Interlude III
Addemup
Anti-Imperialist
Kyle didn't even bat an eye as his friend and temporary roommate opened the front door to see him starting at his dual monitors.
"Hey, Rick," he started. "How was work?"
"Same as it usually is," Rick replied. "I'm guessing you did fuck all today?"
"Pretty much," Kyle answered. "Just shitposting on those Cambodian animal husbandry forums."
"Uh-huh. Yeah, about that: could you try to send me less of those memes while I'm working? It's starting to make my coworkers suspicious."
"What? Why? There's nothing wrong with them."
"You sent me a video last week of pigs getting slaughtered with the Minecraft pig death sound playing over and over again. I don't get it. What about that is so funny?"
"It's because it's in Minecraft, that's what makes it so funny."
Rick raised his eyebrow. "...what? No, it wasn't. It was real."
"Yeah, that's the joke. I hate it when people do that." Kyle turned back around to face the computer, waving his hand in dismissal at Rick. "Go... do whatever it is you guys do."
Rick went for the stairs before stopping and returning his attention to Kyle. "You know, me letting you stay here doesn't mean you don't have to look for a job."
"Yeah, I've been doing that," Kyle said before swiveling around to meet Rick. "Every single day."
"How many minutes per day?"
Kyle made a rough sputtering noise with his lips. "Ten."
"Yeah, that's not enough." Rick was about to start up the stairs before Kyle once again stopped him in his tracks.
"Well, I dunno, Dad, but there's only so many job listings out there! Plus, it's only been two months since I moved in here, and-"
Rick was just about finished. He turned back towards Kyle one last time and interrupted with the force of two months' worth of resentment. "Kyle, that's two months too many! I only agreed to let you stay here because my husband was out of town for a few weeks, and I think it's high time for you to find someplace else-"
"What, so you want me live out on the streets even though there's a spare bedroom here? Is it because you want more alone time with your precious little husband?"
"No, that's not it!"
"Yes, it is! Fuck your fag flag!"
For the next few moments the two of them could have heard a pin drop. Kyle and Rick glared at each other with an enmity that could only be acquired after weeks of constant aggravation.
"If you don't start packing within the next fifteen minutes, I'm calling the police."
"Fine. Be that way." Kyle got up from his chair in a huff, well aware of the role he had played in escalating the argument. But he didn't care. He'd find a place to live, and he'd find a job, and he'd never have to speak to Rick ever again. Good fucking riddance.
- - -
If the Pernet household had lived during the revolution, then they would have been one of the sans-culottes. Their little apartment in Popincourt had two bedrooms and one bath for the five of them, and even after Belle moved out to study at the university it still didn't seem big enough for the whole family. It was only after Raoul got his own place across the city when Jacques finally felt comfortable in his own home.
Jacques would be graduating secondary school next year, and to celebrate the end of his junior year he invited his close friend, Tristan, over to play some games on his Switch. The knock on the door was all he needed to hear before he opened the door with a grin.
"Hey, Tristan," he exclaimed. "You ready?"
"You fucking bet I'm ready."
It wasn't long before the two of them had begun a round of Smash Bros. Ultimate. Tristan went with Sonic, as per usual, while Jacques went with the unusual choice of Mr. Game and Watch. While their avatars began duking it out on the TV screen, they began talking about their lives outside the game.
"Yeah, so there was this Libyan family that just moved in next door. They're not much for conversation, but given their home I'd understand."
"Oh, shit, that was a good kill," Tristan exclaimed. "That was a really good kill."
"Thanks, man."
"But you might want to watch out. They could be terrorists."
"What, the Libyans? Now, why would I think that of them?" Jacques posed. "They don't seem like terrorists to me."
"Well, if they aren't terrorists, then they could be criminals, or deviants!" Tristan watched out of the corner of his eye as Sonic went flying off the stage. "Pause the game."
"No. I don't want to get into this."
"Please. Pause the game. It's important." Jacques relented, and for the first time in half an hour the two friends faced each other instead of the screen.
"All these migrants are subverting our culture. Not just France, but all of Europe," Tristan began. "If we want to ensure the stability of our civilization, then we need to be more careful in choosing who we let in!"
"What, did your dad tell you that?"
"...Yes. Yes, he did. But that's not relevant, because it's true!"
"No, it's not true. These people are refugees, not terrorists. If we want to maintain stability
Tristan shook his head. "No, you don't understand. This is a game of live and death! Order and chaos! If we don't do something about these migrants, then-"
"Can we please go back to playing Smash Bros? I don't feel like getting into another one of these arguments today." Jacques gave Tristan a look of utter exasperation. "Please."
"...You know what? Fine. Let's keep playing the game."
So they did. The tension never quite left the room, but they continued playing as if nothing had happened.
- - -
Bernard Domodo sat with the rest of the band at the table, eating up the last scraps of Chinese takeout they had ordered for the night. Their gig had been yet another unsuccessful one, with what few seats at the venue that were filled falling asleep or walking out before it had ended. Every last one of them was exhausted to the core, and
"So, what's the plan for the gig next Tuesday?"
Bern swallowed out of nervousness before taking a deep breath. "I won't be at the gig for next Tuesday. I'm running for Congress."
The rest of the band sat in silence upon Bern's sudden revelation. Sheila was the first to speak.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes, I'm serious!", Bern exclaimed in defiance. "What do you think all that political talk I've been making for the last few months was for?"
Gerard was next to question him. "Dude, do you think you could have... let it on to us a little bit sooner?"
"I'm sorry guys, but I was too busy with everything else. I just wasn't sure until today," Bern admitted while throwing his hands up in guilt. "I've talked to Otto, and he's alright with taking over for me. You guys alright with that?"
The others mumbled in tentative agreement. Irwin gave Bern a concerned look before stating, "I don't think you have much of a chance in politics, though. I mean, if you thought being in a Christian rock band was hard, then being a career politician isn't something you'd want to do."
"You don't know that, and I don't know that," Bern replied, waving around the empty rice container in his hand. "I know where I stand on all the positions, and I know that I want to try and make a difference with those positions. Besides, even if I don't win the election, I'll still have you guys to fall back on. Right?"
Shelia gave Bern a warm look of consideration before forming an answer. "Bernard, you and I both know we're all willing to support you in this. But let's face it - you're irreplaceable! We might not be able to make it another year and a half if you're off campaigning. You need to think about what'll happen to us, too!"
Bern puzzled for a moment, his hand stroking the stubble on his cheek. "Okay, I'll tell you what: I'll go ahead and start campaigning, and every month or so I'll go back to you guys and do a gig or two. That way, I might be able to bring some publicity to the band, and it'll be able to stay afloat. How does that sound?"
"As long as you're sure you can handle it," Irwin affirmed.
Bern gave the others a beaming smile. "Of course I can."
- - -
Senator J. D. Vance sat in his office chair, going over the numerous requests and complaints his constituents back in Ohio had sent him. Most of them were just asking for simple things like tours of the Capitol, a lot of them were nonsensical and borderline schizophrenic in their messaging, but there were only a very few that he considered to be worth a deeper look. It was these few messages that made him enjoy his job.
Just then, a blonde staffer entered his office wearing a suit, tie, and a polite smile. "Good afternoon, Senator. I suppose nothing else has come up since yesterday?"
"No Pete, I'm afraid not. But I can't be mad about it," Vance replied.
Pete made a soft chuckle. "Very true, sir. If you don't mind, we've gotten another call from the Freedom Party. They're still wondering if you would be interested in switching your affiliation."
Vance let out a sigh of exasperation. He'd dealt with these people before, and he had no clue why they kept talking to him despite his consistent declines. "I told you, Pete, I'm not interested."
"Well, it's either that, or you renounce the pro-Trump rhetoric. There's not much of a point in supporting such a discredited-"
"Hey!" Vance's face turned stone cold before slowly leaning himself towards Pete. "I don't think you have the right to issue ultimatums to me."
Pete stopped in his tracks at Vance's uncharacteristic crassness. "O-okay then, sir. I'll see you tomorrow." He slipped out of the office as if he was invisible, and Vance went back to reading over the committee's schedule for the day.
Yes, he was going to stay Republican while still supporting Trump. The boat may have been sinking for a while now, but it wasn't time to jump ship just yet.
- - -
Erin closed the door to the dorm room with a force that shook the wall to which it was bolted. She was really expecting more from the pride rally she attended that afternoon, but the jeering and mockery of children, teenagers and religious nutcases was more than enough for her to leave an hour early. The particular disgust she felt towards the Muslim man who dared to lecture her on the virtue of humility rattled her down to her very bones. If she shouldn't have a say on how his home country was run, then why should he have a say about his?
She turned on the light to see Pat, lying slouched on the beanbag chair next to broken shards of beer bottles. He stared thoughtlessly at the shattered top half of a bottle, appearing unaware of the pile of puke he made for himself on the floor. Instead, he twiddled the bottle between his fingers while occasionally taking a moment to twinge at the cuts on his arms and legs.
"Gods, Pat," she exclaimed while inching towards him, "what the hell did you do to yourself?"
"Oh. Oh, hey Eri-" he stopped to let out a wet belch that made her wonder how such a small frame could make so much noise. "Erin. How was the parade?"
"It was fine. I'm more worried about you," she replied, walking over to the closet while making sure not to step on any of the glass shards. "looks like you almost drunk yourself to death."
"No. Not to death. Maybe to a coma, but not to death." He paused before leaning over and vomiting a great big pile on the floor. "Aw, that was a great night."
"I should've known you would do this," Erin muttered before taking out the carpet cleaner. "Now, could you move over? I need to clean up your mess."
"Sure, sure," Pat acknowledged before staggering up on his feet. Good thing the bean bag was only a few steps from his bed, she pondered, because otherwise I don't think I'd be able to carry him.
Erin had heard of automated cleaning systems in recent months - far better than the Roombas of last decade, or so she'd been told - but given her current financial situation she felt it would be best if she stuck to doing things manually. Plus, she added in her mind, if things work out the way I want them to, I won't have to deal with Pat anymore by next semester.
"Hey, Rick," he started. "How was work?"
"Same as it usually is," Rick replied. "I'm guessing you did fuck all today?"
"Pretty much," Kyle answered. "Just shitposting on those Cambodian animal husbandry forums."
"Uh-huh. Yeah, about that: could you try to send me less of those memes while I'm working? It's starting to make my coworkers suspicious."
"What? Why? There's nothing wrong with them."
"You sent me a video last week of pigs getting slaughtered with the Minecraft pig death sound playing over and over again. I don't get it. What about that is so funny?"
"It's because it's in Minecraft, that's what makes it so funny."
Rick raised his eyebrow. "...what? No, it wasn't. It was real."
"Yeah, that's the joke. I hate it when people do that." Kyle turned back around to face the computer, waving his hand in dismissal at Rick. "Go... do whatever it is you guys do."
Rick went for the stairs before stopping and returning his attention to Kyle. "You know, me letting you stay here doesn't mean you don't have to look for a job."
"Yeah, I've been doing that," Kyle said before swiveling around to meet Rick. "Every single day."
"How many minutes per day?"
Kyle made a rough sputtering noise with his lips. "Ten."
"Yeah, that's not enough." Rick was about to start up the stairs before Kyle once again stopped him in his tracks.
"Well, I dunno, Dad, but there's only so many job listings out there! Plus, it's only been two months since I moved in here, and-"
Rick was just about finished. He turned back towards Kyle one last time and interrupted with the force of two months' worth of resentment. "Kyle, that's two months too many! I only agreed to let you stay here because my husband was out of town for a few weeks, and I think it's high time for you to find someplace else-"
"What, so you want me live out on the streets even though there's a spare bedroom here? Is it because you want more alone time with your precious little husband?"
"No, that's not it!"
"Yes, it is! Fuck your fag flag!"
For the next few moments the two of them could have heard a pin drop. Kyle and Rick glared at each other with an enmity that could only be acquired after weeks of constant aggravation.
"If you don't start packing within the next fifteen minutes, I'm calling the police."
"Fine. Be that way." Kyle got up from his chair in a huff, well aware of the role he had played in escalating the argument. But he didn't care. He'd find a place to live, and he'd find a job, and he'd never have to speak to Rick ever again. Good fucking riddance.
- - -
If the Pernet household had lived during the revolution, then they would have been one of the sans-culottes. Their little apartment in Popincourt had two bedrooms and one bath for the five of them, and even after Belle moved out to study at the university it still didn't seem big enough for the whole family. It was only after Raoul got his own place across the city when Jacques finally felt comfortable in his own home.
Jacques would be graduating secondary school next year, and to celebrate the end of his junior year he invited his close friend, Tristan, over to play some games on his Switch. The knock on the door was all he needed to hear before he opened the door with a grin.
"Hey, Tristan," he exclaimed. "You ready?"
"You fucking bet I'm ready."
It wasn't long before the two of them had begun a round of Smash Bros. Ultimate. Tristan went with Sonic, as per usual, while Jacques went with the unusual choice of Mr. Game and Watch. While their avatars began duking it out on the TV screen, they began talking about their lives outside the game.
"Yeah, so there was this Libyan family that just moved in next door. They're not much for conversation, but given their home I'd understand."
"Oh, shit, that was a good kill," Tristan exclaimed. "That was a really good kill."
"Thanks, man."
"But you might want to watch out. They could be terrorists."
"What, the Libyans? Now, why would I think that of them?" Jacques posed. "They don't seem like terrorists to me."
"Well, if they aren't terrorists, then they could be criminals, or deviants!" Tristan watched out of the corner of his eye as Sonic went flying off the stage. "Pause the game."
"No. I don't want to get into this."
"Please. Pause the game. It's important." Jacques relented, and for the first time in half an hour the two friends faced each other instead of the screen.
"All these migrants are subverting our culture. Not just France, but all of Europe," Tristan began. "If we want to ensure the stability of our civilization, then we need to be more careful in choosing who we let in!"
"What, did your dad tell you that?"
"...Yes. Yes, he did. But that's not relevant, because it's true!"
"No, it's not true. These people are refugees, not terrorists. If we want to maintain stability
Tristan shook his head. "No, you don't understand. This is a game of live and death! Order and chaos! If we don't do something about these migrants, then-"
"Can we please go back to playing Smash Bros? I don't feel like getting into another one of these arguments today." Jacques gave Tristan a look of utter exasperation. "Please."
"...You know what? Fine. Let's keep playing the game."
So they did. The tension never quite left the room, but they continued playing as if nothing had happened.
- - -
Bernard Domodo sat with the rest of the band at the table, eating up the last scraps of Chinese takeout they had ordered for the night. Their gig had been yet another unsuccessful one, with what few seats at the venue that were filled falling asleep or walking out before it had ended. Every last one of them was exhausted to the core, and
"So, what's the plan for the gig next Tuesday?"
Bern swallowed out of nervousness before taking a deep breath. "I won't be at the gig for next Tuesday. I'm running for Congress."
The rest of the band sat in silence upon Bern's sudden revelation. Sheila was the first to speak.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes, I'm serious!", Bern exclaimed in defiance. "What do you think all that political talk I've been making for the last few months was for?"
Gerard was next to question him. "Dude, do you think you could have... let it on to us a little bit sooner?"
"I'm sorry guys, but I was too busy with everything else. I just wasn't sure until today," Bern admitted while throwing his hands up in guilt. "I've talked to Otto, and he's alright with taking over for me. You guys alright with that?"
The others mumbled in tentative agreement. Irwin gave Bern a concerned look before stating, "I don't think you have much of a chance in politics, though. I mean, if you thought being in a Christian rock band was hard, then being a career politician isn't something you'd want to do."
"You don't know that, and I don't know that," Bern replied, waving around the empty rice container in his hand. "I know where I stand on all the positions, and I know that I want to try and make a difference with those positions. Besides, even if I don't win the election, I'll still have you guys to fall back on. Right?"
Shelia gave Bern a warm look of consideration before forming an answer. "Bernard, you and I both know we're all willing to support you in this. But let's face it - you're irreplaceable! We might not be able to make it another year and a half if you're off campaigning. You need to think about what'll happen to us, too!"
Bern puzzled for a moment, his hand stroking the stubble on his cheek. "Okay, I'll tell you what: I'll go ahead and start campaigning, and every month or so I'll go back to you guys and do a gig or two. That way, I might be able to bring some publicity to the band, and it'll be able to stay afloat. How does that sound?"
"As long as you're sure you can handle it," Irwin affirmed.
Bern gave the others a beaming smile. "Of course I can."
- - -
Senator J. D. Vance sat in his office chair, going over the numerous requests and complaints his constituents back in Ohio had sent him. Most of them were just asking for simple things like tours of the Capitol, a lot of them were nonsensical and borderline schizophrenic in their messaging, but there were only a very few that he considered to be worth a deeper look. It was these few messages that made him enjoy his job.
Just then, a blonde staffer entered his office wearing a suit, tie, and a polite smile. "Good afternoon, Senator. I suppose nothing else has come up since yesterday?"
"No Pete, I'm afraid not. But I can't be mad about it," Vance replied.
Pete made a soft chuckle. "Very true, sir. If you don't mind, we've gotten another call from the Freedom Party. They're still wondering if you would be interested in switching your affiliation."
Vance let out a sigh of exasperation. He'd dealt with these people before, and he had no clue why they kept talking to him despite his consistent declines. "I told you, Pete, I'm not interested."
"Well, it's either that, or you renounce the pro-Trump rhetoric. There's not much of a point in supporting such a discredited-"
"Hey!" Vance's face turned stone cold before slowly leaning himself towards Pete. "I don't think you have the right to issue ultimatums to me."
Pete stopped in his tracks at Vance's uncharacteristic crassness. "O-okay then, sir. I'll see you tomorrow." He slipped out of the office as if he was invisible, and Vance went back to reading over the committee's schedule for the day.
Yes, he was going to stay Republican while still supporting Trump. The boat may have been sinking for a while now, but it wasn't time to jump ship just yet.
- - -
Erin closed the door to the dorm room with a force that shook the wall to which it was bolted. She was really expecting more from the pride rally she attended that afternoon, but the jeering and mockery of children, teenagers and religious nutcases was more than enough for her to leave an hour early. The particular disgust she felt towards the Muslim man who dared to lecture her on the virtue of humility rattled her down to her very bones. If she shouldn't have a say on how his home country was run, then why should he have a say about his?
She turned on the light to see Pat, lying slouched on the beanbag chair next to broken shards of beer bottles. He stared thoughtlessly at the shattered top half of a bottle, appearing unaware of the pile of puke he made for himself on the floor. Instead, he twiddled the bottle between his fingers while occasionally taking a moment to twinge at the cuts on his arms and legs.
"Gods, Pat," she exclaimed while inching towards him, "what the hell did you do to yourself?"
"Oh. Oh, hey Eri-" he stopped to let out a wet belch that made her wonder how such a small frame could make so much noise. "Erin. How was the parade?"
"It was fine. I'm more worried about you," she replied, walking over to the closet while making sure not to step on any of the glass shards. "looks like you almost drunk yourself to death."
"No. Not to death. Maybe to a coma, but not to death." He paused before leaning over and vomiting a great big pile on the floor. "Aw, that was a great night."
"I should've known you would do this," Erin muttered before taking out the carpet cleaner. "Now, could you move over? I need to clean up your mess."
"Sure, sure," Pat acknowledged before staggering up on his feet. Good thing the bean bag was only a few steps from his bed, she pondered, because otherwise I don't think I'd be able to carry him.
Erin had heard of automated cleaning systems in recent months - far better than the Roombas of last decade, or so she'd been told - but given her current financial situation she felt it would be best if she stuck to doing things manually. Plus, she added in her mind, if things work out the way I want them to, I won't have to deal with Pat anymore by next semester.
