The Thumper Amendment

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  Another touch from Dudley, and we found ourselves in a huge warehouse. The multi-level shelving rose fifty feet in the air, and held hundreds more caged Fritterz.

  “Huge corporations were funding the project,” said Dudley, “and they were impatient to reap the profits from their investment. So, they got a devilish idea: Why not create a half-man/half-animal labor force to take over manufacturing jobs?

  It was a sinister plan, for sure. Third-world countries had long dominated manufacturing with their cheap labor, but here was a workforce that worked for peanuts—literally—and no labor laws were broken because Fritterz weren’t considered human.

  We strolled down the aisles like shoppers at a discount warehouse. The vast array of animal types was mind-boggling.

  “Selective breeding methods were performed on animals with special abilities,” said Dudley. We stopped in front of a caged Badger. “Badgers are great at digging, and know more about excavation than any human engineer. Their talents were used to design new buildings, and they were paid nothing for doing it.”

  Then Dudley showed us a beaver, “Who knows more about dam construction than these guys.”

  In yet another cage were Fritter birds and squirrels, barely eight inches tall. “Who uses them?” I asked.

  “The Garment Industry,” replied Dudley. “Cinderella made pretty good use of them, if you recall.”

  Row after row of cages filled the oversized storeroom. The more I saw, the angrier I got.

  “Mad scientists!” I grumbled.

  “Not mad,” said Dudley, “just business savvy.”

  “This is all a little hard to believe,” said Alan. “Where are all of these construction projects they supposedly built?

  “You’ve been in one of them already,” said Dudley. “Theme Farm. The myth you were told about animals building Mr. Dempsey’s theme park is true.”

  The Dudley Touch then transported us to the outskirts of a secret military base. “This is a Defense Department facility,” said Dudley.

  “What would the Military want with Fritterz?” asked Alan.

  The sound of gunfire came from behind a nearby bunker. We climbed the dirt mound. On the other side, we observed Fritterz armed with assault rifles, shooting at human-shaped targets.

  “Imagine a covert army of genetically-engineered animals,” said Dudley. “Any species could now handle a weapon. Hamsters could cross enemy lines virtually undetected. And who cares if they get killed?”

  A final cranial touch from Dudley, and we were back by our bus in the fog.

  “Now comes the hard part,” said Dudley. He produced a bound document stamped Top Secret. “You may not like what you find in here, but you must see it.”

  The report was titled Cloning Practices and Methodology. It described the animal cloning process with technical graphs and mathematical equations that looked like hieroglyphics to me. Then a turn of the page revealed photos of the deplorable conditions that the animals were forced to exist in. They were shackled like prisoners, and kept in filthy cages. Smaller animals were crammed into hutches no bigger than a mailbox. Insubordination was controlled through electric shock. It made me sick!

  Dudley closed the report. “After years of suffering abuse, we escaped from that dreadful place, and have been hiding out here in the swamp ever since.”

  Alan and I were outraged, but it was nothing compared to the fury we felt when we read what was on the back of the report: Funded by a grant from the Chester T. Fields Foundation!

  “I should have guessed that scumbag was somehow involved in this,” said Alan.

  “There’s one last thing,” said Dudley. He reached into his back pocket and showed us a photo of a man in a lab coat. “This is Dr. Vincent Gutstudder, better known as ‘Dr. Guts.’ He’s the scoundrel who headed this project. He was about to stand trial or illegal product-testing on animals, when the project funding partners discovered him. Some high-powered attorneys got him acquitted on a technicality, and Dr. Guts joined the project soon after.

  “He’s ruthless and cunning. Beware of him!”

  A toddler elephant then walked up to Dudley and tugged on his sleeve. “Daddy?” said the calf.

  “Not now, son.”

  Dudley continued, “Dr. Guts will stop at nothing to keep his twisted vision alive.”

  The little calf persisted. “Daddy?”

  “In a minute, son.”

  The calf jumped up and down. “But Daddy, I gotta go pee-pee!”

  The big elephant handed the little calf over to the donkey. “Take him to the other side of the bus for me, will you?”

  Sadness swept over Dudley as he watched his son skipping down the road, holding the donkey’s hand. A tear trickled down his gray cheek. “I don’t want him to grow up in the world I’ve known.” He turned to Alan. “That’s why we need your help.”

  “But, what can I do?” said Alan.

  “Win this election. If Chester Fields becomes president, we’re done for. With all his wealth and power, no one will be able to stop him from legalizing Fritter slavery.”

  “I’ll do all I can.”

  “In the meantime, it’s probably best to keep this quiet. If you reveal our existence before the election, no one will believe you, and you’ll lose for sure.”

  Alan shook Dudley’s hand, as the little calf returned to his father’s side. He was so cute that I couldn’t resist picking him up. He tickled my nose with his little trunk.

  Then he discovered the blue streak in my hair and stroked it. “Lady,” he said, “someone spilled grape juice on your head.”

  “That’s not juice,” I said. “It’s been dyed, and I put it there on purpose.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to be different.”

  The little calf frowned. “I’m different, too.”

  I felt sorry for him, but I didn’t dare speak of what his life will be like in the human world; how people judge anyone different from themselves; how prejudice has no boundaries. He would have to fight to gain acceptance, maybe all of his life. But for now he was happy, and there was no way I was going to cast a shadow over this wonderful time for him.

  “Don’t be silly,” I told the little elephant. “You’re not different. You’re special!”

  The calf’s innocent smile returned, as I handed him into the loving arms of his father.

  Alan and I said our final good-byes to our new friends and boarded the bus. The Fritterz stepped back and disappeared into the fog, like dematerializing ghosts.

  TV viewers were furious that night. Anyone tuning into the show saw only a white screen. The video cameras were unable to pierce the thick fog, that cloaked our every move. I pictured Brian Breadcrust somewhere in a broadcast control room, seething in anger, chewing out anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path.

  I would sleep well that night.

  Chapter 13

  Secrets

  The final episode was 24 hours away. The Race For The White House, USA would wrap up with a dramatic showdown between Alan and Chester: a live debate in Washington D.C. The candidates were given the day off to prepare, with no zany hijinks or humiliating stunts to perform.

  Chester’s bus was parked next to ours, but I avoided it, as if it had rabies. Peter and I hadn’t spoken since our catastrophic date two days earlier, and I was hesitant to make the first move. Making a play for a boy who couldn’t care less about you would be pretty embarrassing.

  I gave Alan the distance he needed while he studied in The Lounge. My day was spent at the hotel, enjoying good food, lounging by the pool, and being pampered at the Goddess de Relaxus spa.

  After a sumptuous lunch, I returned to the bus and peeked through the windshield to see if Alan was ready to emerge from his cocoon. The Lounge door was still shut.

  I wandered around to the back of the bus and sat down on the rear bumper. You almost couldn’t see it through all the layers of stickers that Alan had accumulated over the years. Most of them were app
eals to save the whales, end global warming, and stuff like that. Even a souvenir from Woodstock was buried about ten layers down.

  But there was one bumper sticker that didn’t quite fit the theme of the others. It read My daughter is an honor student at . . . The rest was torn off. There had to be a story behind that sticker. I carefully peeled it off and stuffed it in my back pocket.

  It was near sundown when The Lounge door finally opened. I entered the bus to find Alan sitting quietly at the kitchen table with a veggie cocktail in his hand.

  “How’s it going?” I said. Alan didn’t answer, nor even look up at me. He just stared drearily at his drink.

  “Anything I can do to help?” I asked.

  Alan took a swig of his drink. “Why did you come on this trip?” he asked, stone-faced.

  Something was obviously bothering him.

  “I came because I didn’t want to see Chester win the primary,” I said.

  “Seems to me there was another matter of a boy named Peter.”

  “True, I wanted to see him limp home with his dad; kind of like killing two birds with one stone.”

  “You’re still committed to that, are you?”

  Alan was fishing for something. That was certain. But whatever it was, I didn’t like his interrogation-style approach.

  “Why are you being so weird?” I said. “What are you getting at?”

  Alan’s eyes met mine. “Where do you go, when I’m away from the bus?

  “Nowhere,” I said, knowing full well that it was a lie.

  Then Alan tossed the score card from the Mini Golf Palace onto the table. “You’ve been out with him, haven’t you?”

  “Peter?” I said.

  “Don’t play dumb with me. You know who I mean.”

  The pitch of our voices rose with each bitter remark.

  “So what if I have?” I said. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “What if it got out?” said Alan. “What do you think the Press would say? We’ve got one scandal running in the tabloids already, and I’m tired of having to defend my honor.”

  “Your honor? Have you given one thought to what all this is doing to me?”

  Alan abruptly stood up and faced me.

  “I am thinking of you,” he shouted, “and I don’t want you to see that boy!”

  “You sound like my parents,” I said. “I’ve heard it all before: I’m too young for dating, blah, blah, blah.”

  “You’re not grown up enough.”

  “And you’re not my father!”

  The rage in Alan’s eyes was starting to frighten me.

  “You’re gonna pay for your disrespect, young lady!” he yelled.

  I pulled the torn bumper sticker out of my back pocket. “Is that what you told her?”

  I shoved the torn paper into Alan’s hands. He froze at the sight of it, like he had just been handed the worse news of his life.

  A whisper left Alan’s lips: “Helen.”

  He sat down slowly, holding the paper like it was an injured butterfly. “She was about your age. She got mixed up with some online creep. I tried everything to pull the plug on her, but she always found a way around it. She went missing one day, and neither I nor the police were able to find her. She was just too headstrong—like you.”

  I should have found some sympathy for Alan, but anger was still coursing through my veins. “So, you failed to control your own daughter, and now you want to control me!”

  Alan stood up, and quietly retreated to the back of the bus.

  “Maybe I’m not a grownup yet,” I said, “but I’ve learned something in my sixteen years that you haven’t: Sometimes you have to show a little faith, if you want to be respected as a father.”

  Alan dropped the bumper sticker to the floor as he entered The Lounge, and buried his shame behind the closed door.

  The heated argument left me exhausted. I told myself that I was right to defend my independence. Who was he to tell me how to live my life?

  Still, I regretted being so hard on him. I had unearthed a painful memory that I knew nothing about. Whatever hurt he felt inside was beyond my comprehension. I guess what Atticus Finch says is true: You can’t really know someone “until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

  It was right about then that a note slid under the front door. It was from Peter: I have to talk to you. Come on over. My dad’s away.

  At last! Peter had broken the ice. I couldn’t wait to see him.

  The door to Chester’s bus stood open, inviting me to enter. But as I started to climb the steps, voices seeped out from inside.

  “Your honor? Have you given one thought to what all this is doing to me?”

  It was my voice!

  “She was about your age. She got mixed up with some online creep.”

  And Alan’s!

  I charged up the steps and saw a man with his back to me, standing at a computer, controlling the audio playback with a mouse in his hand.

  “What is this?” I said. Then I realized that it wasn’t Peter’s hand on the mouse. It was Chester’s!

  “Oh! Mr. Fields,” I said, drawing back. “I thought you were Peter.”

  Chester turned around. “I sent you the note,” he said. “Forgive me for deceiving you, but I’m afraid I have some bad news, and I thought it best that you hear it from me. Peter is no longer part of this road trip.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “To my shock and disappointment, Peter has done some reprehensible things, that could kill this whole campaign.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been cheating. He cut the fuel lines to your rocket engine on the first day. Your bus went off course because he hacked into your GPS. He planted listening devices inside your bus to eavesdrop on your conversations with Alan.”

  I clasped my hands to keep myself from shaking. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “I honestly believe that he thought his misdeeds would help me win the election.”

  “But how did he get inside our bus? I never left it unlocked, not even for a minute.”

  “While you thought he was doing you a favor by washing your bus, he sneaked inside and made an impression of the front door key. He had total access from then on.”

  I wanted to believe that what I was hearing was untrue—but it all added up. Peter hadn’t changed, just as I suspected. He was as big a bully as he ever was.

  “I’m truly sorry to have to tell you this, Amy,” said Chester. “I know you’ve become quite fond of Peter. Everything he told you might have sounded sincere, but he’s been lying to you all along.”

  My insides felt like they had been kicked in. I covered my mouth while holding back the tears.

  Then a man entered the bus behind me, his face reflecting in the computer screen. “Is that anyway to talk about your son?” said the man’s voice.

  It was Alan.

  “My son has deceived us all,” said Chester. He pointed to the audio program running on the computer monitor. “Here’s the evidence.”

  “No room for doubt?” asked Alan. “No possibility of error? Maybe there’s more to this than you know.”

  Chester held firm. “It’s all true.”

  “True or not,” said Alan, placing his hand on my shoulder, “a father that has no faith in his own, is no father at all.”

  I sniffled, then looked up at Alan.

  He gave me a wink.

  Alan reached over and grabbed the mouse out of Chester’s hand. “The Press is going to have a field day when they hear about this,” said Alan.

  A Delete All button popped up on the monitor. Chester hit the Enter key on the keyboard. “Not much chance of that happening now,” he said.

  “What makes you think I won’t go to them anyway?”

  “Go ahead. I’m sure they’d like to hear all about you and Helen, too.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Try me!”

  The two men battled on, while my h
eart was shattering into little pieces. Their determination to destroy each other left them no thought of sparing my feelings.

  “To Hell with all of you!” I screamed, then ran off into the night.

  I knew Alan would come after me, so I ran around to the hotel service entrance, and crouched down behind a stack of wooden pallets to hide from him.

  There I cried, and didn’t care who heard me. My sorrow was excruciating. I wanted to rip my heart out.

  Moments later, I heard footsteps, then saw a figure standing over me.

  “I’m not going back with you, Alan,” I said through my tears.

  The figure came closer. “I don’t blame you,” said the youthful voice of . . . Peter!

  “Stay away from me, you freak!” I shouted.

  “Aren’t you even going to let me explain?” he said.

  “I hate you!”

  “I see. You’d rather believe my father than me.”

  “I only believe what I feel, and my feelings tell me you’re nothing but a mean bully!”

  He kneeled down and held my hand. “You’re feelings don’t lie,” he said. “I’ve been a terrible person. What I did to you all those years ago is unforgivable. I’ve lived my life thinking only of me. But now I have a chance to redeem myself. My father’s the one who sabotaged your bus, and I have the goods to prove it. That’s why he wanted me gone, for fear that I would expose him.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “No reason. But tomorrow’s the last night of this fiasco, and I’m going to blow the lid off this whole phony affair.”

  I calmed down and listened.

  “Now, look,” said Peter. “My dad had me picked up by his goon squad, but I got away. He thinks I’m miles away from here. You can’t tell anyone you’ve seen me. Got it?”

  “But why—”

  “You gotta trust me, Amy. Please!”