Accused

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A story that could very well come true!

Submitted: August 11, 2016

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Submitted: August 11, 2016

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Accused.

 

Someone is banging on the door. Over and over again. If they keep it up for much longer the door will fall in all by itself. What time is it anyway? It’s not even light yet. 5.30am – what the hell is going on.

 

“I’m coming. Would you just give me a minute?” I yell towards the window.

 

Whoever it is out there must have heard me as the banging stops. It is very quickly replaced by a bout of coughing. I struggle out of bed and in to a tracksuit – the easiest thing to put on when you’re asleep but I still manage to get two feet in one leg hole. By the time I am ready to open the door impatience has already got the better of someone and the thumping on the door has recommenced.

 

The dog is barking and jumping up at the door. There are various shouts coming from upstairs along the lines of ‘What’s going on?’ and ‘Go away’ -- I’ll leave the real comments to your imagination. The cats are meowing, thinking that their food time has come exceptionally early. They try to get inside. My still asleep head cannot take much more of this so I step outside, pulling the door closed behind me.

 

Well, that was a mistake. I’ve not got my keys so I’ve just closed off any possible way of making an escape. If I get mugged I’ve only got myself to blame. Now to find out who in hell is responsible for causing this fiasco.

 

A Garda car is parked in the driveway. Well, at least I know I’m unlikely to be mugged. But no, this can’t be right. I blink a couple of times to wake my eyes up. I’d like to give my head a slap but think better of it. There is not one but two Garda cars in the driveway. I think hard. No one is missing, no one has been up to anything they shouldn’t have been doing, to my knowledge anyway. They must be here looking for directions.

 

“Hullabaloo22?”

 

Unthinkingly I nod my head before I realise what I have done. How could anybody know that was me? And even if they did why would that bring the Gardi to my door at this ludicrous hour – or any other hour, really?

 

I take a better look at the people before me. Two uniformed Gardi, looking slightly uncomfortable; and a man and woman, black-suited and wearing dark glasses. Okay! I must be dreaming then. Who would be wearing shades at 5.30am? The sun isn’t even up yet.

 

One of the Gardi steps forward to place handcuffs on my wrist. “Hullabaloo22,” he says, keeping a straight face, “You are under immediate arrest, awaiting deportation to America. Please step into the car.”

 

Arrest! Deportation! These are words that work like a shot of caffeine I have yet to have, but I still don’t have a clue as to what is happening. All I do is post on Booksie and what can be wrong with that?

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

The drive into the city seems to take forever. There is to be no friendly local Garda station for me then. The car I am in is being driven by one of the uniformed Gardi. The man in black is sitting in the front passenger seat, staring blankly through the windscreen. The woman sits, stony faced and silent, beside me. I presume the other car is driving behind us but daren’t chance taking a glance to check.

 

I try to find out what’s going on. I ask several times but with no response it is hardly worth the effort. To kill some time I start making mental notes in the ideas compartment in my head. At least with it being so early we do not get stuck in any traffic jams.

 

The car pulls up and I am hustled into the building and guided down a hallway straight into what can only be some sort of interrogation room. A table with a chair on either side of it is in the middle of the room. There is a camera mounted in one corner of the room and what can only be a one-way mirror.

 

I am literally made to sit on one of the chairs, in spite of the fact that I could do with stretching my legs for a while. Once I am seated I am hand-cuffed to the chair. Am I some kind of amnesiac serial killer or something? I mean, come on – I’m one of those people who even pays their bills on time. What sort of heinous crime am I being accused of committing here? Nobody will say, so I can’t even claim innocence.

 

I am left to just sit here. I have no idea how long I have been stuck in this chair before the door finally opens. No answers now though, it is just someone bringing me a cup of tea and a Mars bar. I’m not keen on either of them but I am just too hungry to make a fuss.

 

Hours and hours must pass while I am just left to sit here. I write hundreds of poems in my head, think up multiple ideas for stories and characters. It doesn’t do anything for my portfolio though as I have no laptop, no phone, not even a paper and pencil. I’ve sort of entered that state of discombobulation where you are fighting off sleep born from boredom rather than tiredness, when the door opens and in walks the woman in black.

 

She does not say a word to me as she uncuffs me from the chair and cuffs me to her wrist. Great! I’m to be kept in close proximity to someone who does not even acknowledge my existence.

 

Do they take a vow of silence, or perhaps have their tongues surgically removed? I know that is not right as I have seen them chat with each other; but, hey, I’m entitled to have some malicious thoughts after the way they are treating me. Aren’t I?

 

Back into the silent car, a short drive later and look! We’re at the airport. Oh yes, I remember now. I am to be deported for crimes unknown. Are they aware of the fact that I do not even have a passport, let alone a visa allowing me to enter America?

 

Obviously it doesn’t matter. There are all these queues everywhere, people standing patiently in line waiting to be quizzed by the Customs officials among others. Not us though. We get to walk straight past the lot of them, my hand-cuffed state clearly on show to anyone who bothers to look. I hear a lot of grumbles about the privileges afforded to criminals. I want to turn round and shout back, ‘But I haven’t done anything’; I don’t think my tethered companion would appreciate it though.

 

Now, I have only ever been on a plane journey once and it was not an enjoyable experience. It was a short trip too, not an hour upon hour marathon. At least they can’t keep me in solitary confinement for it. I actually get to hear people talking, and I’m even allowed to watch a movie!

 

Seated in the row in front of us is a man who, from the rustling sounds, is reading a newspaper. The woman in black is totally still and completely silent. It could be that she has fallen asleep, hidden behind those shades of hers. Or maybe she is a robot, powered down.

 

I dare not risk asking the man for his newspaper even though it sounds like he has finished with it. What I do is stretch my neck and contort myself a bit, careful to keep my distance from my companion. I try to do it subtly so I don’t let on what I am doing should she actually be awake. All I am really trying to do is to get a look at those headlines.

 

‘Death Penalty For Alien Inciters! The United States of America introduce harsh and stringent new laws.’

 

I can’t read any more as the man’s arm moves to cover the newspaper. No matter how I move, my view is blocked. At least now I have some sort of idea of the mess that I am in.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

I am bundled off the plane and pushed into the back of a waiting van. At least I don’t appear to be the only prisoner now. Four men and a woman are already seated, and from what I can make out in this gloomy interior they all look as shocked as I feel.

 

And we are entitled to feel this way! It seems that we are staring at death for no other reason than airing our opinions. Wasn’t the United States of America supposed to stand for Liberty and Freedom, and other similar lofty ideals? Well, not any more, apparently, especially if you are not a US citizen.

 

Then, with no idea how I got here, I find myself standing in a courtroom. I am standing in the position of the accused.

 

“Hullabaloo22,” I’d have thought they would have gone to the trouble to dig up my real name but apparently that is not important. Whatever I have done has been under this name and that is the one I will be sentenced under. “You are accused of ridiculing and inciting hatred towards presidential candidate Mr Donald Trump. How do you plead?”

 

I have a clever answer building in my head. It goes along the lines of. ‘He does a good enough job of it himself so why would I waste the effort’, when my thoughts are interrupted again.

 

“No plea is recorded.” What? Give me a chance! The judge continues in his serious voice. “Jury, you have all seen the evidence against the accused. What is your verdict?”

 

The spokesperson for the jury gets to her feet. She reminds me of someone......Got it! She looks just like one of the Barbie dolls they sell in the shops. She must be a new design, a mean and nasty one, as she gives me a sickly smile while saying only one word, very clearly.

 

“Guilty!”

 

The judge gives a nod of acknowledgement. “Sentencing will commence immediately.”

 

What? What sort of court is this? Who is this judge and why am I not being given the chance to appeal? I open my mouth to say all this but shut it again at the reverberating rap of the gavel.

 

“Aliens, that is non-American citizens, are not permitted to hold or to air any opinions detrimental to or against our presidential candidates. Although many seem to overlook this law, Mr Donald Trump does not. He will, under this new law, press for the harshest of penalties for those who infringe it.

Hullabaloo22, you have two choices. You may be taken to Camp Trump and be detained there for an indefinite period of time. While there you will undergo a period of.......rehabilitation. Or you may opt for death by firing squad. Which is your preferred punishment?”

 

Who the hell does this guy think he is? He wants me to pick a fate instantly; a life altering or life ending fate, no less. He is giving me no time to think things through, to weigh up the consequences.

He wants my decision and he wants it NOW!

 

The choices – become a mindless zombie or chance becoming a real life – sorry, death – zombie. There’s not much choice to make really, is there? I’m never going to be able to support him.

 

I cough, clear my throat. It is a long time since I have spoken a word. I start to speak but it comes out more like a croak. Another cough and then I try again. “I’ll go with the firing squad then, thank you.”

 

It doesn’t really come as a great shock when no less than five Donald Trumps pop up immediately in front of me. Each is holding a different type of gun to the others, but one thing they have in common is that they are all pointed in my direction. This is all just too weird. I laugh. I can’t help it.

 

The Donald Trumps all give me that smarmy used-car salesman smile and their fingers simultaneously press down on the triggers.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Okay, that’s it. I’m done. I sit back in my chair; tip back my head and roll my shoulders to ease the tension that builds up after sitting typing for long periods of time. Hopefully the spell-check has done it’s job but I’ll give it a once-over anyway to look for obviously wrongly inserted words.

 

An hour later I’m reasonably satisfied with what I’ve written. I’m no real author but I know a few members who will appreciate my sense of humour. But should I go ahead and post it? Yes or no?

It’s up to me and me alone.

 

The newspaper is on the table in front of me. The headline wavers before my eyes. ‘Death Penalty For Alien Inciters.......’

 

I log on to Booksie and click Post Your Writing. I go ahead and select Add New Content. I fill in all the spaces, type in some tags and some info. Then I go in search of a cover. It needs to be a good one.

 

Okay. I mess around with the title fonts and colours for a while. I’m wasting time really. I decided which I would use straight away. I paste the content and then press Next. I’ve still got the option to forget the whole thing. I can still step back and press Delete. Nobody would be any the wiser. Nobody would be disappointed in me because nobody would know anything about it.

 

I let the mouse cursor hover above the Publish button. Booksie Classic is already selected. Shall I, shan’t I, shall I, shan’t I.

 

I hear your voice clearly in my head. “Go for it, Hully!”

 

So I do!

 

 


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