GITJ Post 318: Anderson and the Thugs

“Many men seemed ready to give us control. Many were just confused, or ignorant. But I had heard about others.” - Lakshmi Vallurupalli

“These simps are just as big a problem as the bitches,” grunted the buzz-cut ex-coast guard Petty Officer as he pushed aside the phone, the picture he was being shown, and went back to cleaning the tip of his firearm with what looked like an olive-green toothbrush, “fawning over these chicks…”

“...Voting for them, letting them do whatever the hell they want,” agreed the gray man holding the phone, sitting alongside on the threadbare couch in the basement of hi-…well, his wife’s family’s…home. He, also, had been working on a rifle, one of the half-dozen or so he’d started to amass in his downstairs armory. She liked to call it his “Man Cave” but haha she had no clue what they were doing, what they were planning. It was currently “Headquarters” or, as Buzzcut would call it, “HQ”. It had everything they needed: lots of room for physical training, internet, a lockable storage area, a separate entrance. And yeah okay a bar and a leather couch and some Bears posters. But it wasn’t just a man cave anymore. This was HQ for Resistance Cell IL5. The gray man took one last glance at the Senator-elect from California’s ass and put the phone away.

In the meantime, Anderson stood, awkwardly, over by the pool table. He’d only just arrived tonight, after spending the past week “on the run”, moving from location to location, sleeping where he could, laying low in case they were after him. He knew he wasn’t safe at his home any longer; his sister Mary Jane was onto him, and had been trying to lure him back. Life had become hard, he was hungry and exhausted, but the Resistance needed him! After some effort, he’d been able to secure a place to stay, here in the basement of a fellow malcontent/freedom fighter with whom he’d been in contact on the forums. He’d been used to living in a basement, so this would be fine even if it did smell like cat pee.

Boxes of what he figured was ammunition lay aside the scattered billiard balls, along with several greasy takeout bags from The Meat Shack and a pile of laundry. Ned apparently always asked to do laundry, when he came over for meetings.

“NED!! WOULD YOU TURN THAT GODDAMN VIDEO GAME OFF?!?” shouted Buzzcut, “We need to talk strategy!!”

Both Anderson and the fifth member of their little group, a tall, rail-thin man of sunken cheeks, nervous eyes and a full mustache, jumped at Buzzcut’s shout. The grey man on the couch barely flinched - he was more concerned about disturbing his wife upstairs, who had work in the morning. Ned - a large, poorly-shaven lump of male sunk into a huge beanbag chair in front of a huge TV screen - didn’t seem to hear anything at all.

“Get him off that thing,” Buzzcut instructed Mustache, obviously irritated but setting down his M40 gingerly.

After a polite request, a more insistent nudge and then a slap to the side of the head, Ned was finally pulled from his game - which, he claimed, was actually training for when they finally got pulled into action….shooting chicks would be just like shooting vampires or whatever it was he was doing. The television was changed to one of the 24-hour news stations, at which Buzzcut scoffed, and Ned awkwardly twisted his impressive bulk in his beanbag to face the others. Maybe it was Ned that smelled like cat pee?

The five of them discussed what had recently become the chatter on the resistance forums. Buzzcut voiced it himself, here: now that the elections were over, would something else happen to them? Would these implants they’d all been somehow infected with suddenly activate in some new way?

“It’s not implants, I tell you,” insisted the gray man. Buzzcut was good at karate or jujitsu or whatever it was, but he was an idiot about a lot of things, “It’s some kind of virus.”

“I actually think it’s something called a prion,” Anderson spoke up, trying to sound a little less mousy amidst all this testosterone, “the European cells have people th-”

“Wait wait hold up,” Buzzcut stopped him with a raised hand, turning to the television, “We should listen to these cunts…”

The news commentator, a man of unfortunate facial hair, was interviewing a sitting Senator, the woman from New Mexico who all five men knew to be on the Resistance’s ever-growing “list”. She was a handsome, severe woman, and though he seemed obsequious to her she still did not seem to be suffering the fool’s questions lightly. She was taking the airtime opportunity to laud her gender’s new victories, and announce her switch of parties, from Republican to New Woman.

“They’re going to fucking run everything, aren’t they?” Buzzcut grumbled, again picking up and doing something to his firearm.

“Seems that way,” Gray answered, as the Senator continued to speak, “I mean, even before the election, the House and Senate were fucking majority women, but at least they were two different parties. They still fought, like they always did, right?”

“Yeah,” Ned grunted. He’d picked up his fully kitted-out AR-15 and was looking down the barrel.

“But now, all these goddamn women - Senators, Representatives, Democrats, Republicans - they’re all switching parties to New Woman,” Gray continued.

“Like this broad here,” Buzzcut growled, pointing his rifle at the television, “I’ve been hearing about it all day.”

“So even before these new people get sworn in, New Woman is going to have a majority in the House and Senate. They have it already, as of today,” Gray explained, “and when the incoming new electees take office in January, they’ll have overwhelming supermajorities.” It all sort of made Anderson’s head spin; it was happening so fast, just like they’d all feared. It was one thing to predict it, rant about the possibilities. Now that it was here, and things were going down, it was getting, uh, scary. Some people in the movement had gone quiet over these past twenty four hours, others had seemed newly aggrieved and energized, finally called into action.

“Fucking cunts,” Buzzcutt muttered.

“They can get some legislation started now, these changes we know they want to make,” the man on the couch continued, “but who knows what they’ll be able to do next year when they have total and absolute control of both houses?”

“And they've got the Presidency, too,” Anderson interjected, as if the group needed reminding that that blonde soccer-mom fitness-chick self-help guru from North Carolina had won in a landslide.

“Exactly,” Gray agreed, picking up his rifle again and caressing the stock, “they’ve got both the fucking Legislative and Executive Branch. The Judicial Branch…” He looked around; were these people getting it? Ned looked particularly flummoxed. “Like, the court system?” Gray knew that the Supreme Court was already more than fifty-fifty female, and that the men on it were either all very elderly or had been struck strangely frail with recent illness. New appointees would be in the hands of the new Administration, and the lower courts would likely soon follow the Supreme Court into a female-dominated system. It was too complex to explain to these morons here and now, but Jesus these women had it all planned out, didn’t they?!?

“Do you boys want cookies?” came a voice from the top of the basement stairs, “I just made some!”

“Honey n-n-n-not now!” Gray screamed out.

“Okay sweetie I’ll leave them up on the counter if you change your mind!” the woman called, “Have fun with your friends I’m going to bed love you!”

“G-g-g-go to b-b-b-bed!” he yelled.

Ned and Buzzcut began to laugh. “A-a-a-a-are yuh-you sh-sh-shure?  Y-you c-can h-have muh-milk and c-c-c-cookies?” Buzzcut jided his couchmate, who tended to stutter when speaking to his wife.

“Yeah you can suck it from her tits,” added Ned, strangely, in his incongruously high voice.

“Don’t joke about that sort of thing,” Anderson muttered, in a quiet aside, horrifying images of what he’d seen at home flashing through his brain.

Buzzcut was maybe the only one who heard him, and cocked an eyebrow his way but then turning to address Mustache. “Speaking of, we need to know more about this clinical site, this chick in charge - Monroe, is it?”

“Melissa,” added Anderson, feeling his throat tighten. He couldn’t believe they were talking about her, the girl that’d been a really cute freshman, and then THE hot sophomore during his miserable senior year at xxx High.

“Whatever,” Buzzcut said, addressing Mustache again, “Any more info? You said she’s putting in a pool? In the basement? Hiring more girls?”

Mustache straightened, and brought a nervous comb of fingers through his greasy hair. He’d been working on a construction crew, revamping an office building on the outskirts of the city, and when he’d been told to reach out to and sign up with this group of guys who seemed to think there was some sort of worldwide chick-conspiracy, he was surprised how eagerly they’d taken him in. He was a valuable guy to them, but in his recent state he was a bag of nerves. “Uh….” he stammered.

“She’s been doing this since high school, I know that,” Anderson interjected, “assembling girls around her, a squad…”

“Uhhh….” Mustache began again, images of the women who’d haunted his dreams and filled his every waking moment with their overwhelming tits ever since…when was it…that party? His memories of these past few weeks were really hazy, to say the least.

“And now,” Anderson continued, seeing as Mustache was still struggling to find his words, “it sounds like she’s getting her hooks into her boss, the doctor at th-“

“Yeah you’d said that,” Gray stopped him, “And what are you thinking? Can we still get him as another inside guy?”

“I think he’s too brainwashed,” Mustache suddenly spoke up, blurting out what he didn’t know was maybe too much information. Things were so confusing, and he secretly wished he was back at work where it smelled better.

“Brainwashed, huh?” grumbled Buzzcut, “He’s been compromised? We should do something about that.”

“I..I think he could still be an asset,” Anderson added, nervous that violence was being insinuated, “I’ve been in communication through secure email, and he seems receptive to listening…” He’s actually been ignoring me recently. “I think if we send him some support, reach out to him. There’s two people on the forum who are attorneys who s-“

“Lawyers,” Buzzcut scoffed, echoed by Gray, “I say we go in with guns. He’d listen then.”

“Yeah,” chuckled Ned.

There was, suddenly, the staccato of rapping on the basement door, the one through which they’d all entered, the one which led to the backyard.

“Speaking of guns, sounds like the grunts are here,” Buzzcut announced, standing up from the couch as a cocky, satisfied grin stretched across his clean-shaven face. “You turds ready for some Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu?”

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