A Spooky Summer Tale In Light Of The Mehserle Verdict

In a darkened room, hundreds of high definition television screens line the walls that surround a bank of monitoring stations. The monitoring stations look like the dashboards of cars, with buttons and dials and widgets that glow in the dim light.

Seated in front of each workstation is a human, mostly male with the odd female sprinkled about. The males are pink, with groupings of brown, yellow or black people seeded into the grand scene. The humans are referred to as “pinks” “Browns”, “Blacks”, “Reds” and “Yellows”.

For various reasons, some are derisively referred to as some other color, like turquoise. The invisible ones are referred to as “Glass”.

The television screens go up the walls to a distance of about 20 feet. They are huge, but still the operators need screens at their own stations where they can call up the output from one of the 527,386,206  national survelliance cameras and view the proceedings up close and personal.

“Looka that one!” A pink male, Sergeant Joe Doaks yells to his neighbor. “She’s gonna try to run, I just know it.”

“Zap her, then! Rule 32.139847b(1)(c) will cover yer ass!” another yells.

The men are out for blood. The normally compliant citizens of the Secessionist Union Of Amerikkka, especially the darker skinned ones, have made for boring work during the past few days.

The men want to kill someone, and only a Black will do. The pink ones think that the Mehserle verdict of 2010 gives them all of the precedent that they need, even though Mehserle was beaten to death after only 3 months in prison.

Sergeant Doakes takes a snort of coke, but still manages to watch the unfolding events intently, a crazy gleam in his eyes.

The noise is astounding as over 500 enforcers rush to call up the incident on their personal screens, running lotteries, playing odds, exchanging cash…

The woman, a dark skinned Black mother of three is trying to get away from her tormentor, a street cop named Butch, who has been terrorizing the neighborhood for years since the cameras went up.

It looks like a bad monster movie. The woman is running, but Butch, walking normally, seems to be catching up with her. She’s exhausted and panicked and keeps falling, each time taking longer and longer to get back up and running.

Butch is after her for his “tax” money. He goes home to the White district every night and believes that “those” people need to pay their way and that he might as well be the one to collect it all.

She has dodged him for a week, now, skirting around the housing complex, sneaking off to work and sneaking back from work during the hours when he is off duty. All for nothing.

Here he is and it is going to go down.

She panics. Runs. Begins to fall.

And suddenly turns into a fat ball of red mist as the surveillance and apprehension system is activated from central command.

“Whoa! A hit! Dead on!” A newly immigrated man from England yells, his voice filled with hysterical glee. He went histrionic sometime during his third day on the job and will not last more than a few more days.

“Yeee Hah!” a rebel yell comes from station 32c, just before an invisible walks up and blows the rebel’s head off.

The invisible, reading from a book of cards, cites the The provisions of the 2010 Agreement with the Los Angeles/North Mexico Anti-Confederate Nation. That treaty made rebel yells a death penalty offense years ago.

Another invisible walks up to Joe Doaks and shoots him through the eye before he can even begin to get up from his seat. The 2015 Treaty Of Crips and Bloods calls for immediate execution of  any central law enforcer who engages in an act of hunt and kill inside the boundary of a Crips and Bloods territory.  There are over 5,478 Crips and Bloods territories in the Seccessionist Union.

The place goes back to a placid calm, punctuated by the odd snort of cocaine, a grunt here and there and some sounds of broken glass. Then someone yells “Mel Gibson!” 

A “Mel Gibson” is an incident where a drunk is driving out of control, attempting to lead police on a high speed chase. It is a variation of the “Mad Max”, an incident where the driver is sober, but is still stupidly trying to escape from central and regional law enforcement.

These are touchy incidents, requiring complete clearance before implementing a Hunt and Kill.

It is just a normal day at Law Enforcement Central in the Seccessionist Union of America.