REVERSE CRIME #4

BLACTRON POGROM

by Stanley Lieber

1

April, 1786.

New York.

Morning piled up, folded, the tractor feed printout of a sixty-page paragraph.

Dostoevsky.

Jerrymander Mold glanced at his Rolex Presidential.  Wishful thinking.  Its status
remained static, the chronometer no longer ticking.

Checked the VCR.  Four new episodes of COSBY.  Then, the machine had ran out of
tape.  Nevermind, rewind it.  Reset.

Scripts splayed out on the floor.  Babble drifting in through the mail slot.  How
many of these could he avoid reading?

Delegate.  Yes.  But, his assistant was unreliable.

"Snitches," he thought.  And then, "Trim."

"Conserve paper now," he concluded, "Save yourself a world of hurt, sixty or
seventy years down the road."

Was this sound advice?

"Pro-tip 1763: You fucked up."

Jerrymander wiped his brow.  Cracked open a beer.  If this was the life, he was
living it.

"My kingdom for a business-friendly government."

2

April, 1954.

Los Angeles.

Flannel Ritchie blared from the house speakers as Rose Shitbark abandoned
sedentary action, leaping smoothly to her feet.  The echoing patio made it
impossible for her not to get up and dance.

Senator Dick Rich sank into his cream-colored deck chair, somehow resisting the
urge to movement.  He basked in the afternoon sunshine, vaguely pondering the
scene.  Frankly, he was impressed.  In the months since his last visit, Rose's
coordination had improved.

Dick considered the lawn through his tumbler of scotch.  All was green.  But the
lot certainly needed mowing.  Or, maybe it was just an illusion born of
refraction.  Whatever.  He flexed in his cotton polo shirt, enjoying the feel of
the cool white fabric stretching over his taut muscles.

"I don't know much about comic books," he finally admitted, sinking further into
his deck chair, sliding the ice around in his glass.  Dick Rich was not accustomed
to the practice of surrendering ground.

Rose suddenly stopped, halted her gyrations.  She gathered up her undergarments
and made her way back over to the patio.  Gripped Dick's shoulders and fixed her
eyes directly upon his face as she settled onto his lap.

Giggling, softly.

"It's okay, baby," she whispered in his ear, jerking in time with the soundtrack.
"I can behave the teacher if you want to learn."

3

October, 1492.

Guanahani, San Salvador.

"Crackers," observed Thomas.

Four nondescript whites approached, inching ever closer to the tribal gathering.
These white men seemed undeterred by the chief's security detail, which was
strange enough in itself.  When no one else responded, Piro stepped forward and
dispatched the interlopers with his sidearm.  This caused a predictable stir at
court.  Natives scattered, spitting unintelligible lyrics towards the bewildered
corpses on the shore.  Piro simply shrugged.  Someone had needed to act.

"More crackers!" cried Thomas, spotting them easily from his vantage point high
atop the leaves of a forward leaning palm tree.

The place was going to hell.

Thomas reached into his bag and sprinkled a handful of crack rocks onto the sand
below.  Advertising.  Hoping the product would go viral.

"What are you doing?" whispered Piro into his commlink.

"In this economy?  You have to ask?" replied Thomas.

Events progressed according to the usual pattern.

Actron, Inc.

Financial solvency.

4

June, 1989.

New York.

PRAYER: IT WORKS!

The slogan on Blactron's t-shirt communicated a subtle criticism of the dominant
religious themes of his time.  He stumbled slightly on the courthouse steps as his
handlers ushered him through the throngs of paparazzi.

Up the steps.  Into the building.  No time for applause.

Blactron's handcuffs chafed, possibly scratching the face of his chronometer.  He
cursed his mode of transportation, an unfortunate byproduct of his newfound public
status.

The hearing would be brief.  But crucial, he had been assured, to the nation's
future.  A referendum on the structural integrity of U.S.  history.  Business he
could readily transact.

Blactron affected disinterest in the proceedings.  Heaved his manacles onto the
witness stand and propped himself up against its wooden surface.  He began to
speak.  In the large room his words were practically inaudible, swallowed up by
the granite echoes of institutional racism.  Silence.

The microphone had not yet been activated.  A bailiff snickered at Blactron's
apparent pantomime and corrected the technical gaffe.  Without waiting for further
confirmation, Blactron tried again.

"It all started back in 1492," he began.

"Let me stop you right there," countered the Prosecution.

The judge didn't bat an eyelash.  So, nothing at all had changed.  Blactron tried
another tack.

"The truth is, those kilos were probably overpriced."

Ah.

Hit them in the pocketbook.

Now he was getting somewhere.

5

January, 1347.

China.

The RAGNAROK righted herself and shed excess fuel as she accelerated through the
decades.  Normally, she was not one to interfere, but the present situation
demanded careful attention.  Her son had seemed so distracted.  Thomas, as always,
was worse than useless when it came to restoring drive symmetry.

Piro could no longer discern the marker points.  He steered blindly between the
eras, confusing passing fads for venerable traditions.  His sense of taste seemed
incongruous with reality.  Possibly criminal in its myopia.

These and other problems loomed large in her thoughts as the RAGNAROK clocked out
for her morning break.  She hoped things would sort themselves out while she was
gone.  Anyway, not her problem when she was off the clock.

Thomas stomped down the stairs and sat on the floor, chewing on the end of his
necktie and pressing software buttons on his leaf.

Piro settled into the captain's chair and paged for his morning tea.

Bleep.