SPICE World
Coming soon to a country near you...
Trigger Warning: This shit is dark, but we’re in a societal death spiral and people with a voice need to start using it. I’m only trying to offend those who need to be offended, but this is touchy subject matter for everyone right now, so…yeah. Proceed at your own peril.
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“Eviction Enforcement Unit! Open up!”
Titanium-capped billy clubs made the door vibrate.
“Matt?” Maggie was consoling random kids around the kitchen table. Confetti cake slices sat freshly cut in front of the screaming tykes. Each plate performed its own rhythmic rattle in time with the baton-based backbeat.
Her husband was sweaty and frantic. The corporate raider collated identity paperwork in the foyer with one eye on the front door. WASP status wouldn’t prevent a stinging rebuke from the storm troopers. “Everybody just stay calm, okay? We’re running a drill. Same thing you do at school.”
The agents didn’t care for his attempt to quiet the crowd.
“Comply immediately or we will activate the audio cannon.”
The Mathesons went moon-eyed. Watching a bunch of ten-year-olds bleed from the ear, nose, and throat was not an appointed party game. Matt made a swift move for the entrance to keep everyone upright.
“Hi, sorry, I was just—”
Four specialized SPICE agents barged in without any further invitation. The mass migration spun Matt Matheson like a top. His front door hit him where the good lord split him. The impact sent him face first into the marble floor. He was left with an audibly fractured nose in the aftermath.
“Matt!” His wife rushed screaming from the kitchen to console her blood-spraying spouse. She was zip-tied like a hog and placed parallel to her paramour. It appeared the Mathesons were being prepared for the slaughter. An agent in a Rorschach mask doused the incapacitated pair with pepper spray for some additional flavor.
“Stop resisting or you will be shock collared,” he assured them.
The Mathesons subsequently whimpered in something approaching silence.
All of the crying kids were corralled against the opposing wall. Mikey no longer wanted to be eleven. His father mustered the strength to respond through reddened teeth. “Sir, what is this about? We’re not declared political dissidents, and neither are any of their parents. We would never associate with domestic terrorists. Everyone here is a registered Unitarian. This is my son’s birthday party. Please.”
Their ringleader was done up like a dental phantom from the 1930s. His chrome dome covered the entire upper half of his head down to the nostrils. With the chin strap engaged he was little more than a chattering mouth. “This party is the reason for our appearance, pops. Private pickups are always preferred over the public option. Looks like your maid Maria dropped a dime on your ass. We picked up her cousin a month back. Started working our way up the food chain. She wasn’t too gung-ho about being deported back to Guatemala. Your girl got a six-month extended stay pass for her trouble. Turns out illegal immigrants can be tools of the republic after all.”
Maria’s unexcused absence suddenly made sense.
Rorschach holstered the spray and activated his handheld scanner. The plastic casing was Tonka truck yellow. He had to smack the archaic equipment a few times before it kicked into gear.
His cohorts bookended him on both sides with long rifles. The children were all familiar with firearms. Enforcement patrols on the playground were a common occurrence these days. They could see there would be no safety.
“Okay, kids. I need wrists for the barcode scan.”
Local anesthesia made tattooing preschoolers a cinch. Each child extended their right arm. They understood the procedure at this point. It was how their teachers took attendance.
Scanner SPICE got an all-clear ping from the first four contestants before it was Mikey Matheson’s turn at the plate. The hee-haw he received in contravention of the citizenship code left his parents visibly concerned. A second scan yielded the same result.
“Uh-oh.” Rorschach responded with an inkblot smile. “Looks like someone’s been added to the naughty list by Santa.”
Mikey began to heave and hyperventilate. “Mommy?”
Matt squirmed side to side with a combat boot embedded in his back while Maggie screamed and sobbed. “Stop. Please. Our son is eleven. He’s too young to be declared a domestic terrorist.”
“Never too soon,” the head of the snake hissed. His metallic skull cap couldn’t hide the sneer. “Hit ‘em with the Dead Lights, Danny.”
His demented deputy did as he was told. Digitized colors cascaded across his featureless face mask in patterned prearrangement. It combined cuttlefish hypnosis hunting with the Ganzflicker effect. The manufactured mesmerism put all the surrounding children in a temporary trance. Mikey’s tear-stained face went flat. His parents turned up the waterworks to offset the loss.
All the boot-based tension was released from Matt’s lower lumbar. “Alright, tag him and bag him, Bruce.” The cosplaying Cobra Commander wiped the sweaty residue of Mr. Matheson on his own five-thousand-dollar floor rug.
The emaciated fourth member of their ensemble looked like Jonathon Crane on crack. Scarecrow SPICE doused little Mikey with supplicant spray before placing an electrified hood over his head. One remote push and the pulse would put him flat on his back. Leg irons were added to confirm compliance from the kiddo.
Mikey Matheson wouldn’t see the Sun again for several months.
Rorschach raised the alarm when he reached lucky number seven. “Chief, little Arturo over here is an illegal. Parents are from Puerto Rico. Looks like they stayed when birthright citizenship was struck down.”
“That tot’s small potatoes,” his superior said. “Leave him be. This isn’t a Brown-Out. We’re only here for the birthday boy.”
Matt was finally able to show some spine. “What the hell is going on right now? Our son is in line for residency. He’s a model student. What could Mikey have possibly done to deserve this?”
A quad-folded piece of construction paper was produced from the principal’s pocket. When he opened the artwork up for the parents’ perusal, the sight of their son’s composition caused them immediate distress.
The single-starred standard of the USA was depicted upside down.
“Maria found this in his bookbag. Decryption of his online communications showed a propensity for political resistance. He referred to the president as a poo-poo head at one point. Aside from the terroristic language, desecration of the Unitary flag is a crime punishable by death in adulthood. Fortunately for your son, he’s still two years away from the age of majority. As you’re aware, the sovereignty’s found a more suitable use for that kind of protected class.”
The couple pressed their foreheads together and cried at the implication.
“Matthew and Margaret Matheson, you are being served with a formal writ of eviction.” Mirrorball Man tossed some paperwork at the floor in front of their faces. Matt appropriately craned his neck to try and take a closer look. “The punishment for consorting with domestic terrorists does not require a conviction. Pursuant to the UET power vested in President Bannon, you are hereby dismissed from the Unitary States of America. You’ll have seventy-two hours to vacate the country before you are watchlisted. If you’re detained by American security personnel beyond that point, you are subject to summary execution on the spot. It’s all there in the declaration. Read it over at your leisure. You’re not required to sign anything.”
“What about our son?” Maggie screamed the question. Her husband was still too busy skimming legalese to supply additional aid and comfort.
Mikey’s blank visage reflected off the interlocutor’s face from afar. “Michael will be reeducated and returned to you once he’s fulfilled his public service sentence. You can find the appropriate request form online. It’s fillable. Submit it within the next ten years and he’ll be sent back to you—assuming he survives the Pacific Theater. Just make sure to supply a forwarding address once you’ve settled. Whatever’s left of your son will be sent there.”
His father no longer saw the sense in trying to gladhand the Gestapo. His only regret would remain not speaking up sooner. It was an increasingly common condition among the citizens of his former country. “ICE is a cancer on the body politic. This stopped being about immigration a long time ago. You eviction enforcement fucks aren’t Specialists—you’re just Secret Police.”
Mr. Matheson was kicked into unconsciousness.
His wife had to wriggle her body to weep by his side.
The other children stood stationary in stone-faced silence.
Mikey Matheson was shipped to Belgium in a box on his 18th birthday.