{"id":8431,"date":"2019-06-24T10:27:24","date_gmt":"2019-06-24T17:27:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/?p=8431"},"modified":"2021-11-22T21:48:25","modified_gmt":"2021-11-23T05:48:25","slug":"juicy-ghost","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/2019\/06\/24\/juicy-ghost\/","title":{"rendered":"\u201cJuicy Ghost.\u201d\u009d A Political SF Story. 2019."},"content":{"rendered":"

“Juicy Ghost” is a story I couldn\u2019t stop myself from writing. And it seems relevant on this particular 4th of July. You can read this shorter intial version story if you scroll down in this post.<\/p>\n

I felt a need to take a stand. Not that I\u2019m urging anyone to follow my character Curtis Winch\u2019s example. But I definitely took satisfaction in crafting his tale.<\/p>\n

The writing and revising ran from January to June of 2019, which is a very long time for me to spend on a short story. In April, 2019, I sent my draft to a couple of SF magazines. One editor didn\u2019t feel comfortable with something so topical; another felt the story didn\u2019t win them over.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

I turned to the idea of publishing \u201cJuicy Ghost 2019\u201d\u009d as a part of a special, all-political issue of my old ezine Flurb<\/em>. I contacted some of my writer friends. They gave me positive feedback. Marc Laidlaw, John Kessel, John Shirley, Kek-W, Paul Di Filippo, and Brendan Byrne sent fine contributions, and pieces were promised by Eileen Gunn, James Worrad, Christopher Brown, and Cory Doctorow. I\u2019m grateful to them all.<\/p>\n

But at the start of June, 2019, I lost heart. Putting together a new Flurb <\/em>felt like too big a push for me. With embarrassment, and with apologies to my authors, I backed out of the political Flurb<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Even so, I couldn\u2019t stop working on \u201cJuicy Ghost 2019.\u201d\u009d I kept at it for the next three weeks, doing rewrite after rewrite. It was like finding my way across a tightrope. By the end of June, 2019, I felt ready to go public.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

This shorter version “Juicy Ghost” appears in this blog post below, loosely illustrated by whatever photos I had kicking around. You can also read this shorter version of “Juicy Ghost” in issue #13\u00a0 of the online zine Big Echo<\/em><\/a>.<\/p>\n

Or listen to me reading this shorter version as an episode of Rudy Rucker Podcasts<\/a>.<\/p>\n

In September, 2020, with the cataclysmic Presidential election coming on strong, I doubled the length of the story to get a longer version that I also posted\u00a0 on my blog<\/a>.<\/p>\n

And in 2021 I did a Kickstarter campaign to self-publish a full novel version called Juicy Ghosts<\/em><\/a>.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cJuicy Ghost\u201d\u009d by Rudy Rucker (2o19 Version)<\/b><\/h2>\n

Copyright \u00a9 Rudy Rucker 2019.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cA mob of Freals,\u201d\u009d says Leeta. \u201cI feel safe. For once.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

She makes a knowing mm-hmm <\/em>sound, with her gawky mouth pressed shut. She\u2019s not one to think about looks. Lank-haired and fit. A fanatic. I\u2019m a fanatic too. We\u2019re feral freaks, free for real.<\/p>\n

Is Leeta my girlfriend? No. I\u2019ve never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend. I don\u2019t get that close to people. My parents and brother and sister died when I was eight. A shoot-out at our house. I don\u2019t talk about it.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s nine in the morning on January 20, a cold, blue-sky day in Washington D.C. Inauguration Day for Ross Treadle, that lying sack of shit who\u2019s acting as if he\u2019s been legitimately re-elected. Treadle and his goons have stolen the Presidency for the third time in a row, is what it is.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

They outmaneuvered the media, they purged the voter rolls, and supposedly there\u2019s an unswayable block of Treadlers. A stubborn turd in the national punchbowl. Not that I ever see any Treadlers. Admittedly, I live in Oakland, California, not exactly Treadle country, but I personally wonder if the man\u2019s so-called base is a scam, a figment, a fake-news virus within the internet\u2019s chips and wares.<\/p>\n

Doesn\u2019t matter now. Treadle\u2019s on his way out. I\u2019m here to assassinate him. And Leeta\u2019s my bodyguard. I\u2019ll die right when I kill Treadle. I\u2019m trying not to care.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

I\u2019m Curtis Winch, part of a four-person Freal cell. I\u2019m a gene-tweaker, a bioprogrammer. And we\u2019ve got gung-ho Leeta, our money guy Slammy who might be an agent, and there\u2019s a skinny twitchy web hacker who calls himself Gee Willikers. Gee spends all day with his head in the cloud. He\u2019s crafted me a special device that has my whole personality inside it. Gee calls it a psidot.<\/p>\n

We have our base in Oakland, near the port, in a cheap-ass, beige, trashed, 1930s cottage amid pot-grow warehouses and poor people\u2019s squats. I implanted some special eggs in my flesh two weeks ago. Today they\u2019ll hatch out and attack Treadle. And then the Secret Service will gun down my larvae-riddled remains.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Upside: Gee will put a low-end chatbot version of my psidot online as an interactive Paul-Revere-type inspiration. Curtis Winch, martyred hero of the New American Revolution<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u201cTell us what it was like to take down Ross Treadle,\u201d\u009d the admiring users will say to my memorial chatbot. \u201cAnd thank you, Curt, thank you!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Too bad I won\u2019t be around to savor this. From what I\u2019ve seen, dying is like a jump-cut in a movie\u2014except there\u2019s no film on the other side of the jump.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

While I\u2019m still alive, I\u2019m continually updating my psidot. The device itself is a wireless antenna and a brainwave transducer. A shiny piezoplastic disk the size of a freckle, on the back of my neck. Like a paste-on beauty mark, except it\u2019s smart and it can crawl around a little bit.<\/p>\n

My psidot captures whatever I experience and stores it in the cloud. Works the other way too. My psidot feeds me info. And, better than that, it uses heavy cloud-based processing to munge my data stream, and if I ask, it\u2019ll suggest what I might do next.<\/p>\n

Right now the psidot is showing me Gee Willikers. Gee is excited, more than excited. Messianic.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re immortal,\u201d\u009d Gee Willikers is telling me. Not that I believe him. They\u2019re shining me on so I\u2019ll do the hit. Gee giggles. He\u2019s not a normal person at all. \u201cWith my latest upgrades, you can live inside your psidot, as long as it\u2019s leeched onto a person or an animal or even an insect. As long as you\u2019re leeching, you\u2019re a juicy ghost. My ultimate hack, Curt.\u201d\u009d Another giggle. \u201cI\u2019m God.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cBe quiet, Gee.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

The crowd around the Lincoln Memorial is beyond epic. Bigger than a three-day rock fest with free beer, bigger than a pilgrimage to Mecca, bigger than any protest D.C. has ever seen. More than two million of us.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Freals stream in via the Memorial Bridge, down Constitution and Independence Avenues, piling out of the Metro stops, walking in along the side streets and the closed-down highways by the Potomac. Cops and soldiers stand by, but they\u2019re not trying to stop us. They\u2019re working people too. Low-income city folks. By now a lot of them hate Treadle too. Him getting to be President again is like some unacceptable bug in our political system. And the Freals are here to fix it.<\/p>\n

Our crowd swirls around stone Abe Lincoln on his stone chair in his stone temple. We mass along the reflecting pool, as far as the Washington Monument\u2014but not yet onto the Mall.<\/p>\n

A belt of armed troops blocks us from getting all that close to the Capitol. My psidot is jacked into the media, and it shows me how the Mall is blanketed with actual, for-real Treadlers\u2014deluded, sold out, in thrall to an insane criminal, awaiting the dumbshow of their hero\u2019s noon Inauguration.<\/p>\n

What would it take to change their minds?<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

We Freals are zealous and stoked, filled with end-times fervor and a sense of apocalypse. We\u2019re rarin\u2019 for revolution. Ross Treadle\u2019s opponent Sudah Mareek is standing atop one of Lincoln\u2019s stone toes. She\u2019s shouting and laughing and chanting\u2014wonderfully charismatic. Her voice is balm to my soul, and she\u2019s calming Leeta too. The whole reason we two didn\u2019t go straight to the Capitol steps is because we need to see Sudah get her own Inauguration. The real one.<\/p>\n

Sudah Mareek did in fact win the election\u2014both the popular vote, and the House of Electors. But somehow Treadle turned it all around, and his packed Supreme Court took a dive. Treadle says he\u2019ll charge Sudah with treason once he\u2019s sworn in. He says he\u2019ll seek the death penalty.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

But the Freals are going to inaugurate Sudah just the same. We have one supporter on the Supreme Court, and she\u2019s here to administer the oath of office. She\u2019s ninety years old, our justice, in her black robe, and she\u2019s brought along Abe Lincoln\u2019s Bible.<\/p>\n

We fall silent, drinking it in. The Presidential Oath\u2014short, pure and real. Sudah\u2019s clear voice above the breathless crowd. I\u2019m absorbed in my sensations, The trees against the sky, the cold air in my lungs, the pain in my flesh, the scents of the bodies around me. We\u2019re real. This isn\u2019t a play. It\u2019s the Inauguration of the next President of the United States.<\/p>\n

For a moment the knot of fear in my chest is gone. This is going to work. Our country\u2019s going to be free. We cheer ourselves hoarse.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

But hatch time is near. Leeta and I need to haul ass to the Capitol steps so I\u2019ll be close enough to terminate Treadle. And everyone else wants to head that way too. The crowd rolls towards the Mall like lava. But there\u2019s the matter of those armed troops at the Washington Monument. They\u2019re in tight formation.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s skirt around them,\u201d\u009d I suggest to Leeta.<\/p>\n

The side streets are blocked by troops as well. We\u2019re like a school of fish swimming into a net, which is the U-shaped cordon of soldiers. They have batons, shock-sticks, water-cannons, tear-gas, and rifles with bayonets. Behind them are trucks, armored Humvees, and even some tanks.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

At this point, Leeta and I are near the troops along the right edge of the crowd. Armed men and women, all colors. Leeta begins pitching our case.<\/p>\n

\u201cSudah Mareek is our President,\u201d\u009d she calls, sweetening her voice. \u201cWe just inaugurated her. Did you hear the cheers?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cMove along,\u201d\u009d mutters a woman soldier, not meeting our eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re <\/em>your friends,\u201d\u009d I put in. \u201cNot Treadle. He\u2019s ripping you off. He hates us all.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Behind me the crowd of Freals is chanting. \u201cWe\u2019re you. You\u2019re us. Be free.\u201d\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cBe Freal,\u201d\u009d echoes Leeta, reaching out to touch the woman soldier\u2019s shoulder. \u201cPut down the gun.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s do it,\u201d\u009d says the soldier at her side, He throws his bayonet-tipped rifle to the earth. \u201cYeah. That gun\u2019s too heavy.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

The woman does the same, and so does the guy next to her, and the woman next to him drops her gun too\u2014it\u2019s like a zipper coming undone. A whole row of the soldiers is defecting. Going renegade. Treadle will call us traitors.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

A few soldiers stand firm. They spray water cannons, which knocks down Freals and muddies the ground. A handful of teargas shells explode. Some hotheads fire their rifles into the air. But the flurry damps down.<\/p>\n

The soldiers aren\u2019t into it. They don\u2019t want to kill us. We\u2019re people like them. This stage of the revolution is a gimmie. Hundreds of thousands of us chant as one.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re you. You\u2019re us. Be free.\u201d\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

The soldiers whoop and laugh. Grab-assing like they\u2019re off-duty. Some Freals try and the tip over a tank, but it\u2019s too heavy. One of soldiers, some wild hillbilly from Kentucky, he breaks out a crate of magnesium flares. He and his buddies go around prying open the caps on the gas-tanks and shoving in flares. Low thuds as the gas-tanks explode, one after the other. The rising plumes of smoke are totems of freedom.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

We cheer our incoming President. \u201cSudah. Sudah. Sudah. Sudah.<\/em>\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

A pyramid of Freals holds the small woman high in the air. She\u2019s waving and smiling. She\u2019s the one who won. She\u2019s ours. In my head, my psidot shows me the news commentators going ape. Treadle\u2019s faked election, political U-turn, people\u2019s revolution, President Mareek.<\/em><\/p>\n

Treadles\u2019 strategists strike back. Two banana-shaped gunship choppers converge on the Washington Monument, circling like vengeful furies. Men with massive machineguns stand in the big doors. They lay down withering fusillades, shooting at will into our crowd.<\/p>\n

The gunships are painted with Treadle\u2019s personalized Presidential seal. The pilots and crews are from the chief\u2019s palace guard. Dead-enders. Pardoned from death row, recruited from the narco gangs, imported from the Russian mafia.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

People are dying on every side. It\u2019s insane. Next to me a man\u2019s head explodes like a pumpkin. Am I next?<\/p>\n

\u201cAsymmetric attack on unarmed demonstrators,\u201d\u009d mutters Leeta. \u201cStop screaming. Curt. Use your psidot.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Good idea. My psidot is overlaying my visual field with images of the bullets\u2019 paths. A hard rain. Simultaneously, the psidot is computing our safest way forward, showing me a glowing, shifting path on the ground. I take Leeta\u2019s hand and lead her.<\/p>\n

We come to a cluster of renegade soldiers who\u2019ve salvaged a rocket bazooka from a charred tank. A dark, intent sergeant raises the tube to her shoulder.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

My psidot brings the nearest chopper\u2019s path into focus. I see the dirty bird\u2019s past trajectory as an orange tangle. And I\u2019m seeing its dotted-line future path too. As usual my psidot is using cloud crunch to estimate what\u2019s next.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere,\u201d\u009d I advise the woman soldier, pointing. \u201cAim there.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Whoosh!<\/em><\/p>\n

And, hell <\/em>yeah, our canny missile twists through the air like live thing, homing in on Treadle\u2019s hired killers.<\/p>\n

Fa-tooom!<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

The chopper explodes like a bomb. Shards of of metal pinwheel as if from an airborne grenade. The blazing craft hits the ground with a broken thud I can feel in my feet. The second chopper flees, racketing into a wide loop above the Potomac.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat there was my <\/em>vote!\u201d\u009d whoops the rocketeer woman, pumping the bazooka in the air. \u201cFor President Sudah!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I feel high. Seeing that chopper go down is like winning a round in a videogame. But this game has a ticking clock. My parasites twist in my flesh, ever closer to my skin. I need to be at the other end of the Mall when Treadle mounts his rostrum.<\/p>\n

The blockade of troops has thinned, and many of the Freals fled back toward the river. Those who remain are tending to the casualties on the ground\u2014the gravely wounded amid the dead. Fire trucks and wailing ambulances arrive.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Leeta and I hurry on and filter through the Treadle base. They\u2019re striving to maintain an air of festivity\u2014even after the rush of Freals, the troops\u2019 desertions, the massacre, and the downing of the chopper\u2014even now. Bundled against the cold, they\u2019ve laid out their sadly celebratory picnics. Doing their best to ignore the bitter, embattled Freals, they wave their Treadle signs, and draw their little groups into tighter knots.<\/p>\n

Leeta\u2019s good at crowds. She eels forward through the human mass, finding the seams, working her way up the Mall. I follow in her wake. Soon we\u2019re within thirty yards of the the Capitol steps. The dignitaries are still there. The charade is still on. I feel that the Secret Service agents are watching me. Treadle is about to appear.<\/p>\n

\u201cI bet dying is easier than you expect,\u201d\u009d Leeta whispers to me. Her idea of encouragement.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

A wave of dizziness passes over me. As if I\u2019m seeing the world through thick glass. Those things in my flesh\u2014they\u2019re leaking chemicals into my system. Steroids, deliriants, psychotomimetics.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are we doing?\u201d\u009d I moan. \u201cWhy?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll be a hero,\u201d\u009d Leeta murmurs, iron in her voice. \u201cBe glad.\u201d\u009d She leans even closer, her whisper is thunderous in my ear. \u201cThe Secret Security knows. Mm-hmm.\u201d\u009d <\/em>She nods as if we\u2019re discussing personal gossip. Her bony forehead bumps mine. \u201cThey hate Treadle too. It\u2019s all set. They\u2019re actually paying us. Slammy set it up.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd I\u2019m your patsy? The fall guy? What if I change my mind?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t fuss,\u201d\u009d says Leeta. She rolls her eyes toward the strangers pressed around us. To make it all the creepier, she\u2019s wearing a prim, plastered-on smile. Her voice is very low. \u201cBe a good boy or they\u2019ll shoot you early. And then Treadle lives. We can\u2019t have that, hmm<\/em>?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

My psidot is jabbering advice that I can\u2019t understand. Mad, skinny Gee Willikers is in my head too. As usual he\u2019s unable to say three sentences without bursting into giggles. I hate him and I hate Leeta and I hate my psidot.<\/p>\n

Fresh insect hormones rush through me. My disorientation grows. They critters inside me are splitting out of their pupas and preparing to take wing. Sixteen of them.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Treadle takes his oath. It\u2019s like, \u201cHa ha, I\u2019m President again, so fuck you.\u201d\u009d <\/em>And then he\u2019s into his Inauguration speech, in full throat, hitting his stride, spewing lies and fear and hate.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell?\u201d\u009d nudges Leeta.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done,\u201d\u009d I intone, quoting Dickens. I know I\u2019m going to kill Treadle, but I\u2019m trying to rise above the seamy details of our conspiracy. \u201cIt is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou got that <\/em>right.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Weird how my whole life has led up to this point. \u201cThere\u2019s this thing about time,\u201d\u009d I tell Leeta. \u201cYou think something will never happen. And then it happens. And then it\u2019s over.\u201d\u009d I pause and peek inside my shirt. Bumps and welts shift beneath my skin.<\/p>\n

\u201cTrigger then now!\u201d\u009d hisses Leeta.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoa!\u201d\u009d interrupts a Treadler at my side. A mild-eyed old man with his leathery, white-haired wife. He\u2019s staring at a wriggly lump on my neck. \u201cAre you okay? Do you need help?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cAllergy,\u201d\u009d I wheeze. \u201cOverexcited. It\u2019ll work out pretty\u2014\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m interrupted by a shrieking clatter. It\u2019s that second chopper, attacking the Freals and renegades and EMTs who are helping the fallen around the Washington Monument. We all turn and stare as the whirlybird stitches gunfire into the ragged band.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cDone at my command,\u201d\u009d intones Treadle, raising his heavy arm to point. \u201cI keep my promises.\u201d\u009d He juts his chin. \u201cWe\u2019re gunning for Sudah Mareek. A traitor. She meets justice today.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Hoarse, savage cheering from the Treadlers. Terrible to see Americans act this ugly. They\u2019re mirroring Treadle. I have to kill him. But, wait, wait, wait, I want to see how the scene at the Monument plays out.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

The cheering dims\u2014and I hear what I\u2019m hoping for.<\/p>\n

Whoosh<\/em>!<\/p>\n

Yes. The rebel soldiers have launched another rocket.<\/p>\n

Fa-tooom<\/em>!<\/p>\n

The blasted second chopper corkscrews along a weirdly purposeful arc. Like it\u2019s remotely controlled. The hulk smashes against a face of the Washington Monument. My psidot feeds me close-up images.<\/p>\n

\u201cBonus points,\u201d\u009d goes Gee Willikers in my head. He giggles. Sick gamer that he is. \u201cPart of the plot,\u201d\u009d he continues. \u201cWe pin this on Treadle.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Gee hacked into the falling chopper\u2019s controls? Wheels within wheels. The plot is a web around me. It\u2019s time to act but\u2014I can\u2019t stop watching.<\/p>\n

Cracks branch across the great obelisk\u2019s surface, running and forking. Bits of marble skitter down the pitiless slope. The Monument\u2019s tip sways, vast and slow. People are scattering. The upper part of the great plinth moves irrevocably out of plumb. It tilts and gains speed, the bottom slow, the top fast, as in an optical illusion.<\/p>\n

The impact is a long explosion\u2014followed by thin, high screams. A veil of dust. A beat of silence. I feel sick with guilt. And weary of being human.<\/p>\n

Leeta is screaming into my face. \u201cDo your job, god damn you! Now!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cGet Treadle,\u201d\u009d I finally say. The trigger phrase. I don\u2019t say it very loud, but it\u2019s loud enough to matter.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Within my flesh, the hymenoptera hear. Ragged slits open on my neck, my chest, my my belly, my arms. The pain is off the scale. I shed my coat and my shirt. The bloody, freshly-fledged, bio-tweaked wasps emerge. All sixteen them.<\/p>\n

For a moment they balance on their dainty, multijointed legs, hastily preening their antennae, unkinking their iridescent wings. They have handsome, curved abdomens like motorcycle gas-tanks. They feature prominent stingers and bejeweled, zillion-lensed eyes. They\u2019re large, and preternaturally alert.<\/p>\n

Leeta slithers off through the crowd. The cuts in my flesh pump bright blood. The Treadlers around me point and shout. The wasps race up my torso, across my face, and onto the crown of my head\u2014a wobbly mob. They rise in flight.<\/p>\n

My job is done.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Or maybe not. Gee Willikers is hollering inside my head. \u201cYour psidot! Put it on a wasp!\u201d\u009d I can see an image of my psidot on the back of my neck. And I note a single laggard wasp on my shoulder. My mind projects a target spot onto the wasp\u2019s wing.<\/p>\n

Though faint from loss of blood, I manage to get the psidot off the back of my neck. It\u2019s easy. The smart, piezoplastic psidot hops onto the tip of my finger. And when I bring my hand near the wing of the target wasp, the psidot springs into place.<\/p>\n

The wasp is pissed off. She stings my finger. Numbness flows up my arm and toward my heart. The wasp venom contains curare, you understand, plus conotoxin. A custom cocktail for Treadle.<\/p>\n

My vision is dark. I\u2019m an empty husk, a ruptured pi\u00c3\u00b1ata\u2014poisoned and bleeding. And if all this wasn\u2019t bad enough, there\u2019s the matter of the Secret Service. They\u2019re good shots. Yes, they might want Treadle out, but right now they\u2019ve got to do their thing. For the sake of appearances. For an orderly transition. I go down in a hail of bullets. It fits.<\/p>\n

Last thought? I hope the wasps will sting Treadle. And then I\u2019m dead.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

At this point my narrative has a glitch. Remember the jump-cut thing I was talking about? Well, it turns out that, for me, there is <\/em>some film on the other side of the jump. Granted, the all-meat Curt Winch is terminally inoperative. But\u2014<\/p>\n

I wake, confused. I look down into myself. I\u2019ve got my same old white-light soul. My sense of me watching me watching the world. I\u2019m hallucinating a little bit. I feel like I\u2019m in a huge, crumbling old Vic mansion with junk in the rooms, and with paintings leaning on the walls, and doors that don\u2019t properly close. The furniture of my mind. Somebody\u2019s in here with me. A jittery silhouette against the light. Gee Willikers.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a juicy ghost, Curt! A Gee Willikers psidot. Play it right, and you keep going for centuries\u201d\u009d His compulsive giggle. \u201cDef cool, Mr. Guinea Pig.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I try to form words. \u201cWhere\u2026\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour psidot is a parasite, dude. Like I\u2019ve been telling you. It hitches onto a bio host\u2019s nervous system. Gloms onto the axons and retarded potentials. Sponges mysto quantum steam and all that other good shit.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cHost?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re riding a wasp, der<\/em>. The one you stuck the psidot on, doink<\/em>.\u201d\u009d Gee makes a trumpeting sound. \u201cJuicy ghost!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were wrong to topple the Monument,\u201d\u009d I tell him. No response. What now?<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

The junked, phantasmal mansion around me\u2014that\u2019s my operating system and my data base. In the cloud. I look for a way to hook into my host wasp\u2019s nervous system. Deep into this as I am, I want to be part of the final attack.<\/p>\n

\u201cOver there,\u201d\u009d goes Gee. \u201cSee the smelly rope? Like a tasseled curtain-pull in a Gold Rush saloon? All thick and twisted and dank?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I fixate on it and, just like that, I\u2019ve jacked myself into the wasp\u2019s nervous system. I\u2019m seeing through her eyes. I am the wasp<\/em>.<\/p>\n

I join the swarm. They\u2019re eddying around Treadle. He\u2019s bellowing, dancing around, slapping himself. He\u2019s fighting for his life. He has foam on his lips like a rabid dog. My fellow wasps are landing on his face, his fat neck, his wattles. But Treadle is swatting them before they sting. He\u2019s killed eight.<\/p>\n

His roars are taking on a tone of triumph. I can\u2019t let him win. His shirt is untucked. A button is loose. I spy a patch of skin.<\/p>\n

I arrow into the opening, and land on the man\u2019s bare chest, very near his heart. I sting\u2014I sting, sting, sting. His voice changes, as if his tongue is turning stiff. His volume fades. He\u2019s wobbly on his pins. He totters backwards. Falls. A groan. Silence.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s done.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

With trembling wings, I escape Treadle\u2019s shirt and spiral high into the air. Hovering with the seven other wasps, a hundred feet up.<\/p>\n

The Freals and soldiers are leading Sudah Mareek forward through the discombobulated crowd. She\u2019s going to be President. Everyone knows it. In the whiplash intensity of the moment, the Treadlers convert to Sudah\u2019s cause. Sobs turn to hysterical cheers.<\/p>\n

Mounting the dias, Sudah swears the oath again. The massed politicians applaud. Treadle\u2019s proposed Vice-President has lost his nerve. He’s bowing out. Sudah\u2019s Vice-President emerges from the Capitol, just in time. They swear her in. Our coup is more organized than I knew. I was in the dark.<\/p>\n

Gee Willikers is ecstatic. \u201cSecret Service on our side, dude. Army on board. Congress is down with it. Done deal.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

I feel a shifting sensation. A doubleness of vision. A group of Freals is carrying my bloody, broken form up the Capitol steps. They hold my remains high, heedless of the dripping gore. Wave after wave of applause. Sudah Mareek and her Veep salute my remains.<\/p>\n

\u201cCurtis Winch, martyred saint of the New American Revolution!\u201d\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cDo I have to keep being a wasp?\u201d\u009d I ask Gee.<\/p>\n

\u201cGlue your psidot wherever you want,\u201d\u009d he says.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnother host?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cHow about somebody in this crowd,\u201d\u009d suggests Gee. \u201cThat Treadler babe in the trucker hat?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cIdiot. Can you get the fuck out of my head?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d\u009d says Gee.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, and don\u2019t forget to post the toy chatbot version of me for the Curtis Winch memorial.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cOnline now,\u201d\u009d Gee assures me. \u201cSlightly redacted. Your memorial\u2019s up to twenty million hits. Viral flash mob, Curt. User tsunami.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd obfuscate the living shit out of this psidot I\u2019m living on, okay? Hide the links. I want to go dark.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cTo hear is to obey, Saint Curt. I\u2019ll run you a global SHA-512 scramble.\u201d\u009d Gee makes a wiggly hand gesture\u2014and he\u2019s gone.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Beating my wings, I leave the swarm and buzz on beyond the Capitol. On my own, feeling good, savoring the quantum soul of my insect host.<\/p>\n

My compound eyes watch for hungry birds, but there\u2019s none around. I make my way into the residential neighborhood northeast of the Capitol. I fly until it shades from gentrified to tumbledown. I spy a mutt on a cushion on a back porch. A collie-beagle mix. Yes.<\/p>\n

Gently, gently I land on the side of the sleeping dog\u2019s head. I preen my wings, detach my psidot with my mandibles, and nestle it onto a bare patch of skin deep inside the dog\u2019s floppy ear. The dot takes hold\u2014and I\u2019m in.<\/p>\n

I stand, shake my body, and bark.<\/p>\n

Joyful. Free.<\/p>\n

\n
\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

In closing, let me repeat that, although Curtis Winch\u2019s tale is a rousing fantasia, voting out our oppressors is a far better path for change. And if we can\u2019t vote them out immediately, we\u2019ll wait them out, keeping our ideals alive, and making our presence felt. History is on our side.
\n<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

“Juicy Ghost” is a story I couldn\u2019t stop myself from writing. And it seems relevant on this particular 4th of July. You can read this shorter intial version story if you scroll down in this post. I felt a need to take a stand. Not that I\u2019m urging anyone to follow my character Curtis Winch\u2019s […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8431","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8431","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8431"}],"version-history":[{"count":32,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8431\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13407,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8431\/revisions\/13407"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8431"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8431"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8431"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}