Anti Federalist
03-06-2010, 01:32 PM
http://goldsteinrepublic.com/
Product Description
Devin Moore broke 'The Law' in this dystopia set in the not-too-distant future. For his crime, he is exiled from the last free colony of Goldstein, Alaska. His journey into fascist Amerika is an odyssey of chaos, delusion, and violence. Devin experiences firsthand the ravages of hyperinflation, the mind-numbing holovision, the omnipresent surveillance and the imperious nanny-state . The Land of the Free had become a serfdom where you have nothing to worry about if you are being good . But Devin could not embrace the role of gelded rebel and his exile becomes a mission of self-discovery. Pursued by the arrogant, leathery-faced Director Morgenthau and his vicious minions seeking to hotwire his brain, Devin contemplates making a mysterious Delivery that will exonerate him and allow him to return home...to GOLDSTEIN.
Chapter One
Rocketing across the stratosphere at twice the speed of sound, a titanium eagle, a gem of Chinese technological superiority, laced the heavens with a silvery contrail. This aircraft, owned and operated by Numenor Corporation, which was one of the twelve cartels which controlled ninety percent of everything, was carrying a very dangerous passenger.
Inside the two hundred thousand kilogram bullet, safely insulated from friction-induced temperatures exceeding four hundred degrees Celsius, and cozily tucked into luxurious, taxpayer-funded, leather captain's chairs, rode President of the United States Angela Forsythe, her aide-de-camp, Maxwell Conrad-- affectionately referred to as `Maxie', a battalion of servants, analysts, and assorted government sycophants, as well as her husband, Judge. They were returning to Washington from a campaign fundraiser in the state of South California where the President had made it clear that there were about to be some major changes.
"Are you really going to go through with it?" asked Maxie.
The President raised her glass as she stared out into the ethereal blue that was framed in her portal window. They were far, far above the boiling storm clouds below. Soon, she thought, they would be descending directly into it.
"I'm taking them down. All of them. From the cartel bosses to the fucking errand boys," she answered. Maxie rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his eyes. "I'm giving them the surveillance files, the audit trails, the minutes of the secret meetings, and all the names, especially the names, the media loves the names."
"That could topple the entire government. Have you thought about that?" Maxie warned.
"We'll recover, eventually. America is resilient."
"What if it gets buried?"
"The evidence is incontrovertible. The media won't be able to suppress it."
"Freemerica Inc. is the media. They're complicit in all of it. And when they're not complicit, they're bought off. We can't trust them."
"They'll be unable to quash it."
Maxie couldn't understand why he couldn't get through to her. She had never been this stubborn. "What makes you think you'll get away with it? What makes you think you can take on the cartels like this? What makes you think you can go after the bankers? Please, please, consider a more subtle method. If you out them like this they'll use their pawns in Congress to marginalize you. You'll be a lame duck or worse. If that fails, they'll unleash Freemerica on you and the media always finds something. You can't make it this far in politics without some kind of skeleton in your closet. And you've got an election coming up."
"You don't think much of me if you think they'll find that sort of stuff."
"It's not that I don't think much of you, it's that they have many vested interests that will align against you. You're putting them in a box with no means of escape and they'll resort to anything to survive."
"I've lived a good life, Maxie. You know that. You've been with me for twelve years. You know they won't find anything that'll stick."
"Then they'll make up some bullshit. You know how they operate. What about anti-patriotism? Freemerica can put that on anyone. It's vague. It's easy. They can pin that on you with nothing more than a reporter's quivering lip or a flash of a subliminal message. They can paint you as an anti-pat without reporting any evidence at all. And the serfs will fall for it. They always fall for it."
"Let them try it, then."
"...Plus we're at war, too," Maxie continued, undeterred. "This is not the best time to be stirring things up, domestically."
"There's never a `best time', Maxie. Besides, we're always at war. We'll never not be at war, at least not until things change." The President gazed out the tiny portal window again. In her mind, the clouds far below were like a dark shroud blanketing the nation in a storm of lies; and here she was, insulated in her supersonic, titanium tube, far above it, rocketing through a blazing azure of truthiness, or so she thought. She drank her red wine. Her mind was clear. She was without doubt. "The war of all wars is the one we wage against ourselves," she waxed.
Maxie sighed. Presidents were not supposed to be philosophical and Maxie found her occasional bouts of idealism boring. Maxie had a PhD in political game-theory. Idealism, he thought, was a topic for stoned undergrads.
"Ask yourself, Maxie, why is there so much resistance and violence? Where does it all come from? Why does it seem to get stronger whenever we increase efforts to restore the order?"
"Because the serfs are like children," Maxie offered with pragmatic bluntness. "Because they lack self-control. Because they need authority and direction in their lives or they turn into cannibals."
"Perhaps..."
"Or?" Maxie begged.
"Or perhaps it's because the serfs have lost respect for the institutions that claim authority over them. Maxie, I think we've lost the consent of the governed."
Maxie threw his hands up in frustration and stormed off towards the back of the jet in search of the Presidential masseuse.
The President turned to her husband, Judge, and clasped his hand. He was fast asleep, or more aptly, comatose-- electrically de-stimulated by the SkyDoze brand electrodes affixed to his temples. Angela and Judge had been married thirty years. He was once a rising star in the corporate world but he gave it up in order to support her political aspirations. She knew it was difficult for his executive sized ego to be a supporting figure, but he believed in her and stood by her with unwavering loyalty.
"I have to do this," she whispered to Judge as he slept. "It's my reason for being here. I'll make you proud." #
Many kilometers below, beneath the clouds, a torrent of rain was soaking a large swath of the Amerikan Heartland and, more specifically, a particular golf course located on the outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa. There were only three men on that course that day. One was the Director of the National Police, one was a milquetoast caddy, and the third was The Vice President of the United States. The three of them stood on the rain-matted fairway. Lightning illuminated the gray skies behind them. The deluge had formed numerous puddles in the grass all the way up to the fringe of the green.
"It is accomplished," explained the Director who had just tucked his multi-unit into his dripping jacket pocket. He had a leathery face and his rain-soaked, thinning gray hair fell in wet clumps across his forehead.
"Excellent," replied Vice President Mellon with a grin.
Vice President Theodore "Teddy" Mellon was a bombastic fellow with hair that looked several orders of magnitude better than the Director's. His black waves lookestately even when they were soaking wet. Teddy had clawed and glad-handed and bribed his way to the second spot in the Unity Party ticket at the green age of thirty eight. Although young, his demeanor and maturity actually revealed a man of no less than thirty-two; which was, coincidentally, the age of George Armstrong Custer at the Little Bighorn.
Teddy, who was `attached' to President Forsythe's ticket as Veep by the party bosses as a means of solidifying her electoral base east of the Hudson, disliked the woman immensely. She was a Western Governor with a libertarian streak-- an outsider with broad populist appeal and little patience for technocracy. He, however, was an Ivy League elitist who felt that it was the divine right of all Ivy leaguers to run the world on behalf of the innumerable hoard of poorly bred dolts residing west of the Hudson River. Teddy never referred to President Forsythe by name, referring to her only as `The Madam' in public and `that bitch' in private.
Product Description
Devin Moore broke 'The Law' in this dystopia set in the not-too-distant future. For his crime, he is exiled from the last free colony of Goldstein, Alaska. His journey into fascist Amerika is an odyssey of chaos, delusion, and violence. Devin experiences firsthand the ravages of hyperinflation, the mind-numbing holovision, the omnipresent surveillance and the imperious nanny-state . The Land of the Free had become a serfdom where you have nothing to worry about if you are being good . But Devin could not embrace the role of gelded rebel and his exile becomes a mission of self-discovery. Pursued by the arrogant, leathery-faced Director Morgenthau and his vicious minions seeking to hotwire his brain, Devin contemplates making a mysterious Delivery that will exonerate him and allow him to return home...to GOLDSTEIN.
Chapter One
Rocketing across the stratosphere at twice the speed of sound, a titanium eagle, a gem of Chinese technological superiority, laced the heavens with a silvery contrail. This aircraft, owned and operated by Numenor Corporation, which was one of the twelve cartels which controlled ninety percent of everything, was carrying a very dangerous passenger.
Inside the two hundred thousand kilogram bullet, safely insulated from friction-induced temperatures exceeding four hundred degrees Celsius, and cozily tucked into luxurious, taxpayer-funded, leather captain's chairs, rode President of the United States Angela Forsythe, her aide-de-camp, Maxwell Conrad-- affectionately referred to as `Maxie', a battalion of servants, analysts, and assorted government sycophants, as well as her husband, Judge. They were returning to Washington from a campaign fundraiser in the state of South California where the President had made it clear that there were about to be some major changes.
"Are you really going to go through with it?" asked Maxie.
The President raised her glass as she stared out into the ethereal blue that was framed in her portal window. They were far, far above the boiling storm clouds below. Soon, she thought, they would be descending directly into it.
"I'm taking them down. All of them. From the cartel bosses to the fucking errand boys," she answered. Maxie rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his eyes. "I'm giving them the surveillance files, the audit trails, the minutes of the secret meetings, and all the names, especially the names, the media loves the names."
"That could topple the entire government. Have you thought about that?" Maxie warned.
"We'll recover, eventually. America is resilient."
"What if it gets buried?"
"The evidence is incontrovertible. The media won't be able to suppress it."
"Freemerica Inc. is the media. They're complicit in all of it. And when they're not complicit, they're bought off. We can't trust them."
"They'll be unable to quash it."
Maxie couldn't understand why he couldn't get through to her. She had never been this stubborn. "What makes you think you'll get away with it? What makes you think you can take on the cartels like this? What makes you think you can go after the bankers? Please, please, consider a more subtle method. If you out them like this they'll use their pawns in Congress to marginalize you. You'll be a lame duck or worse. If that fails, they'll unleash Freemerica on you and the media always finds something. You can't make it this far in politics without some kind of skeleton in your closet. And you've got an election coming up."
"You don't think much of me if you think they'll find that sort of stuff."
"It's not that I don't think much of you, it's that they have many vested interests that will align against you. You're putting them in a box with no means of escape and they'll resort to anything to survive."
"I've lived a good life, Maxie. You know that. You've been with me for twelve years. You know they won't find anything that'll stick."
"Then they'll make up some bullshit. You know how they operate. What about anti-patriotism? Freemerica can put that on anyone. It's vague. It's easy. They can pin that on you with nothing more than a reporter's quivering lip or a flash of a subliminal message. They can paint you as an anti-pat without reporting any evidence at all. And the serfs will fall for it. They always fall for it."
"Let them try it, then."
"...Plus we're at war, too," Maxie continued, undeterred. "This is not the best time to be stirring things up, domestically."
"There's never a `best time', Maxie. Besides, we're always at war. We'll never not be at war, at least not until things change." The President gazed out the tiny portal window again. In her mind, the clouds far below were like a dark shroud blanketing the nation in a storm of lies; and here she was, insulated in her supersonic, titanium tube, far above it, rocketing through a blazing azure of truthiness, or so she thought. She drank her red wine. Her mind was clear. She was without doubt. "The war of all wars is the one we wage against ourselves," she waxed.
Maxie sighed. Presidents were not supposed to be philosophical and Maxie found her occasional bouts of idealism boring. Maxie had a PhD in political game-theory. Idealism, he thought, was a topic for stoned undergrads.
"Ask yourself, Maxie, why is there so much resistance and violence? Where does it all come from? Why does it seem to get stronger whenever we increase efforts to restore the order?"
"Because the serfs are like children," Maxie offered with pragmatic bluntness. "Because they lack self-control. Because they need authority and direction in their lives or they turn into cannibals."
"Perhaps..."
"Or?" Maxie begged.
"Or perhaps it's because the serfs have lost respect for the institutions that claim authority over them. Maxie, I think we've lost the consent of the governed."
Maxie threw his hands up in frustration and stormed off towards the back of the jet in search of the Presidential masseuse.
The President turned to her husband, Judge, and clasped his hand. He was fast asleep, or more aptly, comatose-- electrically de-stimulated by the SkyDoze brand electrodes affixed to his temples. Angela and Judge had been married thirty years. He was once a rising star in the corporate world but he gave it up in order to support her political aspirations. She knew it was difficult for his executive sized ego to be a supporting figure, but he believed in her and stood by her with unwavering loyalty.
"I have to do this," she whispered to Judge as he slept. "It's my reason for being here. I'll make you proud." #
Many kilometers below, beneath the clouds, a torrent of rain was soaking a large swath of the Amerikan Heartland and, more specifically, a particular golf course located on the outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa. There were only three men on that course that day. One was the Director of the National Police, one was a milquetoast caddy, and the third was The Vice President of the United States. The three of them stood on the rain-matted fairway. Lightning illuminated the gray skies behind them. The deluge had formed numerous puddles in the grass all the way up to the fringe of the green.
"It is accomplished," explained the Director who had just tucked his multi-unit into his dripping jacket pocket. He had a leathery face and his rain-soaked, thinning gray hair fell in wet clumps across his forehead.
"Excellent," replied Vice President Mellon with a grin.
Vice President Theodore "Teddy" Mellon was a bombastic fellow with hair that looked several orders of magnitude better than the Director's. His black waves lookestately even when they were soaking wet. Teddy had clawed and glad-handed and bribed his way to the second spot in the Unity Party ticket at the green age of thirty eight. Although young, his demeanor and maturity actually revealed a man of no less than thirty-two; which was, coincidentally, the age of George Armstrong Custer at the Little Bighorn.
Teddy, who was `attached' to President Forsythe's ticket as Veep by the party bosses as a means of solidifying her electoral base east of the Hudson, disliked the woman immensely. She was a Western Governor with a libertarian streak-- an outsider with broad populist appeal and little patience for technocracy. He, however, was an Ivy League elitist who felt that it was the divine right of all Ivy leaguers to run the world on behalf of the innumerable hoard of poorly bred dolts residing west of the Hudson River. Teddy never referred to President Forsythe by name, referring to her only as `The Madam' in public and `that bitch' in private.