This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
Monica’s van screeched into the gravel parking lot and all four jumped out.
They ran through a jubilant crowd streaming toward the stands. Many waved Florida and American flags. Children were boosted onto parents’ shoulders. Dogs trotted next to their owners. Babies fussed in strollers and carriers. It was a representative cross section of middle-class South Florida demographics, which is to say mostly Hispanic, some Black, and a smattering or white folks with nary a tech or finance expat to be found. They came for the promise of a more affordable and equitable city that had rapidly outpaced their ability to live in it. Also, the free beer didn’t hurt.
Six Florida Air National Guard F-35 fighter jets zoomed overhead.
“Shit!” cried Cynthia over the sonic booms and gawking multitude. “It must be starting!”
She pushed through the throng and reached the front of the stands. The three massive screens broadcast a woman in blue jeans, flannel shirt, boots, and cowboy hat singing “Suwannee River.” The area behind the screens had been cordoned off by a chain link fence that ran all the way around the Bulge, uniformed security posted every 20 feet along its perimeter. Cynthia rushed toward the nearest guard, an exhausted-looking Jamaican man in a black ballcap, pants, and shirt that read “Griffin Ventures Security.”
The governor took the stage to the cheers of the crowd on the Bulge and in the stands.
“Sir, sir!” cried Cynthia waving her arms in the air as she jogged toward him. “I need to get through! I’m a journalist.”
The man took half a step back and reached for his pepper spray.
“Ma’am, please do not approach the fence,” he said, pretty sure this wide-eyed woman aggressively approaching him was completely off her rocker. “I’m warning you, please don’t come any closer.”
He undid the strap securing the pepper spray in its holster.
“Please!” continued Cynthia as she came within 10 feet. “This is a huge emergency.”
The guard held out an arm.
“Ma’am, stop!” he commanded. “There’s no press on the Bulge. No one who wasn’t invited is allowed past this barrier.”
“Please, sir, you have to listen to me!”
Cynthia slowed to a walk within 10 feet of the man. He leveled the can at her face and was about to shoot a point-blank stream of pepper spray into her eyes when Cynthia was practically tackled by Monica.
“I’m sorry, sir!” said Monica over her shoulder. She dragged a struggling Cynthia away and the guard slowly lowered the can. “My friend is a bit confused. It’s, um, a side effect of all, um, the Ozempic!”
“Ozempic!?” cried Cynthia, genuinely insulted.
“Yes, you idiot!” hissed Monica in her ear. “What are you trying to accomplish?”
“I’m trying to warn them!” replied Cynthia as Monica forced her into a seat in the front row of bleachers. Carlos and Noah finally caught up and sat next to them.
“OK, fine,” said Monica. “How exactly did you plan on getting past the rent-a-cops, chain link fence, half mile of open field, electrified fence, and army of Elzos’ personal guards?”
Cynthia grimaced. She hadn’t thought that far. Santos’ massive head loomed beside her. The governor had launched into a tirade about how the cripples, queers, and illegals were destroying the great state of Florida.
“And what would you do if you got past all that security?” continued Monica. “Grab the mic from Santos and tell the oligarchs they needed to leave because their new megarich enclave might explode, or implode, or do nothing at all?”
“They can’t all be oligarchs!” responded Cynthia reflexively. “There have to be normal people, innocent people on the Bulge too!”
Monica pulled out her phone and unlocked the screen to show an aerial view of the Bulge from hundreds of feet up.
“I deployed the drone as soon as we arrived. Look.”
She zoomed in on a man’s bald head.
“That’s the CEO of Three Rivers Minerals. His strip mines polluted entire watersheds in northwestern India, killing thousands.”
She moved to another man in a bright white, ankle-length thawb.
“Prince Abdullah bin Salman. Defense Minister of Saudi Arabia. Ordered airstrikes that killed hundreds of Yemini children.”
Monica zoomed into a woman in a tasteful tan pantsuit.
“Susan Clingman. Literally invented the addictive social media scrolling algorithm destroying everyone’s brains. I could keep going, Cynthia. My drone’s already IDed every single person in that crowd. This is as exclusive an event as you’ll see anywhere in the world. There isn’t a single sound tech, DJ, maintenance worker, or minimum wage security guard within a half mile of the Bulge’s summit because our betters, the people who run and ruin this planet, don’t like commoners sullying their experiences.”
“So, so, what are we supposed to do?” hesitated Cynthia, still flustered. “Let whatever’s going to happen, happen?”
Carlos leaned over from beside Cynthia.
“I’m honestly OK with that,” he admitted.
“Yeah, me too,” agreed Noah.
“Look, there’s literally nothing you can do to stop whatever’s about to happen,” said Monica, placing her hands on top of Cynthia’s. “Physically, you just can’t. And if you could, ask yourself, would the planet really be better if you did?”
Cynthia took a deep breath and exhaled.
“So, you’re telling me I should just accept what I can’t control, sit back, and watch the show?” she asked.
Monica put an arm around her back and placed Cynthia’s head on her shoulder.
“Exactly.”
