Indivisible: A Novel About the End of America

[Gnome DeGuerre]

'Indivisible' is an online novel about currency collapse, Martial Law, and civil war in contemporary America. (warning; language)

Check it out here

Here's an excerpt:

Chapter 2

Specialists Jimmy Marzan and Michael Rollins sat next to each other in their filthy, rattling Humvee which was held together in places with duct tape and bailing wire. They rode in grim discomfort, barely speaking, much as they had done the day before and the day before that and the day before that and… They had been in country together for so long that they had arrived at the point in their relationship where they had run out of things to talk about—not unlike an old married couple.

It had been a dull week with the only pleasant aspect of boredom in a dusty, acrid, third world ghetto was the good fortune of unseasonably cool weather. But despite the lull, Specialists Jimmy Marzan and Michael Rollins could feel the omnipresent ‘little brown man’ watching, grinning his snaggle-toothed grin whilst covertly plotting their destruction.

Michael Rollins cynically understood this bleak, Goyan world well and he enjoyed the life he was leading in it especially its moral relativism and its ruthless code. He was a muscular fellow of about five foot ten with blondish hair that was so fair and thin that it blended with the color of his pale scalp giving him the appearance of baldness. He had a terrible bout of acne as a teenager which pock marked his jowls with deep creases and his bulging eyes were set too far apart giving him something of a praying mantis’ face. This potpourri of unfavorable genes made Michael Rollins the subject of ridicule and a reject of the young ladies as an adolescent. Rollins thus evolved into an embittered, angry man-child of twenty six years.

But Rollins and the Army found each other. In it ranks, Rollins felt—for once in his difficult life—acceptance in the form of the embrace of brotherhood that is woven amongst men placed in a milieu of destruction and filth and fear.

Jimmy Marzan—conversely a handsome devil—noticed a fomenting agitation in Rollins over the prior days. Rollins had seemingly exhausted his pressure release mechanisms and he was becoming quick-tempered. Just that morning, Marzan noticed when Rollins had discovered his wristwatch had succumbed to moisture damage and ceased to function. Upon this realization, Rollins slowly, calmly removed the watch from his wrist, delicately placed it upon the ground, and then hammered it fifteen times into tiny fragments with the heel of his boot.

“Typical U.S. Army-issue…destroyed by moisture in the middle of a [b][color=red]*[/color][/b][b][color=red]*[/color][/b][b][color=red]*[/color][/b][b][color=red]*[/color][/b]ing Haji-desert”, he lamented.

Jimmy Marzan had long ago grown accustomed to Rollin’s epithet-laced tirades. He did not encourage them but he did not protest, either. Any protest of a soldier’s multi-cultural insensitivity would be an act of extreme pussification. The mere anticipation of reprisal would vastly exceed any discomfort associated with enduring the original offense. Jimmy Marzan made himself believe that Rollins meant nothing personal by it, anyway.

Colorful language was but one of Rollin’s three venting mechanisms the others being: obsessively manicuring his nails with his twelve inch Bowie knife, buffing his over-sized, silver Osiris eye ring which lime-lighted rude gestures cast with his left middle finger, and head-banging to his catalog of battle-worthy heavy metal which sounded more like continuous semi-automatic rifle fire than actual music.

The sun was beginning to really warm things up. It was going to be a hot one for a change.

The convoy of Humvees rattled and rumbled down the hot dusty road until finally coming to a stop at a non-descript mud hovel. A dog—some multi-breed mutant—came out of the yard and started frothing away at the soldiers, drowning out the orders of the Army interpreter who was trying to coax the inhabitants out of the house with a bullhorn from the safety of his Humvee. The dog was a vile creature, indeed. Skinny and covered in a hide of rat’s fur, it barked and foamed and choked itself on the chain trying to lunge at the soldiers. It nearly took a chunk out of the Captain’s ankle who was standing too close on the road, talking on his radio. No one would be able to get through the gate unscathed with this rabid, mangy animal guarding the way.

Rollins took matters into his own hands firing one round at the dog, exploding its left hind paw and sending it into a yelping hysteria. Rollins grinned faintly as he aimed again, but he stopped short of finishing the job.

The man of the house soon burst out into the yard with his hands flailing about, hurling incoherent Farsi towards a surprised Captain Albert ‘Al’ A. Rick who was not marked as an officer in any manner but drew the little brown man’s appeals, nonetheless. Marzan supposed that it was the Captain’s aura—if there was such a thing—that had betrayed his rank. The Captain had height, weathered skin, and a chin that looked as if it had been pounded into shape in a Birmingham forge. In addition, all the other soldiers were arranged like spokes, pointing in towards him. Captain Rick couldn’t avoid looking like the man in charge. Truth was, he didn’t want to avoid it.

The interpreter was summoned out from the safety of his Humvee and spent about ten minutes describing to the native how it was necessary for the U.S. Army to search his particular mud hovel as there had been reports of a cache of insurgent ammunition stored somewhere in his neighborhood. Certainly the native would like to clear his families’ name? In other words, someone had rolled over on him. The native man made many assurances as to his innocence in regards to hoarding ammo and RPGs but did not outright welcome the soldiers into his home. As a final nudge to get him to comply, Rollins finished off the crippled dog with another shot. The native immediately ended his protestations and welcomed them in.

Five soldiers, including Rollins and Marzan, stormed the well-kept hovel and began their room to room search. They pulled a grandfather from his bed and walked him into the common room, setting him down onto the tiled floor in a huddle with three young girls and their mother. Household searches were messy operations and operations that could not be carried out with too much polity. After three or four searches, even the pretense of restraint was ditched in favor of rapid efficiency. Get in and get out, was the idea.

The soldiers turned the place inside out in a manner of minutes. They went through the cupboards, throwing food and dishes onto the floor. They went through the bedrooms, turning the beds over and yanking the drawers out of their chests. They ripped the laundry from the line, dropping it in the dirt and Rollins dutifully dug his filthy hands through the mother’s under things—as if an RPG might possibly be stashed in a lingerie drawer.

With his dog murdered, his children terrified and crying, and his wife screaming, the native man—a father and husband and undoubtedly a proud man as he had a decent house by his countries’ standards—sat cowering in a corner of his common room, shielding his face from shame and the bullets that might burst out of the two AR-15s pointed at him.

After turning the house apart and grilling the family for twenty minutes, and after not finding any weapons or materiel, the squad left the mess.

Jimmy Marzan was the last man out and he left the house and the native man with an apology, an apology that the man could not understand as he spoke not one single word of English.

But the army did leave, Jimmy reasoned, and he did leave the man with his life as well and that was worth something. That’s how Rollin’s would process it, he thought. The little brown man’s dignity was a small price for him to pay for being permitted to live.

That was the first of five searches that day. And it indeed ended up a very hot day for a change.

[Gnome DeGuerre]

Unable to sleep one night, you turn on the television and hear this…

“…the selloff started about midway through the session with rumors swirling about the cash strapped Bank of Japan liquidating half their U.S. Treasury holdings. Prices on the Ten Year Note plunged taking yields up one hundred basis points over the span of about eight minutes. Record volume led one trader to speculate that the Central Banks of the U.K., Saudi Arabia and China were stepping in to halt the U.S. Bond collapse.

Yields seemed to level off for about a half hour but then the frantic selloff resumed driving Ten Year Treasury yields up another whopping one hundred and ninety basis points!” Observed a reporter in Australian accent.

“So what impact has this had on the currency markets?” asked the anchor. “Is everyone moving into cash?”

“Yes…well, the conventional wisdom is that such a dramatic move down in Treasuries would drive many investors into U.S. dollars but that has not been the case. There is a dollar selloff happening concurrently with the dollar down almost ten percent against the yen and euro and off a whopping fifteen percent against the Chinese yuan. These are all unprecedented moves, Sam.”

“Where are the investors going?”

“Right…(nodding and holding earpiece)…well, it’s been a huge day for metals, ag commodities, and oil with oil itself up almost twenty five dollars during the session.

“So what happens from here?”

“Yes…(nodding and holding earpiece)…well, with commodity futures still climbing and Treasuries still tanking, it looks like the bloodbath will continue when the DAX opens.”

“Thank you, Mel…uh huh…one moment…(holding ear)…uh we’ve just received word that the Federal Reserve will be holding an emergency session in…”


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[blindfire]

Eh...I'll wait for the movie or audio book.

[HTRN]

What happens when your garden gnomes start breeding?

[smokey-seven]

HTRN

What happens when your garden gnomes start breeding?

Not to worry, the pink flamingos keep them under control.

[Jose]

What happens when your garden gnomes start breeding?

You get little lawn jockeys