pipes: hyperinflation and outright cancellation (we can assume, probably correctly, that expansion is no longer an option). I don’t expect hyperinflation, as it’s a good way to destroy the wealth of rich and poor alike. Cancelling debt sounds like a messy affair, but in fact it can be done with much precision. It’s quite likely that they will cancel some debt (theirs) while leaving some other debt (ours) intact.

The guerilla war that the rich have been waging on the middle and lower classes is about to become an all-out war. Fortunately, some people have found a way to fight back: when you get the foreclosure notice, pay a lawyer $100 to write a letter asking for proof that they hold the note. Several people have said after that, they haven’t even been contacted for over two years! I suspect that, barring legislation that is extremely unlikely under an Obama administration, this ploy will work for a long time — to defeat it, they would have to detach the loan from the CDOs and all the other instruments that it’s a part of, which would mean all the mortgages would likely have to be unwound, and they don't want to do that.

At least for right now though, peak oil is no longer an issue. The entire world is staring at an oncoming major recession, maybe even a depression. Fewer jobs → fewer people commuting → less fuel being used → falling oil demand. We’ll go from just barely having what we need to having plenty, although most of us won’t be able to enjoy it. The question is, do we go down; and if so, how fast? Can we forestall, or even slow down, the decline by putting an end to telephone-number salaries?

James Howard Kunstler thinks we’ll go quickly now that (in his opinion) the decline has started. His theory is “The Long Emergency” — the combination of declining energy resources and the suburban lifestyle (long solo commutes from “McMansions” in oversized, inefficient vehicles) has irrevocably sent us over a cliff, where we’ll land with a messy splat in a de-industrial world. On the other hand, John Michael Greer espouses a theory of “catabolic collapse,” and backs it up with several historical examples. The word “catabolic” means to break down from a complex to simpler state; he envisions a long decline with occasional partial recoveries, or a drop to a level that might come to be thought of as “the new normal” until the next crisis sends the world down another stairstep. Eventually, we could (after several centuries) recover and invent an “ecotechnic society” in which technology combines with sustainable sources of energy and material. Such a society would support much fewer people than the current one, which is partly why it would take several centuries… the population would have to decline to a sustainable level first.

Crisis brings predictable folks out of the woodwork:

• The “imminent Rapture” crowd — but there’s no mention of the US in the Bible, unless you reeaaaaaaally stretch the interpretation. Nothing about “from across the Sea,” or “the uttermost west,” or any such. So if you buy the literalist End Times interpretation, we pretty much have to be removed from the scene before the Tribulation.

• Gold bugs — their disdain for “fiat money” is so obvious you can almost see them sneer as they type the phrase. Which is silly. Gold & silver have been one form of money — but so have pretty pieces of paper, cattle, and big stone discs with a hole in the middle. Money is basically whatever enough people say it is; if things collapse suddenly I’d rather have the food than the gold… if I really wanted gold for something, I could trade some food for it.

• Survivalists — beans and bullets, all too often with a terrible attitude about community.

Most of these folks tend to be “doomers” — the type who say disaster is imminent, billions of dead, etc. Whatever floats their boat, I guess. Doomers are saying that this is the week where “it all begins,” but I would have to disagree. It all began in the latter half of the 19^th century, when we became dependent on fossil fuels to run our civilization. “It will run out some day, certainly,” they might have said, “but we’ll find something else long before then.” This might be the week that it becomes obvious, but I rather expect that “bargain hunters” will create a minor rally later this week or early next.

FAR Future, Episode 54: Iraq and Ruin

Wow. How could I have missed the Great Financial Meltdown of 2008? Some prognosticator am I, huh? ;-)

Thursday, September 17, 2020
Iraq and Ruin

The right wing still cringes at the mention of Iraq, their crowning achievement. When some wingnut starts yammering about what a horrible job the “librul socialist gubmint“ was doing and how much better off we are under the junta, I just laugh and say, “Right. So say the folks that gave us Iraq.” They usually screech something about Bill Clinton and walk away at that point. You name it, Iraq went w0rNg for them — the outright lies they used to get us in there, the way it went sour on us, flowers and chocolates, letting museums and military bases get looted — all of it. Even the real goal (grabbing the oil) didn’t work out. I always wonder how things might have gone had Bush-league just admitted that invading Iraq was the only way we could put off making huge, painful changes in our way of life for a few more years. The people who opposed the war from the start wouldn’t have come around, but I suspect that a lot of others would have decided war beat walking (or riding a bus). Honesty is the best policy, something Bush-league and the junta have never learned.

We left Iraq one huge mess, but al-Sadr agreed to cover our exit in 2010 and he kept his word while we “declared victory and left.” And things did get a little better for a little while. He had close ties with Iran, of course, and the Sunnis were suspicious, but al-Sadr learned pretty quick that it's one thing to whine from the sidelines and quite another to call the shots. They all mostly kept things pasted together — and Iraq actually exported more oil than Saudi Arabia last year — but some suicide bomber got al-Sadr on Friday and chaos rules once again, especially in Baghdad and Kirkuk. The Iranians have already sent a “peacekeeping force” to Basra and southern Iraq… and I agree with the junta analysts that they won’t be leaving any time soon, if ever… and to the wingnuts that it’s a pretty transparent oil grab (they should know, after all). The Kurds and Sunnis have told Iran to stay out, but they can’t do much more than hold their own turf. Kurdistan has been quasi-independent since before the invasion, and have been inching toward full independence ever since. This will probably be the final push.

It was an obvious move for Iran, though — their exports have been dropping fast the last few years, they’ll be a net importer in a year or two, and they want the oil as much as we do. They thing is, they’re slightly more welcome there than we were. They’ve mostly secured the oil fields around Basra, but (sound familiar?) are having issues with pipeline sabotage.

The junta brought back Shotgun Sam, and he’s having a conniption on the air, resurrecting the Domino Effect (“Iraq now, then Kuwait, then Saudi — and they’ll own all the oil!”) and saying we have to do something. I wish he was still taking callers; I’d have asked him if he would set an example and be first in line for an “expeditionary force.” Of course, he would have hung up, mumbled a few excuses, and gone to commercials. I'm old enough to remember what Reagan killed that Jimmy Carter started, and how much better off we’d be now if we’d stayed the course to energy independence… but nobody can call in anymore, and they probably would have blocked my number anyway. Oh well.

Kuwait may be a different story… rumor has it that they’ve quietly asked for a buffer force “to preserve stability in the region.” As if Americans with guns would be considered a stabilizing force these days! The Iraq adventure pretty much killed that one. The Saudis haven’t objected to having a carrier group docked at Dubai (the troops call it “Dooby-Dooby”), either.

The Prophet had something to say about the matter earlier in the week: “You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but do not be afraid; for such things must happen, but the end shall not be yet. Nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be earthquakes in different places, and there shall be famines and troubles.” Straight out of Mark. “And do not say to yourselves, ‘Where is God? He has abandoned us,’ for it may be His will that we endure the results of our folly, but be very sure! He has not abandoned us, nor has He deafened His ears to our prayers! Hold fast, Jerusalem, to the hope we have in His salvation! For as He chose to raise up our nation, if it is His pleasure to raise up Persia, who brought His people out of captivity in the days of old, then it shall be done. For who can stand against the Lord our God? Who among us can tell the Lord, ‘this You shall not do,’ and command the obedience of his Creator?”

Needless to say, that hasn’t gone over too well with the junta mainstream. “America has been God’s nation for over 200 years, and if that’s no longer the case, look no farther than who was running things until recently,” goes the Baptist honcho downtown. Quoth the head of a Pentecostal mega-church, “My spirit of discernment is troubled when I see this man shouting on a street corner. It is troubled when I see the crowds he draws. The devil can speak with words of honey, and attract the unwary.” Attendance is waaayyy down at the mega-churches, but The Prophet draws a crowd every time he sets down his cardboard box and begins to preach. Jealous much? Well, I shouldn’t talk: I haven’t had The Prophet’s sermons take a shot at my worldview yet. I might feel the same way when that time comes, and if he’s really preaching God’s word then that time will come. I don’t doubt that I’m flawed in my way as much as the guys on TV are in theirs.

But if there’s not a war, there’s rumors of wars. From Sammy and everyone else. I worry about Kim and Rene a lot these days.

continued…

The Great Gas Panic of 2008 Winds Down

Some stations have their pumps bagged, but more stations than not have gas to sell now. The lines have faded away and the four-lane was choked with day-trip traffic. Tourism-based businesses are undoubtedly breathing a huge sigh of relief.

Yet Matt Simmons speaks of low nationwide inventories and warns that a run could deplete the system again — and not just in the southeast.

Something I thought I’d mentioned in earlier gas panic posts, is that gasoline and diesel distribution is very much a regional thing. We don’t have a nationwide grid of pipelines for fuel like we do for electricity, so when the southeast (or west coast, or upper plains states, etc.) has a problem, there’s not a whole lot that other regions can do to pick up the slack. We saw this earlier in the year in the plains, where several refinery problems led to acute shortages much like what we saw here on Planet Georgia… but being “flyover country,” you may not have seen much coverage unless you live there or follow the peak-oil news.

So why is it even a problem? For starters, refinery margins have been exceptionally tight — if they’d had the same margins now as just a few years ago, we would have been paying $5/gal instead of $4 this summer. For whatever reason, probably political, they were eating some of the increased costs this summer. However, some of them tried to squeeze expenses out of their system to make up for it… thus the spate of refinery fires and explosions we’ve seen this year. There also isn’t much incentive for them to increase capacity — given the world is at or near the maximum production rate now, by the time they finish a new refinery or expanding an old one, they might not be able to get enough oil to take advantage.

So with margins tight, refineries have been producing just enough gas to keep things going — if they start getting better margins (and probably will after the elections), they can ramp up production to rebuild inventories. But under the current circumstances, inventories declined to 40-year lows just before the hurricanes hit (graph from TheOilDrum.com:



Had inventories continued to drop, we may well have seen spot shortages (or outright panics) even without the hurricanes.

Now that our regional gas crisis is starting to recede, we can start dealing with the worldwide financial crisis. In some ways, we’re in a similar situation: the entire financial system is seriously shaky, and a few bank runs could easily bring the whole thing down. But that’s the way it’s always been — banks take your deposits and lend them out, making money off the difference in interest they pay you (if any) and the interest they charge their borrowers. Great racket if you can get into it — but most of us don’t really care so long as the ATM spits out twenties, the checks don’t bounce, and the credit cards continue to work. But in the end, all banks only hold markers and a certain reserve cushion (usually 10%–20% of total deposits) to cover problems. The next couple of weeks could be very interesting, as major banks totter on the edge and nervous depositors try to reassure themselves that the FDIC won’t run dry.

Gas Panic: The Light at the End of the Tunnel

They (who’s “they”? You know, “them”!) say the pipeline is full and the gas is on the way to Planet Georgia. Given that fuel moves through pipelines at 3–5mph, though, it’ll be at least a week before the Great Gas Panic of 2008 is officially over.

Yesterday, nearly half the stations I pass on the way to work were pumping, and had lines spilling this way and that. Of course, cheaper gas equals longer lines… people are still people. They were pretty much all dry on the way home, but that’s to be expected these days.

I’ve got a lengthy rant about the bailout cooking, but haven’t had time to get it down just yet. Maybe tomorrow.

FAR Future, Episode 53: Sunrise, Sunset

Now that I have this one posted, and the next eight about ready to go, I’m hoping to press on to the end. At one post a week, we’ll reach The End in May or maybe June.

Saturday, February 15, 2020
Sunrise, Sunset

…swiftly fly the days.

Discontent with the junta has become more vocal in the wake of the flu pandemic. If this wasn’t The Big One that public health officials were warning us about since the turn of the century, I’d hate to see it. This one was bad enough. As happens so often, the junta’s attempts to suppress info — or downplay the situation — drove millions of the formerly incurious (or fearful) to start listening to what Sammy has to say. And take it seriously. And to start asking the obvious question: if the junta’s lying about something this important, what else are they lying about?

We all survived it at FAR Manor, thank God — it completely passed over Daughter Dearest, and her fiance got a flu shot in Pacifica that worked for him — but it was touch and go with Kim and Maria for a while. Christina may have saved them, and a lot of other people besides; she finally realized what that hydration/electrolyte drink needed, and made it easier to make and improved its effectivity. We got word back to Sammy, and those who had ears to hear (or eyes to read) benefitted. The junta stole the recipe and claimed that some doctors at Walter Reed came up with it, but everyone knows it as “the CC drink.”

Christina, in fact, about hurt herself trying to care for the two people she loves most. Kim did his best to stay hydrated, so she could either tend to her mom or rest. Guillermo and I had to force her to take breaks; she had the flu too and wasn’t giving herself a chance to recuperate. It reminded me of how Mrs. Fetched and her mom used to nearly kill themselves working at the chicken houses and doing a bunch of other stuff besides. (Both her parents passed on a couple years ago… Mrs. Fetched took it hard, but held up pretty well in the end.)

Kim and Maria had plenty of time to talk… ironic that he knew Spanish better than anyone of my family, and they never tried talking before. That could have saved a lot of the friction in the manor, but that’s (finally) all behind us. Maria talked to Guillermo, they talked to Mrs. Fetched and me, and we talked to Kim while they talked to Christina. Then we all got together. We couldn’t give them a government-sanctioned wedding, given that Christina and her family are still officially fugitives, but some things don’t need a piece of paper to make them real. They’re still awfully young (17 and 18), but when it’s time it’s time. Rene and Serena stood as their wedding party, and everyone insisted that I officiate. Mrs. Fetched took video (and I transcribed the following spiel from that). We cobbled up a ceremony in the living room: Christina entered from the kitchen (my right), Kim from the hall. As I did at my mom’s second wedding, so many years ago, I started whistling the Wedding March… and as happened then, everyone else took it up with a grin.

“Dearly beloved…” I started, then shook my head. “Yes, you two — all of you here — are dearly beloved, of me and of each other. No doubt.

“Back when I was your age, though, it was unusual for people to get married so young. But times have changed, mostly — but not completely — for the worse. We’ve watched you grow together — and I’m sure you know how closely we watched you for the last five years!” They laughed.

“But all of us have discussed this, and we all agree that it’s time to take the next step — if you’re ready. You’re about to enter into a commitment that — if you both honor it — lasts a lifetime. So if either of you aren’t ready to take that step, or if any of us here have second thoughts, this is the time to speak. Let any who have doubts, speak now, without fear of reproach.” I waited; nobody spoke but Maria twirled her hand in a “get moving” gesture. I was kind of surprised; in a matter of days she’s gone from the most fearful to the most supportive about this relationship.

“Kim, Christina,” I said, “Look at each other.” They did. “Now look at me. Are you ready to make a lifetime commitment, both to each other and the respective families? It’s not just two people that are married — your families are joined together as well. Think a moment before you answer.”

Christina, that brilliant and eccentric star, barely gave it a second before saying “Sí,” loud and clear. A moment later, Kim nodded and smiled. They joined hands before I had a chance to tell them to.

“OK,” I said. “Christina: do you promise to take Kim as your husband, to love and honor, to recognize temptation but not yield, for the rest of your lives together?”

She surprised me. “Before God and our families, I do.”

Kim’s turn: “Kim, do you likewise promise to take Christina as your wife, to love and honor, to recognize temptation but not yield, and to try to understand her, knowing you never will?”

Guillermo and Dean (DD’s beau) chuckled, and Daughter Dearest snorted, as Kim fumbled to follow Christina’s response. “Before God and our families, I do.”

I motioned for Mrs. Fetched, Guillermo, and Maria to join us. Mrs. Fetched handed off the camera to Daughter Dearest, who looked puzzled but figured I wasn’t going to be silly… for a change. “Kim and Christina have pledged to each other and to us, and now it’s our turn,” I said. “I wasn’t just saying words about commitment to the families. This is for us as much as it is for them — they swore their love to each other years ago.

“Guillermo, Maria: do you promise to take Kim into your family, to treat him equally and fairly, and above all to set an example for their married life through your own?” They looked at each other for a moment, then nodded as one. “Sí,” said Maria; “We will,” Guillermo added.

“Mrs. Fetched: will you join me in making the same pledge? To take Christina into our family, to treat her equally and fairly, and above all to set an example for their married life through our own?” She said, “I will,” and I responded, “And so do I.

“Kim, Christina, we’ve watched the two of you grow up together, and we recognize the depth of your love for each other. And as you have pledged yourselves to each other before God and your families — and your families have pledged to support and guide you — as ‘lord’ of FAR Manor, I pronounce you husband and wife. But if there ever comes a time when you can repeat your vows in public, I expect you to do it… OK, I’ve made you wait long enough. So kiss already!”

After a minute or two, I started whistling randomly until they got the message.

The newlyweds scored the following haul. From me: two large boxes of condoms and an admonishment to hold off having kids for a few years. From Guillermo: a bottle of tequila he’d been saving all this time for a “special occasion.” From Daughter Dearest: her studio for a week. (“I’m sure you won’t have any problem keeping warm!” she laughed.)

We are going to have to come up with some new sleeping arrangements, now that there’s three couples in the manor. Dean gets to move into Kim’s old bed, until he and DD get hitched… then they say they’ll move out. I guess it’s time; the kids are as ready as they’ll ever be to take the HSG (High School Graduate, the old GED) exam.

continued…

Fiction: The Last Drop

Slightly edited and polished for the 19 Feb 2010 #flashfriday entries. If you’re visiting for #flashfriday, welcome to the free-range insane asylum! You’ll find several short stories, a completed novel (FAR Future), and a novel in progress (White Pickups). Hang around and feel free to drop a comment.

This is what happened when I spent over an hour sitting in line, waiting to buy gas during the 2008 fuel shortages in the southeast US. It’s a lot darker than the stuff I usually write. A slightly different version appeared toward the end of FAR Future, and I’m eventually going to expand it to a short story.

The Last Drop

I threaded my way between lanes of long-abandoned vehicles choking a city street. All faced the same way, as if in a hurricane evacuation. They had been there a long time; what tires weren’t flat and dry-rotted were sagging and dry-rotted. Driver-side doors often stood open, and I sometimes had to push them shut (with a horrendous creak that the stillness swallowed) to get by. The glass was intact, but caked with grime and dust and streaked perhaps by a long-ago rain. The buildings on either side loomed over the street, their windows looking down on me like a maid watching a roach scurry across a clean tile floor. Clouds roiled overhead, bringing neither rain nor relief from the heat. Stifling gusts of wind puffed from behind me, then from ahead; all directions carried unpleasant smells.

I went through intersections where endless lines met and tried to merge in vain with the endless lines I walked through. Out of curiosity, I climbed onto a pickup truck — bumper, bed, toolbox, cab — for a longer view. Behind me, and to either side, the jam continued as far as I could see. Up ahead, the lines seemed to jumble together at the edge of my sight. I climbed down and continued on. After what seemed far too long, I climbed atop another truck. I was still a long way off, but could see a little more clearly. Something changed up ahead: perhaps this street would turn onto another, or perhaps it would be what everyone had tried to reach.

Eventually, the lines veered to the left and right and tangled together, then became a solid mass. I climbed up and over, picking my way carefully: trunk, roof, hood, hop to the next trunk, on and on. Climbing atop a van, I finally saw it: a great traffic circle with what looked like a gas station filling the island. The vehicles were packed around it and inside it in a chaotic tumble — anyone who had managed to get that far had no chance to get out. As I drew nearer, I realized that it had been a gas station — the signage was long faded or crumbled, and an overhang had fallen and crushed pumps and vehicles alike.

“Over here,” I heard someone say from behind the fallen overhang. I climbed toward it, and at last found a stretch of open pavement. It led me under the overhang and to a thin black woman, lounging in a car seat resting on the pavement. A pull-along cooler sat between her and a second car seat, and she waved me toward the seat. “Grab you a water, I bet’ch’er thirsty. Ice is long gone, but that don’t matter.”

I did what I was told, sat with a water. She waited for me to unscrew the cap and drain half the bottle at a gulp, then said, “Name’s Daisy. I wanted to shoot my mama for hanging that name on me sometimes, but it’s another thing that don’t matter now.”

“Yeah,” I said, introducing myself. “What the hell is this?”

“This? It’s a gas station. Or what’s left of one. But that’s not what you meant.” She gave me a grin. “This is what happened when the last tanker brought the last drop of gas to the last gas station. Everybody wanted to get some, and… well, I bet you can guess the rest.”

“Yeah,” I said, imagining the scene. “But it must have happened a long time ago. You’re the only one left, as far as I can tell. Why are you here?”

“Me? I’m… the Judge.” I heard the capital. “I was a nobody, livin’ on the streets, scroungin’ to get enough food, tryin’ not to get raped by some loony or high school jock. One mornin’ I was downtown here, thinkin’ maybe I could get someone to buy me a coffee and biscuit, and all these cars rushin’ to get a fill-up. One of ’em run right over me.”

She handed me another water while I gaped at her. “Yeah. So God comes for me and asks me what I want, and I said ‘payback.’ He says, ‘The fruit of the Spirit is forgiveness,’ and next thing I know—”

She climbs out from under the Expedition and stands glaring at the driver babbling “God lady, I’m so sorry…”

“You want gas?” she cries. “Come and get it! EVERYONE COME AND GET IT! AND I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON IT!”

Night, then day. People swarm over the trapped cars, gas cans in hand, only to be set upon by others behind them. Fistfights become gunfights. The pumps have long run dry, but they keep coming. The attendants abandon the station, and she replaces the oddments of life in her cooler with drinks and ice. Night again, and now the shades come. Some ask for forgiveness, and she grants it. Some see just another homeless nobody, and those she judges. One of the forgiven tells her of a toolbox in a nearby van, and how she can remove the seats, and now she has a comfortable place to sit. On a whim, long after the last shade goes to its reward and the overhang falls over, she pulls the other seat.

Sometimes she weeps for the departed. Sometimes she laughs at their folly. Most of the time she just sits… and waits.

“For what? Not me, I hope,” I said.

“For someone living. The Judge has to be judged — or forgiven.”

I looked around, thinking about how it must have been, then turned to Daisy. “If it’s in my power, then: I forgive you for this. I can understand why.”

Daisy leaped across the cooler and kissed me hard. “Too bad you didn’t know me when I was living,” she laughed, and… was gone.

“Wake up, honey!” my wife said, shaking me. “Lisa just called. The tanker’s on the way! If we hurry we can get there before the line gets too long!”