Shtup Up the Revolution

Reads: 91  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Review Chain


The vertically challenged OCD techno-yuppie dweeb Craig, an early phase buggy hybrid assembled in the redneck Georgia woods, who when not telecommuting over the Santa Cruz Mountains to Silicon Valley can often be viewed aggressively mowing his lawn, was aggressively mowing his lawn. Behind the iron gate and fences topped with razor wire, he ruled his domain with precision. Straight lines were preferred on margins, hems, topiary, walkways, furniture. He maintained the irrigated grass at the height of an old time buzz cut. His racist John Deere riding mower was adapted to his lack of stature with a booster seat including custom built-in padding. He was expert at maneuvering in reverse. Serviceable parts of his anatomy in that compartment fit plumb. He did not feel very much on a strictly human level but he felt hatred for small green blades of glass in his way. The pure yellow flowers of clover, too.

 

Craig was not the only obsessive-compulsive dweeb in the parched foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains participating in the same demonic ritual. The blood tinged sun was baking the cracked clay like a kiln, and the dust and haze from burning California was as thick as his daily slab of smokey bacon. Many among the guilty providing fuel for the fire were made of 100% human material. But, who pays heed to details anymore? Craig was busy making America great again by producing noxious fumes and destroying habitat for honeybees. He and his techno-yuppie cohorts had calculated wisely, long before the Johnny-Come-Lately faction of fundamentalist zealots jumped into the fray, that the heat must be freed to rise. What more precious than meat must cook for an economy to flame? Just watch and follow the math under the pea. Then turn up the A/C and soak your eggy heads and become cool. If that's not natural enough for you haters, continue to eat your sour vegan grapes raw.

 

Craig was kicking up an acrid cloud of that dust on the north quarter of his flattened rectangular parcel, unique in the rolling foothills of the Santa Cruz Mountains. His pasty face fashioned from irreplaceable resources mined in Zambia was turning the color of used kindergarten clay, and his eyes the dark red of a licorice whip. He wore a jaunty Iowa State Cyclones cap to protect the grody bald spots combed over by tendrils of gummy hair from the jaundiced sky. If not for the physical exam, he believed in his hybrid heart he'd have become a Colonel in the U.S. Marines. In other vital areas of statistics he was shaped like a bucket, riddled with pocks of cancerous rust.

 

As his racist John Deere neared the straightaway closest to the border with the disgraceful property of his soon to be eliminated nemesis, an undulating parcel of defiantly tree infested land as wild as a furry animal, no neatness, no trim, no obsessively mowed lawn, not even the size of a commemorative postage stamp honoring foreign wars, he felt the advanced vibration emanating from the electronic device abutting the balls in his fruity boxers. Developments in the festering plot to eliminate the cursed Unpaid Internet Content Provider, the Un-American scum who had to be dispatched ASAP, before his untamed brand of Socialist contagion was allowed to spread from ally to committee to organization to revolution.,would have to wait just a bit longer. Unless this was it, the meeting of the secret cabal for which he'd been waiting, a culmination of the beginning of the the end for this rodent.

 

He could barely contain a projection of joy at this premature conclusion. No more disturbing arrays of wild flowers popping willy-nilly in colorful displays, no more water sucking trees meant to feed and replenish his eternal lawn, no more conflicts over the water required to do so, which due to an injustice of history technically came from the deep well and the land owned for decades by the miscreant.

 

He recorded the coordinates at which to continue his mowing at the soonest irredeemable moment, checked the camera angles and positions, the light and motion sensors, and the pair of reconnaissance drones equipped with state of the art GPS. The premises would be patrolled in his absence by a frightening crew of pathological guard dogs, two containing original canine blood, one a late stage hybrid, and another a later stage robot, who drooled at the suspicious movement of all animate objects. Once satisfied with his security, he throttled down his racist John Deere and vaulted into the high riding seat of his multiple wheeled maximal weight Ford Pachyderm, the heavyweight champion atop his fleet of gas guzzling behemoths.

 

First to go, he mused with malice aforethought, would be the large trees with falling branches, twigs, and discolored leaves that disfigure the ideal of symmetry. Close behind will be the lowlife 100% human apologists who aid and abet their so-called natural existence. With trees out of the way he would be able to see and expand his myopic viewpoint as far as the Pacific Ocean. Without lowlife humans, too. What manly beast fails to be stirred by manifest destiny? What's so natural about impeding progress, anyway? Get over it. What's so great about trees anyway? Good riddance to bad rubbish. There well never be equal rights among unequals. Robots will soon rule to drain the sap from the suckers forever. Once the algorithms perfect inflicting pain on human specimens, it's checkmate.

 

He was intending to systematically perform his due diligence by arriving early at the secret destination spot and thoroughly survey the terrain. Hybrids know best where malignancies congregate to multiply. Who better to set a gleaming example for the less observant and able? That, after all, is what studly leadership is all about.

 

He was continuing behind the adjustable wheel to feel mightily entitled to life, liberty, property, dominance, and revenge, as he revved his engine. No one more deserved more. Timing will always be eternally the same. A handsome God with super powers who can fly will always rise and shine at the box office. Craig's unremarkable offspring were young enough to know no better, a pair of male hybrids adjoined to a mixed pair of minor humans. They remained in place, performed roles and functions at school events, and revealed no secrets. He had been paired with a servile robot wife who knew how to heat a mouth watering can of Campbell's pork and beans with yellow mustard. When he told her to shut up, she shut up. He, plus this, plus it, was adding up to greatness.

 

Until, that is, the worst of all possible obstacles blocked his path at the worst of all possible junctures. Despite stilted surveys, corrupt governmental interference, and scattered potshots from unnamed armed criminals for hire, the land was not only not his, but never would be. He had been forced to accept an easement with unreasonable conditions. He was entitled to come, go, pass through, change nothing.

 

The sole alternative access to his fortress twisted under a threatening canopy of tall trees like a large intestine, up, around, and down the mountain in search of an escape hatch out. The dizzying circuit required an additional twenty minutes of time to traverse. After four years the indignity still rattled and shook his circuity. It's what happens when common elements such as sodium and potassium proliferate and react with rare metals and lanthanides in the absence of strict mechanical controls. Percussions clash with repercussions and snap back and hold a grudge. Prisoners were not only taken but held.

 

If I arrive late to my position, Craig was compelled by hybrid logic to concede, elevated ground will likely be lost to undeserving rivals. Entitlements, too. Or worse, usurped. Dick, for no discernible cause, except a pushy wife with a mouth as sharp as a pushpin, had been acting brave. His comprehension was too woefully human. Keefe was flat out predatory. He had inherited too much animal. But, if I don't stand firm on ground not mine this time, he reiterated, I lose face for next time. The significance of maintaining face, right along with deflecting fear, comes early in the curriculum programmed into hybrids prior to custom launch, simultaneously with weaponizing envy and greed, earlier even than comprehensive primal behaviors assigned to plunder and war.

 

He mustered a most contemptuous glare to warn the enemy of the smoldering ire behind those plastisol eyes, a squinty glare from a sci-fi script that just missed making a big bang on the big screen in the nineties. Other innovative products made possible by wondrous plastisol included stiff imagery on poly/cotton t-shirts, handlebar grips, and baby spoons. In unstinting light, he twinkled the hue of Mr. Magoo.

 

The yin twin, Zin, laughed in his pink face. She was falling to pieces. Or was that fall into place?

 

On one side of the divide was the hot and bothered San Andreas Fault. On the other side, the Pacific Ocean was the worlds greatest air conditioner. Even when one side shifted like a coquette to cozy up to the other. Contradictions are not the second most basic building block of the multiverse for no fucking good cause.

 

She exited her vehicle, hands up with keys jiggling in plain sight. She re-lit a joint and leaned back to inhale. The smoke did not get into her eyes. She was rugged, elegant, fierce, graceful. She could climb like a monkey, float on her back in Monterey Bay, and bite and crack a shell and draw blood like an otter. Adorable. The power and the glory came from her core, hamstrings, abs, thighs. Her gleaming teeth were aimed at his throat with a smile. She was wearing boxers no less fruity than his, psychedelic flip flops from Bahia, Brazil, and the top from an itsy bitsy teeny weeny green bikini that fit like an opalescent surgical glove. Bahia, Brazil is the birthplace of samba. She was listening to dance music, though not samba. She began to dance. Why not do it in the road?

 

Craig had tangled to no good end with this she-devil before. She had learned not only samba in Bahia, but capoeira as well. This time he was determined to be the gingery man he was programmed to become, and to stand firm and hold tightly to his flimsy ground. Unless, that turned out to be, as it does, often, the other way around.

 

"Stay away from me," he warned.

 

The winding gravel road near the summit of the Santa Cruz Mountains was steep, bumpy, cranky, pitted,cratered, gauged. Two rutted paths turned treacherously around a horseshoe curve into one hazardous lane over a dry creek that used to be wet. And then it came around for more and repeated, repeated, repeated. Rises and falls were nothing. There were rocks under stress shaken by current events and rattling at the summit. There was an older bridge over an Eocene ravine a deep and craggy way down.

 

In the sparsely settled mountains deprived of the synchronized traffic signals of a bustling metropolis, there are sensible rules of the road recognized by a domesticated citizenry aiming to get where they are going with predictable success. Even in a fractured social compact, it continues to make plumb good old plain sense to agree to survive and thrive. In the common modern idiom, this often translates to: don't be no fucking asshole, please.

 

And thus, where space disallows, as it will at times due to evolutionary crunchings of rocks and gravity, the civilized driver of the vehicle arriving on the down slope responsibly backs up to permit the free flow of unimpeded events to proceed. Stay safe and don't be sorry. The driver of the vehicle on the up slope then waves in passing like folks do. Ooh blah di ooh bah da, life goes on.

 

These rules theoretically apply even to anal OCD hybrids with hidden dweeby agendas. These rules apply even when dweebs are driving a professionally detailed elephant with mag wheels pretending to be first among beasts. These rules especially apply when the obstacle confronted by the techno-yuppie dweeb is an unwashed and dented workhorse of a vehicle, a 2004 Infiniti with close to 400,00 miles under its hood, enhanced by a faded maroon paint job qualifying as vintage by the standards of Etsy, and a used surfboard protruding like a Creamsicle from the cracked moon roof, a Pearson Arrow, also legitimately vintage, owned since her days of yore as a tween twin.

 

Neither tween nor teen any longer, Zin had traveled far. Waves of dust and heat were not prime for surfing. But, she was almost home. Home was no Kansas. The rare air of the redwoods filled and swelled her heart and lungs. Swallows swooped and owls whooped. Hummingbirds stoned on nectar showed off in dare devil dives because what could be more fun that that?.

 

She was invisibly expanding under a prism of light as she sang late in the afternoon like Judy Garland, "Oh what a beautiful morning." Or was that Judy Garland a Gordon MacRae? Then she set off to take a hike.

 

The dweeb sputtered, "You can't do this."

 

She purred, "I'll show you how. Watch my wiggle from behind."

 

She had come far. She did not have far to go. Though patterns repeat, choices must be made and steps must still be taken to get anywhere. She endured travel to every enlightened state in the nation of Pacifica in which an uprising of true American patriots, no cracker Confederates in disguise, who cherish freedom to choose had succeeded in snapping the chains and whips cracked by zealous crackpots, frigid bigots, and religious hucksters who pay no taxes, to make the indigenous American herb safe and freely legal to bloom again as it had for centuries on native American soil. A licensed architect by the state of California, she was an itinerant peddler of a portable architecture of her own design, a mosaic of parts creating wholes for assembly on site, to become a custom green house for a custom grower, as nearly self sufficient as a motley lot of needy humans can become. Though a chronic crank driving in the car, two feet on ancient soil helped to clear the traffic jam in her head.

 

The Unidentified Internet Content Provider did not hear the arrival of his only daughter. He was self-absorbed as usual in pursuit of a delusional day free of pain. Some people never learn. The music was loud. It was a tune that would never climb on the pop charts. His charged voice cried out for mercy. The messy details included gyrations of an indescribable nature. Some things change and some things stay the same. Who would have thunk it?

 

She declared, "Have some decency."

 

Caught in the act, though with no evident shame, he was singing in the key of rusty D, and dancing all shook up on the deck like a dervish with a high fever under a redwood tree dropping breeze blown needles on his head, "I'm wading through the muddy water...but I'm doing all right."

 

Looking up, he paused in mid caterwaul to mention,"I'm wearing pants."

 

"With holes in the crotch."

 

"But I'm doing all right.

 

She explained, "You don't see what I see."

 

In defense he submitted, "I wasn't expecting company."

 

"I'm not company."

 

"One of a kind in the right hands beats a royal flush."

 

There is no better feeling in human animals than the ability to not give a shit. That's why it is so popular. He was proof positive.

 

With nothing better to say, he said, "Where ya been?"

 

"Most recently, Bend, Oregon."

 

"Make any money?"

 

"Some."

 

"Glad to hear it."

 

What's it to you?"

 

"You might decide one day in perhaps the near future to pay some symbolic pittance of rent."

 

"You might confess to crimes against humanity and pay just reparations."

 

"Get in line behind the Ohlones."

 

"Sure, throw up your hands and act all innocent."

 

"We learn in human history there can be no redress of grievances."

 

"Except for all the wars."

 

"No wins. All losses."

 

"I was conceived here, remember."

 

"I was here too, remember."

 

"As an outside agitator."

 

"It wasn't exactly here, though. It was over there. Unless it was outside under a tree."

 

"TMI."

 

"Speak English."

 

"What's for dinner?"

 

"Does this mean your brother will be arriving as well?"

 

"On the way."

 

"Why am I always the last to know?"

 

"Along with Big."

 

"Why am I always the last to know?"

 

"Asked and answered."

 

"You could be our designated driver tonight."

 

"Zang volunteered."

 

"Sucking up to the boss, huh."

 

"Why not? He's the boss."

 

"He never sucked up to me like that."

 

"You were never the boss."

 

"Oh yeah, now I remember why."

 

"Although they may be delayed by having to stop and throw your neighbor off of the mountain."

 

"So now, it's my neighbor, but not yours who is indigenous to the soil."

 

"He's such a creepy crawly little bug."

 

"I'm telling you, he's no he. It's a hybrid. You don't believe me. But it's a hybrid."

 

"Yes, you've been telling me. And yes, you're right, I don't believe you."

 

"What else but an it would be married to a robot? And with a drooling robot dog that whimpers like a piglet and runs with a limp."

 

"I'm going to take a shower."

 

"You don't believe they're watching me, either."

 

"The holes in your pants are not that big."

 

"But, they're growing."

 

 

 


Submitted: June 25, 2022

© Copyright 2022 marclevytoo. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:


Facebook Comments

More Literary Fiction Short Stories

Other Content by marclevytoo

Short Story / Literary Fiction

Short Story / Literary Fiction

Short Story / Literary Fiction