The People's Republic of Everything

by Nick Mamatas

  “Hey, Dan-NEEEE!” Joe called out.

  My father was in the bathroom. Geri opened the door but kept the screen door closed because she didn’t like Joe because he was a garbage man.

  “Hello?”

  “The FBI just came to my house to ask about your husband.”

  “Ohmigod,” Mom said like it was one word, then quickly shut the door. The three men laughed as the shriek of “Daaaaaan!” went up inside the house.

  I was in my room upstairs, reading comic books and minds.

  Dad was finally ready, after almost puking. He smoothed his shirt with his palms, slipped the radio control into his pocket, and walked across the dining room and kitchen, smiling at Geri rather than answering her, then headed out onto the lawn to shoo the interlopers off of our ancestral lands.

  “Howdy boys,” Dan said, arms held out wide, the radio control looking conspicuously suspicious (that almost rhymes, I like that) in his right hand. “I’m going to need to ask you to get off my lawn and step to the curb.”

  The men did so, walking backwards to keep from turning their backs on Dad. Tommy Case was really worried, Joe Pasalaqua had already decided that he could do one of his old wrestling moves on Dad and take him out if he had to, and Nick Levine was wondering if somehow LSD was involved, and if he should just go back home before something bad happened.

  “If you would like to enter the Kingdom of Weinbergia, I’m afraid you’ll have to apply for a visa first. You can fax an application,” said my dad. Then he laughed.

  “Oh Lord, you’re insane!” That was Levine.

  Tommy Case nodded toward the remote, “What do you have there, Daniel?”

  “This is my Department of Defense. I don’t mind telling you it’s a trigger for a one-megaton nuclear weapon.”

  “Bullcrap,” Joe said.

  “Is there anyone we can call for you, Daniel? Do you have a doctor? Has your health insurance lapsed?” Nick said.

  “That looks a lot like a toy, Dan.” That was Tommy.

  “It’s home brew, yes, but I don’t need much.”

  “C’mon, whole countries can’t build nukes, Danny!” said Joe.

  “Sure they can,” Daniel said. “It’s that they can’t build nuclear weapons powerful enough to compete with US standard. And they can’t create an intercontinental delivery system. Weinbergia needs neither.”

  “I do not believe there is a nuclear weapon anywhere near here,” said Nick.

  “Eh, there’s probably one on the submarine under the Long Island Sound,” said Joe, then he laughed his little fake tough guy heh-heh-heh.

  “Why would you start your own country? Why arm yourself? Are you in a militia? I mean, you have such a nice house, a smart son. I know you’ve been having some financial problems . . .” asked Nick, casting a glance at the beat-up old station wagon.

  Dad’s eyes widened. “Why? Why won’t you declare independence! This country is going down the tubes. We’re fighting forty wars with forty countries for no reason.”

  “Now that is not true,” said Tommy sharply. “We need to protect ourselves from outside threats.”

  “Well, so do I.”

  “That is not the same. Look at Canada, they could attack us at any moment. They’re all perched on the border. They don’t think like we do. They’re jealous.”

  “And Syria,” said Nick. “Those people are all insane. Mexico too. Didn’t Mexico threaten to cut off their oil pipeline?”

  “That was after we started funding the New Villa Army.”

  “We have every right to make sure our friends are secure,” Nick said.

  “Shaddup, shaddup,” said Joe. “I don’t like the wars either, but c’mon Danny, you don’t have a bomb, and if you do, someone’s just gonna shoot you in your sleep.” With that Joe stepped back onto the lawn, and Nick and Tommy followed.

  “I’m sure you’re upsetting Geri, Dan,” said Nick.

  “And think of Herbert,” said Tommy.

  “Back off!” Dad said, pointing his remote at them. “What is it about you Americans? You threaten me every day with your wars and weaponry, but can’t stand the fact that anyone else in this world shows a little independence.”

  “Don’t you badmouth America, Daniel. We have men overseas, fighting for your freedoms!” Nick said, his anger rising. “You know, I noticed you didn’t fly the flag on the Fourth this year.”

  “Or on Flag Day!” said Tommy.

  “Are you being paid off by the Mexicans?” Nick asked.

  “I bet it’s Brazil! Didn’t you go to Brazil,” said Tommy, raising his arms and twitching his fingers in the quote-mark gesture, “on vacation last year?”

  “That was Barbados, Tom.”

  “Barbados recently refused a request to use their airspace, you know,” Nick said.

  “Given what happened to the last few countries to let us use their airspace, I could see why,” Daniel said.

  “Given what happened to the last few countries that refused, Daniel, you’d think they’d be happy to allow our men to fly safely over their skies,” Nick said. “Unless they had some sort of agent planning nuclear blackmail!”

  “My God, you’re a traitor!” Tommy declared. “Let’s get that remote away from him right now!”

  Both Tommy and Nick turned to Joe, hoping he’d be the one to attack Dad. He just shrugged.

  “Listen. I’ve seen the garbage you people throw away,” Joe said. He was coming to his own political conclusion even as he was speaking. “It’s disgusting, a waste. Whole families can live out of one of your garbage cans, Tommy, and you know what, since the wars started after 9/11, they have been. I don’t care about foreign policy. I just want everyone to leave everyone else alone. But if you really built a bomb, Danny . . . that’s messed up. What are you gonna do anyway, set it off if someone steps on your grass?” He shrugged big.

  “I’m going to go home,” Tommy said, “and I’m going to get my gun. You hear me Daniel? I own a gun!”

  Daniel shrugged big this time. Nick sneered as Tommy strode off. “This isn’t a joke, traitor. You’re in a boatload of trouble. . .” He stopped as the news van for TV-66, the local station, turned the corner and idled by the Western front. Its transmission pole, with its dish top, was as high as the window I was watching my dad from. Dad felt a rush of excitement; he had a bit of a crush on Deborah Stanley-Katz, one of TV-66’s news anchors. They sent her out for the biggest stories, like medical waste washing up on the beach, or sad black people who had their welfare taken away. One time she interviewed the governor, and Dad liked the way her blazer would go down to her waist, all snug and. . . .

  Out popped Rich Pazzaro, the fat weatherman who also did the stories about pie-eating contests and the circus coming to town. Inside the van, a bored-looking cameraman was leisurely getting his rig together. This was not going to be a big deal tonight.

  “How-deeeee!” Rich said, doing his weather shtick. He said “How-deeee!” to things like hurricanes and chimpanzees on TV. “Which one of you is the king of Weintraubia?”

  Joe laughed and hiked his thumb at Dad. “Right here, here’s your lordship.”

  Daniel smiled as Rich crossed the border and entered our country. “I’m Daniel, I’m the king of Weinbergia .” He offered his left hand to Rich, who juggled his microphone to shake. “Welcome to my homeland.” At that moment, Tommy’s long stride took him to our border. He had a pistol and leveled it at Dad sideways. “Die, traitor!” Dad pulled hard on Rich’s hand and dragged the fat guy in front of him.

  “Stay back, I have a human shield!” Dad declared, wrapping the arm holding the radio control around Rich’s neck. Rich, suddenly frantic, waved with his free hand for his cameraman, but when the guy came rushing out without the camera, Rich waved him back on the car.

  “Rich Pazzaro!” said Tommy. “My wife loves you!” He kept the gun pointed at Dad, or really at Rich’s chest. The bullet would go right through it, probably, he figured.

  “Uhm . .
. listen,” Rich said. Dad wasn’t choking him, but he was a little short of breath from being in the hold. “I just want . . . an interview.” The camera operator crossed the border and shouldered his camera. “If that gun’s loaded,” Rich said, “we can go live.”

  Rich and Dad both looked at Tommy hopefully. Tommy nodded.

  “Okay,” said the cameraman, “we’ve got to wait a minute for the clearance, but the truck is already patched through.”

  “Can I get . . . a little . . . background . . . on you, Your Highness?”

  “You can call me Daniel, Mr. Pazzaro.”

  “He’s a traitor, what else do you need to know?” Tommy asked.

  “Why don’t you lower the gun?” Nick asked.

  “Why don’t you just leave if you don’t want to be on television?” Tommy asked back. “Right Joe . . .” He turned to look at Joe, who had already turned around and was halfway home.

  “Live in ten, Rich,” the cameraman said.

  “Married?”

  “Yes, my wife loves you, remember?”

  “Yes, I’m married,” Daniel said.

  “Oh no you are not!” It was Mom. She had been watching from the kitchen, afraid to go outside. Now she was going to defect.

  “Four . . . three . . .” Then the cameraman counted “two . . . one” silently.

  “We’re here . . . live . . . hostage situation. There is a gun pointed at me by . . .”

  Tommy leaned in to address the mic, and stared into the camera. “Thomas Case, proud American.”

  “And I . . . am in the clutches . . . of?” Rich said, trying to bend his arm so that Dad could talk into the microphone.

  “You are the guest of King Daniel the First of Weinbergia.”

  Mom rushed by in the background of the shot. Rich called out to her, “Ma’am . . . you are—”

  “Leaving!” she said, getting into the car. She slammed the door hard, and peeled out of the driveway, kicking gravel into America. She wasn’t even thinking of me as she pulled onto Hallock and drove off. The cameraman panned right to get a shot of the car.

  “Ahem, proud American here!” said Tommy, and the camera panned back.

  Rich, his face reddening, pointed the mic at Nick. “Who are you . . . with?”

  Nick nodded toward Tommy. “I’m with him . . .” Then he looked at the gun, which Tommy was having a hard time holding steady. “Uhm . . . I mean, no. I’m with America! You know, I support the president.” He nervously turned on his heel and, not knowing what else to do, saluted the camera in case the president was watching.

  “Let me explain,” said Daniel, loosening his grip on Rich just a bit. Rich obliged by pulling the mic back toward him. “I have constructed a nuclear weapon using legal materials found on the Internet. I have declared my independence from the United States of America and have sent peace treaties to all nations that the US is currently at war with, occupying, or bound to by treaty agreements. I want peace and freedom for myself and my nation. I also open my borders to anyone else interested in ending these horrible wars and leading a life where we don’t have to be afraid of losing our jobs, or of saying the wrong thing and being interrogated, and where our kids won’t grow up to be drafted. However, I do not rule out the use of nuclear weapons in achieving our aims of peace. Thank you very much. Press conference over!” With that Dad yanked hard and pulled Rich off his feet, and dragged him back into the house. Rich, always the professional, shouted into the mic, “This has been a live report for TV-66! Rich Pazzaro, saying for perhaps the last time, how-deeeeeee!” The mic cord stretched to its limit at the porch, and Rich let it go.

  The camera turned back to Tommy and Nick, who were standing around like a pair of simpletons. “Should I shoot?” Tommy asked. Nick shrugged, looked into the camera, and said, “God Bless America? Can we get some help? Police? Homeland Security?” The shot faded to black.

  Dad made a racket, pushing the door open with his butt and dragging an uncooperative Rich inside with him. “Herbie!” he called out. “Time for lunch! And set a third plate.” I came downstairs as he let go of Rich to let him catch his breath.

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  Dad shrugged. “Well, you can be a reporter or a prisoner of war. Either way, you’re getting pizza.”

  I walked into the room. “Hello?”

  “Hi son, meet Rich Pazzaro, from TV.”

  “Hi.”

  Rich looked me over, recognizing me. “Brainstormers?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.” Then to Dad, “Can we eat now?”

  “Absolutely.” Dad went to the fridge. The little interior light went on as always, then cut out, along with all the other lights and digital clocks, and the air-conditioning.

  “They cut the power.”

  “This means war.”

  In the distance, sirens and mad thoughts converged upon us.

  It was dark except for the occasional helicopter spotlight or flashing red siren. The police had come first, only to be replaced by the FBI, who were in turn replaced by some guys from the local National Guard and big men from Homeland Security. They had an especially sensitive Geiger counter out there, so knew we weren’t kidding about having the bomb. That’s why we were still alive. The three of us sat on the floor so that we couldn’t be seen through the windows, and munched on cold pizza. During the brief interludes of silence within all the barked orders, helicopter rotor noises, and huthut-huts of soldiers taking up positions on our borders, Rich asked us questions.

  “So, was this all part of your plan?” he asked Daniel. Rich was expecting Dad to go nuts and end this with some sort of murder-suicide thing.

  Daniel shrugged. “Once we’re established as a country, we’ll have trading partners, we’ll be able to live independently.”

  “But that’s not going to happen!” Rich was getting agitated again. His mind was like a wave on the beach. He’d get mad, break up, then collect himself slowly and calmly, only to make another crazed rush for the jetty. “Nobody supports you. You have no idea what CNN, hell, what Fox News, is doing to you! All anyone knows about you is that you have a dirty bomb and that you kidnapped a beloved local weatherman.”

  “If you’d like to leave, you can,” I said. “They won’t shoot you. They haven’t demanded you be returned yet because they’re hoping you’d be able to talk some sense into us.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m a genius,” I lied.

  “Does anyone want a drink?” Daniel said. “I have some wine, if you want, Mr. Pazzaro?”

  “Sure.”

  “Coke for me.”

  “It’ll be warm, son.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Dad crawled into the kitchen. Rich leaned in and whispered, “Why are you so calm? Doesn’t this frighten you? Don’t you think your dad is crazy?”

  I shrugged. “Not any crazier than the president.” And this is true. I know. I checked.

  “We’re going to die here.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  Dad came back, duck-walking and spilling some of my soda. We drank out of our plastic picnic cups silently. The helicopters were making another pass, and would have drowned us out anyway.

  Sitting on a floor is a great way to conserve energy, and being surrounded by Army guys really gets the adrenaline running. So at 3 a.m., Dad and I were awake. Dad was starting to get nervous. Would we live to see the sun? Were the other countries even aware of us? Did they even care? Rich was slumped in a corner, sometimes snoring, sometimes waking with a start to ask Dad when he was going to surrender to the inevitable, sometimes to ask me if there was any pizza left. There wasn’t, but I made him a peanut butter sandwich with Geri’s seven-grain bread. He seemed to like that.

  “We should check the email, Dad.”

  “How?” Rich murmured. He was half-asleep. “No power.”

  “Mom’s laptop has a battery.”

  “Damn, you’re right!” Dad crawled off on his belly. Outside, t
hey started serenading us with very loud banjo music, to try to break our will.

  Dad was back in a minute, crawling to us lopsided, with the laptop tucked under one arm. He opened it up and we all gathered around to take in the white glow of the screen. It was good to be around electricity again. The feds had kept the phone on because they wanted to call us tomorrow, and they wanted to see if we would call some terrorists, or Grandma, or somebody like that. We used the old dial-up account and checked our email.

  Seventy-three new messages. Cheap mortgages, porn, porn, porn (Dad wished I’d turn away, but I didn’t. I was a prince now, after all.) A few folks had seen us on TV and sent us messages, most of them wishing us dead. Porn, porn, enlarge your breasts, free fake college degrees, and Palau.

  The Olbiil Era Kelulau, the Senate of the tiny Pacific island of Palau, had agreed to sign the treaty. We were at peace with them. Tomorrow, they’d appeal to the UN on our behalf. Palau was with us, and wanted to open trade talks. They had pearls, coconuts. What did we have, they wanted to know?

  We had the bomb. If anyone messed with Palau, we’d destroy Port Jameson. And we had me. There wasn’t a secret in the world I couldn’t dig out of someone’s brain.

  Palau is a sunny land full of friendly, cheerful people. In this it is like every other country in the world, except Weinbergia. It’s true. Cold, bitter Russians are friendly and cheerful. Terror cells are friendly and cheerful, not as they plot away in dank basements, but when they are with their families and friends, or eating good local food. Women covered head to toe in those nasty veils—the ones who get stoned to death or shot if they go outside with their face showing—they are friendly and cheerful when they’re inside or down by a waterhole with the other women, where no men can see. The men who throw the rocks are friendly and cheerful too, even if they’re doing it because all their friends are, or because there is a gun to their own backs.

  People all over the world are exactly the same. Cheerful and friendly and deathly afraid to act that way because someone will shoot them if they do, so they turn on each other like two dogs at the park. That’s what happened on Palau. There’s a military base there, American. That’s half the reason Palau is its own country instead of just part of Micronesia. I wonder if having Palau would push Micronesia over into being Mininesia. Anyway, the soldiers at the base, friendly and cheerful though they are, like to have sex with local women. When the women get pregnant, the soldiers just hide behind their guns and fences. There are lots of soldiers’ babies in Palau, and not a lot of money for them.