Chapter Nine: “Let the Holidays Begin!” by Tina Semanas “Join me for Five Fabulous Days of feminine indulgence and frivolous excess leading up to everyone's Favorite Night! That's right ladies and eunuchs, Dowagers and drags, beauties and beasts, Vanity Night 2185 is here! A holiday, festival, national tradition all rolled into one giant ball of glamour and fun!” As Athan watched the live stream on his home theater, flashing across a sleek silver 15 foot projection wall, Beck’s image was dazzling per usual, she was born to perform! Wearing a new ethereal gown designed by Madam Sterling herself, Beck primped and preened like a medieval Queen as she reported on her nationwide vlog. “Wow,” thought Athan , “Beck Paris, she is hot and she is mine!” A wide angled camera panned out from Beck’s face capturing for the viewer her whole brilliant ensemble - - she dazzled in her golden imperial crown. Carrying herself effortlessly, Beck was draped in a flowing gown decorated with a tapestry of different fabrics, embroidered with metallic patterns and exploding colors. Athan thought her whole presentation, from the top of her crown down to the golden-plated shoes, was designed exquisitely so every viewer would be pulled deep into her crystal blue eyes. Outlined by a mask of thick black eyeliner contrasted by a powdered white face, and with her neck hidden under a fluffy lace neckline, Beck’s eyes popped. “Fabulous!” Athan was nodding with an approving smile, “Simply fabulous, my lady knows how to shine. Her vlog will be the talk of every tabloid.” Beck was also accompanied by an entourage of identically appareled, pencil-thin attendants -- all of these non-descript ladies were sporting slick black hair pulled to a tight ponytail while squeezing into sheer black minis accentuating their perfect posture by long stemmed black heels. Beck liked having her help projecting that lifeless mannequin look so all attention was centered on her. “Dear ones, I will be here in Midtown Manhattan vlogging live everyday, all day, keeping you current on all the up-to-the-second juicy news and gossip until Vanity Night’s grand finale. Which five faces will be the envy of the every household? Who will get to finally hold the coveted De Beauvoir Medallion, symbol of the reigning goddess - society’s highest honor? Stay with me darlings…” Athan was always amazed at the grandeur of the Vanity Night spectacle. 50 million viewers celebrating together the magnificence of female beauty and power. Secretly Athan loathed every minute of it...except of course when Beck appeared. “This year I have been given complete access behind the scenes, and with my new contact-lens cameras equipped with reflex zoom capability which directly mirrors my own retinal responses, you the viewer will receive all the up-close and unedited information and award winning visuals. It will seem as if you personally have your own back stage pass to all the super exclusive goings on.” Beck was in rare form, “I have some hints on who the frontrunners may be -- and ladies, I can assure you that this year’s day one competition, “Fashion & Faces Parade” will blow your mind.” As Athan reclined back to settle in for hours of viewing, Beck’s live feed was abruptly interrupted by a scratchy and irritating emergency alert noise. The picture on the screen switched to the official NWP communications director, Samantha Rutledge, getting ready to read an urgent news bulletin. Athan couldn’t help but notice the hilarious contrast, going from beautiful and confident Beck Paris to this frumpy old, angry and nervous representative of the state. Fidgeting with her microphone and then looking directly into the camera with flushed face and wide bloodshot eyes, Samantha began robotically reading from her hidden teleprompter: “Breaking News...2 runaway plant workers from the Lawrenceburg glider factory have escaped three days ago and are still at large. The identities of these two men are Phen Dias age 47, and Drew Dias age 16. Both men are considered extremely dangerous and hostile. If you have seen them or know of their possible whereabouts contact your local NWP branch through the 3244 hotline. Last time they were identified they were known to be on the run in the southern Ohio and Indiana region. The Sisters have promised a large reward for their return.” Up on Athan’s wall screen was displayed two large mug shots of both men, blank faced and outfitted in their industrial uniforms. Athan gulped down half of his glass of scotch thinking to himself, “Poor saps!” -------------------------------------------- “Lacy, can I turn on your projection unit to watch the Vanity festivities? I have finished all my homework for Duenna Black and tonight the top ten ‘Fashion Selfie’ winners will be announced and taking to the runway?” Ara sheepishly looked to Lacy for confirmation. Sitting at the kitchen table hunched over a mound of financial papers, Lacy grunted a short reply back to Ara, “Go ahead, but tune into the regular stations. I do not want to see the face of that irritating vamp Beck Paris and her annoying vlog. And keep the sound down, I am trying to decipher all of this contractual legalese language.” “Do you need some help?” Ara kindly offered. Frustrated, Lacy shot back, “Don’t play that Miss Know-it-all, Vitup-in-the-making card on me. Just watch your silly show - - stupid Dowagers strutting their ugly outfits on starving skeletal bodies. If it wasn’t for the Termagant Force keeping these pitiful female parasites safe, how would such weak women, like that prima donna Beck Paris, ever make it in society? While they parade around in public we sacrifice and do all of the hard work without notice or recognition.” Lacy with a bulging neck vein turned to Ara, “You’ll see Ara. Vitups like you are left to do the dirty legal work for everyone, sitting behind big desks and making policy at large, boring board meetings while Dowagers get to play around and then primp before their cameras. Not all women are created equal!” Ara couldn’t miss the bitterness behind Lacy’s words. Did Beck hurt her somehow in the past? Was Lacy’s facial skull tattoo just a mask to hide her pain? Sitting in casual sweats, Ara sat crossed legged on a large leather couch. Chomping on a red delicious apple, she pressed a button on the remote next to her turning on the video screen. Two familiar, yet pitiful faces were splashed across the screen. Ara sat horrified. Lacy shot up out of her chair sending it crashing to the floor, “Well kiss my. . . If it isn’t my dead sister’s husband and son?” Scrolling underneath their faces was all the information Samantha Rutledge just finished reading, “2 men from the Lawrenceburg plant at large…...Phen Dias…..age 47……..Drew Dias…..age 16…….could be hostile and extremely dangerous…….anyone who knows their whereabouts contact local NWP agents at 3244………” Ara was stunned, shocked, sitting there in utter disbelief. A single hot tear slid down her right cheek, “Drew’s alive? And is that my home mentor Phen? He’s alive!” Crumbling like a broken vase, Ara morphed into the vulnerable broken and lost little girl that she knew she was. She collapsed onto a thick throw pillow unable to stop a torrent of sobs and tears. Lacy didn’t know what to do nor did she utter a word. Leaving the room to allow Ara to swallow her grief alone, the scroll bar at the bottom of the screen kept running…. ------------------------------------------ Athan was feeling the familiar and welcome warm buzz taking quick effect after downing the last splash of his third scotch. He was in a melancholy mood because Beck was scheduled to be gone for 10 days in New York covering every last detail of the Vanity extravaganza. At least he could keep tabs on her via her vlog...always with a comforting drink in hand. On the screen, day one of the Vanity festivities were well under way. Beck was already wearing a new outfit, a midnight blue form fitting dress with her blond curls falling softly off her bare shoulders. Stationed backstage at the vacuous and richly ornamented Hammerstein Ballroom, Beck was interviewing the 10 top contestants who were scurrying around getting ready to take to the runway. Each model was garbed in the line of their personal designer’s signature clothes. Beck kept reminding the viewers, “Remember, the model who gets the highest votes from both our expert fashion judges and texted-in viewer votes will not just be the Medallion winner for day one, but her chosen designer will immediately sign a lucrative year long contract to be the single outfitter of the nation's fashion malls! Talk about instant popularity! “ Athan needed another drink. While he was stumbling over to the kitchen, the flat pad that was sitting on the counter started buzzing. Athan decided to ignore it as he opened the fridge trying to decide what he wanted to eat, “Leftover baked chicken? Crusty day old taco meat? Maybe just an old-fashioned peanut-butter and grape jelly sandwich? Heck, Beck isn’t here, who cares?” As he grabbed the jar of the purple spread, his flat pad started buzzing again. “Who is calling me on Vanity holiday week? Why can't I just be left alone?” Walking over to the counter, Athan saw a name appear on the face of the small screen, it didn’t make sense, “Liam O’Malley? I thought he was dead?” Instead of answering it, he went over to the wet bar, pulled down a clean small crystal tumbler, threw in two cubes of ice, filled it halfway with some amber hued scotch, he took another drink. “Buzz, buzz, buzz.” The flat pad wouldn’t give up so easy. “Buzz, buzz, buzz.” Athan slammed down his drink splashing half of the liquid on the floor, roaring, “O.k., O.k., I get it!” Touching the green answering icon, Athan was ticked, “Who is this? And what could be so damn important?” Athan trying to restrain his irritation, leaned over the pad with two outstretched arms waiting for a response. “I’m sorry...ahhh...I was instructed to contact this number. Maybe the code word ‘Milk’ will help?”, a scratchy, out of breath voice was whispering on the other end. Athan wondered if the alcohol from the scotch was playing tricks with his senses, “Did you say ‘Milk?’ That project is highly classified, who gave you clearance…” The voice on the other end was desperate, and quickly interrupted, “My name is Phen Dias, I am on the run. Can you help me?” “Wait a minute man! Hold on! You are wanted by every official of the state; a nationwide manhunt has been issued for you and your son. If my flat pad is being monitored, I too may be on The Sister’s radar?” Athan immediately sobered up as he took the flat pad into the shower room turning on the water to muffle the background sound. "Listen Dias, I am not sure I can help you, nor do I want to. How did you know to call me?” A nervous voice answered, “It had to be Liam O'Malley... before he was executed he made me directives to escape -- his instructions had your number listed. I have been drugged by Xenon drips to be an industrial drone for the last five years, that is until he handed me two capsules, milky capsules. After I swallowed them my world turned upside down, I can think again, and now I can't go back! I won't go back! Will you help me?” Athan stood in disbelief, “Liam was executed? He was my top chemist….a genius...murdered!” This news once again stoked the fire of Athan’s ire for The Sister’s. “Wait, did you say you took two white pills? So they work?” Athan knew it, the blockers actually worked! This is the answer! Responding back in urgent but hushed tones, Athan replied, “Phen, I will do all I can to help you. In fact, I need you alive. What is your location?” In the other room displayed on the large screen Beck was placing a large metallic medallion around the neck of a tall slender dark haired Argentinian model who was waving frantically, tears flowing, to the cheering crowd; glitter and confetti was cascading down from the Ballroom’s ceiling. Athan immediately shut the live feed off, smashed his glass against the stone fireplace, and mustered a personal call-to-arms with renewed vigor, “Now I have something to live for!”
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How Some Progressive Blacks Unwittingly Derailed Progressive Dogma and ‘Intersectionality.’7/25/2017 Progressive Dogma: all morality is “situational” and deeply personal - and the goal for all interpersonal relationships must be to increase tolerance, diversity, and inclusion. And even more important than that is the introduction of a new ideology called “intersectionality” - which means, as one cultural expert writes, “When you support Black Lives Matter or another progressive cause, you are automatically signed up to everything else. LGBT advocacy, the pro-abortion movement, Palestine, and environmentalism have all been linked together for ‘intersectional’ progressivism.” Enter Rachel Dolezal - - a progressive white woman who has a deep affinity for the black race. So much so that she wanted to “harmonize her inner feelings that ‘black is beautiful’ with her outer appearance.” In her opinion, race is more than a biological reality, it also is a cultural and social construct. So from the age of four when Rachel sketched herself as black, or her Aunt Becky made her a black Raggedy Ann doll, Rachel believed herself to be Pan African, a black woman. She darkened her skin with bronzer, kinked her hair with a tight spiral perm, and even married a black man. In 2014, Dolezal was elected president of the Spokane chapter of the NAACP. A year later she resigned from the civil rights organization after her parents and family declared both her biology and ethnicity to be false. Dolezal's parents stated that their daughter had been trying to "disguise herself" as African American. They presented a copy of their daughter's Montana birth certificate, and argued that she is of German and Czech descent. Refusing to back down, Rachel changed her name to Nkechi Amare Diallo, a name with African roots. She even wrote an autobiographical book describing her experiences titled ‘In Full Color: Finding My Place in a Black and White World.’ Many Black Progressives did not receive her book or personal story favorably because they believe she was benefitting from her white privilege. In their view she was “appropriating black culture for her personal gain” without ever having to experience the harsh consequences of prejudicial bigotry. Here is how one Black writer explains it, “In taking an African name, Dolezal looks to change her destiny — to revise history. To claim what is not hers to claim. Blackness is a bright and shiny diamond, and here in America, everyone wants to wear it like a Rockafella chain around their neck. The attitude, the language, the humor, the music, the style, all of it is covetable… But, like diamonds, blackness is created under extreme pressure and high temperature, deep down in the recesses of one's core.” Note two very important points in this writer’s argument: (1) Rachel is “claiming what is not hers to claim” and the author says the black culture is something that is “covetable.” Coveting something is wanting that which is not yours to have -- and this form of “wanting” in any culture is objectively wrong. I want to be 7 feet tall and play in the NBA, however, I am a 5’ 10” and can't dribble. Wouldn’t it be a tad bit arrogant if I started demanding that people, and the government, should still allow me to play in the NBA and pay me for it? Just because I want it or I feel my true self is a 7 foot black man does not mean you must join me in my delusion. In fact the person who confronts me and tells me to live in reality is the one who really loves me. (2) Because of her inherent whiteness, Rachel has never really paid the price to share in the black experience, because to most African Americans “Blackness is created under pressure.” The black identity, we have been told constantly, has been formed through a “fellowship of experiential suffering.” Whites and other races, may sympathize with their pain, we just can't fully join in it. We will never know the wounds, burdens and obstacles they daily face. That is one of the main arguments for Black Lives Matter, and progressives readily accept this. That is why they reject Rachel’s argument that race is a “social construct”; they know race is an objective reality. I think these two points have very real persuasive merit; but if we were to apply them consistently across all of life, they would completely undercut other progressive soapboxes -- specifically fighting for transgender and to some degree, even homosexual rights. If you accept the argument presented by the Black writer here, cannot these same two things be said to men who want to identify as women? Or women who identify as men? Cannot we argue that a gay woman can never take the place of a man, because not only is coveting wrong but they can't understand the real responsibilities and burdens real men carry...and visa-versa? I saw the silliest thing on social media where two gay men had a baby through a surrogate and when it was born they acted like it was them who did all the labor and nine-months of hard work. Just because they “want a baby” and one of the men wants to take the role of a mother does not mean that it is right. So when they are so “woefully under qualified and able to be a mother” we don't need to join them in their delusion. We must not let our society lose the ability to reason just to make a few delusional people happy. Why don't progressives stop pretending two gay men can actually play the part of a mother, or women can be men -- that is just as bad as Rachel wanting to be black? One reason could be is that progressives aren't truly logical? They are like the spoiled child that wants something their brother has and would rather steal it than ask their parents for permission to take it, because they know the parents will say “No, it’s not yours to have!” Chapter Eight: Liam’s Gift by Tina Semanas The black shale rocks were perfect, heavy and dense, wide as a man’s palm and thin as a sugar cookie. You could skip one across the water 10 to 15 times if the surface of Lake Eve was smooth and calm enough. Drew was a natural, he picked up the art of stone-skipping at a young age, “Did you see that last one? I counted 20, I counted 20!” Oh, how I love that boy! It was a miraculous day, white gulls spiraling in the blue sky, soft waves lapping up on a pebbled beach, the early morning sun slowly rising over the vast expanse of the Great Lake, and a smiling son. I know, I have to be careful to claim him as my own, but oh, how I love that boy. “Watch this one.” Drew picked up another round flat rock with soft smooth sides and a slightly curved bottom holding it up high between his fingers to show me his marvelous find. He swung his arm back getting ready to release another great skipper…”Boom!” In mid-swing, Drew was blown back, blasted by a surprise force. A large gaping hole opened up in his chest with bright red blood soaking through his white t-shirt. “Someone just shot my son!” I ran to catch him as he fell to the ground. “Hold on Drew, hold on!” Lurching forward on his cot while smacking his head hard on the top bunk, Phen awoke suddenly from his dream. With beads of sweat rolling off his forehead, he remembered the disturbing vision clearly: Drew, a summer day, Lake Eve, skipping rocks, and a gaping gunshot wound. Whispering to himself, “It was only a dream...but it seemed so horribly real.” Phen rubbed the small sensitive bump that started swelling under his mop of black hair, slowly he sat up on the side of his bed. The drone above him was snoring peacefully; suprisingly, Phen’s sudden jerk didn’t wake him. Looking around, the dark room was also deathly still, no doubt the result of both Xenon drugging and the factory's mind dulling repetitive work having their way on the bone weary men. Phen, however, couldn’t sleep. Squinting up to see where he hit his head, he noticed a small patch of gray tape stuck to the inside steel-framework of the bunk. It blended in well. Being a shade darker than the steel, the tape was hard to see, especially at night. Phen noticed a small corner of the tape bent back where he hit his head revealing a folded white piece of paper hidden underneath. Cautiously he pulled off the patch of tape from the bunk frame not wanting to arouse notice, or setting off the volume sensors that were hidden throughout the room. It sure was some sticky tape. After a long minute of slow pulling, he was able to detach the full strip. Tumbling out onto his bed was a neatly folded schematic of some kind. It was hard to see in the shroud of darkness and Phen knew this was not the time nor place to unfold it. He stuffed it in his pocket and forced himself back to sleep...the morning couldn’t come fast enough. ------------------------------------------------------------------- It was 12:25, he had 15 minutes to himself. While pulling out the folded paper, Phen looked around for cameras and security guards glancing his way. Coast was clear. Placing the paper on his work station he laid it flat on the desk top gently opening one corner at a time. Appearing on a 10 x 12 inch piece of white normal stock paper was a plan of the plant Phen was working in. On the top right corner was written “Unit 54 Ventilation” -- it detailed the basic system of vents and ductwork that first started in the main assembly room, leading past the drip stations, above the Termagant guard quarters, bunk rooms and up to the roof and another whole line that led down to the basement. Phen noticed that someone pencilled in a dotted red line that criss-crossed through-out the map. On the bottom of the paper there was some handwritten notes. “I’ll bet this is Liam’s handwriting?” Phen muttered to himself. He could make out three very clear instructions: (1) Easiest Access Point - Hallway of steam room. Wait for the blue release of steam and pop out bottom vent that leads to a 3 x 3 foot cold air return. (2) Follow red path marked on ventilation map. This leads to an aluminum panel screwed to the outside wall. Once removed, this opening offers clear access to an unsurveyed area behind the plant. (3) Crawl to nearby retention pond which spills over into a natural ravine. This will give you the cover needed to avoid satellite detection. On the back side of the sheet was a single flat pad number, below that a passcode, “Milk”. Phen quickly folded the paper back up and hid it under his shelf of tools - - he knew he could not bring it back through to the drip station and bunk room without detection. Lunch break was almost over, as he watched the sad gray outfitted attendants pushing their carts back out to the service doors. Across the large room he spotted Drew 3 aisles down, and Phen’s heart sank, “I need to get out of here and take Drew with me. I can’t leave my son here to rot as a mindless drone.” Phen couldn't work, just thinking about escape caused his hands to shake, his mind was unable to focus and he knew leaving without Drew would kill him. There Phen stood, frozen as stone at his station. “Phen Diaz, worker number 47, please report to inspection room 3. Phen Diaz, worker 47, inspection room 3 immediately.” The screen on his station was posting these commands as the gears of his production line came to a halt. Two magenta colored guards shuffled quickly over to Phen grabbing him by the arms. “Follow me,” the larger one demanded with monotone urgency. As he was being led to a corner room with a flashing number 3 over top, drones around the plant continued on with their robotic movements inspecting part after part oblivious to three men walking by. Phen was panicking, “I’m caught! Another casualty of the state, I am going to end up like Liam O’Malley. Before the judge, with my entrails spilling out. But I can't give in, I must feign sickness, I must survive for Drew. I must live.” A strange thought came to Phen as his mind focused on the spinning orange light above the number 3. “Pray.” ----------------------------------------------------------------- Phen was forced to sit by himself with the two attending drones standing at attention on his right and left. He was seated at a stiff white interrogation table. On the other side was a single gray metal chair, and an ominous white door stood closed at the far end of the room. Twenty minutes of silence passed. Suddenly the door abruptly opened, “Are you Phen Dias, worker number 47?”, queried a stern faced Termagant guard holding a white clipboard. Phen said nothing. “I repeat, are you Phen Dias, worker number 47?” “I am.” The guard threw her clipboard down on the desk and rifled off a series of questions not expecting answers, “Your production after lunch has been zero, what is wrong with you? Do you not know your output will have to be made up by someone else today? Do you want this reported to the Regina?” Phen said nothing but stared off into the distance looking at the open door. “Drone, did you hear me?” “Yes sir, I did.” “Answer for yourself: How much Xenon have you had?” Phen did not reply. The guard moved in closer looking at Phen’s eyes for any sign of overdose. Phen again didn’t answer, nor did he blink. The guard made a note on her clipboard and said under her breath, “Stupid zombie, too much Xenon.” She wrote a quick note and handed it to Phen; addressing the two attendants she said, “Here, take this man back to his bunks. Tell the drip station worker to reduce his Xenon amounts, he is too drugged up. I have given him a new ration amount, make sure his profile is updated and then send him back early to get some sleep.” Phen was dragged back in the bunk room, and was handed a larger calorie ration, two helpings of water, while the attendants waited for him to fall into a soft sleep. Phen knew he dodged a bullet, as he feigned heavy eyelids his mind raced. “I think they are on to me. Tomorrow may be my last chance? Now or never.” ------------------------------------------------------------------- It all happened so fast… It was 12:25. 15 minutes. Phen grabbed the folded plans, two tools, a screwdriver and ball peen hammer, and slowly peered over his work station surveying the activity on the floor. 13 minutes. He saw Drew just starting to push his cart, he was only 5 aisles away and close to the double blue steam room doors. Luckily the cameras were pointed across the room, so he slowly exited his station walking in a slow gait toward Drew. 10 minutes. Drew just handed a fat drone a cube ration, and getting ready to continue on Phen hooked his arm and silenced his mouth. “Follow Me.” Drew offered no resistance, wearing a blank stare with an inoperable mind. 8 minutes. They were five steps from the double doors when a camera panned toward them, and kept it’s focus. 7 minutes. No alarms, no flashing lights, but from a nearby aisle of the plant two gray attendants pointed toward Drew, “Man off station, man off station.” 6 minutes. They made it through the double doors, which prompted a warning screen to activate, “Please remove all clothing, discard all tools, blue steam activated in ten seconds.” Phen looked for the floor vent that was detailed on the folded schematic, it was ten feet away on his right. Taking the screwdriver and ball peen hammer, Phen used all his strength to dislodge the slatted aluminum cover. 4 minutes, and 3 seconds before steam released. “Get in!” Phen threw the tools in the large tunneled ductwork and then pushed Drew through the vent opening just as blue steam above them was released. Phen followed, turning back he replaced the cover, and then quickly shuffling forward on his hands and knees as he pushed Drew down the shaft’s path. Taking out the paper to find the red markings, Phen knew his station had one more minute before alarms would be activated and guards sent. “I’m hoping the drones are too stupid to relay what they saw,” Phen was talking to a non-responsive Drew. “Keep moving, keep moving!” In the faded distance an alarm could be heard, Drew and Phen took a quick left, a long straight away, another left. 50 more yards. Alarms sounded across the whole plant. There it was, the final panel. Phen forget to repocket the tools, how could he loosen the bolts? Sliding his legs toward the wall Phen kicked at the panel cover. The first kick did nothing, more alarms. The second kick loosened a bolt. “One more, just one more…” Wham! Out shot the cover from the force of his kick releasing a rush of cool air into the shaft. Crawling out the hole Phen motioned for Drew to follow. All around the perimeter of the building lights were flashing on the walls. Phen and Drew fell out onto a sandy clearing, squinting from the brightness of the afternoon sun. Phen was looking for . . . their it was. . . a large retention pond spilling over into a steep rock gully. “Run Drew, Run….” Exhausted but empowered by a flood of adrenaline, Phen lead Drew to a steep rock crevasse. Jumping down into it they fell into a dry patch of brambles and a large thicket of juniper bushes. Even thought they were pierced with thorns and sharp cuts from the plants, Phen knew this foilage offered coverage just as the notes on the sheet said. Drew was wincing holding his left arm. “C’mon, keep moving, it is our only hope.” Breathing heavy, sliding down slick hills of black shale rocks, Phen knew this was a sign, "Shale like his dream." They were going to make it! "Thank you Liam. . .and thank you God." “I feel like I’m born again." Listener to Podcast of "Harry Potter and the Sacred Text" Have you ever read a Harry Potter book? Are you a Quidditch fan -- ever vigiliant watching for wizards on broomsticks chasing snitches?
For years I resisted reading about Harry and his lightning bolt scar because I hate jumping on band wagons. I must admit, when the books first came out I detested Potter mania. Everybody had to buy the book, and everybody who bought the book became an expert of the world of Harry Potter. To rile the experts up I liked to shout the name "Voldemort!" out loud in crowds just to make Potter fans nervous. To stage my resistance I used my Pastor's card, throwing out the excuse that I didn't want to read J. K. Rowling's books because she wrote about some awefully sketchy-evil stuff: spells, ghosts, magic wands, potions, dragons and muggles. "What's a muggle?" I asked one rather nerdy Potter fan while snickering at the seriousness of their reply. "Dont you know? A muggle is a non-magical person. One who rejects the world of the wizards. Someone like you, Pastor Chris!" Well it was a year ago when one of my very good friends brought to me some Potter contraband - "Here, read this, you'll love it." It was his very own copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone. I took the rather heavy book in my hand scrutinizing the unique artwork and Potterish fonts on the front cover. As I looked up to give the book back, my friend was gone. He disappeared and there I was, all alone, holding the dreaded book I once rejected. So I read it, and I must admit, I couldn't put it down. . .and the next book. . .and the next book. . .and the next book. I found the Harry Potter series very enjoyable, not dark at all, and the plot lines were very imaginative. I will confess, I like Harry, I really do. But lets get something straight: Harry Potter is not real, he is the work of Joanne Kathleen Rowling's mind. Fiction, made up out of the brain synapses of a finite being's imagination. But for some Potter fans there is more to be read between the lines. In an article in the Washington Post, "Harry Potter and the Sacred Text Podcast", it describes people who have turned to the Harry Potter books to find deeper meaning in life. The article says, "In their podcast, they use the rigorous methods they learned in divinity school, like the Benedictine monks’ practice of lectio divina and the medieval florilegium, to parse the lines of Harry Potter, which they typically refer to as 'the text'.” One person explains how it has inspired him to better living, "To me, the goal of treating the text as sacred is that we can learn to treat each other as sacred. If you can learn to love these characters, to love Draco Malfoy, then you can learn to love the cousin you haven’t spoken to for 30 years." Some have even turned to a weekly church-like service for the secular focused on a Potter text’s meaning. I wonder, is this what J. K. Rowling intended to happen? Have people turned the beloved character of Harry Potter into someone he was never meant to be: Saint Harry? Humans beings are desperate for something outside of themselves to turn to for help and inspiration. Something or someone to be thier guiding light and North Star. Someone like Harry Potter, Katniss Everdeen, Edward Cullen, Gandalph the Gray, Pinky Pie Pony or even Yoda. Why not turn to God? The infinate being who actually exists? The answer is very simple: God is dangerous and scary, he will not be controlled. Harry Potter and the other heros are not dangerous at all, they conform to our wishes and demands. God will not. This is what lies at the core of idolatry, we get to design and control the god we want. We become the creators, we are the ones worshipped. The god we design performs for us. The god we want to worship bows to us. Jesus Christ, on the other hand, will never bow. He wants us to bend our knee toward him. This is what people don't like. Over the years atheists and agnostics have often argued that Christians only believe in God because they are weak and they need some make-believe fantasy to keep them happy. As Marx once said, "Christianity is an opium for the people." But the truth is the exact opposite. A person is usually an agnostic or athiest out of fear of a dangerous God. They would rather worship something as ridiculous as "Harry Potter" than they would the living God who rose from the dead. I like Harry Potter, but he is a fantasy, real make-believe. Quiddich is a game that only works on a movie screen (Have you seen people running around with broomsticks between their legs? Looks rather painful). It just strikes me as odd that those who often turn from faith in God out of a desire to sound intelligent will turn to silly things to devote their lives too. Romans 1:21-23 is right yet again, "For although they knew God, they neither glorified Him as God nor gave thanks to Him, but they became futile in their thinking and darkened in their foolish hearts. Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools, and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images of mortal man and birds and animals and reptiles..." and Harry Potter! Chapter Seven: Meet The Sisters by Tina Semanas Driving through the northern Ohio farmland in the cool morning of a clear autumn day reminded Duenna Black of a painter’s palette. In between amber fields of freshly harvested corn and wheat crops were patches of hardwood trees erupting in vibrant reds, oranges and yellows. She loved the fall colors -- the beauty of the season matched her buoyant mood. Never before was Duenna Black so hopeful. She couldn't believe it, she was summoned by the official envoy of the Doyenne Conclave to attend an emergency session at the Midwest headquarters. The drive from her home to the the small town of Oberlin where The Sisters met and determined state policy, took a little less than an hour. She knew this meeting could be her last chance to grab the power she always wanted - deep in her gut she knew this was her time! An ancient road sign welcomed all new visitors, “Oberlin: Town and college founded 1833. First to welcome male and female students of all races.” The town boasted of being one of the stop offs of the Underground Railroad, a refuge for runaway African slaves around the time of the horrid scourge in American history known as the Civil War. The Sisters believed this was ideologically the perfect place for establishing a new order of tolerance and justice. They determined that war, a horrid product of the male obsession with conquest, was forever to be eradicated when women ruled the nation. So the The Sisters wielded the iron scepter with strict discipline and ruthless dedication to this united purpose bending every mind to their will. The college in town housed the acting chairman of the Doyenne Conclave, Dr. Simone Gladstone, who also served as Oberlin College’s president. She alone commanded the authority to call together this special session. She alone could decide Conclave directives, And she alone was holding the keys to absolute control. The Sisters all pledged to uphold her final verdicts on man, beast, rebel and patriot, regardless how arbitrary or audacious. She was the keeper of state, the true mother of all. The four other members responded immediately to her urgent call, all leaving their respective colleges to do her bidding. Being one of The Sisters and a selected confident of Dr. Gladstone guaranteed a life of privilege and luxury. Dr. Gladstone was known to have a capricious brilliance, no one really knew the inner-workings of her lively yet dangerous mind. “Icy cold” was how her associates described her, and no wonder. Surviving a childhood with a detached, mentally ill mother, Simone Gladstone learned to survive through instinct and subtle manipulation. She briefly married a man, but he left her to pursue a less restrictive and more fluid sexuality, experimenting with body transformation and polyamorous relationships. She was devastated, and instead of shriveling, she became a sheet of steel, a fearless fighter and pioneer of independent militant feminism. After the death of her wealthy mentor, she inherited an enormous fortune which gave her the ability to leverage people and build coalitions to purchase political control and secure her patron’s loyalty. While the other members of The Sisters succeeded because of their unpolluted feminist ideology, Dr. Simone Gladstone gained power through hate. Money was just a tool she used to spread it. After passing an army of tan rovers and armed Termagant guards, Duenna Black’s glider reached the destination she was given, 87 N. Main Street. Wearing a plain black and gray pantsuit, she was escorted up to the meeting room by a genderless page waiting for her arrival. “This is our college’s Art gallery, but when the Conclave officially begins, they will meet here in the main room. Dr. Gladstone chose this part of the college because she loves the history behind it and the unique style that this building emits. Dr. Gladstone is the one who coined the phrase, ‘Fashion and flare drives female policy more than ideology.’ So she chose this place because it has character and charm that brings a harmonious ethos to such serious state matters. The building was designed by Cass Gilbert himself, the famed early 20th century architect who is credited for also designing the The Supreme Court of the former United States.” Duenna Black noticed the building's colorful exterior, with a red terra cotta tile roof, Corinthian columns, and inside there was a vaulted ceiling with painted panels of animals, fruits and other tasteful pictures. It was truly unique. The page turned to Duenna Black and motioned for her to sit, “The Sisters are currently in a closed door meeting, and after they come out, they and their Vitups have a preliminary interview set up with you. Please wait.” Duenna Black reflected on a poem on the wall while she waited: “Thought is deeper than all speech. Feeling deeper than all thought. Souls to souls can never teach. What unto themselves was taught.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “Thank you my dear Sisters for how quickly you answered my call. We have two items we must discuss and then you are free to leave, I won't keep you longer than you need to be here. We are busy ladies.” Dr. Simon Gladstone was outfitted in a sharp trim line androgynous suit of black - her style was impeccable! Her choice of material and cut of the jacket was tailored to accentuate her long and slender limbs. She had no flaw and it added to her image of strength. The other four Sisters flanked her on both sides of a medium length board room table. They were naturally intimidated by her presence and you could taste their fear hanging like a mist in the room. Dr. Gladstone handed out four black folders as she said, “Our first item of business concerns one of us. That is why we are alone here in a closed session. A major breach of protocol has occurred which can upset the balance and mystique of The Sisters. Please read the enclosed information which names one of our current Sisters; the two sources are extremely credible, and the possible damage may hamper our ability to rule withough blow-back.” A silent hush went over the room as the four women of power read the formal accusation. The report stated: “Professor Ruth Finkbiner, President of Wellesley College, member of the Doyenne Conclave for the last 36 years, has violated her oath of ‘fidelity, loyalty and accountability’ to the Sisterhood. Even though she has been a shining example and visionary in many political changes over her tenure, her recent intimate relationship with a rebel of the state and it’s natural born offspring is both reprehensible and counter productive to the aims and goals of The Sisters. Her behavior has compromised her standing among us and forced President Gladstone to initiate proceedings for a possible dismissal from our elite group.” Professor Ruth sat in stunned disbelief. After gathering her composure she said in a very deliberate and calculated tone, “I demand to know who has leveled these charges against me? I have given my heart and soul to see our nation flourish, our ideals dominate, and in my tenure I have seen power change hands from majority men to women. Even Dr. Gladstone, you must admit, that without my guidance and training, your ascension to chairwoman would have been a virtual impossibility? I helped break the glass ceiling, have I not?.” Dr. Gladstone shot up out of her chair, “With all do respect my dear Professor, do not include me with your foolish neglect. Your own daughter rebelled against her placement and went off grid. She would have been a fabulous Duenna and eventually a Professor like yourself, but you were too soft, too lenient! How could you even associate with her after she went dark? And our sources know she has joined The Cave, that notorious Christian Cult which is trying to reverse our progress for women. They are still using ancient reproductive rituals, convincing women that childbirth is something natural, and are teaching that an exclusive heterosexual marriage is the proper design for raising a child! This is everything we hate! And now we know, your own daughter had a live birth! Your own daughter?” Professor Finkbiner hung her head, with her whole body shaking said, “But I love her?” The other members of the Conclave were physically shaken. They were torn between sorrow and rage. They knew Professor Ruth, she boldly championed for political dominance of feminist ideals, but how could she support such blatant disregard for all the progress that was achieved? A live birth? And worst of all joining The Cave? One of the younger members wearing an African headdress and native robe raised her hand, “May I speak Dr. Gladstone?” “Yes Octavia, of course.” Octavia Hulambu, the finest orator of The Sisters and President of Smith College preceded her talk with dramatic hand gestures, pounding her chest, bobbing of her head, “My dear sisters, as a collective we have been betrayed! I for one know my people will not relent on our march to complete freedom, liberty, independence of mind, body and soul for every woman. Even the ones who are lied to and seduced into believing ancient myths. To allow the shackles of female oppression to be reapplied, to regress into barbaric practices, to worship an angry male deity from the dark superstitious past is anathema! I for one will not stand for this! I have one question for sister Ruth, will you distance yourself from this foolish familial love and turn your daughter and her spawn in? Will you prove your loyalty to us by having her cast away?” Professor Ruth sat down silently and took a deep breath looking at the raging woman before her, “No, I will not! She is my daughter, and her baby, not a spawn, is my granddaughter. Do with me as you will.” ------------------------------------------- Dueanna Black was growing anxious. It felt like an eternity waiting for the Conclave to come out and address her. A huge mahogany desk was positioned in the center of the room and she was facing it. Behind it was a large painting expressing feminist ideals, she knew the painting well, it was by the famed artist and hero Romaine Brooks, the masterpiece was "La France Croisse." "Please rise Duenna Black," the page demanded. Out came four impressive women, each with a black robed Vitup by their side. Leading the procession was Dr. Simone Gladstone, Duenna Black never met her before, and she was not disappointed. The page motioned for everyone to sit. Dr. Gladstone started, "Madylyn Black, we have asked you here for a very crucial and urgent purpose. The Conclave would like you to consider joining our ranks. . ." That is all Duenna Black heard before her mind exploded. Was this a dream? “In those days of hope the French nation manifested the chief defect but, likewise, the chief virtue of youth: inexperience, but generous enthusiasm...They had one belief, and an admiral one; they believed in themselves. Firmly convinced of the perfectibility of man, they had faith in man’s innate virtue, placed him on a pedestal, and set no bounds to their devotion to his cause. They had that arrogant self-confidence which prepared the soil for their own destruction.” Alexis De Tocqueville (On The French Revolution - 1856) I think we are living in a very dangerous time. The danger we face is not because of the presence of unrestrained evil, but because there is an abundance of people who are convinced of their own goodness. There are certain groups of people who see themselves as incorruptible, they believe themselves to be truly good, and therefore they are above reproach.
I am afraid that we may be on the brink of being ruined by these virtuous few. To help explain this dire view, I want to introduce you to a man who in his time was considered to be one of the most moral people in the nation of France; and in the goodness of his heart he had thousands slaughtered with the guillotine. His name, Maximilian Robespierre. Very quickly, France in the early part of the 19th century was experiencing a total cultural shift in every way: Those who were in authority were forced to give up their power to those who never had it before, the peasants and poor. The majority of France believed in and adopted the “Rights of Man”, humanistic ideals of equality - fraternity - liberty, which had became more important to the average citizen than living for God. Robespierre championed the use of human reason over faith. He believed that the people of France were fundamentally good and no one was better than another. Therefore everyone should be equal, both in opportunity and outcome. He was a highly popular figure, and some even called him “The Incorruptible” because he lived simply and wouldn’t take bribes. As a result he began to see himself as more virtuous than the rest of the politicians in France, including the King himself. Because of his unwavering belief in his own goodness, he convinced himself he was always right. He was sure his views on government and power were exactly the right views, and therefore any other view, in his mind, was inherently evil and must be destroyed. He took it upon himself to be the voice of the people protecting them from those who would threaten society - especially those who ever disagreed with any of Robespierre’s ideals. Justice to Robespierre allowed for no mercy. He is quoted as saying, “Yes, the death penalty is in general a crime, unjustifiable by the indestructible principles of nature, except in cases protecting the safety of individuals or the society altogether.” With a few other zealous men, he became judge, jury and executioner for the people of France. He said, “To punish the oppressors of humanity is clemency; to forgive them is barbarity.” From 1793-1794 Robespierre initiated the Reign of Terror where about 40,000 people were executed or murdered. A guillotine was set up in the Place de la Révolution in Paris. This wooden frame contained a sharp blade that dropped onto the victim's neck. During these few short but bloody years he became paranoid and started executing anyone who seemed dangerous. After so much blood letting, people realized Robespierre was out of control and eventually had him executed by his own dear guillotine. One historian made this amazing statement about his motivation, “All Robespierre wanted was a ‘democracy for the people, who are intrinsically good and pure of heart; a democracy in which poverty is honourable, power innocuous, and the vulnerable safe from oppression; a democracy that worships nature—not nature as it really is, cruel and disgusting, but nature sanitised, majestic, and, above all, good.’” So in his angelic goodness he became the devil. I believe this is where our society is at. There is now a very significant group of people who believe they are good and their cause is right. They have become the defenders of the oppressed, the champions for the poor, the ones who see the clearest. Often this group is young and zealous; as Tocqueville described the people of France they have 'inexperience, but generous enthusiasm...They had one belief, and an admiral one; they believed in themselves.” Because of thier assumed goodness, anyone they don't agree with or doesn't agree with them must be evil, and as a result must be eradicated. So instead of engaging in debate they want to wage war. Since they are always right they get to define who the oppressed and marginalized are, and anyone disagreeing must be an oppressor. Who are the oppressed? Homosexuals, minorities, poor, transgendered, non-gendered, gender fluid, women, and sexually deviant. Who are the oppressors? Of course the President, that's a given; but it is also anyone getting in the way of the oprressed's freedom, they must be villianized and castigated. "Resist!" they cry. Ultimately God becomes the greatest villian of all because he has ancient standards that the those who define themselves as good don't agree with at all. In 1 Samuel 24 & 26 David was being persued by Saul, he was unjustly hunted down, and two times David had a chance to kill Saul. He could have taken the law into his own hands, he could have acted like Robespierre and played God. Even his men wanted him to use the sword of justice on Saul! But David restrained for this reason, "May the Lord be judge and give sentence between me and you." Later he says, "The Lord rewards every man for his righteousness and his faithfulness." David realized true justice belonged to the Lord. In chapter 26 David almost took justice into his own hand against a foolish man named Nabal until Abigail stopped him from killing him and David said, "Blessed be your discretion, and blessed be you, who have kept me this day from bloodguilt." David knew vengeance was God's (Romans 12:19), not ours to wield. Sadly, society in general no longer allows God to determine justice because he is no longer seen as good. Those who think they are good have become our gods. In their defense of freedom we allow and even applaud them when they trample over the unborn, we tolerate and agree when they support lifestyles that are perverse, and we make no argument when they no longer lift up good gifts given to us by God like marriage, masculinity, and purity. That is why I believe the most dangerous person in our society has become the person who thinks they are good apart from God. He is a threat to them and their ideals, and like Robespierre believed, he needs to be shown no mercy. As C.S. Lewis once said, "God is now in the Dock!" and along with him, justice dies a thousand deaths. Chapter Six: Poolside Palaver by Tina Semanas Athan’s place was outrageous! Modeled in a late 20th century Tudor design, his house included lavish exotic gardens, 20 acres of rolling green lawns dotted with towering pines, a par three golf hole with an adjacent sand trap, and Beck’s favorite, an outdoor infinity pool spilling into a bubbling hot tub. It was everything she dreamed of. Where did Athan get the money for this? Oh how badly she wanted it all! She could taste the extravagance. This was nothing like the spartan living quarters she had with Lacy. This was a palace... dripping with prestige and money! Athan came out to the back patio through a sliding glass door carrying a tray of champagne. Two crystal flutes of white bubbly were already poured. “So Babe, how do you like it? Could you get use to this?” Beck was torn, this opulence was pulling at her soul, but she knew the only way to have it all to herself was to hurt the man who has been so kind. Athan was the perfect gentleman on the honeymoon, the sensitive friend on the plane ride home as he helped Beck nurse through a bout of nausea, and the benevolent spouse offering her an equal share of all this? She turned to him and with a shy smile said, “Yes, of course.” They both sat down on soft poolside loungers as Athan raised a glass to toast, “To Us!” The glasses clinked and then Beck took a long slow sip allowing the cool liquid time to soothe her throat. Taking in all the beauty she wondered to herself, “How was she going to wreck this marriage?” She didn’t want to tonight, it was still so perfect, she wanted to enjoy another moment with Athan -- he was so easy to be with. As she took her second sip a small pad on the table buzzed letting them both know the real world was just a call away. Athan looked at the number and asked, “Do you know anyone with a 440 area code? It reads ‘M. Sanger something or other?’ Where is that?” Beck snapped back, “Athan I already told you all about this! It is my old apartment and more than likely Lacy is pissed off at me about something stupid like she always is.” “Oh boy?” Athan rolled his eyes knowing her relationship with her ex-partner Lacy was still a toxic mess. “What does she want this time?” Motioning for silence with her hand, Beck walked further out on the patio and picked up the flat phone, “I have to answer this.” He raised his glass with a smile lifting another toast to her in the air, right before he gulped down the rest of his drink. Beck in a low direct tone with her back to Athan said, “What do you want now?” On the speaker you could hear deep breathing and guttural sounds, Lacy was unhinged, “First off you Dowager whore, you can get all of your crap out of my apartment; and you still owe me for court damages and three years rent!” Beck knew how to get under Lacy’s skin, and with a small irritating chuckle she replied, “Slow down Lacy dear, sounds like you have been shooting up more of that black market T-strain again? Last time you did that you needed three weeks of detox in a Termagant rubber room. You O.k? Or do you want me to call your ex-parole officer again? Remember what rage will do to you?” “Arrrrggggghhhh!” Lacy’s primal yell blasted out from the phone’s speaker. Beck also heard glass shatter in the background while she was screaming at someone named Ara or Zara to go to her room...she wasn’t quite sure? Twisting her acid words deeper, Beck continued, “You sound terrible honey...I’m calling your NWP patrol agent to check in on you.” “No, no, no! Don't do that B, just get over here and clean everything up. I have been forced to take another roomy and I need all memories of you gone from this place. You hear me?” Lacy was red hot! “Wait, what did you say? You have a new roommate? I thought you were done with hook-ups and companionships? Don't tell me you are with that stupid workout partner Chaz again? Or is it Spaz?” “Stop it Beck, you know when I say I’m done, I’m done! No, I have a 12 year old priss living with me, and she happens to be my niece. You remember Dia? It’s her kid.” Lacy’s voice seem to mellow the more she talked. “Just get your stuff and I won't bug you again. And Beck, I really need that money. I thought you said you were going to play this guy Athan for a fool, drop him really quick and take all his money? You said you were an expert manipulator? Well, start putting it to use! You better get it done soon or I will have my personal Vitup waiting with papers for you. C’mon, I want to be civil about this, let's just settle our differences and you will be done with me for ever.” Beck went silent for half a minute to think. “Lacy’s niece? Legal papers? I do need to get Lacy off my back because legally I signed the joint papers to that place. Her Vitup is a shrew and she knows how to win cases before the magistrate. Wow, how do I even begin to get Athan to hate me?” “Beck, you there? I need an answer? And don't try to play me, I know you better than you think and your Dowager charms don't work here. I expect an answer in two days!” The speaker clicked off and Beck stood there for a long time staring out in the distance. Arms folded, Beck was lost in thought. “Hey Beck, you O.k.?” Athan was standing right behind her holding her glass of half drunk champagne. “You look troubled?” “No, it’s nothing. Lacy is shooting up more Testosterone again. She has to keep that masculine image thing going.” Beck took the drink and chugged it down quickly motioning for a refill with her glass. Athan looked worried, “Beck, that woman is dangerous! I saw how she would punch people square in the face when they simply wanted your autograph. And if those shots she is injecting are the new T-strain ... That is not good! Two of my top chemists have explained how they actually cause enzyme mutation, it screws with your chromosomes. That can make a person clinically insane off the first hit.” “Don't worry Athan,” Beck laughing off his concern, “I know how to handle her. Hey, let's open another bottle and try out your, I mean our hot tub tonight. It may be our last night to enjoy it?” Athan with a queer grin replied, “What do you mean our last night? Even though we are home now, the honeymoon doesn’t have to end?” Responding quickly Beck replied back, “I know, it’s just I have a big project at work the next few months. I have been invited to be one of the top vloggers for this year’s Vanity Night and the Selfie Awards, and you know how caught up I can get in my work? You’re lucky, even though The Sister’s shut down your laboratories and production plants, they sure did compensate you well. You get to do nothing for the rest of your life - - you own all this and never have to work again. You’ve got it made!” “Beck, I told you, money's not everything and I don't want to hear about the magnificence of The Sisters. They are a brood of vipers! They stole from me my livelihood, three generations of our family’s work, my father has been exiled, and now you are all I have left. I told you, just quit your job and we can forget the world, be free of the iron grip of The Sisters, and get lost traveling. Just think, you can ski to your heart's desire? You should see France this time of year: Ski in the Alps all day, drive south for three hours and you are on the most beautiful beaches in the Mediterranean.” Athan swallowed down hard the rest of his champagne trying to quench his obvious bitterness toward the system he loathed. Beck putting her finger over his mouth, “Athan, be quiet! What if the NWP monitoring devices picked up your anarchist comments? You could be exiled yourself!” “They wouldn’t dare - - they still need my mind to even understand the new patents, genetic algorithms and formulas our company designed. Could you imagine the chaos if I was exiled? I’m not stupid Beck, I still know how to play the game while keeping my behind safe. I can feign male subordination better than anyone… that is where my father messed up. He had to be ‘The Man’.” Athan reached over and filled her glass, “Here, drink up and let's stop talking about those five wenches, they have already ruined my life as is!” Beck snuggled in close flicking his nose with her index finger playfully, “Athan, aren’t I enough to make you forget? Cheers again, ‘To Us!’” ------------------------------------------------ “Wake up! You mute blank, wake it up!” Drew’s eyelids felt like heavy pieces of lead as he tried prying them open. All was still so blurry, a faint light was directed into his eyes. “C’mon pretty boy, you can do it, open up!” Drew concentrated on the voice and as his vision cleared up, a face with two black eyes was staring back at him. After a minute Drew saw clearly his nurse was a Plastic; not only was this person wearing black contacts that gave them an otherworldly look, but their skull was ribbed with at least ten subdermal implants complete with two horns jutting out from both temples. Was this a lizard or a man? “Stunning, aren’t I?” The lisping attendant said revealing a set of fanged teeth and a cloven tongue. “I am affectionately known as Beelzebub, you can call me Bee.” Drew still groggy, slurred out a thick tongued question, “Where am I? And why can’t I move my arms or legs?” “Oh, no worries pretty...you are in a full body traction. Those NWP thugs really beat you to a pulp: 3 broken ribs, a smashed pelvis, 2 fractures in your left forearm, a fracture in your left femur, and they sure did a whooping-up on your head! You must have been a naughty, naughty boy? It is fantastic that your body didn’t fully shut down into a coma state. You are amazing us all! Now we are trying to get you fully conscious so we know what to do with you...as of now you are a blank canvas.” Drew faintly remembered the beating he sustained, all he recalls was the sick laughter and glee expressed before the stun stick or a booted foot came down to smash and pound his body again and again. “Bee, what did you say? I’m a blank what?” “Oh, here in our body transformation department we consider every client, or subject the NWP brings to us, as a blank artistic canvas. From this point on you can be whoever or whatever you want to be!” Bee seemed to say more with zis delicate hands adding to the heightened expression of zis tone. “In their foresight and benevolence, The Sisters believe every person must choose for themselves who or what they want to become, and this is the place where all the magic happens!” Drew was confused. Maybe, he thought, he just wasn’t able to process his thoughts properly, but he was sure Bee said you can become whatever you want. So he asked, “What do you mean by ‘you can be whatever you want’?” Bee moved in closer and with wide open eyes that enhanced even more the blackness of zis contacts, ze said, “Oh, the world is your oyster, as they used to say. You can stay your biological gender if you want, but that is so boring. We now have such cutting edge cellular expertise that if you choose to become the superior gender, hormone therapy only requires a year to fully bloom into a perfectly functioning woman.” Bee quickly walked over to get a large flat tablet with a slide show of touch screen pictures. Bee continued, “Look here, we also have over 100 options if you choose to become a Plastic. We offer standard skin whitening and even complete genital removal if you feel like you would be a more complete person as a non-binary. We are still experimenting on injecting chameleon genomes into skin cells so patients will have the ability to change pigment colors based on their surroundings or moods. But here is where it gets exciting, we also have mastered skeletal reshaping so your skull, legs, back bone, hands and feet can replicate a wide variety of animal types.” Looking into the wall mirror Bee skimmed zis fingers down the many bumps on his head saying, “And I choose the crocodile skink look, my home mentor bought me one of those beautiful lizards when I was a kid and I loved its look ever since. And now I am one!” Drew looked at the pictures of people who resembled rhinos, hippos, and even snakes. One man had four legs, another a long fully functioning tale. Drew remembered as a kid noticing his first view of a person with horns, but he never considered looking like this? Bee put zis hands on zis hips and asked, “So what will it be? We need to decide soon so we know how to fuse your bones? So many fun options!” Drew squeezed his eyes shut tight. This experience was a nightmare, it couldn’t be true. All he ever knew was living with Dia and Ara, being a kid, going to school, goofing around downstairs on the video pad. Now this? He again opened his eyes and cringing at Bee’s hideousness and said through hot tears, “I just want to be myself!” Bee looked disgusted, and the once sunny mood ze had changed to a fast storm,”You know what this means pretty? If you are staying a biological male, you have only one option seeing how you were brought here as a convicted criminal by the NWP? Regression Apps, Cleaning and shipped to the factories! Is that what you want?” Drew bit his tongue knowing that staying true to his biology was his only choice if he wanted to keep his sanity. He wondered to himself, “How could you ever want to be a Plastic? So hideous.” It was as if Bee could read Drew’s thoughts as ze bitterly said, “Suit yourself! If you want to live your life a slave to your biology fine, you could have been such a gorgeous Plastic too… so be it! I’ll let Doctor Dali know. Another fool to feed to The Sisters’ machine.” Bee opened up the morphine drip and Drew drifted back off into a dreamless, painless sleep. All he wanted to do is die. -------------------------------------------------------------- Phen’s mind was exploding, it never was more active and alive; but so too was his paranoia. He felt like eyes were watching him everywhere. The Xenon station had no effect - and the attendants had to know he was no longer responding? He could barely sleep in his bunk, staying awake thinking all night. The cameras had to register his tossing and turnings? And he was no longer suited for such mundane tasks. He couldn’t inspect another switch, gasket or diode. His required quotient had to be tapering off? Liam gave him his life back with those two blockers. Phen couldn’t continue as he was. But he didn’t know what to do? A month after his mind came alive Phen was stationed once again inspecting item by item by item. His morning routine on this particular day was like every other day. Phen was wearing a teal jumpsuit, he felt rather sleepy, fighting to subdue his wandering mind -- he knew sooner or later it was going to get him into trouble. Today was sooner. The muted buzz sounded, 12:25, time for lunch. The mindless male attendants dressed in drab gray came pushing cubes and squares. When Phen went to grab for his meal he looked up into a 16 year old boy's face. He knew that face, it couldn’t be? But it was. It was his son Drew. |
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