by Joseph Storm
“This is not what I had in mind,” Mika said to an orphanage worker, who had been promised money to deliver a healthy baby boy.
“These are throwaways...garbage kids. The good ones...one I promised...in back,” the worker assured.
“You better not be wasting my time!” Sorka demanded.
The worker led Sorka through the back doors. They arrived in a separate area, where healthy children were reserved for wealthy overseas buyers. The area was heated, and the conditions were like a palace compared to the other.
“This is the boy!” the worker proclaimed.
Sorka had barely laid eyes on his prize for a moment, when the look of opportunism covered his face. It wasn’t the baby that caused him such reaction. It was what the baby could grow up to be.
“He is...perfect. Not a mark on him. Perfect skin...eyes... presence. He’s...dare I say...American. Has the paperwork been processed?” Sorka asked his bodyguard.
“In progress as we speak. As far as they know...he born American,” the body guard said.
“Just the way we planned it,” Sorka said with a smile.
Simon Ryan Judas was the name that would appear on his fake American birth certificate. Such an object was a necessity for a natural born citizen to run for president. Knowing that no stone would be left unturned in the political dogfight of the election, every detail was invented to cover his tracks. They included the hospital he was born at, home address of his fictional citizen parents, social security number, and even photoshopped pictures of various concocted memories.
In reality, Judas was a perfect child, born to loving Russian parents. They didn’t place him in an orphanage voluntarily. In fact, he was kidnapped, mirroring many healthy babies in the Soviet Union, who were taken specifically for deals like this. Some ended up in eastern brothels, others to wealthy families, though Judas was the only one to be bred for world domination.
“I get money?” the worker asked.
“You get something money can’t buy. For this...you get to see if there is an afterlife...or not. Pay the man,” he said to his bodyguard.
“I don’t get?” the worker asked nervously.
“Translate for him,” he said to the body guard, as the ape-like man gripped the worker around the neck, twisting it nearly to the back.
A sharp breath sounded from the man, as he fell to the floor.
“Paid in full,” Sorka said. “Drag his body out the back...we can’t have anyone knowing of this child. Not until the time is right.”
The years moved on, as some of Judas’s first memories were from the age of four, much like when Rock’s training began. However, he wasn’t taught combat. Instead, he was instructed in the art of politics.
A young Simon sat at a desk with an American teacher. “Trust! Now repeat.”
“Trest.”
“No!” Sorka yelled from behind, interrupting the teacher. “He must not speak with an accent...dammit...he must not even think with one! Say it!”
The scared little boy stuttered, “tre...st.”
“He’s been stuttering of late,” the teacher said. “We can’t figure out why.”
“Why? Because you show him too much leniency!” he yelled. “Trust!” he screamed out, though even his own pronunciation wasn’t perfect. “Trust!” he screamed into the child’s face again. “Trust!” he yelled one more time, as his closed fist struck the boy in the jaw.
Simon Judas started to shed tears.
“No crying!” he yelled, grabbing him by the hair. “Say it! Trust!”
The boy started twitching in nervousness, shifting the fear from his stutter and tears to the twitch on his face. Mika Sorka closed his fist again, raising it up to strike the boy.
“Trust,” Simon Judas said, in a perfect way.
“He’s cured. I want that word perfected...as it will one day be the cornerstone of his campaign...the word that propels him into office. Next, work on tone of voice,” Sorka said. “He speaks like a weakling. I don’t want him to have emotion...I want him to know how to fake emotion,” he proclaimed, before exiting the room.
The teacher went right back to work, “trust.”
“Trust,” the boy said in a robotic, flat tone.
“Trust!” the teacher said with passion.
“Trust,” the boy said robotically again.
“Do I have to fetch Mr. Sorka again?”
“Trust!” the boy said with strength of conviction.
“Correct.”
Simon Judas went to bed that night, laying in the dark. He tried to fight his uncontrollable twitching, knowing that it could lead to grave consequences. The twitch eventually stopped, though not by any act of his doing. The overwhelming fear overtook his body, sending all of his pain deep into the darkest caverns of his mind.
He didn’t know it at the time, but with those memories, went every bit of real emotion that existed. Simon would eventually even miss the tears, pain, and nerves which once plagued him.
Even though emotions hurt so much, they had made him human, as opposed to the empty puppet that he became. The man was operated by his master, pulling his every string, voicing his every word, and thinking his every thought.
Judas’s childhood consisted of no toys, ice cream, or birthday parties. In fact, the only books that he ever read were profiles on megalomaniacs. They were cults of personality that were elected with smiles, yet ruled with fists of iron.
The speech, which he delivered on inauguration day, was one that he had been memorizing for years, performing for Mika Sorka like entertainment. It was rehearsed until he got it perfect.
Food, drink, and use of a bathroom were withheld routinely. There would be times when he went two full days without receiving an ounce of sustenance or break, collapsing in exhaustion.
“Get up or get beat,” Sorka would tell him.
Somehow, Leader Judas would crawl to his feet, beginning again. He recited the same speeches and themes of trust ad nauseam. A series of observed debates followed the speeches, as he was constantly under fire with questions and American issues of the day.
His teenage years, ones filled by most youngsters with fun and college parties, passed by in emptiness. Instead of drinking and girls, Simon Judas attended smile classes, and structural etiquette.
“Stand tall and smile at all times,” his teacher demanded. She stood by with a ruler, watching him building the muscles in his cheeks to display the constant emotion. His smile placement, mood, and stance were constantly measured. At times, his smile would droop, as the muscles in his face would fight against the unnatural consistency of the act.
“Up!” the teacher would shout, smacking him in the face with a ruler.
The smile would return to the perfect position.
Each day, Simon Judas was groomed to perfection, as every hair was gelled into place. At the age of thirty, his hairline had slightly started receding. Plugs were inserted to fill the void. The smallest signs of wrinkles were met with botox. His good teeth were all eventually pulled, and replaced with non-stainable veneers, and his suits were of the finest cloth and most fashionable make.
It was at the age of thirty-eight that he would be elected president. All the torture would pay off. The hard work was finally over, and his promised reward of a lavish lifestyle and unchecked power would soon come to fruition. Sorka assured Simon Judas that breathtaking mansions and beautiful women would soon be at his feet, under his complete control. It would be a small sample of what its like to be Sorka himself.
However, his twitches had presently returned. Leader Judas knew that it couldn’t last forever, though as frightening as it was, he embraced the moment with everything he had. It was the first time in years that he had felt the sting of pain, a real emotion of humanity. He never really knew joy, so he gladly settled for what he could get.
Simon Judas wiped a single tear from his eye, examining it, reacquainting himself with the feeling of the salty fluid. He grabbed the bottle of Vodka, holding it up
to himself. “To humanity,” he said, closing his eyes, taking a swig. He reburied the memories of his and Rock’s shared lessons of life, back down into his dark cavern.
The twitch was buried along with them.
Chapter Eight:
The Second Phase
“You have ten minutes to gather your belongings, and exit your homes,” a speaker shouted from the top of an intimidating vehicle. These long, rectangle-shaped vans were called “gatherers” as their main job was to gather mass crowds, transporting them to other places. The back seated areas were topped with a large metal cage, as cuffs and chains adorned the bars for unruly passengers. There was no exit handle from the inside. A vehicle with such measures indicated that Mika Sorka’s second phase had officially begun.
Residents of Potomac exited their homes in droves. Confusion set in everywhere. “You will be shuttled to your new accommodations,” the speaker called out, leaving many to wonder what their new dwellings would look like. Since the government owned the homes and land, the public had no “rights” to fight the evictions.
Two gatherers pulled up along the street, opening their back cage doors. A large group of elite guard stepped out into the area. They split up, going door to door.
The Johnson family of four waited cooperatively at the base of their front porch. They consisted of a mother, father, and two small children. Rushed for time, they tossed their clothes in garbage bags, allowing their two kids to grab one stuffed animal for comfort.
“Move,” an elite guard member said, as two guards led the family towards the vehicle. As they made their way, an elderly woman neighbor was dragged from the house next door. “I’ve owned this house for forty years...paid in full! I lost my husband here! I will not leave!” she cried out, as an Authoritarian Guard yanked the brittle woman by her arm. He strained every sensitive joint in her upper body.
“Mrs. Rose!” Mr. Johnson called out. He went to assist her, being stopped by the arm of the guard.
“That is none of your concern,” the guard said.
Mr. Johnson was surprised. “I was just trying to help diffuse the situation.”
“You are a civilian...know your place. Now move.”
The couple obeyed orders climbing into the vehicle. Suddenly, the voice of their daughter filled the air. “Mom!” the young girl cried out, as Mrs. Johnson turned back to witness a terrorizing sight.
“My children!” she screamed, jumping from the vehicle. Within a moment, she was grabbed by one guard member, as the other guard pulled her children towards the opposite vehicle.
“I want my mommy,” the little boy yelled, as he struggled from the grasp of the gloved guard. He wasn’t able to overcome the brute strength.
Mr. Johnson ran for the vehicle’s exit, as the guard pulled his weapon. “Do you wish to die?” he asked.
“Where are you taking them?” Mrs. Johnson called out.
“They are no longer your concern,” he said, as she watched her son get loaded into the other vehicle. With all attention turned towards the boy, the little girl broke free. She ran towards her mother, with teddy bear in hand.
“Come to me, baby,” Mrs. Johnson called out, reaching for her daughter. Before the girl could touch her mother, she was grabbed by her ponytail. The teddy bear spilled to the ground.
“Mom!” the little girl cried out.
The couple watched painfully at gunpoint, as their daughter was carried away into the vehicle. Before they knew it, more families were joining their plight. Crying children were loaded into one vehicle, as their parents were dragged off into the other.
“Why are you doing this?” Mrs. Johnson asked.
“They are going to a better place,” the guard said.
“Why take our children from us?” she asked again.
“Because they are no longer your children,” the guard informed her.
“Who in the hell’s children are they?” Mr. Johnson shouted.
“The government is their parent now.”
The guard forced Mrs. Johnson back into the gatherer. Other tearful parents and couples were secured inside, wondering where their own fates would end up.
Unfortunately for them, the decree was put into place that, much like the loss of property rights, parents no longer owned “rights” to their children. Since the government knew better, they would take over the parental responsibilities. There would be no visitation or future contact. It would be the last time that these couples would see their children.
Each adult was taken to a city-center, where large sections of newly constructed project buildings were added to older ones, long in existence. The poor and downtrodden, which already lived in those roach-ridden rooms, lined the streets. They formed long rows, mockingly welcoming their suburbanite countrymen to join them in squaller. However, the promises of upgrading their own living situation never arrived. The rich were brought down, though the poor stayed right where they were.
The cities were now where the average person lived, providing a concentrated area like cows in a pen. Suburban two-story houses and meticulously manicured lawns were reserved for the government chosen, along with the possessions that the previous owners had left behind.
As the Johnson’s entered their new abode, they saw that the new way of life consisted of the bare minimum. The floors were of rough concrete, the plywood walls were stuffed with cancer-causing asbestos, and the icebox was barely big enough to cool a twelve pack of soft drinks. Dishwashers, washing machines, and driers were replaced by racks and clotheslines, conserving energy and inviting a green world. It was one which the administration didn’t have to live by.
Heat and air conditioning were replaced by blankets and breezes. Citizens were issued four square of toilet paper to flush down with a tiny cup of water. Televisions were small, black and white, receiving one channel, run directly by the government.
The couple sighed in horror. They sat down on their government issued, no frills couch, turned on the TV, and tuned in for a special infomercial. The content featured Leader Judas and the good things he did for the nation. He waved to a smiling, adoring crowd; one which the Johnson’s faces appeared on the screen. However, it was no mirror staring back at them. The reversed side featured frowns.
Unfortunately, it would be the only program that would be available for the rest of their lives. Things had changed, but at the end of the day, they had no one else to blame but themselves.
They voted for The Government Party.
******
Joe Striker, Becky Fox, Gunner Shoman, and Father Francis Tyme huddled in a circle, as stress filled their faces.
“What now?” Gunner asked.
“We pray,” Father Tyme said.
“You pray...I’ll get the hell outta here,” Gunner announced.
Striker was still shaken from the previous day’s scene. “I can’t take any more blood on my hands,” he said, walking away from the group. Joe sat on a pew, wearing a numb, lifeless stare on his face.
Becky joined him, kneeling at his side. “You did what you had to do, Joe,” she assured him. “We need you...you can’t just quit on us.”
“For what? We can’t battle them...they’re too big...willing to do things that I can’t do any longer. Sacrifices I can no longer make. It’s a fight we can’t win.”
“The devil wins every day...yet we don’t give up. We continue to fight evil...even though evil often wins,” Father Tyme said. “Maybe this will cheer you up?” he asked, handing Striker an old compass. “The compass you requested. I found one in the donation box...figured there was no better cause it should go to.”
Joe put the compass in his pocket. “This will help us run...who will help us fight?”
“You heard the man, Striker...pray...and it just magically gets better,” Gunner said in a mocking tone.
“You confuse prayer with action, my friend. God tells us the way out of a situation. We must walk the path...not wait for it to be paved.”
“Yeah...well,
you can stick around and wait for God’s answer. I’ll choose a different form of worship,” Gunner said, as he pulled his weapon.
“Remind me to ask you about the source of your anger someday. It burdens you.”
“Can priests take a wife?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll never understand that burden.”
“We need to figure something out...the men in masks are all over the streets,” Becky said. “They’re rounding people up! Who knows what they’re capable of next?”
“God will tell us,” Gunner said, pausing for a moment as he looked at his watch. “Still waiting.”
All of a sudden, Father Tyme’s phone rang. A look of shocked concern crossed Gunner’s face.
“For your sake...you better hope it’s someone else,” Father Tyme said. He answered the phone, “Hello? Father Jim, how are you, my friend?”
Gunner smirked confidently, turning to Joe and Becky, saying, “Didn’t think so!” he then turned off to the side, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He quietly said to himself, “Phew.”
“My Lord, say it isn’t so!” Francis said. Becky Fox went to him, offering support. “Do what is in your heart...I will do what is in mine. Thank you, friend, may God be with you,” he said, slowly turning off his phone, with a pale, sick look on his face.
“I take it God had his secretary call instead?” Gunner asked in a wise manner.
“That was Father Jim from the Immaculate Conception...our head church over in D.C.”
“And?” Gunner asked.
“They’ve blown it up...reducing it to a graveyard of stone,” he said, with a defeated look upon his face.
“Blew up as in bombs?” Gunner asked.
“Correct, son.”
“Oh my God,” Becky said. “Is Father Jim, all right?”
“It depends on what you define as all right. He lived...but was about to be relocated to another place. He was trying to warn as many parishes as he could...before it was too late.”