Fiction: Bending The Bow

By James Hanna

 

As autocracy strengthened its grip on the nation, federal courts made presumptuous rulings. Among them was the DC Court of Appeals, which upheld a cease and desist issued by the District Court for Washington, DC. The order was intended to block crews of computer nerds from ransacking the files of federal agencies. But since the president himself had commanded these kids to root out government waste, they kept on pillaging files despite the will of the judges. “Just let the courts try to enforce that order,” cried Judy Marsh, a newly-appointed attorney general who had duped the Senate Confirmation Committee with the skill of a sorceress.

Like the proverbial shot heard worldwide, the AG’s refusal to recognize the courts echoed throughout the nation. It was repeated on multiple news channels, cited in spirited Congressional debates, and denounced by those few Supreme Court justices who weren’t indentured to the Heritage Foundation. It even resonated in Flakey Jake’s, a bar in the small town of Putnamville, Indiana.  

“It’s Nam all over again,” muttered Jake, the owner and proprietor of the bar. 

“What do you mean by that?” asked Billy Babbitt, a reporter for the Putnamville Gazette and the author of two esoteric books. Although Billy considered himself a Renaissance man, he was known throughout the town as a skinny, contemptuous dork with a bad haircut.

Jake, a philosophical bear of a man, sighed and poured Billy his third beer of the evening. He said, “In Nam, the grunts hadda take matters into their own hands. We was fightin’ a war for fat cats who saw enemies where there was none, and we knew that Johnson was lying when he told us the war could be won. All we wanted was to hang around the firebases until it was time to go home.”

“Nam was before my time,” Billy said. “If it wasn’t, I’d have marched with the protesters.”

“Protestin’ don’t do shit when the loonies run the asylum,” said Jake. “Them MAGA fuckers don’t hear nothin’ but the railing in their heads.”

Jake pointed to the television overhanging the counter. An armed thug was blocking a band of angry Democratic lawmakers who were trying to enter the Department of Education Building. 

“They can stomp and shout all day,” said Jake, “but that goon ain’t lettin’ ’em in. Those nerds in that building are gonna zap all the programs and kill all the jobs they want.” 

Weary of Jake’s lectures, Billy sighed. “I feel another sermon coming on.”

“It’s a sermon moment,” said Jake, “and I’ll start by quotin’ ol’ T.J. ‘It’s the public’s right to abolish a government that don’t meet the people’s needs.’”

“If this is a sermon moment,” said Billy, “how come you’re quoting a slaver and an abuser of underage girls?”

“Cause Jefferson made some fine points,” Jake said, “if ya caught him on a good day.” 

“So, how did you abolish the government when you were serving in Nam?”

“When the brass sent us out on missions,” Jake said, “we just sat in jungle clearings, smoked weed, and called in phony coordinates. And if some butter bar looey got mouthy with us, we fragged his gung-ho ass.”

Billy looked back at the television where a couple of the lawmakers scolded the thug. “Who hired you?” snapped Representative Maxine Waters. The thug just shook his head. “Sir, you have no authority,” said Representative Mark Takamo. The hoodlum said something inaudible and looked sheepishly at his shoes.

“That goon doesn’t look so happy,” said Billy.  

“Goons just gotta scare folks,” said Jake. “They don’t have to be happy about it. If those pissants try to barge through the door, he’ll pull that Glock on them.”

“Since Trump made his encore,” Billy groused, “the government’s gone to hell.”

“Yer boring me, Billy,” Jake laughed. “It went to hell long before that.”

“It must have,” shrugged Billy, “if the words of a slaver are the best you can come up with.”

Mopping the counter, Jake salvaged his sermon by borrowing from the scribe of the woods. He said, “Thoreau had it right when he said the government is all jack and no jizz.”

“Thoreau never said that,” Billy snapped.

“Naw, but he said something similar. He said, ‘Government don’t have the vitality of a single living man, for a single motherfucker can bend it to his will.’”

“You’re depressing me,” said Billy.

Jake shrugged. “You was depressed to start with, Billy—or at least ya oughta be. You work for a third-rate rag, your books aren’t selling too good, and you spend every night getting hammered in here steada doing useful stuff.”

“When a country’s gone to hell,” said Billy, “what’s more useful than getting soused?”

“You could be helpin’ to take back the country. Hell, the courts are useless as tits on a boar, Congress is just a joke, and our fourth estate is sacking reporters for talkin’ out of turn.”

“So, what are you suggesting?” said Billy.

“I ain’t suggesting nothin’,” said Jake. “I’m sayin’ it out loud. Dissent without no action ain’t nothin’ but consent.”

“Don’t you get tired of quoting Thoreau?” 

“Naw,” said Jake. “There ain’t no such thing as quoting too much Thoreau.”

Billy bowed his head and silently sipped his beer. The buzz in his brain suggested that the hermit of Walden Pond was a wordsmith better filtered through the sobering light of dawn. But the guerrilla in him had woken, and he yearned for a dogged campaign. Clearly, Thoreau’s bitch was having puppies in his brain.

*

Billy’s depression deepened the next evening when he watched the president speak to Congress. Sitting in his rented room in downtown Putnamville, Billy studied the televised spectacle as though witnessing a wake. The trained-seal clapping of the Republicans was not what spurred his grief—he’d expected nothing better from store-bought sycophants—but he’d hoped the Democrats, at least, would shout the president down instead of sitting in stunned silence, waving lollypop-shaped signs. At a time when firebrands were needed, they seemed courteous to a fault.

Jake’s right, Billy thought, if the people don’t do it, nothing will get done.

Switching off his television, Billy turned on his Mac and searched for a movement with the balls to take the country back. There were anti-fascist demonstrations scheduled in every American city, but Billy was indifferent to chanting in the streets. Hell, he thought, the MAGA bully won’t submit to that. What’s needed is the kind of action that will wipe the smirk from his face. 

After spending several hours surfing the internet, Billy found a site that raised his meager hopes. Who among you would a bondsman be? read the logo to the site, so Billy drew a cautious breath and downloaded it. The site was run by a group of anarchists who called themselves the Bowmen, and it eulogized mighty Odysseus sailing home from the Trojan War. Since the site had also borrowed from the scribblings of the Bard, Billy read with interest and his pulse began to pound.  

 

Who among you would a bondsman be? If so, speak up for you we have offended. Who among you would pay three times the price for eggs? If so, speak up for you we have offended. Who among you would send your sons to die on the frozen tundra of Greenland? If so, speak up for you we have offended.

 

But listen, up those not cowered by the Cyclops’ narrow gaze. Listen up, those unwilling to submit to Circe’s spell. We invite you to reclaim the bounties that plunderers have seized. We invite you to launch the missiles of plumed integrity. We have cocked the bow of Odysseus, my friends, and we are not afraid.

 

The site included a contact link, but Billy hesitated to touch it. Did he really want to get involved with a pack of radical punks? He was, after all, a man of fifty with serious literary goals, something he did not wish to replace with pseudointellectual quips. But since the demonstrations were feckless, the Democrats lacked spine, and the rest of the members of Congress had already been turned into swine, Billy had to admit this was something he might want to join.

Slowly, as though cracking an egg, Billy tapped the link.

*

After tagging several pictures of traffic lights to prove he wasn’t a bot, Billy was taken to a blog whose header was the Trojan Horse. The blog included a photo of someone who called himself Telemachus—a rail-thin dude with a chin so weak that he resembled a mole. The photo showed “Telemachus” wearing a brass breastplate while standing in front of the White House, waving an upside-down American flag. The blog also included a podcast entitled “Sing to Me O Muse.” 

This is utterly crazy, thought Billy. This is total banality. Even a sunshine patriot deserves something less campy than this. It was surely a measure of Billy’s despair that he tapped the podcast link and allowed his ears to be assailed by a harsh, theatrical voice. 

“Huzzah, Huzzah,” the voice declared. “If you have scrolled this far, you may have the metal of which heroes are composed. I am Telemachus, a reincarnation of Odysseus’ son, and I cannot purge our home of thieves if I stand alone. If you have the pluck of Achilles, if you have the wrath of Zeus, if you have the strength of Poseidon, then put these powers to use. I wait for you like the son of Odysseus awaited his father’s return, so that together we might root out the scum that have pirated our home.”

The voice raved on for half an hour, describing the many snares that philistines had set to steal the country for billionaires. The rant concluded by asking those with lava in their veins to introduce themselves on the website and include their email addresses.

After hitting the contact button, Billy composed a quick message. He described himself as a Fitzgerald freak who longed for bygone sprees, and he said that he wished to do something more than holler at his TV. He said that he had lost all faith in the levers of government and that, in the spirit of Thoreau and the night he spent in jail, he was willing to break all dictates that profited criminals. He failed to mention that the faith he’d lost was a rather paltry thing and that the only laws he had broken, to date, were for public intoxication. And so, to prove himself a man of kindred intellect, Billy added the link to his Amazon author page.  

The following evening, Billy received an email from the site, a reply so full of promise that it took his breath away.

 

Thank you, Mister Babbitt, for freeing yourself from the toil of Sisyphus. Thank you for weighing the option of lending your shoulder to us. I have skimmed your books and although I have found them derivative and overwritten, they have, at least, convinced me that you are not an undercover cop. In fact, your bid to replicate the beauty of Joyce’s Ulysses suggests that you are not a novice so much as a gift from providence. After all, it was Joyce who contemporized Odysseus’ noble intent to free Lady Liberty from the clutches of those who would shred her maidenhead. And so, I cry huzzah, huzzah, and invite you to join our fold. Even though we are legion, I’m always delighted to welcome one warrior more. 

Your brother at arms.

Telemachus 

 

A day later, Billy received an email that included a secret address. It was a hideout in the nation’s capital where the Bowmen hatched their schemes. The email cautioned that the address was likely to change at any time because the Bowmen had to relocate frequently to keep ahead of the FBI. I’m sure they’ll tell me, Billy thought, if they move somewhere else. It’s the least they can do since their leader has dubbed me a gift from providence.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of his destiny, Billy Googled the address on the email and was not particularly impressed. The hideout was on the seventh floor of a towering tenement building, a structure clearly suffering from urban blight. But Billy now felt adrift to the point that any port would do. Hell, only that morning, the secretary of defense, in a push to forge a distraction, had announced that American troops would soon invade Canada. 

The following morning, after informing the Gazette that he was taking two weeks off, Billy boarded a Greyhound bus bound for Washington, DC. 

*

After he arrived at Union Station, Billy hailed an Uber, but when he told the driver his destination, the driver frowned like a troll. “Bad part of town,” said the driver. “I no wan go there.” 

Annoyed that the driver seemed risk-averse when democracy was at stake, Billy handed him a jackson and said, “Will this change your mind?”

Pocketing the tip, the driver shrugged. “No change my mind,” he muttered, “but I take you there anyhow.”

As they drove through the city, Billy saw demonstrations on practically every street. A women’s march was taking place on Pennsylvania Avenue, and clouds of anti-MAGA protesters were blocking federal buildings. These gatherings struck Billy as pitiful—an utter waste of time. Hell, he thought, those White House crooks are probably laughing out loud. As the car entered a bare, gritty neighborhood, Billy could only suspect that the drug dealers, selling their wares in plain sight, were committing more profitable acts.

The driver dropped Billy off in front of the high-rise that housed the gallant Bowmen. A handful of kids with gang tattoos was idling outside the front door, so Billy hurried into the building to escape their feral gaze. Since the foyer stank of urine and the elevator wasn’t working, Billy drew a labored breath and slowly climbed the stairs.

Billy’s lungs were tugging like orphans when he reached the seventh floor, but the skunk-like smell of pot made it hard to recover his breath. The dark, depressing hallway offered no hint of destiny, and Billy was tempted to abandon the cause and return to Putnamville. But when he heard a recording from Les Misérables coming from one of the apartments, Billy cursed his reticence and tapped his foot to the song.

 

“Do you hear the people sing?

Singing the song of angry men?

It’s the music of the people

Who will not be slaves again!” 

 

With a sense of anticipation he had never felt before, Billy followed the sound of the anthem to one of the hallway doors.

*

The music stopped when Billy rapped on the door, and he heard scuttling within the flat. After a minute, the door opened an inch. “What’s the password?” said a voice, using the finest of King’s English.

“You never sent me a password,” said Billy.

“Well then,” the voice said impatiently, “tell me who bent Odysseus’ bow?”

Although the answer seemed obvious enough for the FBI to guess, Billy politely answered, “Odysseus.” 

The door opened six inches more.

“Tell me,” the voice said, “who were the suitors of sweet Penelope?”

“A bunch of Greeks,” Billy said irritably. 

The voice sighed and replied, “That’ll do.” 

The door opened wide, and Billy was staring at the dude who called himself Telemachus. He was taller than Billy expected, and he had such a princely air that Billy suspected him to be a child of privilege trying to hide his roots. My god, Billy thought, this asshole is only playing at revolution. But when Telemachus saluted him and said, “Sir, the Achaeans await,” Billy shrugged and decided to hear what else he had to say.  

Entering the apartment, Billy was struck by the squalor of the place. It was a small unpainted room with a tiny kitchenette, and the stench of pot was so heavy that the air smelled like weasel piss. Three boys of college age, the “Achaeans,” were sitting on a couch, looking at him incuriously as they passed a joint back and forth. 

Fuck this, thought Billy, I’m splitting, but as he turned to walk out the door, his brain began to tingle and his willfulness dissolved. It’s only the pot, he told himself, but how could that be true when he suddenly felt inspired by this incidental crew? No, he was not experiencing the seduction of lotus land, but a sublime surrender of selfishness that the stormers of Troy must have shared. And so, he allowed Telemachus to take him by the elbow and introduce him to the trio who were now his brothers-in-arms. 

*

For security reasons, Telemachus did not reveal the boys’ actual names. He introduced them as Ajax, Patroclus, and Hector Tamer of Horses. Ajax, a thin lad with bottle-thick glasses, was a computer engineer, whose job was to maintain the group’s website and post anti-MAGA news. Patroclus was a wiry kid with a degree in criminal justice, and his task was to train the group in the use of handcuffs and pepper spray. And Hector, a big-shouldered bruiser, was the muscle of the crew. A former collegiate wrestler with cauliflower ears, he looked like he could easily squash a hired goon or two.

“And what will my name be?” Billy asked after shaking hands with the boys.

“Aha!” cried Telemachus, “You are Plato, my friend, the most celebrated scribe of all. It is you who will channel a full-throated muse and commit our deeds to song, so that all will sing our praises when we rid the land of scum.”

Just who is this jerk? Billy wondered again. As near as he could guess, Telemachus was a silver-spooner with diarrhea of the mouth, a manic-depressive, protected by wealth, who had no feasible plan because he had majored in classic literature at some Ivy League institution. But since secrecy was vital for the protection of the group, Billy asked no personal questions as Telemachus rambled on. The irony was that this poseur and his callow band of friends did not seem that absurd in a country already run by dilettantes.

In a rambling monologue, Telemachus explained the situation. He said that, since the DOGE nerds were defying a court order, they could be subjected to a citizen’s arrest. He said all that was necessary for a citizen to hook up a crook was for the citizen to witness the reprobate committing a crime in plain sight. And since these hackers were all committing candid burglaries, the Bowmen had every legal right to haul their butts to jail. “No, not a right, but a duty,” he cried. “Since Judy Marsh won’t arrest them, it falls to private citizens to hold these punks to account.”  

He went on to say that he and his pack, like the many-wiled sackers of Troy, would invite themselves into the Treasury Department where the most brazen hackers were. After flashing fake IDs to whomever was guarding the door, the Bowman would locate these vandals before they could wreck anything more. And once they had rounded the hackers up and placed them under arrest, they would load them into a rented U-Haul truck and haul them to the DC jail.  

Won’t the president just pardon them? Billy wondered, a question he did not voice. The moment belonged not to logic but to the power of Les Misérables, a magic so compelling that Billy almost cheered when Telemachus finished his monologue by shouting, “One day more!”

*

It was actually two more days before the Bowmen struck. The group spent the next day becoming proficient with handcuffs and pepper spray, and they also practiced some come-along holds in case the hackers tried to resist. Telemachus also lectured the group on how to best react if government thugs showed up to place the Bowmen under arrest. “If they come for you on the street,” he lectured, “get the demonstrators involved. Scream, ‘Help, the Brownshirts are breaking my arms!’ Shout, ‘They’re taking me to Guantánamo Bay!’ Cry, ‘I am an honest citizen merely exercising my rights!’ If you howl like a cat in a travel cage, you’ll draw such an angry crowd that those jackboots will probably shit their pants and flee like the cowards they are.

“But, if you do wind up in the slammer, demand a reasonable bail, for there are organizations that won’t let you rot in jail. And make sure you insist on a jury of peers—don’t leave your fate to a judge. Your chance of acquittal will go way up if you keep the people involved. 

“And there you have it, my friends. When we hobble the billionaire class, may all of us stand like Samson, wielding the jawbone of an ass. And may those Democrats cowering in Congress hold their legacies cheap when they see how men of courage take a country back.” 

So infectious were Telemachus’ words, so noble his sentiments, that Billy was eager for battle when he woke up the following day. He forgot that his back was aching from sleeping on the floor or that the youthful rebels in Les Misérables had been slaughtered by grenadiers. So, after a hearty breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs, the Bowmen and Billy loaded their pockets with handcuffs and pepper spray and then piled into the U-Haul and drove to the Treasury Building.

*

As the truck approached the Treasury Building, Billy was struck by its regal appearance. The Greek revival architecture, guarded by stately columns, suggested not a crypt under siege but the majesty of Zeus. Not even the sight of a rabid crowd shouting, “fascists, let us in” diminished the building’s aura of timeless dignity. As he looked at the glorious structure, Billy could not believe that, behind its spires, a pack of punks was stealing its power away. 

Since there was no place to park the U-Haul on the traffic-congested street, Telemachus instructed Ajax, the driver, to drop everyone else off at the building. The plan was for Ajax to circle the block while the rest of them launched the invasion. And once they had handcuffed the hackers and perp walked them out of the building, Ajax was to pick everyone up and drive to the DC jail. After shouting “huzzah,” Telemachus passed out laminated IDs that included a phony executive seal and a picture of the Trojan Horse.

*

“The fuck are you?” said the hired guard who was blocking the building’s west door. It was the same tough Billy had seen on the television in Jake’s bar. The goon looked at them with muddy eyes. He could not comprehend the karma that had brought him this group of angry men. 

Having squeezed through the crush of demonstrators packed around the door, Telemachus beamed as though he and his team had swum the Aegean Sea. “We are replacements, sir,” he announced, quickly flashing his ID. “Do you expect those poor boys to shanghai the country entirely on their own?”

“The hell you are,” the goon replied. “Ya look like a buncha woke meatheads.”

“Sir, I am meat for your master,” Telemachus snapped. “If you do not plan to let us in, kindly fetch me your supervisor.”

The thug curled his lip. “Well, how come your ID has a picture of a nag on it?”

Telemachus snapped to attention and said, “Because we are the cavalry, sir, and those poor lads are overworked. Either you let us in, or you can explain yourself to a judge.”

It was perhaps the wit of Athena, the clever daughter of Zeus, that scrambled the brain of the thug to the point that he chose to step aside. Or perhaps the goon feared receiving a presidential tweet, which carried as much devastation as a bolt from Zeus’ fist. In any case, the man sighed like a hound and allowed them into the building. “Fuck it!” he spat. “I’m quitting this pop stand. That White House gang don’t pay me enough to risk my ass in court.”

Entering the foyer, Billy felt like he had snuck into an empty museum. The checkerboard floor reflected the glow of an antique chandelier, and Alexander Hamilton’s specter seemed to hover in the air. “My god, this place is huge,” he said. “How’re we going to find them?” As if in reply, the building’s acoustics betrayed chaotic singing: an otherworldly chorus chanting from Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.” 

Telemachus cupped an ear and said, “They won’t be hard to find. If we walk toward that racket, it will lead us straight to them.”

The hullabaloo guided them down a long hallway entitled The Bureau of Fiscal Services, and Billy felt as though icepicks were digging into his ears. “Hey, hey, hey,” sang the voices, “another one bites the dust. Hey, hey, hey, another one bites the dust.”  

At the farthest end of the hallway, an office door stood open, and the guttural chant grew unbearable as the Bowmen approached the door. “We have found the saboteurs of Penelope,” Telemachus whispered. “But before we arrest them, let’s take a few minutes to gather some evidence.” Saying this, Telemachus ordered the group to stand back from the door, and then he held up his iPhone and recorded the pagan sound. 

Occasionally, the chanting broke off, and Billy heard remarks that made it clear this pack of punks was conducting a kangaroo court. 

“Yo, Bolder Balls,” piped one of them.

“Spill it, bro.”

“Here’s another million dollars for medical research.”

“Tank it. That money will just be used to turn boys into trannies.” 

“Like you wouldn’t fuck one yerself. Shit, I seen what you watch on Porn Hub.” 

“What the fuck,” cried a third. “Here’s three mil for education. Let’s flush it. This country’s got too many libtards as it is.” 

With each program cancellation, each elimination of thousands of jobs, the hackers returned to chanting, “Another one bites the dust.” 

After several minutes, Billy had heard as much as he could bear. “Can’t we hook them up now?” he asked Telemachus. “That’s one of my favorite songs.”

“The time is now!” Telemachus cried, and he pocketed his iPhone. “Those little shits will sing in tune after we put them in jail.”

*

As he followed the Bowmen into an office, Billy braced himself to witness the tiresome banality upon which evil depends. But what he saw was so pedestrian, so hopelessly clichéd, that it did not even rise to the level of mediocrity. Three boys in their early twenties, all sitting before monitors, looked up from their tasks with the moleish eyes of lifelong computer junkies. They impressed him as human flotsam, consumers of debris, drones who thought with their spinal cords and cared nothing for history. And if any of them harbored passions from which enterprise is born, these urges went no further than the lure of internet porn.

A fat one, wearing a sweatshirt that said The Hog with Giant Balls, cried, “Whoa there, dudes. Who sent ya here? Ya know, this is a private party.” 

Telemachus said, “All of you stand and put your hands behind you. If you’re going to grunt like porkers, you can finish your song in the pen.”

The other two mumbled between themselves. “What’s with these bitches?” one asked, a boy with a wicked goatee. “Can’tcha see?” said the other, a boy wearing a MAGA cap backwards on his head. “They got the derangement syndrome an’ they’re here to make citizen’s busts.”

The boy whose sweatshirt celebrated an oinker with whopping balls said, “You snowflakes need to stop blue pilling, or we’ll sic some real cops on you.” As he spoke, the lad buffed his armpit like a dog attacking an itch, and then he smiled orgiastically and leaned back in his chair. 

“Stand up!” Telemachus repeated. “Place your hands behind you. We would be less beguiled if the havoc you’ve caused was as stale as your stupid jokes.”

The promoter of well-endowed swine cocked his head. “Man, ya talk like some out-of-work actor. Go find yerself a playhouse, man, ’cause we’re booked solid here.”

As if on cue, the hackers erupted into loud, unintelligent laughter. It was the laughter of successful poachers, the mirth of affluent drunks; it was laughter supposing entitlements too airtight to assault. Clearly, this stable of mavericks, these modern-day Hitler youths, believed that a White House blessing made them a law unto themselves. 

While Hector Tamer of Horses clicked the strands of his handcuffs into place, Telemachus placed his hands on his hips and said, “Gentlemen, give it up. It is time for a second act. If you think that law can’t touch you, you have no reason to resist.” 

When none stirred, Hector grabbed the fat one, cuffed his wrists behind him, and made sure the strands were tight before setting the safety locks. Unimpressed, the hacker shrugged. “Tell me you didn’t just do that!”

“But we did,” said Telemachus, “We have taken the tide at the flood.”

In a gesture of independence, the boy scratched his chin on his shoulder. “Yer takin’ mighty fancy,” he snapped, “for a dude that’s sinkin’ in shit.”  

Telemachus ordered the others to stand while keeping their hands behind them. Aiming a can of pepper spray at them, he said, “If we’re sinking in shit, as you put it, we have nothing to lose by beating you lads to a pulp.”

These words were a fateful challenge, but no showdown was to come. The other two rose passively, put their hands behind them, and stood like storks while Telemachus and Hector cuffed them up. Once all three boys were shackled, Telemachus checked their IDs, and then he found a tablet of paper and scrawled a booking report.

*

As the Bowmen frog-marched the hackers out of the Treasury Building, it took the protesters a moment to realize what was happening. It was not until Telemachus cried, “huzzah, the citizens have struck!” that the mob understood the mighty blow that the Bowmen had made in its name. But the triumph included a duty for which Billy was unprepared. Having picked up the burden of justice, Billy realized he was now responsible for saving these punks from a mob.

“Let’s deal with ’em here!” a protester shouted. “Fuck citizen’s arrests!”

“They’re just gonna get pardoned,” another snarled. “Somebody get a rope!”

The hackers turned pale and wiggled like bats no longer cocooned in a cave. “How come they’re taking it personal?” whined the one with the MAGA cap. “We was just followin’ instructions. Where’s the harm in that?”  

Feeling a pang of pity, Billy cursed his fastidious soul and placed his body between the hackers and the mob. The boys, after all, were mere flunkies, faddists who had been conned into thinking they were doing a service that providence condoned.

“Let the law handle this!” he cried, a plea that drew hoots of derision—mockery so merited that it trumped anything else he could say.

A protester, waving a “Hands Off” sign, got in Billy’s face. “Thanks for cleanin’ house,” he said, “but leave the law to us. Why bother busting these scumbags if the grifter will just set ’em free?”

He’s right, Billy thought. What good is the law when a country has fallen to wolves? Even so, when Ajax pulled up in the U-Haul and Telemachus cried, “lead on McDuff,” he was unable shake the conceit that the law was still in vogue. Prodding the hackers, he muttered, “let’s book, you’ll be a lot safer in jail,” and he followed them like a shadow as they stumbled toward the truck.

“Get a rope!” another voice hollered, but Hector, ignoring the cry, shoved the roller door open and lowered the ramp to the street. “Watch yer step, assholes,” he said as the mob chanted, “get-a-rope,” and with the dedication of Sisyphus, helped the hackers up the ramp.  

*

As the truck crept through city traffic en route to the DC jail, Billy and Hector rode in the cargo bay to guard their prisoners. The one with the goatee said, “Hey, dudes, thanks for savin’ our butts.”

The fat one said, “Yeah, but if ICE showed up, you commies mighta got smoked.” 

The one with the MAGA hat shrugged and repeated, “We were just following orders. Thanks for getting’ us outta there, but this ain’t right at all.”

The fat one, having recovered his swagger, announced that he needed to piss. “Hey, OG,” he called to Billy, “tell Hamlet to stop the truck.”

“You’ve done enough leaking already,” said Billy.

The boy laughed and rolled his eyes. “What’s yer name, Mister Comedian, and how come yer part of this crap.”

“Just call me Plato,” Billy said. “You don’t need to know my name.”

“Play dough?” the boy said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m an author,” Billy explained.

The boy yawned like a hippo. “So how come an author is helpin’ these dipshits cook? If ya kidnapped us fer publicity, man, Judy Marsh will burn yer books.”

Determined to ignore the bait, Billy said nothing more, not even when the hackers, forgoing the sting of “Another One Bites the Dust,” chanted the softer phrases of “We Shall Overcome.”

Ten minutes later, the truck came to a halt. As the roller door hummed open, Billy could see the lofty walls of the DC Detention Facility. Telemachus was standing by the intake gate, arguing with a jail lieutenant. “These boys are in contempt of court,” he snapped. “We have made citizen’s arrests. If you don’t let us book them, you will have to appear before a judge and show cause.”

Telemachus handed the lieutenant the booking report he had scrawled, and the lieutenant held the report at arm’s length and muttered into a two-way radio. Learning that a federal court had issued warrants on the boys, he sighed and said, “Okay, book ’em. But if you don’t mind my saying so, fellas, you’re pissing into the wind.”

As the hackers waited to be herded from the truck to the intake bay, the fat boy looked at Billy with galling sympathy. “Ya ain’t a bad dude, pops,” he said. “Ya just been misdirected. I’m sorry yer gonna end up spendin’ the rest of yer life in jail.”

“No one is coming to help you to fight.” This line from Les Misérables was all that Billy could think of as he listened to the boy. At that moment, the barbs of outrageous fortune were more than Billy could stand. Since the president would probably pardon these pirates before the day was done, Billy summoned the wrath of Achilles and kicked all three in the nuts.

*

After the hackers were locked up in the DC Detention Facility, Telemachus assembled his crew in the truck’s cargo bay. “My friends,” he cried, “it is time to forget the songs of angry men. We have pierced the eye of a Cyclops. We have filled him with panic and rage. And now we must dash to our vessels as though fleeing the Sirens’ hymn.”

“What have we changed for the better?” groaned Billy.

Telemachus lowered his voice and said, “No doubt, we’ve made everything worse. But we busted those punks to show the world that fascism cannot change us.”

As Telemachus spoke, Billy heard the inhuman wail of a siren. “Scylla is loose,”
Telemachus cried. “The monster is out of her cave. We must flee in every direction or her tentacles will crush us like eggs.”

My god, Billy thought, is this shaman no more than a raving schizophrenic? Have I truly been conned by a fantasist and his dreams of empowerment? But since almost a third of the country was under a madman’s spell, Billy chose not to fault himself for being duped as well. Heeding Telemachus’ cry to flee the Sirens’ hymn, Billy jumped from the Trojan Horse and ran down Executive Avenue.

*

Two hours later, Billy was taken into custody at Union Station. He was sitting in the passengers’ lounge, clutching a bus ticket to Putnamville, when a pair of FBI agents slapped the bracelets on him. The fat boy, out of jail already, stood beside the agents.

“Are you sure he was with them?” one of the agents asked. “He looks like a harmless crank.”

“That harmless crank busted my jewels,” the boy whined. “I think he ruined my sex life.”

“Sorry to keep you off Porn Hub,” snapped Billy. “Is that what you’re charging me with?”

“Nah,” the boy said. “Haven’t ya heard? The Supreme Court just lifted the restraining order on us. The Court said that, since we’re employed by the White House, we got immunity.”

Billy’s heart sank with the realization that he was bound for Guantánamo Bay. Compounding his grief was a news flash on the television in the passengers’ lounge. Judy Marsh, a sharp-boned woman who looked like a Viking queen, was telling the press that the citizen’s busts were attacks on democracy. Without a trace of irony in her stern yet fruity voice, she said, “We will not stand for extremists invading federal buildings. When Marxists interfere with civil servants doing their jobs, I will personally prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law.”

As Billy gazed at the television and pondered the shit to come, the fat boy patted his shoulder and said, “For an author, ya ain’t too bright. Didn’t ya know that Union Station was the first place we’d look for you?”

*

After spending two days on a crowded range in the DC Correctional Facility, Billy was arraigned in the District Court for Washington DC. Ironically, this was the same court that had issued the now-defunct cease and desist. As he stood at the podium, Billy cringed while Judy Marsh read the charges. Her voice, though melodious, reminded him of a talking Barbie Doll. 

According to the grand jury indictment, Billy had broken multiple laws. The charges were three counts of kidnapping, three counts of battery, and three counts of interfering with a public employee performing legal duties. The judge, a beak-nosed septuagenarian who looked like Samuel Alito, denied Billy bail, claiming that he was a threat to public safety. 

Although Billy qualified for a public defender, the Office of the Public Defender refused to provide him with an attorney. Fortunately, a lawyer from the ACLU was present in the courtroom, a small, blue-haired woman in her sixties who agreed to take his case. The woman squeezed Billy’s hand, looked dismissively at the judge, and did not seem inhibited by the threat of a presidential tweet.

After pleading not guilty, Billy asked for a jury of his peers, and the judge, who seemed in a hurry to get due process out of the way, scheduled jury selection for the following morning. Assembling a jury took only a day, and the trial lasted only six hours. Judy Marsh and a team of prosecutors cited half a dozen cases, establishing beyond any reasonable doubt that citizen’s arrests were illegal. In a torrid rebuttal, Billy’s attorney responded, “If the AG had done her duty and served those warrants herself, it wouldn’t have been necessary for a private citizen to take the law into his hands.” 

Determined to garner sympathy for the “victims” of Billy’s crimes, Judy Marsh placed the three DOGE boys, who all were out of jail, on the witness stand so they could describe their harrowing ordeal. The boys all said that the Bowmen had traumatized them for life and that Billy had busted their balls so bad that they could no longer have children. Their testimony seemed inauthentic and overly rehearsed. During a recess, Billy walked past them as he was being returned to the prisoner tank and noticed that they all had their iPhones out and were playing video games.

The jury deliberated for only an hour before coming to a verdict. As the members filed back into the courtroom and took their seats in the jury box, Billy had no doubt that, having pissed into the wind, he would soon be on a one-way flight to Guantánamo Bay. But Judy Marsh groaned like a broken pump when the court clerk read the verdict. The jury had acquitted him on all charges, and he was free to go.

*

Following his release from jail, Billy took a bus back to Putnamville. When he got off the bus, he hurried back to Flakey Jake’s Bar. Although the bar was as depressing as ever, it gave him a sense of reprieve, and Billy was content to immerse himself in its familiarity.

“I seen ya on the news,” said Jake as he poured Billy a beer. “Thoreau woulda been proud of you for locking up them brats.” 

“Thoreau had it easy,” said Billy. “He spent only one night in jail, and when he got out, all he had to worry about was picking huckleberries.”

Topping off Billy’s mug, Jake said, “Hell, what can they do to ya now? The IRS can’t audit ya ’cause yer as broke as a Bowry bum, and ICE ain’t likely to kidnap you since you ain’t a Mexican.”

Billy said, “I still think they could sneak me on a jet to El Salvador.”

“Nah,” said Jake, “when ya stand up to bullies, them fuckers just back down. If ya ask me, Judy Marsh is scared you’ll embarrass her again. Now ya may be a little-known writer whose sales ain’t worth a damn, but, Billy, yer untouchable as far as the law is concerned.”

“Spare me the lecture,” said Billy. “I want to be held to account. Something so ugly crawled out of me that I’m afraid of what else I might do.” 

Jake shrugged. “So, tell me about the trial.”

After taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Billy drew a deep breath and then spoke in a muffled voice as though sharing a secret. “It came down to jury selection,” he said. “My attorney flushed the wannabe jurors that had a boner for MAGA, and Judy Marsh asked the rest of them if they could judge me on the facts. Every one of them promised to keep politics out of it, but when it came to deliberation, they did the opposite.”

Jake poured Billy another beer. “Well, whadaya know?” he said. “Sounds like a Senate confirmation hearing.”

“Yeah, it was kinda like that.”

Jake said, “So, tell me what happened to all yer Bolshevik pals? Accordin’ to what I seen on the news, you was the only one nabbed.”

“Why should I care what happened to them? They let me take the fall.”

“No need to get pissy,” laughed Jake. “Hell, they’re gonna show up again. And since ya didn’t take much of a fall, there’s gonna be more of ’em.” 

Billy sipped his beer and said, “I still feel like I’ve been gypped. How can I hold my head up when immunity’s so cheap?”

Jake said, “Ain’t it enough fer you just gettin’ out of jail?”

“It’s not!” Billy snapped. “Not when I know that Scylla is loose as well!”

Jake mopped the counter. “Billy,” he sighed, “yer talkin’ some heavy shit. Maybe you’d feel better if ya didn’t think about it.”

 

 

 

 

 

James Hanna is a retired probation officer and a former fiction editor. His books have appeared in over thirty journals including Sixfold, Crack the Spine, and The Literary Review. He is also a former contributor to A Thin Slice of Anxiety. James’ books, all of which have won awards, are available on Amazon.