A Bullet Named Uncle Freddie
A glimpse of 2027
I have to admit, it’s pretty peaceful up here most of the time. The wind carries the scent of pine and occasionally you can hear the woodpecker. Even before The Greatest Bestest Change Ever I didn’t watch TV, so Executive Order Bigly Yuge 111111111 didn’t make a difference for me. I’ve heard stories of people going mad after watching the mandatory 7/24 broadcasts of our Great Orange Leader’s speeches back-to-back, but personally I’m OK.
Apparently Trumpazon is doing great business shipping yellow wigs and confederate-flag armbands across the country to citizens eager to show their allegiance to the regime but again, it doesn’t affect me much. I always carry a bag of bananas and shelled nuts on my rare resupply trips into town, and our local Keystone Klan Kops always seem very happy to gobble them down. They’re so busy eating they don’t bother me as I collect the few things I can’t grow up here on the land surrounding my shack. It probably helps that I wear my white supremacist t-shirt so I can blend right in. Oops, I mean ultra-right in.
There was some gossip a few weeks back about a group of Democrats who’d escaped the roundups. Apparently they’re supposed to be hiding out somewhere near a hot springs in California, ripping into each other over whether or not, if they survive the current regime, they should to try to write legislation regarding the correct use of orientation-inclusive pronouns. Personally I doubt the rumors are true. The last-known group of Democrats were caught in Oregon, arguing over what sort of snacks would be politically acceptable to everyone. Finger snacks were ruled out on the grounds they were micro-aggressions against people who don’t have fingers. Some were shouting that any kind of food at all would be an aggression against people with eating disorders. They were screaming at each other over this issue when the fine patriots from DHS broke in and were forced to restrain the arguing Dems by spraying them with tens of thousands of rounds of 5.56mm FMJs.
Apparently the DHS boys even managed to hit a few of their targets during the 45-minute operation. Just goes to show what rigorous training can accomplish.
It’s a real shame though that so many of the DHS team got accidentally shot by their own side. Maybe some traitor terrorist Dems sabotaged their bullets. Who knows? Just saying…
Up here each day passes much like the day before. Thanks to our Great Orange Leader’s enlightened policies, mass starvation means that most of the birds have already been eaten. I sure hope the woodpecker manages to evade the nets a while longer. All the other animals have gone too, so the forests are silent. Sometimes I listen to the wind blowing through the trees and try to imagine what it was like way, way back, before the skies were filled with soot from the ovens where they burn all those illegal terrorist rapist immigrant children. Mostly I stay indoors.
I wish I could read a book, but it would be crazy to keep books around. Imagine if the KKKops came to visit and caught me red-handed: Hey Billy-Joe, here’s a pointy-head terrorist who thinks it’s OK to read! I can imagine them laughing as they tie me to a chair, douse me with petrol, and then strike the match.
So instead I just remember things in my head. I remember how people used to imagine democracy was a good thing even as it ensured the most incompetent, cynical, infantile, and stupid always got elected and then proceeded to destroy their societies. I remember all those clever journalists who never tired of explaining how “really” things weren’t as bad as they seemed. I suppose in a way they were right: all the journalists were shot early on, which is a pretty sweet way to die compared to all the alternatives we have nowadays.
Sometimes I think it would be easier just to turn myself in. After all, I can’t see what I’ve got to look forward to. Eventually the winds will bring all that radioactive ash up here and radiation poisoning is a very unpleasant way to die. I hear our Great Orange Leader is still proclaiming how smart and genius it was to let his brain-damaged son (which one?) run the country’s nuclear reactors from his game consol.
But I find I just can’t do it. Some part of me, deep inside, refuses to give in like everyone else did. Maybe because I didn’t watch TV or read the newspapers I didn’t suffer the catastrophic brain damage necessary to be a regular person. Maybe because I never cared about what people were saying and doing on social media I failed to catch a ride on the zeitgeist train. Whatever the cause, here I am, alone in my shack, waiting for The End.
To occupy my time and keep myself amused, I’ve taken to naming each of my bullets. They say for everyone there’s a bullet out there with your name on it, and I’m trying to make that true. The thing is, I’m having to reach out to foreign languages now because 10,000 rounds of 7.62 NATO use up a lot of names. I’ve got all the obvious ones: Donald, Melania, Ivanka, Eric, Mike, Mitch and so on all the way through to Alex and Tucker. Too bad it’s unlikely any of these rounds will get to meet their namesakes.
Now I’m onto Vladimir, Recep, Narendra, Boris, Viktor and Joko. Lucky for me there’s a lot of names out there for me to use, so I’ll keep going a while yet. Eventually I may even get to my .50 rounds. I named the first one Uncle Freddie but that was as far as I got. Seemed like the smaller caliber rounds were more deserving. You can call me sentimental if you like. But I’ll get around to naming the .50s eventually.
Unless the good old boys from the DHS raid me, which is a real possibility.
You see, I messed up on my last resupply trip. One of the KKKops, in between mouthfuls of banana and nuts, asked me my name.
Stupidly, I told him.
Yes, I know: how could I be so careless? Everyone knows real patriots don’t have time to remember complicated stuff like their names. I could see the KKKop narrowing his eyes as his neuron attempted to process the input. Sooner or later, maybe five or six years from now, that neuron is going to fire and then they’ll come for me.
Maybe it’s time to chamber Uncle Freddie and move the Barrett into position. With a bit of luck that officer’s neuron will fire just before all the radioactive ash begins to rain out of the sky.
