A Simple Rebellion Page 6

  CLICK.

  “Bob Murphy is back, folks—”

  CLICK!

  Bob turned off the television, slammed the remote down on the couch. He leapt to his feet, stormed around the house. “Why did I even pick up the phone, Steve?”

  Steve had no answer.

  “Did it say the kids’ names? I thought so, but it couldn’t have. And that music, I thought that was just for the kids, but maybe that’s just the FaceTime ringtone. I don’t know social media that well.” He tossed the phone onto the couch near the remotes.

  Steve gazed up at him with soulful brown eyes. “Yeah, bro, we both have to up our tech game.”

  Bob and Steve stomped around the house for a long while, eventually slowing to an amble, and then finally wandering over to the bookshelves in the small library at the end of the hall. “Enough with the world for tonight. You with me?”

  The dog was most certainly with him. Right at his ankles.

  Bobperusedshelvesfullofwell-thumbedpaperbacks he had owned for decades. “What we need is some solid distraction from a good ol’ Texas boy. Which will it be, Robert E. Howard or Michael Moorcock?”

  Steve inclined his head slightly to the right. “An evening with Elric of Melniboné it is.”

  And in this way, with both the phone and the television off, Bob and Steve were completely unaware of what had been unleashed.

  Chapter 23

  PREDAWN, BOB PACKED THE garbage in the bike baskets, grabbed his wallet, a bottle of water, his house keys….

  “Where’s the damned phone?”

  He and Steve looked everywhere, until he remembered shutting it off and tossing it onto the couch. When he turned the phone back on, the damn thing nearly vibrated out of his hand as message after message uploaded. Bob didn’t do social media, so these were all voicemails.

  Percy from the barbershop said, “Good job, Bob!

  For you, we gonna stay closed today.”

  Merle, Jr. said, “Great line. So many kids listened they had to close the school. That’s hilarious.”

  A woman from the movie company whispered, “Mr. Murphy, we’re with you. So many of us are calling out, too.”

  “This is Florena, we closed the theater in solidarity.” Jeremy was positively joyous. “Can you believe the overnight numbers? I don’t know why you decided to go ahead on your own, but you made me look like a genius, so thank you! Your clip is going ridiculously viral. On YouTube, it already has over a million hits. In a few hours! Your rallying cry is being shared everywhere, even on National News! And people are following your

  advice.”

  Bob asked no one, “What advice?”

  He grabbed the taped-up television remote, clicked on National News.

  Some morning talking head was saying, “We haven’t seen a populist movement like this since the Trump years. Businesses are finding they can’t open their doors for lack of staff, and corporations are reporting record absences, all because of a few words from a long retired comedian.”

  Her counterpart adjusted his glasses pompously, countering, “Well, of course, the impetus was there among the Easily Hysterical, broiling underneath their daily lives, waiting for just one more thing to push them needlessly over the edge. All Murphy did was nudge the liberals into the tantrums they love to throw.” He seemed to review his statement, and concern crossed his jowly face. He hurried to add, “Of course this is reckless and unacceptable.”

  A third sucked his teeth, then said, “Record numbers staying home. We barely have a skeleton crew here at the station. And these unpatriotic stats keep climbing. It’s more than a nudge. This just might be treason.”

  “Treason!” Bob stood in the middle of his living room stunned. “What did I say?”

  Chapter 24

  BY MIDDAY, “BREAKING NEWS” anchors on every station —even the illegal ones— were reporting what Bob could only process as lunacy. According to the various reports, somewhere between 20 and 25 percent of the workforce had “called out sick” from their jobs, and all the anchors were attributing the mass absences to one sentence Bob had uttered off the cuff.

  “Well, Winston, if coming on your show is my job, then I’m calling out sick. Maybe more people should do that.”

  They played the clip over and over, and reports grew of more and more people leaving work, “calling out sick” for their afternoon and night shifts, and “calling out sick” in advance for tomorrow.

  “Well, Winston, if coming on your show is my job, then I’m calling out sick. Maybe more people should do that.”

  “What the hell did I do, Steve?” Steve didn’t know.

  Neither did Bob.

  The garbage remained in the bike baskets and the morning dishes didn’t get done — in fact, nothing got done as the two of them watched dumbfounded as the numbers of participants in “The Bob Murphy National Sick Out” continued to climb.

  Chapter 25

  NATIONAL NEWS ANCHORS STRUGGLED to make

  some sense of the effects of Bob’s TV appearance. “Online rentals of Bob Murphy films have surged, so

  perhaps his fans aren’t boycotting all of the economy,” one self-impressed anchor reported with a smirk. “And President Statler suspects the comedian’s sagging finances might be behind his un-American war cry, tweeting, ‘Now we know what is behind all this; it is a stunt to boost Murphy’s bank account. Pitiful.’”

  Joining Bob and Steve on the couch, Merle, Jr. barked a sardonic laugh. “You just got smacked by a moron.”

  Murphy chuckled. “Yeah, well, His Dimness may have just given all of us an out,” he said, thumbing his phone to life.

  After searching without success, he handed it to the teenager. “Where is my Twitter account?”

  Merle Jr. snorted another laugh, found the app, opened it, found Bo’s tweet and hit “reply”.

  Bob thanked him, and then sent a series of tweets.

  Replying to @RealPresidentStatler My finances are in great shape, Bo, thanks for the concern. Ask Miller how this happened.

  Replying to @RealPresidentStatler But, if you want, POTUS, my man, I’d love to have you over to the house.

  Replying to @RealPresidentStatler

  We could grill up some burgers, have some cold brews, and talk this out.

  Replying to @RealPresidentStatler

  I know I would love that. I suspect America would love that. I hope you will, too.

  Replying to @RealPresidentStatler So POTUS Bo, come on over. Tweet back and let me know if you want cheese on them burgers.

  Almost immediately a response appeared.

  Replying to @BobMurphy The President represents True

  Americans; POTUS will not be going anywhere near you for burgers.

  Merle Junior’s laughter sounded like muffled machine gun fire. Once he regained his composure, he shook his head. “Statler 2, Murphy 0.”

  “Maybe not,” Bob said, staring open-mouthed at his phone He held it up so the kid could see.

  Bob’s screen was almost a blur as thousands retweeted Statler’s message with comments such as:

  @fakeID Replying to @ RealPresidentStatler Anyone who

  rejects a backyard invite is no True American. #BurgersAmAmerica

  @CrankCase Replying to @

  RealPresidentStatler Bo’s showing his true colors and they aren’t red, white, and blue. #FakeAmerican

  @JustinBurb Replying to @ RealPresidentStatler C’mon Bo, grab a burger and beer with Bob. Maybe you two can finally reunite this shattered country.

  #That’sWhataRealPrezWouldDo

  Merle Jr. studied the responses carefully. Finally, he looked up and said, “This is kind of awesome.”

  Bob shook his head. “All I did was end an unwanted FaceTime call.”

  Merle Jr. waved away Bob’s humility. “All Obama did was insult Trump.”

  “Uh oh,” Bob said.

  Merle Jr. smiled, “Now you begin to glimpse the truth. Only one question remains.”

  “An
d that is?”

  “How soon will they crush you?”

  Chapter 26

  BEFORE BOB REALLY UNDERSTOOD what was

  happening, the end had begun.

  By the afternoon, things turned dangerous. Bob’s former comedy partner, the ever-acerbic Lionel Jackson, showed up at a Freedom Processing Center outside of Hattiesburg, Mississippi, with the media in tow, and went off live on television.

  In truth, Lionel had been patient on this longer than Bob thought was possible for him. His former partner had a penchant for yelling first and thinking whether he should have later.

  Civil rights protections had long been under siege, first with the banning of illegal aliens, and then brown people of all nationalities were made subject to “extreme vetting” if they wished to emigrate, which became so extreme most nonwhites stopped applying for visas or green cards to America and chose Canada, Australia, England and Ireland instead.

  Then the True American Safety Enforcement (TASE) agency was created to the arrest, prosecute, and deport even American-born minorities. Legal challenges exploded and the government’s response was to create Freedom Processing Centers where “questionable Americans” could be held “safely” while inconsistencies with the law and True American efforts

  to keep the country “safe” (pronounced “white”) were “being resolved.”

  The camps grew, coincidentally on enormous farmlands where detainees were put to work growing their own food and making their own clothes, a small percentage of which they were actually allowed to keep. All of this started on what became known as True Americans Day, now a national holiday complete with

  greeting cards and Red, White, and Blue Sales days.

  When President Bo signed all of these bills into law, he also launched, via executive order, a program called True Americans Registration. This was a protection for all adult citizens that called for the implanting of a True American Safety Tracker into the neck of each righteous resident “to keep them out of harm’s way.”

  “True Americans will never again find themselves at the mercy of the growing Minority, Gay, Terrorist Complex which threatens our nation’s future. Once True Americans are gifted with the trackers, they will never be vulnerable to such threats again because the full power of the American military will immediately rush to their aid,” Statler proclaimed, loosening the collar of his pressed white shirt and accepting his own tracker injection in the Oval Office, and the source of Merle Junior’s conspiracy theory.

  True American Registration started with our poorest citizens, “the ones most in need of our protections,” Bo declared. The injection program was meant to climb through the economic strata of the nation until everyone was “protected” but had yet to find its way beyond working class and minority neighborhoods.

  Instead, processing centers became “registration points” as well, so, if some ACLU lawyer forced the

  government to free a few of the processing center registrants, they would be traceable. Easier to find and charge with the next crime.

  And Lionel Jackson was standing right in front of one of those nightmare camps about to call out the government on all of it.

  Bob swallowed, made the sign of the cross, and prayed.

  Chapter 27

  THE CAMERAS CLOSED IN on Lionel. His close cropped hair was more gray now, but that trademark scowl still started at his furiously furrowed brows, shot fiery intolerance from his always alert eyes, and scrunched one side of his nose and mouth up in a snarl that had defined his comedic outrage, offsetting Bob’s more amiable wiseass persona. Each complimented the other’s performance style, the mix proving irresistible to millions. Together they enjoyed the biggest comedy success of their careers.

  And then Bo stranded Mary Angeline, and everything ended.

  Bob watched his all-time favorite comedian approach the microphones and thought about Lionel’s patience. And he had been patient, but not silent. His old partner had never been silent on anything that bothered him in his entire life. He made political and cultural horrors a central focus of his stand-up shows. Lionel could do 60 minutes on a dozen controversial topics and keep audiences howling throughout his sold-out comedy tours. And he did, until the Shadow Lopez Incident ended live comedy for all.

  Shadow Lopez was one of their contemporaries, quick and daring, irreverent and funny as hell. He was headlining the Latinos of Laughter Tour and was five

  minutes into a performance that was broadcast live on HBO from a sold out Madison Square Garden in NYC. Shadow was riffing mercilessly on the incompetency of the president when a shot rang out and Lopez’s head exploded on international television.

  Chaos ensued. The crowd stampeded for the exits.

  Hundreds were injured.

  HBO cut immediately to calmer entertainment, repeating a Game of Thrones episode.

  To twist the knife, the president tweeted his “condolences.”

  @RealPresidentStatler: We just witnessed that free speech isn’t free.

  #TrueAmerica #ResponsiblyFree

  @RealPresidentStatler: These are unsafe times. True Americans must register and get trackers. #RememberShadowLopez

  Bo used the assassination as a promotional tool for one of his pet projects. No other efforts were made to bring Shadow Lopez’ killer to justice.

  The message was loud and clear.

  Cutting edge comedy ended. No venue would book “dangerous” comedians.

  Comics who did continue subsisted on touring small clubs equipped with big metal detectors, focusing on safer comedic terrain like airplane food, shopping lists and relationship jokes.

  America forgot how to laugh at itself.

  Onscreen, Lionel Jackson was in angry performance mode. “My man Bobby is telling everyone to stay home. Not me. I asked you all to come out here because we’ve

  been home long enough. Today, I’m speaking up, too.”

  Bob rose slowly from the couch. “Oh no,” he murmured.

  Lionel started in, taking a step to the right or left as he would during his act, but staying in front of the cameras like the pro he was. “The president of these not so United States is laying out some lies about this prison right here behind me! He says: ‘These Freedom Processing Centers are just screening for True Americans.’ That’s some damn bullshit. And he says, ‘The Islamic religious are not being held, Muslim extremists are.’ That’s some bullshit right there, too, because my cousin Monique is being held up in here and she is one mouse-quiet, rug-kneeling, Allah-praying honey of a girl. I’ve seen her goodness. Does the prez care? Hell no! Bo also says, ‘All religions are protected under the Constitution, including Islam.’ If that is so, why is Monique and her whole Muslim community living in this prison camp for damn near a year?”

  A reporter asked, “Why do you see this Freedom Processing Center as a prison?”

  “Because Muslims check in but they don’t check out.”

  Another reporter said, “President Statler claims the government is just being thorough, that he would rather be thorough than dead.”

  He shot back, “Can you point to a single criminal incident that can be traced to these people right here the government is illegally holding in this prison?”

  Suddenly a uniformed officer walked up to the comedy legend. “No, because we’ve prevented all that potential death and destruction they would have caused. You’re welcome.”

  Lionel was not having it. “Don’t be obtuse. I mean before they were detained! Not so much as a parking ticket! Not even a library late fee for my True American cousin Monique!”

  “She must have done something,” the uniformed man said. “True Americans don’t get arrested.”

  Lionel wasn’t having any of that either. “Get outta my face, Sergeant Klansman!”

  “Please, Lionel,” Bob said to the television, “just walk away, buddy.”

  Onscreen, the officer took a step toward Lionel. “You need to remove yourself from this government facility, Lionel Jackson, b
ecause you are trespassing.”

  “I pay taxes, this is a government facility my taxes help finance, so trespassing my ass.”

  Chaos erupted as additional soldiers rushed Lionel from all sides, shouting “Gun!” and “Do not resist!” Even before Lionel could move a muscle, Bob’s friend and former partner was swallowed in a sea of green- clad men. Then one of the soldiers jammed a hand into the camera, and the feed was cut.

  An anchor appeared onscreen. “That was coming to you live from a Freedom Processing Center right outside Hattiesburg, Mississippi, where once-famous comedian Lionel Jackson just provoked a showdown with the U.S. government, possibly brandishing a weapon, and lost.”

  “That’s not what he did,” Bob shouted as he speed dialed Jeremy. It went to voicemail. “Jeremy! We need to help Lionel! Call me!”

  Merle Jr. came bursting through the unlocked door with his little sister. “Take care of Steve, Perri,” he said, and then turned to the bewildered comedian. “Are you

  nuts, Bob? You need to be barricaded in right now,” the teen scolded, locking the front door.

  Bob noticed his purple hair was jet black now. And all of his piercings were empty. And he was wearing a patrol uniform like his father’s.

  “The Sheriff deputized me to help you,” the kid explained. “He’s already got his troops stationed around your property but needs you to stay inside, with all your doors and windows locked, shades down and curtains drawn.”

  Bob instinctively went toward the kitchen window. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Merle Jr. blocked him. “We got word that news trucks were coming. Pop has them blocked off about two miles down, but they are demanding access. They want to be here when TASE arrives to crush you. Pop is praying reinforcements from County arrive before the Nazis do.”