Indicting Prometheus

A good story is supposed to start at the beginning. Every great story I ever read began with a compelling and memorable first sentence, and then built upon that with an introduction to the main character, usually in some sort of turmoil, followed soon after by a fleshing out of some sort of back story. I imagine that this is done so that the reader can be immersed, as quickly as possible, into the authors world – even as they are being tricked into a sense of sympathy and familiarity with the character that the author is seeking to exploit.

Truth be told, I don't think I want your sympathy. I certainly do not want to exploit you. My only goal is to try and record what is happening to me so that, one day, somebody, somewhere, might know the truth. As far as a back story goes? Pick up a history book or whatever it is you people will use for reference materials and just search 2016 CE, American Federation of Nations: Northern Territory: Southeastern sector. I still refer to my home as Georgia, a once upon a time state of the United States, a once upon a time sovereign nation. Read about the rapid-fire series of events that led to the world splitting into three easy pieces – and to my home no longer being called Georgia. Do that and you'll have at least a vague idea of my story and why I am in the situation I currently find myself in.

If your curious about that exact situation, you'll have to wait it out. Right now I want to think about something – anything other than the harsh reality I am facing. Right now I just want to keep the faith and hope, against hope, that this is all just some sort of nightmare. Surely it has to be a nightmare or some sort of sick joke. Right?

When I could still say that I lived in the state of Georgia without causing people to roll their eyes and do all that they could to distance themselves from me, I was an artist. Well... I made art. I suppose that to claim the auspicious title of “artist” might be a bit arrogant of me. I doubt that anyone of note has any of my work adorning their mansions. I am positive that none of the major auction houses will ever be troubled to take bids upon any of my work. But, damn it, I did make art and I did make enough money from that art to pay my bills, such as they were. It is true that I had to sacrifice and live a very spartan life just to get by. But I did get by. And my art made it possible. The stark truth is that I actually had it better than I deserved. My desire to create was so overpowering that I would have gladly slept in a dumpster and eaten garbage if that were what it took to have time for the art. It was the only thing that mattered to me. I was never materialistic at all.

That, incidentally, in my reckoning was strike number one against me.

Strike two came because I tend to have very liberal leanings. When I see a hungry person, I want to give them a sandwich. When I see a person who is cold, I want to help them find shelter or at least a blanket. I was taught to treat others as I would want to be treated. I wonder if that means I can blame my parents for all this when my moment of defense arrives? No... that won't cut it. I don't expect any compassion from a court that represents a government whose slogan is “Nothing less than success”. It pains me to think that future generations, at least for awhile, will no nothing different than what I would refer to as “the new normal”. Every single day children reach the age of awareness thinking that this is how it is and how it has always been. They'll live their whole lives with this bent, predatory, do unto others before they do unto you, take or be taken from, only the strong survive culture trying to eat them alive. It's sad. So sad.

Strike three came because I did a stupid thing. You have to understand the world as it is today, as it might change by the time these words are read. You can scarcely go from one building to the next without seeing the words “Who is John Galt” spray painted on a wall or etched in chalk upon the sidewalk. Kids and thugs deface the entire community with it. Businessmen adorn their offices and retail outlets with expensive and gaudy representations of it. Housewives crochet it into doilies. It has become the rallying cry for the entire western world, young and old alike. People parrot this phrase as an epithet, as a threat, as a statement of superiority, and as an accusation or insult. Six days ago I guess I saw one “Who is John Galt” too many and I could no longer stand it. After being subjected to that damned question, non-stop, for the better part of two solid years, I finally answered it. I walked into a hardware store, purchased a can of white spray paint, went to the nearest “Who is John Galt” I could find ( It was only about a thirty foot walk ) and proudly replied:

John Galt is the man who shoved the spear in the side of Jesus as he suffered upon the cross. John Galt is the man who enables everything that is wrong with our species. John Galt is the antichrist – the man who would seek to murder God.”

I could probably have stopped there, ran away as fast as possible, locked my door behind me, and lived the rest of my life with the whole episode behind me. A delicious secret, all my own, to grin about from behind knowing and guilty eyes when the burdens of life got heavy. It is a shame that I am not wired that way. As I said, I am an artist. We artists are not historically known for our social graces or our ability to stay quiet when it is prudent to do so. So I stood there, inflamed, enraged, and sick to death of the avarice, selfishness, and greed that seemed to be in absolute control of the world. I had drawn my line in the sand and, by God, I was going to stand there until some fool was brave enough to cross over it. My mind had two barrels worth of righteous indignation locked, loaded, and ready to go. Somebody was going to get the brunt of my verbal ejecta. So I stood there, blood pressure soaring, skin burning, eyes blazing, ready to fight. I knew that Sector Security would come very rapidly. There is scarcely a foot of public space that is not tied into one camera network or another – and Sector Security is always bragging about how their thermal imaging software can detect changes in mood even before a persons body is aware of them. In this day and age if you are spoiling for a fight, you are likely to end up in a holding cell long before you ever screw up the courage to even smart off at another person. Physically signaled intent to cause public disruption” they call it. Penalty? Minimum – a three week evaluation in a social value assessment center. The maximum is six years in a reeducation camp.

For me it didn't stop there. A small group of very shocked people gathered around me, intent upon punishing me for insulting their little tin god. The man in me wants to tell you that I got my licks in before Sector Security arrived. The honorable man in me must confess that the two or three shots I actually did manage to get in didn't matter in the least. One man against a mob is no match at all. By the time Sector Security arrived I was beaten to a bloody pulp by a small army of zealots. None of them were charged for this, of course. In fact it would not surprise me a bit if the Sector Administrator doesn't declare a holiday in their honor or name streets after them. They are, after all, heroes to the cause. I found myself in a room, this room, informed that I was facing 27 charges, nine of them “Crimes against the state” - punishable by life imprisonment or death. Even though I was seriously beaten and am sure I suffered serious injury at the hands of the mob, no doctor or nurse was sent to investigate my wounds. For the first two days I worried that I might die from that beating. For the past four days, I've just been wishing that I would. My body seems to be healing though – so I don't think my wish is to be granted this time around. Talk about tough luck.

Now my world is a five by eight cement enclosure with a single metal door and no window. I have not been out of my cell since I arrived. Neither has any human spoken to me face to face. My two meals per day are prepackaged and cold, slipped to me through a small slit in the door that can be slid open from the outside. I get my water from a sink-like device that also serves as my toilet and my chair. There is a three foot wide cot projecting from the wall. It is metal with a thin mattress. I have one thin blanket and no pillow. Despite the harsh nature of my confinement, I am aware that there are some “patriots” who feel it is an absolute abomination of justice that I have this one comfort... this machine. A tablet style computer, built into the wall, across from the “bed”. This device is how we, the inmates, get access to the machine that houses us. The detectives use video conferencing to interrogate us. The prosecutors use it to tell us the charges we are facing. The guards use it to tell us when it is time for us to face the wall, away from the door – so that they can slide the food door open and deliver our meals.

Oh, and the unspoken and real benefit of it... they can watch us. All day every day. They watch us and they torture us in subtle ways. All thanks to this machine. It is comical that the denizens of the far right carry on so about how this screen is too humane and too good for scum like us. If they only knew that the guards wait for us to lay down, and then blast loud music through it... or that they flash on screen, demanding that we appear “front and center – on the mark” every time we try to use the toilet. I wonder if the upright, patriotic citizens would complain if they knew the truth? All things considered, I think they still would. That is the way the world is now. Everyone is so busy lashing out at everyone else that nobody notices how bad the world is.

The new normal.

Oh, I neglected to mention the last thing that I have at my disposal in this bleak and tiny cell. No, it is not a toothbrush, razor, or even a drinking cup. It is a small plastic and paper sealed container – the type that you might get a dose of cold medication in. Inside of this pack are three pills. One of those pills is an extremely strong hypnotic-sedative... I am not sure what the technical name for it is. The prosecutor did mention it, but it was one of those long chemical names that nobody in their right mind would ever remember. The other contents of that pack, chemical name or not, were familiar and it did very much stick with me. The other two pills are potassium cyanide. The prosecutor let me know that, should I choose the “honorable” way out – before the state has to waste any money prosecuting me, my family would not have to endure the stigma, loss, and pain of being “assessed”. She blankly explained to me that “research” indicated that these problems tended to be genetic – so my family would have to be checked.

And that brings us up to date – or as up to date as we are going to get. You see in about two hours the judges face is going to appear on this device and my trial will begin. If I am here to take that video call, then my surviving parent, my mother – a woman of 76 years who has never been in any trouble, all three of my sisters, my son, my niece and nephews... all of them will be forced to spend the next five or six months in a room just like this one – fighting to convince the authorities that they are nothing like me. I just cannot bring myself to subject them to that. Your John Galt would tell me that I am being pathetic and that my own “rational self-interest” trumps all else. Hell... given the whacked-out world we live in – I bet I could get a much lighter sentence if I let that judge appear on the screen and then told him that my “rational self-interest” was kicking in and that they could round up and torture every person I ever met... that I want to live. That is the sort of thing that people in this world respect. But I just cannot do that. I am not that kind of man.

What I can do is close this out and send it. I did mention that I am an artist. I didn't specify that my medium of choice has always been digital art. That means that I know my way around a computer. It took a bit of work and luck, but I did manage to get this thing connected to the deep-web. Once there I dug until I was so deep that only the most skilled and dangerous type of people could ever find these words. As it happens, these are just the people who need to find them. If you are reading this – please... put these words into every virus you write, every message board you frequent, every hidden repository you know of. Get my story out. I am begging you. Let the free thinkers know what is waiting for them if they happen to get careless. Empower them to not make the same mistake I did. Stay underground people. Stay there until the average folks begin to see through the bill of goods they've been sold and begin to dislike the taste in their mouths. Wait and then rise up. But for now? Go to ground. It is not safe.

All of this ado from people who know so little of the myths that they'd idolize Atlas over his brother Prometheus. Amazing...

Now, if you'll excuse me. It's time to take my medicine.

Who is John Galt?

He is the fictional bastard that seduced the worst within us and brought about the second dark age of man.

Just. Friggin. WOW.
And more than a bit scary, considering the way things are going.

reply to post by Hefficide


Damn fine story, Heff.....damn fine...

Des

Dark, moving, and absolutely brilliant!

Although I have a "Going Galt" tag, I must agree that the pendulum should never swing too far in any direction!

*applause*

reply to post by Hefficide


SnF friend. That was well written, and it did capture me. It moved something in my heart...I guess it moved a sadness within. I listen to beethoven moonlight sontana on repeat when I read stories or poems...the song always brings a peace and calm to the words I read.
You wrote this from the heart it seems, and I enjoyed reading.
Thanks for sharing.

Peace and Love
~nat

reply to post by Hefficide


Nicely written, engaging and sadly an all too real possibility. More and more private prisons are making the news by allowing prisoners to attack and beat other prisoners, guards trading cookies for sex, etc.

My mind had two barrels worth of righteous indignation locked, loaded, and ready to go. Somebody was going to get the brunt of my verbal ejecta. So I stood there, blood pressure soaring, skin burning, eyes blazing, ready to fight. I knew that Sector Security would come very rapidly. There is scarcely a foot of public space that is not tied into one camera network or another – and Sector Security is always bragging about how their thermal imaging software can detect changes in mood even before a persons body is aware of them. In this day and age if you are spoiling for a fight, you are likely to end up in a holding cell long before you ever screw up the courage to even smart off at another person. Physically signaled intent to cause public disruption” they call it. Penalty? Minimum – a three week evaluation in a social value assessment center. The maximum is six years in a reeducation camp.

This was my favorite section of the story. One because it demonstrated the characters will to have his voice be heard and his sense of responsibility at "owning" his actions.

Second, I was impressed with your ability to describe the power structure and their technology so clearly and realistically. "sector security" "social value assessment center" and the tech's ability "physically signaled intent to cause public disruption."

God knows, if this world ever came to pass in reality, I wouldn't last long in it, as would most ats members, I'd imagine. Truly a great piece of disturbing dystopian fiction; I like being able to describe it as "fiction" but what makes it most unsettling is the possibility that in 10,20, 50 years it may not be considered "fiction" at all. Heff, have you been scrying into a crystal ball again?