Parable

First Written    Sun Jan  5 05:59:39 2020
File Modified    Wed Feb 14 18:32:26 2024
Latest Upload    Thu Sep 19 03:09:54 2024

2020-01-04, written on the toilet.

The Republic Voice - Guest Propaganda Submissions, read the folder on her desk.

Cindy felt a desire to put down another glass of government-issue fortified liquor before pulling another submission from the pile, but her stomach suggested doing so would be unwise.

"Alice, do you mind tracking my vitals? I want to know if I'm going to vomit during or after reading the latest batch of fanfiction slandering our good nation's sense of taste."

"Oh Ms. Mahel," a voice echoed as if coming from the room itself, "I'm flattered you ask, but surprised you don't realize I can't help but notice every godforsaken undulation of your digestive tract's lining. It's very disturbing. You should really see a specialist. Or stop eating so many spicy rations. You know you can't keep up with Mr. Singh."

"I'll keep that in mind," Cindy lied, sticking an adhesive note over the next submission's by-line. Best not to be biased, she alliterated.

"The Alliancer's Will - A Children's Tale:"

"In the old days before the Republic, men and women lived divided among two great but flawed empires. In the East, they lived under the rule of the iron-fisted, communistic Eastern Coalition. In the West, they lived among the client-states of the hypocritical kleptocracy of the Alliance of Nations.

In 'Usa', one such western phony nation, pronounced 'Ooh-sah', lived a patriarch of clan Smith and his four spawn. One day they sat at a restaurant, called 'fast-food' in their tongue.

'Baba Smith,' asked his daughter, Mary-Sally-Smith, 'Who will inherit your riches when you pass on to the afterlife our people believe in?'

'Ah, I have given this much thought,' Smith replied, 'As you are my eldest child, you will receive everything.'

'Bullshit,' exclaimed George-Thomas-Smith, 'Baba Smith, I am the tallest and most masculine child. I should have it all!'

'Okay,' said indecisive Baba, 'You will have all my inheritance.'

'Fuckweasel,' cried Abraham-Washington-Smith, 'Baba, I am the handsomest child. I am the one whose face resembles yours and my siblings are all bastards. Give me the inheritance.'

'Okay, my insolent boy,' Baba tutted, 'If only to silence your tongue, I will give you all my inheritance.'

'Cuntdog!' whined his last daughter, Betty-Howitzer-Smith, 'Please dear Baba, do not forget. I am the heaviest and most valuable child in our society that values human life as cattle!'

'Enough!' yelled Baba, wishing to eat his Usan hamburger in peace, 'Your mother and I will divide our worth into four pieces when we pass, and each of you shall receive equal equity.'

At last, Baba could finish his meal in peace, for his children were quiet and contented.

'Baba,' all four children asked, 'Do tell us, how much is the inheritance?'

'Good question, my sons and daughters. I say, with the mortgage, the automobile payments, the credit-card debt, and the loans... You will share amongst yourselves 200 000 Usan Dollars in debt!'"

The paper lay crumpled on Cindy's desk. The eternal hangover which accompanied her remaining literary integrity was returning.

"Ah, I see you've received my submission," Sergei beamed, startling Cindy and ushering in a second headache with his presence.

"Dr. Young, might I remind you that you and I both grew up in 'Ooh-sah'. Didn't you cry when the hamburgers ran out at Yem's wedding party?"

"Oh fuckweasel, it's just a little embellishment. It's for the children, you know? They love the fantasy of bizarre, archaic peoples."

Cindy stood up with a stagger, revealing the opened pack of curry rations and liquor bottle behind her.

"You realize we're trying to unite the Republic, of which 35% is of Alliance descent, under a man who grew up in the goddamned Alliance? Not to mention this is a children's story written like it was for academic critics yet stupid enough to offend both?"

"Impossible! You're missing the ironic subtext. As a scientist, I-"

A voice rang out from the room's speakers, "Ms. Mahel, about those vitals you asked me to track-"

Both sentences were drowned out by a certain Republic Affairs Director heaving her guts out. Dr. Young's labcoat was fortunately waterproof.