BLOOD AND MILK: (THE NEW AMERICAN REVOLUTION 2016) (Part One: Baldness and Bats...

The South rises again...) BY: WILY GEIST

ANGELINA BLOODSTONE: AGE 16 STARTED SUBVERSIVE DIARY AGAINST TEA-PARTY TAGGED MONITOR AND DESTROY HER WRITINGS!

I THINK IT'S GOING TO RAIN TODAY: Broken windows and empty hallways A pale dead moon in the sky streaked with gray Human kindness is overflowing And I think it's going to rain today Scarecrows dressed in the latest styles With frozen faces to keep love away Human kindness is overflowing And I think it's going to rain today RANDY NEWMAN... 1968 THE SONG LEFT FROM COLLECTION OF GRANNY'S cd collection..

Chapter one: The struggles of a writer and a cure for baldness.

THE birthplace of the creature was in the home of the Chicago. In a lab of the University of Chicago, a scientist had been splicing genes looking for of creating a cure for male-pattern baldness. Since regulations and standards slipped away with the Tea-party's power grab, the scientist gene splicing test was used with not a mouse, but an unprofitable male unemployed writer. Ironically, just years before the Tea-party revolution, this writer was one of the few successful writers of his era. He had hit the vein of creativity with a use of flippant, and sarcastic characters that floated around, in reality, and fantasy. Quentin Christoper, the writer had a big enough cult following, that allowed the author to have two nice homes, one in Hawaii and a smaller abode in San Francisco. Residing in Lotus land and constant stream of sexual conquests kept Quentin from realizing that the rest of America was now at the breaking point. The times were changing for everybody, and Quentin's big mistake was not following the money. Meaning, as a writer, the money was in a writing style of Ann Halter the queen of mean and make-believe. The Skeleton thin lady of Fox TV fame, Halter perfected the art of Tea-party meanness and fibs. Her dedication to killing liberals with her words was a strange mixture propaganda of one Goebbels and insults by Don Rickles. Her theme had brought in the big bucks and cartons of hair-dye and piles of cocaine to keep her rail-thin. Sadly, Quentin dismissed this model, as he optioned his stories to a movie studio that was founded by a man who drew a Rodent. Strangely, or just plain dumb luck, the money came in, but the movies were never made. Quentin felt safe and secure wrapped in his movie option money. If only had Quentin had been more diligent about business, then pussy magic; he would have read in the Wall-street journal that the place that the Rodent built was about to collapse into bankruptcy. His life now would now take a great spin just like his stories. You see Quentin's stories of small-town realism mixed with fantasy, and quirkiness was now a thing of the past for audience looking for bread instead of light culture.

His past success had now doomed him to think that the good life could never end. Reality finally bitched slapped him when his checks started bouncing like the toy of his youth, the Super Ball by Wham-O. Quentin sighed as the tea and whiskey made him feel old. Oh shit! I can't go back to real work. This Quentin said to his only companions a parrot named Walt and Cat named Vincent. Quentin was social man and normally not a wacko that talked to pets. Before his downfall, he loved the company of people, especially the female kind. He got more ass than a toilet seat was what his fellow jealous writers said whenever he spoke at functions, like book signings and speeches for the publishing crowds. A set of female young college-age groupies looking for advice on how to get published or waiting on him to be include in one of his stories made him a very popular penis slinger for years. In his twenties, he was a stud muffin with a touch of literature geek. Therefore, it made him a rock star of writers for those who still enjoyed the written word. His great hair, trim body and masculine beard got many ladies to drop their panties and say 'I love you. God you are a brilliant man,you delicious stud.' All in all, his social life sometimes clouded what could have been a more serious attempt at writing. In his thirties, he was still man-candy to all women. Even in his forties he was distinguished with a touch of gray and money that gave him cart Blanche to meaningless sex, which seemed the most logical kind. It all started getting Salinger creepy when Quentin hit fifty years old, and his girl friends were still in their twenties. For some reason, his inner teenager never went away, and he could pull it off without too many problems. In fact, the girls provided not just sex, but gave him the marketing information needed to sell more books, like reinventing the vampire genre and making the females in his books the heroes had made him one of the few writers who actually got paid for his work. These devoted girls may have been a key to his series of most successful books, an ode to Vampires and teenage sulkiness called SUCK IT. Then it happened. One day, he looked in the mirror to see he had turned Grey, along with the grey came a thinning hair line, wrinkles and a pair of glasses he now needed to spot those nubile visions of creativity. Also, once he hit fifty he was no longer a young hip author and the sales of his books dropped faster then a penguin thrown out a jet plane. Sadly, his vampire loving, purple streaked hair, pierced and tattooed groupies were now long gone. They had transformed into either different phases of adulthood or now modeled the illiterate tea-party citizens whose reading level was as low as reptiles belly. Quentin's bloodshot eyes saw the piles of junk mail on his dining room table that he once regarded as an antique masterpiece he purchased to impress one of his girlfriends. The girl Maggie was twenty-four, but dressed up in Victorian outfits to get into some weird kinky Dickens sex role play games Therefore, the table was purchased so Quentin could ravish her on a Victorian dining room table. The table and the girl were no longer visible, as the table contained the infamous threats from credit-card companies, cable bills, letters from Banks, and junk mail piled into a giant pyramid of capitalism's mafia styled threats. It took a threatening call from his agent and friend Morty Sweatman to force him off the couch and back into action. Morty, as an agent knew that his client had few options on getting back on that fame train, as writers have no options to get on Trump's Apprentice, as that audience never bothered with those silly things called books. Quentin was drinking his morning tea with a shot of whiskey so that he could face the morning light that revealed his body, and face was no longer his calling card to get pussy or work magic on his back cover of his books.

His cell-phone rang, but it was not any of long lost groupies but the number of his long lost agent. Quentin, baby it's not to late to remake yourself with a facelift and hair-plugs along with a series of jokes about long dead-liberals, you know like swimming lessons from a whale named Ted Kennedy. The only thing for your future gig is travel articles for the pampered politically connected, but you have to pay for the trip. His agent was well aware that Quentin had been one of those lucky men, whose looks, talent had pushed him into getting a taste of fame and money, not obscene, but a moderate level of both fame and money. Sadly, Quentin never thought this party was ever going to end. He missed the new party in town, the cranky and rebellious Tea-party. Since the Tea-party take over, and even years before books sales had been non-existent. The bubble of truth about the glorious Internet was that it was a failed system when the economy was bad. Most young users could digitally shop-lift everything they needed and damn the copyright laws with websites made in China and Russia, Detroit or anywhere in this cockeyed ethically challenged world. Artists, writers and musicians now received a big goose egg for his efforts and ended up back in line as waiters and cooks for the one-percenters, which was almost as bad as being a writer, except, there could be some tips, or at least being able to steal a box of steaks and cases of liquor from the owner who was paying you two dollars and hour. Due to the Internet's invasive marketing search engines they knew that Quentin's hair was falling out. You see; he searched for options, like hair-plugs and weaves. That information was passed on everywhere while Quentin remained clueless. That information was thus given to a team of scientists working a cure for baldness for a fee by the search engine company. Like magic Quentin now had received a call that informed him that he was slotted for a free test at the University of Chicago to end male-pattern, along with money for his time. Bored and hoping for a change, Quentin signed up and traveled to the windy city. How great would be to get free hair treatments and the culture brilliance of that esteemed school, where the students might still remember his books? Little did he know that the test itself would go hair-wire, and he would be one of the first hybrid creatures made in America. His test results were sent immediately to the Defense Department while Quentin was sleeping off the effects of the new drug tests. Once the defense department saw Quentin's body scan images, they purchased his genetic code for huge sums of money. The scientist who had tested this new drug realized that he had cured male-pattern baldness, but with the side effect of turning the patient into a part human and now part fruit bat. Luckily, for him the Defense Department they loved the concept, as this was cheapest method for making a drone that could spy on hapless citizens. A human drone flying around would be much cheaper than the costs of the current Lockheed Martin Drone. The scientist that had created the drug was then sent on a vacation to Switzerland with a shit load of money and the threat of death if he ever said that he had created a new creature. Of course, the over excited scientist was astounded with his payout and left in hurry that day forgetting to lock the room that the creature-writer was housed in. Since the University had been issued cut-backs orders, as the government funding for science was drying up, this annex was empty. Quentin had just woken up from his drugged filled tests and looked around feeling wonderful. He touched his head and noticed that he had the hair of a teenager. He touched his hair and felt a full head of hair. A sexy head of hair like the old days from the touch of his hand.

What he didn't realize was now the full head of hair came with another odd appendage, wings! The writer's hand merely opened his door and left into the dark Chicago night, thinking it strange that no one was there to have him check out officially. He walked out into the Yuppie styling of Hyde Park. Students were chatting and textings with the self-absorbed concentration of chimps masturbating in a tiny zoo cage. His presence was just another person that is old and ignored into the fog of the forgotten. Quentin walked by with his changed appearance and nobody bothered to look up. He headed back to his hotel to check out and make the return trip to Lotus land, San Francisco. His body now was molding him into something he only had read about. He felt lighter; his stomach sent signals to his brain that it was time to eat some fruit. For some reason, his brain told him to flap his arms, then his ears started picking up sounds he had never heard before. Quentin felt strange, as now he took off his glasses and saw perfectly in the dark. His stomach churned but as he passed a hotdog stand his mind said that he needed tropical fruit not a dirty water dog. He also didn't know that he could fly without a plane, or that he carried diseases. Yes, fatal diseases which unleashed could kill humans easily. The department of defense had been shut down until the new Tea-party decided to fund it, as they were being pressured by the Industrial military complex. An email about Quentin now being a hybrid was left in the un-read status of the director of the CIA, NSA and Tea-party Science committee. The Department Defense now was on the way to pick Quentin up, but their government credit card no longer worked, so they had to go back to the Pentagon to see what petty cash was available. Now without any testing of the creature's brain power or possible effects of on humanity it left the University and the defense department were shit out of luck. As Kurt Vonnegut said and SO IT GOES.... Meanwhile, as Quentin walked back to his hotel, the world he once knew was in toward a revolution to take America back to the days of old. He walked into his room and without even turning on his light, he discovered in the dresser mirror that he was now half fruit-bat and half man. He fainted and woke up forty minutes later and order a fruit plate and cried like baby for what they had done to him. More Americans even the ones that had not been changed into a bat would also be crying.

CHAPTER TWO: AFTER THE TEA-PARTY REVOLUTION AND THE NEW AMERICA. If you had been with me and my Mother and brother, you would have seen our tears. I, Angelina now sixteen have tears from the bad years we have survived through. I cry for my Brother who died working with me in the mines, and I cry for the job my Mother does,which makes her feel dirty and sad. You see; the times in America in 2016 were bad, like the end of Roman Empire bad. The culprits in this fuck up were calling themselves Tea-party rebels who decided to use any means necessary to take control of America. You have never seen such a bunch of ego-manics power mad weirdos unless you were around during the days of Caligula's reign of the Roman empire. All the old America, the middle-class suburbs, were now like the worst sections of Detroit, with the exclusions of gated wealthy that still had landscapes, food and the best of things, those sparkling things, along with real meat and real vegetables all were stored, warehoused behind the guarded gates. For most of us in we were in shitville, decay, fear, hunger and despair. Here is my street in shitville, from my bedroom window from a banned camera phone one those ancient Iphones:

(We have to hide personal pictures of relatives who had been teachers or so-called radicals this is the last photo of Granny as a teacher before the purge.) Since my Grandmother was history professor, I have started this memoir as a means to come to grips with the current state of what was America and its current history. This is of course a banned activity, but I have my hiding places for my secret life. Plus, are new masters don't usually suspect a woman with looks to be involved in writing. Our masters are not big on educating the locals, but higher education is reserved for political members of the tea-party and those who come from China. * During my grammar school days, the required reading of Ayn Rand, the Bible, and our new President Rand Paul and his Father's books are allowed in schools. If you are caught with a banned book, you are fined the first time and the second time you are put on a road crew for the Chinese with no pay, just a bowl of rice and some soup bones.

THE NEW AMERICAN FLAG: It was no longer America it was now the States of AMERICHI. The new place was now a land investments, farm land, minerals, oil and gas and land investments for the Chinese. Their mainland China and population were bursting through the seams of just too many damn people for a land that they had been blundered.Like the cheap jeans, they used to make; China was coming apart at the seams. It also represented that their Ecological blunders had backed up like a septic system into the front yard. To quote Granny Frances's journal: The Chinese had shit in their own nest for far to long. It was now their emergency plan to find new land. But how? Only two methods of resolution either War or a corporate takeover of an entire country\. It was a pure and simple answer: The corporate takeover.

Mother- Mary Bloodstone during the long migration:

Tagged for monitoring by Tea-party known for reading banned literature. History of liberal thoughts from Ms. Bloodstone's Mother (Dead)

My Mother, Mary had been going to the library to gather books, to heat our house. All the libraries with the exclusions of wealthy neighborhood had closed. Kids didn't read books anymore, even the electronic ones. The new rulers, the Tea-party had outlawed reading UN-patriotic books, so there had been no complaints when they shuttered the doors of unused libraries. You would face jail time or fines for reading banned books. Anything that was written in the time before the Tea-Party had taken over could be suspect. Nothing could reference anybody called a democrat, or socialist, or something called liberal or progressive. In the first years of the new government, there are thousands in orange jump suits rebuilding the roads for the new government for the mere crime of reading a banned book or article.

Outside there is a crowd shouting to move and run from those condemned houses, as the China/Tain Corporation is demolishing these dilapidated homes to make room for another gated community for the new executives from Beijing. The squatters are running for their lives. An old man stumbles and since he is feeble and weak, he is run over by the Beijing-Tain bulldozer which is run by the prison labor force on work detail; they were hired for their lack of compassion, and cheap wages. It was pure free-enterprise method to boost profits. A prison wage of 98 cents a day for construction work goes a long way to up to the stock price, and the executives pay packages. The old guy is squashed like a water bug as the work must continue, he will be washed into the gutter with the power hoses before nightfall. Lights will spotlight the worksite for any type of looters or protesters. Looters will be shot on sight, no trial. The Tea-party doesn't want to waste money on long trials, and the Chinese agreed. Before the revolution, the North had been asleep at the switch while the Tea-party from the South broke away from the union and armed themselves. Politicians tried to pick sides, but it was the armed Tea-party that locked down Washington DC and took over. Most of the Democrats were thus shot as traitors or changed parties rather quickly.

The new heads of the Tea/chia-Party believed in Free Enterprise, so signing a deal with China to rescind the debts for land options was a no brainer. Rand Paul now was the De-facto leader, President of the United States, now Americhia after the coup. The original southern states now had beaten us, Yankee liberals. We didn't have enough weapons, when Rand Paul took over the Southern states National guard. The northern states were unprepared and along with a planned government shutdown, it was a coup that happened easier than the original Civil war. Since the Northern army was overseas still stuck in Afghanistan the takeover seemed a done deal. Especially when Rand promised to pay the military in Gold reserves. The Yankees were now fucked. By the time the Yankees tried to print out plastic guns from 3-d printers the Southerns were down on the street in pickup trucks with Nugent style machine guns. The South did finally rise again. We had moved to West Virginia when I was eight, skinny and very hungry, as by suburb Mt. Prospect Illinois was sold off and without being Chinese or members of the Tea-Party we were told to move, since our house and property had been confiscated. We owed back taxes on the land, and the Chinese banks were highly motivated to get the land for Mic-mansions. My Mother, Mary was depressed as she knew the better days before the take-over of the government by the Tea-party rebels. We ended up taking one of those new Chinese high-speed trains to West Virginia,to find work or grow food. The only impressive thing about the Chinese was their ability to build structures and trains with amazing speed, although sometimes both items fell apart since they were made to quickly without any inspections. The train was sleek and fast hitting speed of hundred miles hour. Mom whispered that America before China had a train that wasn't much faster than a goat pulling a vegetable wagon. The Chinese kept the price of train tickets to twenty-five cents in order to hoard more gasoline away from American's need to drive cars. I started off with my little brother age six and I, being seven years old had started working in the Teabody coal mines, at the leisurely pace of a mere four-hour day, after we attended school. Our school was in old closed factory, and it is where we learned about our new great leaders, Rand Paul and his father Ron, Xui Chan, Ayn Rand, Ted Cruz, Paul Ryan, Mao and of course Jesus. As a child, we were given simple readers in both Chinese and English and read the works of that lady Ayn Rand and the story of the founding Fathers, Reagan, Rand, Cruz and the Koch Brothers masters of industry. Your education was stopped at the sixth grade unless you showed promise to fulfill a need in the tea-party. My work was to ride a motorized cart into the mine and place a plastic explosive in a hole then set the timer and get back to the surface. Once this was done, I was then forced to go back into the shaft and begin loading the carts with broken-up coal. Clouds of coal dust fill the room and are inhaled by the boys and girls laying kids on the floor with coughing jags and trip to the company doctor, when you started spitting up blood. The doctor would only see you if have paid into the company insurance plan;otherwise, you're left to hope for a charity doctor to take pity on you.If we strike about the conditions, the government calls in the troops who have no problem on firing upon us for not following the free-enterprise system.

The Fox News channel calls the strikers,traitorous liberal progressives destroying the great American tradition of free enterprise and laugh at our protests. The coal itself was then sent to India and to the poorer sections of America for fuel. Images from the TV showed that the gifted ones, the China officials, businessmen and Southern politicians are secluded in a guarded,walled, clean areas, bubonic. The commercials say if you work harder and become a good citizen you too can get a home and wood or coal for heat. Outside the sun shone, but was buried by the clouds of gases from our coal power station, the air was either Grey or brown, and the birds no longer sang, but like feathered stones they fell from the trees. Within the breaker (a metal chute), there was blackness, clouds of deadly dust enfolded everything, the harsh, grinding roar of the machinery and the ceaseless rushing of coal through the chutes filled the cave. Before the end of my shift my jobs was to pick out the pieces of slate from the hurrying stream of coal, often missing them; my hands were cut and bruised, bloody. I was turned black from head to foot with coal dust. My Mother said, it was better to get out of those mines before I turned totally old and Grey. Her devotion to me and to stay out of debtors prison made her become an entertainer of men. The Tea-party, although religious turned a blind eye to the Men's clubs that sprouted up in secluded rural areas for the Chinese power elite. Entertainment for Men signs now sprouted up like oil rigs in the corn fields. Mom never let me near her work, but said that she knew how to keep her clients in check, whatever that meant. I felt so sorry for my Mother, as she cries before she goes and locks the door with a sadness. She kept on looking at the picture taken from my work by the Tea-party's minister of education Newt Gingrich and she cried and left for work.

Angelina, you don't have to work in the mines no more..." I just got a new job that pays more and with the new garden we share with the state, we should get you out of that hell hole. Mom turns on the TV to see if any new corporations are coming into the area, her job forces her to dress funny and leave at night. The only good thing is that are food rations have improved; fresh vegetables and meat are provided by Mother's new job. At night, we are watching TV, as it is mandatory that we don't miss any of President Rand's speeches for school or church meetings. The talk around the workers' camp is that the TV is recording our conversations and movements inside our homes. President Rand said he outlawed the NSA, but his new system called the Saviors of Liberation have taken away people in the middle of the night. These people are never seen again and go directly to the Court of Constitution awareness.

We have access to a state-owned TV, which we are forced to rent from the Cable Company and government. The networks are all run by Fox News features showing the evils of Liberals, Democrats, homosexuals, atheists, the Food Network shows how to cook Raman's noodles, one thousand ways and our Movie channels show Clint Eastwood, Charleston Heston movies and John Wayne movies until midnight. Incredibly, nobody complains about this, but you can see the boredom on their faces. We hear rumors that certain members Rand's government had their own TV channels that featured band movies and subjects. Once you start thinking those thoughts somehow the government begins searching your home until they find an item, such as a photo or diary, and you are sent into the re-education camp. The TV blares more commercials for Insurance companies selling the latest policies, Elder care liberation policy Now people as you get older you going to need Americhi's latest product. We will work with CHI_Mart to supply you with your prescription needs. More commercials from our friends at Bank of AmericChi. Now invest with us for your future so that you are not a blight on American's free enterprise society. The picture cut to old people singing Americhi the Beautiful. Before we return to our Dirty Harry film fest our sponsors would like to show you the new rules on gun ownership. Hello friends and fellow patriots. Since we have worked with new administration, we feel secure in providing you with the best and most perfect security system for keeping you and the country safe. Now remember it is your constitutional duty to purchase a weapon. The star spangle banner is now playing in the with photos of Ron Paul, Rand Paul, Ted Cruz and Ronald Reagan, shimmering in the background. At least one weapon is necessary to fulfill your requirement in case you are called up for the militia. Smith and Tesson now want you to be prepared in the future just like Clint Eastwood said with his Magnum, do you feel lucky punk? The commercial now pans to Clint shooting the black criminal while real audience cheers our heard. The techno hip soundtrack plays the latest track from The Jeff Davis Jam band. Kill the moochers and save the day, those liberals never prayed. Going to get my Magmum Eastwood 44 and take back my neighborhood. Watchin the Hoody punks go down.

One more liberal scum off the street.

Ironically Clint Eastwood had been frozen after his death and much to the chagrin of his widow the Chinese scientists could bring Eastwood back to life for the Tea-party, and he is still literally propped up at Tea-party conventions. He keeps on mumbling lines from his old movies and things he spoke at a Presidential convention before the revolution. Mom shook her head and remember that part of our food money went to buy a Glock on time, and the payments were cutting into our food costs every month. The gun was used when we went to the store for safety. We did try to kill rabbits for food but the pistol was not easy to use for small game. A rifle would have been better. Mom was going to try to get a rifle, but they were all sold out. Angelina let's go out and look to see if the neighbors aren't try to pillage our garden. Be careful as old man Hazelton bought a machine gun. I gulped realizing that old man Hazelton was the oldest man on the block, sixty, which was really old, and he couldn't see that well. He had killed one other neighbor for going through his trash and was within his rights. Trash is property rights as long as it hasn't made to the dump and at the dump, it becomes the companies' property. Angelina hush now and go into the shed. Mom pointed to our shed, which contained tools and hidden items like canned food and items. We didn't want the government or the neighbors to see. Mom is shaking her head, Granny wrote something down about the old days and what we should do. Now Mom turns up the TV and points to the closet. She motions for me to get the journal. We walk into the shed and light the candle; the electric power has been rationed so we try to conserve as much as we can.

The last entry is written in shaky hand. I will not survive without Social Security... I look at Mom and know, I can't speak those dirty word's Social Security,or I would be taken away. Mom motioned, and we went outside into the backyard and went to the shed. Yes, we must always talk in the shed to hide from those eyes. Under the candle light, we remove the floor panel and pull out the maps and instructions from Granny. Places that may survive after this Tea-party revolution. Canada should be able the safest place to go. Stay away from the South, as Florida and New Orleans will most likely have gangs and weather problems. Mom, I never heard of those places, Florida and New Orleans? Oh! I remember them as being down south, until the great flood. Then the flood happened, and it was reported on Fox Church channel Franklin Graham reported that it was god's wrath against the leftover devilish liberals, with Muslims still in America along with those homosexuals who God needed to be purged off the earth. I think that Granny knew what was going on why before Tea-party took over. We need to find out how to get to Canada. Only the news no longer features anything that shows other countries unless approved by the Fox media support of democracy. China and the Rand administration says that those devil countries are not worth the money reporting on. Looking at the journal, we realized that there were clues hidden signs and what appeared to be a puzzle. Canada still had their old system of government and now that the hot winds have come through people were trying to visit and vacation there. Angelina, I am going to save money and buy a car, so that we can go there. Mom, I heard that the border is guarded, and that you are shot by the Tea-party for being a traitor. I gulped knowing that the news did show traitors being shot for just protesting against the President and his Vice President Cruz. There was a dark shadow that flew over the shed that sent Mom and I to crouch down. It was that winged creature again, as the shadow of wings moved across the window. The creature was silent. What the hell was the that? I think it was one of those drones from the NSA? Mom had her pistol and took it out as we headed out of the shed. The night was quiet and the sky full of soot from the new coal power plant. Darkness and neighbors candle light gave us thoughts being stuck inside a coal mine. We went inside our rented house and turned on the battery powered lamp and Mom lighted the stove for our dinner. Mom gave us a treat of meat today, a real hamburger that she got from her company for good services. Meat is very hard to get since it goes first to the Chinese and then to Tea-party members. Before Mom's new job, we ate whatever we could scrounge up, even from the garbage and grocery stores. Fighting over food is now common place. Granny's diary states that before the revolution, the populace, had a government that helped out with food stamps, unemployment insurance, and social security for old people to old to work. As a child, my history lesson's never covered those things it just stated that Ronald Reagan showed the Tea-party the true way.

That government isn't the solution but the problem. Sometimes it makes me wonder what that world was like. I see the older neighbors dying in the street, as with no income from the Freedom Senior fund after the stock market crash, they are dead broke. One old guy grasped my hand and said something strange. I made a mistake the tea-parties are dumb bastards, and I cut my own throat supporting them. The old guy died an hour later calling out for his Mother; the Trash collector came and tagged him and removed his body. In the middle of night the neighbors came into his house and removed anything that they could use as fuel or clothing. The Bank of AmericChi officials came in and posted a sign saying they now owned the property and looters, squatters would be shot. Someday the hunger comes back when there is food shortage. Last week, a gang from the KKK sect of the Tea-party came into the town and took food away from our grocery store. They said that our neighborhood had too many niggers and spics eating food made for the Aryan nation. Ironically, the KKK tea-party forgot the whitest product, Milk in storage, so we still had gallons of milk that was turned into yogurt, cottage cheese and string cheese. We survived, but the neighborhood was constipated and sick of the sight of cheese. Somethings was changing as the Tea-party members were fighting among themselves, even in our neighborhood fistfights, gun fights all took place about who was the most ardent believer. Old man Hazelton was a prime example of craziness. His own paranoid behavior caused him to run to his front door carrying his machine gun, fully loaded and with no safety on. It was the noise from the garbage cans that caused his rush to protect his trash. The old man really needed a walker and not a Tommy gun, as he staggered around with all the balance of a drunk elephant on an ice-rink. He pushed the door open and tripped over his unwelcome mat and his confederate slippers, yes. Slippers with confederate flags on them wrapped around his unwelcome mat. The gun slipped out of his hand, but his hand had already pulled the trigger, while he trying to catch arm out to regain his balance. RAT -AT-DAT...woke up the neighbors while we stared out our windows. We watched old man Hazelton's spray bullets all around his porch hit his metal mailbox, and many of those bullets ricochet into his feeble old body. And so it goes... The days seemed much the same until President Paul came on the TV to announce that the problem of people was that were demanding too much from government. You protesters have your rights, but it is work that sets you free to enjoy the benefits of our new society. Work will set you free. Free Enterprise is our goal. I have taken steps to have criminals now learn through work how to become model citizens. Since the deportation of Illegals we now are running short of laborers needed for food import. Prisoners with minor Pot conviction we be paroled and serve as replacements for those illegals. Don't forget we now offer Bonds and stock in our new company's Marijuana USA. This is a booming business that will support your kid's education and road building projects. Now remember that you have to be twenty-one to buy a package of Marijuana USA inhalers delights. Thank you and God Bless Americhi.

As Rand walked from the podium images of Reagan, his Father and Ayn Rand flash across the screen, the ending image has Tush Timball Conservative god of talk radio is pictured saluting Rand Paul with his chubby fingers. The audience is cheering wildly, and the Fox Press is taking notes. Only one other member of the press exists, and that is the Wall-street journalist Charles Krauhammer a TV pundit and cranky one hundred-year-old man, who had all the love and compassion of serial killer. Charles Krauthammer was hundred years old, but his recent face lift gave him the youthful glow of seventy. Ironically, since the take-over of Tea-party Free-enterprise the normal non-rich person's life expectancy was forty.

Logically, Krauthammer knew that his prized theories were blowing up, but his brain also realized he needed the gig and that the Tea-party didn't believe in psychiatrists. Ever since Reagan decided to eliminate mental health treatment with government help, it was better to let the afflicted walk the streets even with guns. Krauthammer was also used by parents to scare their children, if you're bad, the Krauthammer is going to get you. Quentin now tried to contact the University of Chicago, but found that the staff he had dealt with had been fired for budget cuts. The doctor no longer exists as the message stated on his answering machine. Son of Bitch, lousy baldness and end up looking like a creature from the Black Lagoon. Damn, I am tired and it is ten o'clock in the morning; I must be nocturnal? Quentin looked down and saw that his wings were beautiful, sort of transparent and light grey. For some strange reason, Quentin got up and remarkably went into the bathroom cleaned himself up with a bat like motions and swung himself upside down by his feet from the shower rod and fell sound asleep. He was adjusting to being a fruit bat quite well, until his cell-phone rang and the high-pitch freaked out his bat hearing.

WHAT, THE FUCK? Quentin as a human realized that his cell-phone was the noise maker, and he picked up his Apple Iphone and with a weird bat like motions answered it. Hello Quentin, this Steve Tallas your accountant and we need cover some crucial topics about your investments. Quentin was a man who was adverse to keeping track of the market. He had been lucky before and spent most of his time getting laid. He had never had money issues before. He just looked at his statement and realized that he could travel,and live very comfortably unlike his working class roots. Mr. Christoper, I hate to inform you but you are now broke, dead broke. WHAT? Quentin's bat hearing was now aware of that last sentence, but his human brain tried to erase from his short term memory. Well, sir those municipal bonds are worthless since the Tea-party take-over and the rest of the Stock market crashed when the take-over took place. If you write another best seller, I would advise you to invest in gun and ammo company stocks. Quentin was stunned and shocked that even after selling those stories; he was now dead ass broke. What about my Movie script money? The accountant now was silent and shuffled some papers. Oh! That money was invested with Dilbert Fastbender's hedge fund, and he left the country with all the investor's money, sorry. Damn it, you could have called before this all happened. Now Quentin said this wishing he had been cross-genetically modified with a vampire bat. Sorry, Mr. Christoper, but I was really busy with all my clients and these new Tea-party changes. Quentin slammed down his cell-phone. For the first time, Quentin felt suicidal and laid low. He got up slowly and walked to his balcony and stared down for five minutes and saw no pedestrians. He was up five stories, and he climbed up to the railing and let his body fall. At least, he thought he would go out with a bang. As he was falling his wings/arms caught air, and he automatically flung his wings open. The wind caught his wings, and his body lifted, his wings flapped by the biological desire of the bat to survive. He was now actually flying. His human mind couldn't fight the genetic code from the bat, and he started flapping his wings and gaining altitude and lift. Quentin now enjoyed the pleasure of bat flight and felt a rush of adrenal surge through his body. Down below the crowd was busy with their cell-phones, despair, and mundane lives, so they didn't look up. Except Angelina and her Mother who just happened to get off the train and took a walk around Chicago as, they were planning their escape to Canada. Angelina found the old maps, and my Mother was trying to get a car to drive the back-roads into Canada. We were astounded by the big buildings and were gawking upwards, and then we saw it.

The STRANGE SIGHTS started, what is that? IS IT DRONES FOLLOWING US? AT CLOUDED ARE MINDS WITH THOUGHTS OF DRUGS IN OUR WATER.

Quentin kept on flying as the two woman watched. They were too stunned to say anything. It was blast of air and that freedom of flight that saved Quentin. His mind flashed with ideas about how being a hybrid-bat-human would certainly get him back in the limelight, most likely bigger than before. He stared down and saw the two attractive women, who stared back with open mouths. The old Quentin brain flashed turn on the charm, and he smiled that boyish grin and winked at them. His mind wondered what sex would be like now that he had wings and imagined that it may lead to some great advantages. His bat system of genes tried to get him to fly back to his home base of an island in Micronesia, but his human male brain said: Hey those two ladies seem so lovely. I must try to get my mojo working and turn on the Quentin charm. I need to get laid. The women looked around both excited an imposing city run by chaos and guns. Chicago itself was now a battle zone with a militia from the Tea-party and the Chinese army driving around in pickup trucks with 50caliber machine guns. If the poor came into the loop, they would immediately be surrounded by the tea-party police and if looting or violence took place the Chinese would authorize the use of force. The poorer sections of Chicago were being foreclosed and knocked down for the new Chinese managers, who were now arriving by the thousand each day and into sparkling new upscale gated Condos.. Mom, we have to get to the Art Institute, as this guy said he had a car with a clean title to sell. Let's look at that map again. Why not use our cell-phones. Angelina, they can track us with the cell-phone, so we can only use in a total emergency. Quentin flew higher but kept the women in view. He was hungry, but the women intrigued him. His Bat gene was forcing his nostrils to sniff for fruit and flowers. I need a mango or something like a lousy store bought banana. His old brain system said women versus food much more important, must have meaningless sex. He modified his flight so that he could follow the women as they headed toward the park, the park contained people who had opened up a swap meet and food stalls. The people were raggedy dressed, and some were flashing weapons. America was now back in the wild west mode. Business was done always armed, as each place had its share of criminals hoping to steal whatever you had. He watched the girls nervously approach a guy holding a battered cell-phone. He was dressed like one of those Tea-party regulars, the new flag with the Confederate flag and Chinese stars posted so he appeared patriotic. Cars that were parked there were battered and old, most Americans had been priced out of the car market or couldn't afford the price of gas. Most of America's new found oil supplies were sent overseas to the highest bidders. Mom that must be the guy we called. He said that this car could make it for any long trips as it was made a long time ago, it is something called a Chevy Impala, whatever that is. The women were sacred since these days people were robbing people at gun point while pretending to sell you something you needed. The Tea-party expected you to defend yourself, even if were held up by a criminal. Law enforcement was mainly used to protect corporations, and the rich behind their gated community's local police had suffered under state wide budget cuts and corruption; it was the wild, wild west now.

Angelina watched as her Mother tucked her glock into jeans and moved to protect her purse. They both walked up to the guy, who had listed the car on craigs list. The name given on the list was Glen Jeffery and the car was five thousand dollars for a 2007 Chevy with one hundred and twenty nine thousand miles on it. Glen Jefferey appeared friendly, as he waved at the woman, as each iPhone had photo id built in. The id app flashed person valid seller. If you were a member of the Tea-party, the iPhone would have the built in security link red flagging the person if they had been involved in subversive groups or tagged criminals. Glen Jefferey dressed in confederate-tea party garb. The grey suit and string tie with the iPhone holder and flag pins. His coat had the ad-flasher Apple mini-mini iPad that displayed his membership in Freeenterprise gun-seller, and reseller of items that are sanctioned by the Tea-party. The suit played ads for items sponsored; Nike, Coke and Hormel video clips ran on a loop while he stood talking to potential customers, those clip then automatically download to the customer's phone. The park had many such sellers of what seemed junk, like in the old days would be considered a fleamarket or garage sale. Items scrounged out from rich neighborhood's garbage dumps while the security guards had slept off their nights drunk. Now called the scrounger Rats, men, women, girls and boys eked out a living trying to sell the flotsam of the wealthy. Most wealthy were upset that citizens were selling what they purchased. Now the rich turned to having their servants burning their trash into giant furnaces and lived with in-ground bunkers when the crowds piled in front of the gated communities for food. Our noses caught the smell of Spam and beans that had the most lines of customers as food was so expensive that people searched for any bargain. We were both hungry, but it was our mission to get a car and wait for a trip to a Chinese food outlet for their leftover day sales. The price flashing on phones said ten dollars for fried spam, and beans was a cheap price of five dollars a spoon full and nobody could haggle over the price in comparison to the big-box store selling it now for twenty dollars a can. Our stomachs growled with hunger. The older member of the crowd found it hard living on their new tea-party pension privatized plans. Two sixty old ladies are fighting with all their might to scrounge an orange out of the trash can. Nobody cares or notices their fight escalates with shouts, I WILL KILL YOU. YOU DUMB BITCH! One old lady grabs her hand-gun and shots the other in the chest takes the orange and walks to a park bench. This common and nobody stops what they are doing, but Mom and I are nervous. Walking up to this sales guy, we are hoping that this is all legit.

Hello Ladies, have I got a car for you. Smiling Glen is something you don't see much these days and only in Tea-party ads. Mom looks on and tries to surmise if this is all a trick. Glen moves forward to shake our hands. Ladies, I have been selling cars for years, and this car is a gem.

The car was big and dented with parts hung on with black duct tape We need to take a test drive, and then we will talk money if it passes. Sure no problem get in and our take you for a ride in this beauty. No Mr. Jeffery, I will drive. The doors creaked, and the interior of the Chevy was ripped and had been used as someone's home, but the engine cranked over with no problems. Mary edged out the car into traffic and watched out the cracked mirror for cars that the rich drove. In the city, the rich drove around in super cars at top speeds, Bugati, Lamborghini,Hummers, Mercedes and Rolls Royce all drove at the highest possible speed, as the Chicago cops were on the take for the Chinese elite and never even bothered to stop them. For the remaining working class that could afford a car, they now drove older models of Honda, Chevy; Ford or new Chinese knocks offs of what the Americans made last year. These average cars were stopped all the time, especially if the passengers were non-Chinese or White. Mom drove down the street nervously, as people were milling about and some now waited in large lines for selling their blood, as the Chinese was, for some reason, paying for plasma. When you gave blood, you were given a ration of Soy Milk, as cash was not given out without having a tea-party membership card. The car creaked and moaned but seemed to be able to make the trip to Canada. Mom rolled down the windows checking for noises; the air felt warm and wonderful. It was December first and still a balmy winter of eighty degrees. Quentin followed the car for a while, but then decided to get his lunch. Although it was winter time, the roses and tulips were still blooming in the park in front of the Art Institute. He flew behind the back entrance so not to attract attention. Weirdly, his body told him to stick his tongue into the tulip and enjoy his new eating lifestyle. People around hadn't noticed him making his landing, as they were arguing or checking their cell-phones to tell them the latest news. Quentin felt odd, but it was necessary for his new body type to nourish himself with nectar. As he walked up to the bed of tulips, he stuck his tongue inside and swished it about and tasted and swallowed. A group of bums were watching, but went back to drink their bottle of wine and grain alcohol. Nothing seemed that crazy these days, as some of the poor had been eating dandelions and grass to cure their hunger, the days of food stamps and access to government help disappeared into the fog of history now expunged for Tea-party correctness. As Quentin sucked down more nectar, he noticed that the two women had come back in that old Chevy. His inner gigolo wanted to make his play for getting a phone number. He looked at his wings and wondered how that would play in the dating scene, but being bald seemed a lot worse. He watched and planned to walk up and make chit-chat. The women and man now were standing in front of the car haggling over the price. With Quentin improved bat hearing, he realizes that the guy selling the car is asking too much money for that beater of a Chevy. Five thousand dollars lady is like stealing from me. Quentin thinks that is his opening to enter the conversation and score some points. Just before he steps up to enter his studly mode, a man runs in the back of the women with a gun drawn demanding their money. Damn it, how does a bat-guy get a date around here.

Quentin now focused on the problem at hand. The women and salesman had all their hands in the air. Quentin saw that nobody bothered. He looked and saw that he could become the hero if he could get airborne. He flapped his wings but needed a perch to launch his writer's body airborne. Quentin being new to flying was somewhat clueless but the chance of pussy gave him a spike of adrenal and craziness. Must get some airspeed. Quentin mumbled this to himself. The back stairs of the Art Institute led to the end of a hill and the parking lot. Quentin started running as fast as he could, and he flapped his bat wings. Lucky for him a breeze off the Lake Michigan had gusted to thirty miles an hour, and he was now a few feet off the ground. He was ready to save the day and hopefully get laid. END OF PART ONE: