A Simple Rebellion Read online

  @Get’emAllOut to @IndieThinker I cannot believe how stupid you are! I chose Statler!

  @IndieThinker But you said you didn’t want a clown….

  Statler snarled at the turn in his thread, and kicked an antique chair he had demanded be moved to the Wichita White House from the D.C. White House, shattering the piece of history and putting a dent in a wall.

  “Marlene,” the president called out, “Get maintenance up here!”

  Chapter 43

  MANY MILES NORTH, JACKSON was doing some pacing of his own in a motel room he had rented at three in the morning. He took one at the back of the hotel. It was easier to sneak his father, the boy, the girl, and Steve into the room for the day.

  The back roads had been deserted all night, probably in part due to the reported spread of participation in his father’s accidental TV appearance. When they did pass the few nighthawks out there they did so at a legal speed in a nondescript car.

  What a blessing past impulses can be.

  At the height of his fame, Jackson’s father found he couldn’t go anywhere with his family without being mobbed. It got dangerous when fans started jumping in front of their car. To regain some semblance of normality, he made a big show of driving a flashy Lamborghini while arranging to have a boring sedan fitted with windshields that slightly blurred whomever was inside. That top-secret vehicle was registered to an assistant. That guy received a sizable monthly check just for keeping the paperwork in his name so Bob and family could travel without anyone, even autograph- hungry cops, recognizing them. Jackson had assumed the trick had been abandoned years ago, and was thankful for his father’s fidelity to the ruse.

  But even the Invisi-Mobile wouldn’t protect them enough during the day.

  So they hid.

  As the much less recognizable face, Jackson got the rooms, always in run down motels where paying a little extra cash “so the wife doesn’t see it on the bill” was understood and welcomed.

  They slept through the day, Perri and Merle Jr. clocking in the longest hours. Jackson believed they were using sleep to to avoid heartbreaking despondency over their father’s horrible death, the poor kids.

  Steve slept on the kids’ bed, snuggling up next to Perri, or in her open backpack if the room was tense. He was deep in the backpack at the moment.

  Jackson and his father slept in shifts, one keeping vigilant near a draped window in case TASE somehow tracked them down.

  Jackson’s pacing always began during the last hour before dusk, when he grew anxious to get moving across back roads in darkness.

  Bob was supposed to be sleeping. Instead, he was doing his best to monitor social media, handing his phone to his son and demanding, “Open something for me,” checking that platform, and then demanding Jackson open some other app. This was how he came across Statler’s tweet.

  “Filthy rich? That phony!” Bob started a reply, deleted it, started two more and deleted those, and then lowered the phone. “I’ve got too much to say for just 140 characters,” he fumed.

  Jackson motioned for the phone. It was a burner as they had thrown their more easily traceable personal phones out the car windows almost as soon as they fled

  Bob’s house. He opened FunBook, hit “go live” and handed it back.

  “When you’re ready, hit the circle, watch the countdown, and then just talk to everybody for as long as you want. Once you are done, hit the circle again and give it to me. I’ll make sure people will find your post pretty quick.”

  He glanced out the tiny crack between the drapes and then over to his father. “Just keep the camera close so they can’t see any backgrounds that might help them ID where we are.”

  Bob looked at his son for a long beat, nodded with admiration, and then walked into the bathroom. He positioned himself in front of a blank white wall, held up the phone, adjusting it so just his face was onscreen. He hit the button, nodded through the countdown, and then spoke.

  “Hey everybody. Didja see President Statler just tweeted that I am somehow fooling you all? And he asked why I cared,” Bob said. He took a breath, shaking his head, before continuing. “Why do I care?

  “Because the world shouldn’t be this messed up; “Because the powerful and careless shouldn’t be

  able to make our lives worse on a whim;

  “Because the influential and greedy shouldn’t be able to cut us off from our dreams;

  “Because we all should matter more than some political cult of personality;

  “And because, damn it, I want the world we were promised. Not the empty assurances of these current dweebs but the guarantees made by the Founding Fathers on sacred documents that still exist.

  “Yes, they owned slaves, but even Thomas Jefferson

  wrote ‘all men are created equal’, giving us some hope that we could get there.

  “And women’s suffrage gave us hope that we could get there.

  “And the New Deal gave us more hope.

  “And the Civil Rights Movement gave us even more hope.

  “What hope are we getting now? How are we advancing our beliefs, this county, the world, our human race?

  “The truth is we’re not advancing. And we should be. We owe that to ourselves and to each other and to our children and their children and on and on. That is the Idea of America. That any of us, from anywhere in the world, at any level of learning, speaking any language, coming from any economic background, and praying to any god, could come here, and could work hard to make a better life, for us, and for those who come after us.

  “That’s the Idea of America.

  “That doesn’t happen anymore because a few want it all for themselves, right now, and forget anyone else, and forget about tomorrow.

  “That’s not the America I believe in.

  “This shouldn’t be about a few of us. The Idea of America doesn’t work that way. America has to be about all of us, or this is just a shell game, a con, a crime.

  “Call it whatever you want, True America, The States, whatever, but if we let the Idea of America die then this is not America.

  “And as much as it breaks my heart to say so, right now, we’re not America.

  “I want us to be the America of promise again. Not

  the America that scares its own people, freaks out other countries, imprisons brown people, hunts gay people. I want us to be the America dreamed about in those Founding Father documents, and in those shining moments throughout our history when we created hope for ourselves and for the world.

  “Even if it was never completely true, because, honestly, we haven’t fully realized the Idea of America, not yet. But we can realize America, together, we can be America, and we should be working toward that, always toward that, because …the hope of what we might be … that is the path, the spark, the chance for all of us to finally get to bask in the Idea of America.

  “I want to get there. And I want to get there with you. All of you.

  “That’s why I care, Mr. President. How about you? “But to get there, to get to the America that was

  promised in those original documents, to share in that Idea of America in all its glorious political and religious and economic and lifestyle diversity, first we need to get their attention.

  “And nothing gets their attention like threatening the money.

  “So let’s all keep ours, all of us. Let’s not spend a penny. We all have enough to last us a few more days. I’m on the run now with just what’s in my pockets, so most of you have more than me at the moment, and I’m willing to go hungry for the good of this country.

  “Let’s do this.

  “Let’s remind them that there are significantly more of us than there are of them, and if we stop feeding their beast, if we stop buying their stuff, stop supporting their twisted political plans, they fall apart pretty quickly.

  “They cannot survive without us, but we can survive by replacing them.

  “You see, they have actually taught us some things over these l
ast few years; they’ve taught us exactly how to survive with almost nothing.

  “Turns out that is a weapon we can use.

  “Together we can throw the brakes on this whole out of control clown car.

  “Until they agree to make some changes. Or get out of our way.

  “Until they recognize that we actually matter, let’s keep what we have and let them feel forgotten for awhile.

  “Let’s take our country back, insist on this nation living by the glorious Idea of America by refusing to participate in their limited definition of what True America is.

  Why do we care? Because we are the Idea of America.

  “There’s your answer, Mr. President. Thanks for asking.”

  Bob hit stop, looked to Jackson. “How was that?”

  Jackson took the phone, made sure the entire speech went online. When satisfied, he looked up with tears in his eyes, and smiled. “Grand slam homerun, Pop.”

  Bob shrugged.

  Jackson handed the phone back, started packing the few things they had. “Get the kids up, we gotta get out of here.”

  Bob tossed his few items in his canvas bag. Boom.

  Done. “What’s the rush?”

  “After that speech goes viral, they are really going to

  want to kill us.”

  Bob reached over to gently shake Merle Junior. “Now you tell me.”

  Chapter 44

  LIONEL WAS DOING PUSH-UPS in his open-air cage when a coach approached. The actor stood, dusted himself off, and then smiled at the coach, nodding toward the cloudless, sunny sky. “Damn fine morning, ain’t it?”

  The coach seemed thrown. “Do you think we’ll just let you out because you aren’t cursing and insulting us?”

  Lionel shrugged. “Bob’s dead,” he said, blessing himself. “You told me that last night, and yes, admittedly, you upset me greatly. But my new brothers, the Muslims you sent over—”

  “We didn’t—”

  “Hey, whatever. I just appreciate you allowing them to talk to me. They made a lot of sense.”

  “Oh they did, huh?”

  “They actually helped you out by asking me point blank how my anger honors Bob’s memory. And they’re right. He was a positive force to those around him. Since it looks like I am stuck here no matter what I say, I figure let me at least keep the man in my heart by trying to be a more helpful presence in this community, even inside this, ah, meditation center right here.”

  The coach stared. Finally, he just asked, “Really?” “Honestly, time will tell, but I’m trying, man,”

  Lionel said, shrugging again.

  The coach’s sarcasm was thick. “And how can we help facilitate these efforts?”

  “A bucket of water and some soap would be great

  — much better than that hose you been drowning me with,” Lionel said. He sniffed his shirt, then added, “Maybe some new threads; these are a bit offensive, I’m not gonna lie.”

  “So you are not asking for release?”

  Lionel broke out a broad smile. “Do you realistically think I expect release after my calm and nuanced debate yesterday?”

  The coach had to smile. “Point taken,” he said. “I’ll see what we can do.”

  With that he walked to the other coaches and they all murmured importantly.

  Satisfied with his performance, Lionel hopped up, grabbed the bars above him, and started doing pull ups, crooning a slightly off key version of Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together.”

  Chapter 45

  BO WAS LIVID.

  Murphy’s second live post hit higher numbers than the first. And it increased participation in the national sick out, expanding it to commerce. Ronnie Leland, the Pizza King, called by mid-afternoon complaining that he was down a million orders nationally and threatened to take his losses out of the next campaign donation.

  Throughout the day, gas, entertainment, and major retail executives contacted the congressmen whose campaigns they financed, lodging similar gripes. By 6 pm, almost no one was on the street, in the malls, super markets, or even calling into televised shopping shows in most markets across the country. Even online shopping was down dramatically, according to another furious billionaire donor.

  “This comedian is costing me money,” Bo seethed. “He can’t do that, I’m the president!”

  He called a meeting of Joint Chiefs of Staff for 7 pm, demanding a plan of action.

  “We are at war, gentlemen, make no mistake about that fact,” the president always sounded hoarse when he tried to put authority in his voice. “Today that UnAmerican Terrorist, the Murdering Bob Murphy, called for an organized, widespread attack on our economy. We already have major don—

  business interests from the energy, entertainment, and retail industries bombarding us with complaints and demands that we take decisive action in the best interests of the nation!”

  The various chiefs of staff tried to redirect focus. “Are you ordering us to deploy military units against

  native born American citizens?”

  “Do you really want the marines to track down a private, American-owned vehicle, sir?”

  “Shouldn’t that be the purview of the FBI?” “Or TASE?”

  “Or state and local law enforcement?”

  Bo slammed his fist on the large oaken conference table, ignoring the pain that shot up to his elbow. “I WANT ALL OF THAT! NATIONWIDE! RIGHT NOW!”

  The Secretary of Defense stood, silencing the room. “Commander-in-Chief.” He knew Bo loved being called by his military designation.

  On cue, the president gave a little involuntary smile. “Deployment has commenced, sir, but we need to clarify our objective. What is our long-range goal here? Capture? Termination on sight? We must consider the immediate and considerable ramifications that our

  actions will have on the nation.”

  Bo sat back in his chair, wanting to issue some baddass order in front of these men, wanting to be a Man of Vision, a Keen Military Strategist, a Tough Guy, wanting to be seen as presidential.

  Nothing came to him.

  When the silence grew awkward, he stammered, “I’m w-waiting for you to continue your report, general. What do you see as our best option?”

  The Secretary of Defense didn’t hesitate. “Executing

  a very public arrest, and doing so strictly by the book is best,” he said. “Show we are not above the law, and neither is he. We will then employ methods of persuasion available to us to secure his renunciation of the entire movement.”

  The Chief of Staff of the US Army leaned forward, adding, “With his traveling companions as leverage, he will recant quickly, sir.”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff waved off the CoSoA. “He’s gone too far to recant now. Termination is our best option. Cut the head off the snake.”

  The Commandant of the US Marine Corps stood up. “And the nation erupts into civil war. Termination is counterproductive to our prime objective: re- establishing the national status quo.”

  An obviously amused Southern accent rose above the din, interrupting all the official posturing.

  “True ‘Mericans do have some rights in this country: freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, no matter how dangerous those rights may prove to be.”

  The speaker was Terry “Shank” Wilkins, Commander-in-Chief of TASE, a new and unwelcome addition to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, there by Bo’s insistence. Skank stood and walked to a coffee urn at the side of the room, knowing all eyes would follow him, annoyed by his very presence and incensed that he had the audacity to speak up and then to keep them waiting.

  The broad, solid warrior thoroughly enjoyed annoying these pompous relics.

  Like most of his “special ops” organization, Shank rose through private military (commonly understood

  to mean black ops and wet work for hire), surviving bloody skirmishes and outlasting overwhelming odds. He had paid his dues, carried the scars and shrapnel to tell the tale, and disdained the tradi
tions of the older military leaders who looked down their noses at him.

  “That Bob Murphy, he surely does have lots of loyal followers,” Shank said, pouring hot black coffee into a mug with a presidential seal. “Thang is, he’s got just as many rabid enemies. People who believe old Bobby represents everything that is wrong with ‘Merica. And these True ‘Mericans so love this country they are willing to protect it by any means necessary.”

  The CoUSMC scoffed, “Your proposed solution is for us to hope some patriot gets to a terrorist even we can’t find?”

  Shank dropped two cubes of sugar into his black coffee and then smiled at the Joint Chiefs. “Finding him won’t be a problem a’tall,” he drawled, and then stirred the coffee a bit before he continued. “He’s headlining a big rally at the Lincoln Memorial come this Saturday.” The chairman sighed. “Bob Murphy is on the run.

  He certainly will not be making a public appearance.” “You would think that,” the TASE CiC said. He took a

  sip of coffee, nodded his approval, and then continued. “However, you leaders of men might want to keep a closer eye on where the nation actually lives. Plans are spreading on the Internet. That big demonstration at the Lincoln Memorial is gonna make those old anti- Trump rallies look like a child’s birthday party.”

  The Joint Chiefs flew their fingers across iPads and cell phones. After a few minutes, they collectively glared at Shank.

  The chairman said, “There is no demonstration planned, spoken of, or being suggested anywhere on

  social media.”

  Shank checked his watch theatrically and then looked up, shrugging. “My mistake. The resistance will come up with this idea in an hour. And when it does, them dedicated rebels are gonna spread the news with the speed and efficiency of Russian hackers.”

  The Joint Chiefs of Staff stared.

  Shank smiled. “Many of our beloved citizenry will assume Ol’Bob himself created the event to finish what he started.”

  The chairman blurted out, “You—”