Chap 2 of the work-in-progress, "Dimwits - A Love Story." Of course, my first novel still available on Kindle.... CHAPTER TWO APRIL, 2072 Maxwell Edison commanded an end to his scalding hot shower and stepped out, dry before he reached the vanity thanks to the hydro-molecular neutralizer suspended just above the automatic stall door. He inspected his blood-shot eyes in the fog-free mirror, wishing he’d skipped that last game at the Scrabble Bar a mere five hours earlier. The come-from-behind victory – thanks to the word “xi” (and his opponent’s failure to take advantage of a particular “Triple Letter Score” space) – had of course been exhilarating, but the congratulatory accolades and accompanying free drinks had kept him well beyond his customary self-imposed 1 a.m. curfew, and now he’d have to bust ass to make it to work on time. And this was going to be a long day. He put on his viso-goggles to whiten his eyes, ran a comb through his short reddish-blond hair, then spent another ten seconds cleaning and sanitizing his mouth and teeth with his sonic oral hygiene unit. He removed the goggles, wondering why the hell technology couldn’t speed this shit up. Including the shower, he’d spent nearly five irretrievable minutes of his life merely rendering himself presentable. Although, truth be told, not entirely presentable, as he was still buck-naked. Five minutes later, he slid his six-foot fully-clothed frame into the cockpit of his Honda Auto-Driver, punched in the coordinates to the office, and pulled up the day’s caseload on the dash-mounted computer while the solar-powered vehicle silently began the fifteen-minute, fifty-mile commute to Nashville. He sighed. This was going to be a long day. As the Southern Regional Assessor of Intelligence and Worthiness for the Consolidated Union’s Bureau of Population Management, Max was responsible for determining the fates of those souls whose profiles had slipped through the cracks of the CU’s computerized Existence Validation Prognosticator - those having a borderline-acceptable IQ (less than 130, more than 110) or an acceptable IQ but exhibiting a tendency toward violent or just plain stupid behavior. Some of the latter group were spared if they were especially good at football (the only remaining legal sport); otherwise they were eliminated or – as it was called if they were under the age of eighteen – retroactively aborted. It was a daunting task, one which Max never took lightly nor without an element of remorse, yet it was a responsibility he was honored to bear, for without his efforts Western civilization might be doomed to return to an era of reality TV and pro wrestling and Black Friday shoppers. And everyone knew how that had turned out. He was happy knowing that, at the age of thirty-five, he still had fifty years left until retirement. As his Honda zipped toward the rapidly approaching skyline of what was once known as Music City (before country music, like rap and most of pop, had been outlawed for its lack of intellectually-redeeming qualities), Max mentally braced himself for what was to come. He had fourteen cases to decide today, the subjects of which he was sure would, if possible, bring their mothers. That was the toughest part of his job: telling the moms that - despite their insistence that their child (regardless of the child’s age), could get smarter, or become less violent - they knew the rules. By the time their respective offspring came before him, they’d had ample opportunity – through either behavior modification, intellect-enhancing pharmaceuticals, or learning football – to bring their scores up to a level righteously required of a peaceful, thoughtful society. Oftentimes the mothers would continue to protest even after the fruits of their wombs had been perfunctorily vaporized. Which, Max thought, was rather stupid. There’d been a time, shortly after the Second Civil War, when such unfortunate miscreants were given the option - rather than facing a quick, painless death – of being shipped to the rebel country-state of Oklahoma. That was, after all, where the doomed uprising had begun, and where – according to most of the subsequently-rising power structure – the feeble-minded and mean-spirited would fit right in. Mainly, it was just payback, as well as self-fulfilling prophesy, for within a decade of the institution of that particular policy the former “Sooner State” had seen an exodus of the intellectually-inclined unrivaled since that long-ago day when Moses had persuaded a bunch of Jews to “take a short walk.” Unfortunately, becoming an Okie was no longer an option. The self-described “powers-that-is” had finally sealed its borders (cutting off its superfluous panhandle in the process), becoming a land overrun with obese, snaggle-toothed Wal-Mart shoppers and honkey-tonkers, establishing itself within a generation as the “Livestock-Butchering Capital of the World.” The thought of which made Max wonder what he was going to have for lunch. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there, he thought as the Honda eased itself seamlessly into his designated parking space. Right now I’ve got other fish to vaporize.
Posted on: Sun, 18 Aug 2013 01:11:46 +0000
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