Copyright © March 2017 by Jaid Black. All Rights Reserved.
April 21, 2053
I stood with my classmates in the university’s courtyard as we glared in unison at the commies on the other side of the fifty-foot structure. That they couldn’t see us and we couldn’t see them didn’t matter. We were angry, damn it, and we had every right to be.
Ten more of our city’s women had tunneled under the yuge wall and been granted refugee status by the libtards on the other side of it. Ten more! At the rate our chicks were escaping my classmates and I would be lucky to lose our virginities much less get wives.
“This is bigly wrong,” my friend Gowdy McKillery grumbled. Like most of my fraternity brothers—hell, like most self-respecting, God-fearing, gun-toting, male patriots in Trumpgolia—Gowdy had been named after a Founding Uncle. “Our pappies and grandpappies didn’t fight the MAGA War so we could go extinct.”
The Make America Great Again War—MAGA for short. All of our kin had fought in it. Hell, my own pappy had earned a gold-plated heart for his service in the final, decisive showdown—The Battle of It’s-So-Unfair.
“I hate them commies!” Pence Michaels, another friend and classmate, bellowed.
“Da,” I agreed in grim tones, “Ya zol.”
“Hey there now,” Gowdy said, punching me in the arm, “Not all of us had that fancy Russian upbringing you did.”
I blinked. I’d been so wrapped up in vengeful thoughts I hadn’t even realized I’d switched from English to the trendier tongue. “Sorry,” I muttered. My hands balled into fists of righteous fury at my sides. “All I said was I’m angry.”
Pence bro-tapped my shoulder. “We understand.”
I grunted. Of course they understood. How could they not? The waiting list for a wife just got ten women longer.
“And for the record,” I growled, “I didn’t have a fancy Russian upbringing. I just pay better attention in class than you two.”
“Hey now,” Gowdy returned, “I try. It ain’t easy learning a new language at age thirty.”
“And I’m thirty-two,” Pence pointed out.
“I’m thirty-three,” I reminded them. My blue gaze flicked to their blue gazes. “It took me forever to save up enough money to attend Really Overrated Terrific College.”
“Graduating from ROTC was supposed to guarantee us wives on graduation day,” Gowdy said under his breath. He ran a hand over his blond, military-required crewcut. “Hell, I don’t even need me a looker at this point. I’d settle for a two or three if it meant I could quit fucking my hand.”
Pence and I threw him commiserating looks. A guaranteed wife was the only reason patriots such as ourselves went through this mess.
Just as Gowdy and Pence had done, I’d joined the military at age thirteen. Unfortunately, no matter how good you are at your job, the pay grade for enlisted soldiers is decidedly unterrific—and definitely not enough to support a wife much less attract one. As a result, we enlisted men work our fingers to the bone in the grimy cities between deployments until we save up enough rubles to attend ROTC.
As Gowdy said, graduation day is supposed to guarantee every patriot a wife and a pay grade bump to support her with. Now, with Trumpgolian females turning traitor faster than water boarded prisoners, that guarantee had been downgraded to a maybe.
My jaw clenched as I grimly stared at the damn wall. Without the incentive of losing one’s virginity to cling to, who would bother leaving their family’s farm to work in the toxic zones of the cities? At least farms had sheep.
I unballed my fists and morosely studied my hands, wondering not for the first time if they would be the only lovers I ever knew. I refused to live like my cousin Reince—dressing up a pretty ewe in frilly clothes, pretending she was speaking affectionately to me when she baaaa’ed, even going so far as to bring her flowers which she eventually and invariably ate…
No, sir, I was not about that life. I wanted to marry a woman with two legs or less—a genuine human female.
“All will be well, gentlemen,” Professor Angus said in his Southern Barrontucky twang as he approached us in the courtyard. He patted his bleached blond, hairspray-hardened comb-over into place. The elderly professor was one of many preachers on campus, but definitely the most revered. He’d been a loyalist to the dead emperor since before the MAGA War. “It’s better for a man to live alone than to take himself a bride who’s possessed of the devil.”
I was beginning to have doubts, but I wisely held my tongue. Unfortunately for Gowdy—not the sharpest tool in the shed—he tended to blurt out whatever thought popped into his nearly empty brain.
“Can’t you do one of them there exorcism thingumajigs on them?” Gowdy asked. “Because at this point I’d chance a possessed one.”
I rolled my eyes. Pence elbowed him in the ribs. Of all the loser things to say—
“I like it,” the preacher said, his tone contemplative.
“Huh?” I asked dumbly.
“Gowdy might be onto something,” Professor Angus announced.
Gowdy looked as shocked as Pence and I felt.
“If the commie devil worshippers are going to keep possessing our women into leaving God’s country,” the preacher said, scratching his chin thoughtfully, “then what’s to stop us from stealing their women for our men?”
I swallowed, wide-eyed. My dick got a little hard too.
“Praise Jesus,” Gowdy said hoarsely. I didn’t look to confirm it, but I suspected my friend suffered the same, uh, affliction I was currently dealing with. “Glory be to the Almighty!”
“You can unpossess a lifelong commie libtard?” Pence asked. His voice was as raw as Gowdy’s. “Is that really possible, Preacher?”
Professor Angus straightened to his full height of five feet and five inches. “I believe it is. And don’t you boys recall Cha-Ching 7:8?”
Cha-Ching 7:8—of course! Cha-Ching was the first book in the Really Terrific Newliest Testament of the Bible.
“Yes,” we rasped out in unison.
“Recite it with me, boys,” the preacher instructed. “Chapter 7, Verse 8.”
Four fists shot up into the air. I doubt any of us had ever recited a Bible verse with such a high level of passion, Angus included. "Get even with the losers and haters!” we shouted in unison. “If they screw you, screw them back 10 times as hard. It works bigly, I can promise you that!"
I shared a semi-grin with Pence and Gowdy. The preachers all said the emperor had been sent by God to save us from burning in the bowels of hell so it stood to reason that everything the emperor had once said, even some of the weirder shit, was true.
“Through revenge comes salvation,” Professor Angus reminded us.
“I know that one too!” Pence said, excited. He closed his eyes, trying to recall the exact book, chapter, and verse. His eyes flew back open. “Pathetic 9:21!”
“Excellent!” Angus praised. “I must say those three commie libtards you boys will be choosing as your brides are lucky women indeed. Y’all can hunt, fish, farm, protect and defend, recite the gospel, and you have a patriot’s education to boot.” He nodded for emphasis.
“We got all our teeth too!” Gowdy enthused. “Except Pence, but he’s only missing the one.”
Pence’s posture straightened defensively. “I’m still a good looking man.”
“I suppose.” Gowdy shrugged.
This conversation had officially turned stupid. “We all more or less look the damn same!” I growled. I had things to do, preparations to make, and a skittle to diddle. “We ain’t stealing the women to be beauty pageant judges so who cares about this junk?”
“We don’t look nuthin alike,” Gowdy challenged, undeterred. “Other than us all standing about six feet, having blue eyes, crewcuts, and I daresay big muscles, there ain’t no comparisons to be made here.”
My nostrils flared. He had literally just made my case for me.
“He ain’t blond like us.” Pence flung his hand in my general direction. “His hair is brown.”
I could feel my blood pressure rising. I’d never been the type to entertain idle talk and I certainly didn’t want to start now. Angus must have sensed the threadbare grasp I had on my temper because he changed the subject. Throwing me a conspiratorial wink, he then told me to go get some rest. It was the only excuse I needed.
As I jogged away, I could hear Gowdy and Pence still prattling on about dumb shit, but I was too focused on the future to care. My anticipation immediately returned, causing me to damn near smile.
It was hard to believe, but my dream was finally going to come true. I would steal a woman, the preachers would unpossess her, and I’d finally have a wife! Maybe she’d even be within her childbearing years. It all seemed too really terrific to hope for, yet euphoria burned inside of me regardless. Or maybe it was that kidney stone I still hadn’t passed—either way, I was on fire.
My jog turned into a sprint as I beelined it for the dorm. The mere thought of impregnating my future wife had given me a nasty case of blue balls.
I would continue my father’s line. My name would not die with me. And—damn it anyway—my hand and I were ready to celebrate.
I, Paul Ryan Whitey, needed to bust a nut.
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