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Goldstein -> Free Speech and Comedy Go Hand in Hand (8/2/2009 13:39:32)
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Note: This is my first post here.
"On in five!" yelled a bearded man with a headset. I glanced at him as I pulled on the knot of my tie.
"Very well," I mumbled. "But do you have to tell me when there's a big countdown clock beside the teleprompter?' I asked in a louder voice. The man frowned slightly, and gave a slight shrug as he retreated behind the green screen behind me. I rolled my eyes, and straightened the papers on my desk to make sure the edges were aligned. I once again checked my tie knot, and took a deep, if not shaky, breath.
Admittedly, yes, I was nervous. Who wouldn't be? My writers had been particularly vicious tonight. Uncle Sam has always been tolerant of my humorous take on the current news, but his totalitarian take on "free speech" had its bounds. While he, on many different occasions, warned me and my staff on our rather biting satire on him and his policies, my writers seemed to pay no heed. Now, my writers have included a bit with me brandishing a gun. That was the part I was most worried about. There was an unwritten law that you shouldn’t question his rule with violence, like waving a gun around. Hopefully the morons up in administration will give me a water gun, and not a REAL gun…
"Live in five, four, three, two..." I instantly forced my face to light up with a smile. "Tonight, December 24, 2109, on The Myles Carson Show!" I cried. "We have some rather eye-brow rising stories. Another war is on the way! Hope Santa doesn't drop any Glocks on the way! 'Remember honey, you'll shoot your eye out!'...next, a rather unsettling issue we HAVE to discuss…henchmen for good ol' Uncle Sam, have arrested many people today for no good reason, and sent them to who knows where…"
I suddenly assumed a terrified look, biting my knuckled, and audibly stomping my foot-just like my writers said to. "Well, America, in light of these massive 'Purges', I have reason to believe I am next. I have recently been sent a significant amount of dead fish. Luckily, I have determined not to visit any horses races anymore." The fake crowd in front of me gave an electronic "Aaaawww..." I heaved an exaggerated sigh, held my hand up, and continued. "Yes, yes, I know. it is a horrible loss. To me. No more Kentucky Derbies. Not even derby hats. However, I just can not risk an Uncle Sam goony rigging a horse to explode as he races past me." A fake laughter only the folks back home could hear rang out. "However, my head of security has also asked I carry a gun around. Pfff. Who needs a gun?" I whipped out a .9 mm, and swung it around casually. "See? This little sidearm can't kill an agent of truth, justice, and the pursuit of happiness! Personally, I would have settled for a water gun, but…I can‘t do THIS with a water gun…" I then squeezed off a round, and shot hole in some above head lighting. Or at least that's what my viewers saw. I actually had a blank in there, and my crew killed the lights. A few moments of silence passed, and then I said in the middle of pitch-black darkness, "We'll be back, after the break, America. Stay scared."
"Good show, people!" I yelled out as I clapped my hands together. We had just cut off the cameras, and I wasted no time to get the social necessities out of the way. However, even my feeble attempt at politeness and gratefulness failed. Only the janitor in his navy jumpsuit acknowledged me, who only gave me a grunt in my direction. I coughed, grabbed my briefcase, and quickly pushed through the double doors. I turned right, and briskly made my way south, against the crowd. Snow covered the roofs and the lampposts. Sidewalks and roads were spotless, though. The endless tread of human feet and the cars’ tires made sure the snow melted before it stuck. As I walked towards my apartment, the crowd of last-minute present-buyers for Christmas tomorrow parted before me, like the Biblical Moses.
Being six feet tall, in a felt black coat with tails, a dark red scarf, and shiny black shoes, I suppose I gave off the airs of a government official. I wore wide aviator glasses, a novelty nowadays. My head of security insisted on it, as he said it would protect me from any unwanted attention. Apparently, my pale skin and green eyes were a dead give away. The only thing that might give me away was my dark brown hair, often slicked back. Hair gel was quite rare, and not too many people used it anymore. I used it because I like the appearance of some 21st century stock market official. Of course, the stock market isn't around anymore-it was finally abolished in 2074. That year, Uncle Sam completed the socialist revolution, and did away with currency. Now we use tokens- food tokens, clothing token, electric tokens, housing tokens, etcetera. It was to ensure that people didn't waste money on useless garbage, like beer, cigarettes, or condoms.
I eventually arrived at my apartment complex. It was a tall, seven-story building built with gray stone and excessive mortar. It had a dome roof, with a small pool and tanning beds on top. Whoever had the idea to build a pool at the top of a seven story building, in my opinion, was an idiot. My roof, the penthouse on the top floor. I forbade my thirteen year olds from going up-they swam at the local YMCA, one of the last relics remaining from the 21st century.
I inserted the card-key into the door's slot, and turned the handle. I quickly stepped in, but not fast enough to block a swirl of chilled wind ands snow. I brushed snow off my shoulders, and unwrapped my scarf. I shook the snow out of my hair, and proceeded up the marble staircase. The lobby was poorly lit-the power had recently been knocked out of snow weighing down the power lines. The doorman had lit about a dozen candles that threw eerie shadows on the tall walls.
I stopped in my building’s store. I slowly walked in front of the token barrels. They were labeled…“Food”, “Clothing”, “Electricity”, “Water”, and so on and so forth…I pulled out my punch card. This month, I personally had about fifty dollars left in food and seventy dollars left in clothing. I grabbed five blue food tokens, and seven green clothing tokens. The store clerk took my punch card from me lazily, and punched out the last holes for food and clothing. I smiled at the clerk, took the punch card, pocketed the tokens, and left the store.
I walked over to the building’s food court. It took was a drab, gray room with one store and a bunch of tables and worn out chairs. I walked up to the counter, and handed the clerk a blue food token. She nodded at me, reached behind the counter, and pulled out a tray. She jerked her head towards the buffet line, and I quietly slid the tray down the line. I took a pair of tongs, and grabbed a wrapped burrito, some beans in a little plastic cup, and a bottle of water. I carried the tray over to a table, and sat down, ready to eat. I unwrapped the burrito, and took a bite. I sat there, thinking, chewing a stale burrito. Did people a hundred years ago do this? From what I had read in history books about regular life back then, there were numerous places to go for food. This meal, fort example, might have come from a place called “Taco Bell”…I thought about all the different choices. How did anyone choose where to eat? Nowadays, things were much more simple. The government regulated the food industry, along with the clothing and utilities industries. This made the token system much more simple-prices and quality are regulated throughout the country. I finished the burrito, and sniffed the beans. I gagged, and dropped it in the garbage on my way to the stairs.
My steps echoed as I bounded up the stairs. About ten minutes later, I reached my door, panting. I pulled out my card-key again, but hesitated. Where was the doorman? He should of been sitting outside my door, making sure no unwelcome visitors entered my penthouse.
I slowly pushed open the door, and was surprised to see the room was dark. I felt for the light switch, but froze when I heard a noise pierce the silence. Some shuffling, and then, glass shattering. I rolled my eyes in self-disgust. "Just some drunk kids upstairs at the pool, you big wimp." I threw the switch, and I was momentarily blinded by the sudden flood of light. When my vision cleared, I vehemently shook my head, and made my way to the foyer. Suddenly, I realized my glasses had flown off while I was shaking my head. I bent down to look for them. A strange feeling suddenly assaulted my neck. I glanced up at the wall above me, and saw that a hole had just been knocked there. Right were my head was a few seconds ago. I felt my neck, and looked down at my hand. Dust and bits of plaster. I slowly looked up, full of tension, and saw a man standing in the foyer. He was barrel-chested and had thick stubble on his face. He wore a long black leather coat and beret with thick-soled boots. He had a cigar clenched in his tartar-stained teeth and a pistol with a long, silver barrel…a silencer. He clenched it in his gloved hands. The barrel was smoking. I could tell, because it was pointed to the space between my eyes. "Get up," he growled.
I slowly got to my feet, my hands up by my face. "Who are y-you?" I stammered. In some isolated part of my mind, I was ashamed of myself for my shaking legs.
The man grinned, and leveled his pistol. "Me? I'm one of Uncle Sam's "goonies." Remember how you made fun of us and Uncle Sam on your show? See, Sam didn't like the way you talked about us. He was angered by you not heeding his numerous and generous warnings. He also didn't like that bit with the gun. Rebellion? Oooh, that's a big no-no. So, I've been sent to, ah, how did they say it way back when? "Terminate" you. So, good-bye, Mr. Carson."
The funeral was the next day. The man who killed me was never caught-the government was shielding him, of course. He was acting on orders, so he wouldn't be prosecuted, but that didn't mean the public needed to know he would escape justice. The cops didn't even know he was a government agent sent to kill me-to silence me for being a touch too vocal in my comedy. Of course, a high-ranking official spoke at my funeral…he had a rather nice description of me: a funny man who, although slightly vulgar in comments towards Uncle Sam and his policies, will be sorely missed.
Now that I was dead, I had a lot of time to think about past events and people. I recalled, once, that on my last will and testament, for my headstone to read "Free Speech", instead of my name. I hope they honored it-that last, cynical joke of mine...
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