You are stirred from a nightmare just before sunrise to a nightmare of the waking variety, by the shrill of feedback from a blown-out loudspeaker positioned at the end of an otherwise silent city block. The desolate streetscape to which it commands its muffled announcements remains bombed out from a civil uprising that took place near a generation ago. No attempt at rebuilding has been made in the interim. The conclusion that all is lost came to your fathers and their fathers before them. No ground has been gained.
There is no morning traffic, no makeshift donkey-drawn rickshaws, no cars pieced together from spare parts collected over years of hard life, no one-legged beggars ambling by, aided by homemade crutches that once functioned as fenceposts.
The Once Mighty Dallas Mavericks (21-38) fell behind the hapless Grizzlies of Memphis (22-36) by 34 points the night before and limped their way to a 124-105 loss at American Airlines Brutalist Arena in the Plaza of Victories Won. There was once pride in that place, but no more.
Public derision of Dear Leader Miriam and her Heavy-Handed Cabal is whispered among the proletariat, but there is no organization. There is no action behind the anger. The Will of The People has been sapped from the calcium-deficient bones of each once-proud Citizen. Some refer to the homeland as a “failed state,” but that is only because they move through their own lives blissfully unaware of the absolute power cradled in the hands of the Adelson Regime and propped up by the plutocrats, the oligarchs, the Heartless Ones.
“Welcome to nothing, where existence means only pain,” a distorted, faceless voice calls out for the 390th consecutive morning. It started the day after the man now known only as “The Balkan Mongrel” was traded to the Shore of Angels in exchange for Anthony of the Line of Davis, who has since been jettisoned to his own Mandatory Vacation on a Nearby Farm.
“Welcome to Dallas Mavericks Basketball.”
Papers rustle in the background over the loudspeaker at the end of the block. You know not who speaks the Morning Incantation, but it is the same voice each day. You know the words he speaks source from The One Miriam, and you remember when the hearing it made you seethe inside. Now, you yearn to feel anything at all.
“You will root for losses. You will cease to feel. You will tell yourself this season is about positioning the team for success in the future. But as your heart is consumed by the Black Nothing, you will know.”
A droning unison from those you used to call your neighbors and compatriots now arises to accompany the morning rite:
“Nothing means anything anymore,” a dusty ghetto recites together, the rampant malnutrition in their voices reverberating off every wall. “You cannot unsee what you have witnessed. You cannot go back. You cannot regain innocence lost.”
Three short, halting blasts emanate from the loudspeaker, marking the end of the ritual and the 30-minute mark before the workday begins, for you at the Local 247 Widget-Fitting Assembly Line. You know not what Great Machine of State the widgets you fit for 13 hours each day make function.
At the same time, over the hills and far away, though they exist in a reality wholly divergent from your own, within the warm confines of the Seven Sisters skyscraper complex, the inner circle of the Adelsonian Politburo gathers.
“They are at their most malleable when the inevitable conclusion that nothing means anything and everything is meaningless takes deep root within their soul,” one member of the ruling class says to another. “The time draws near.”
A round of “harumphs” signals agreement among those whose opinion carries any weight at all in this twisted societal framework.
Reddit screenshot from r/Mavericks
“The focus group data is in,” Intrepid Governor Patrick says as he distributes packets of pie charts and bar graphs among the well-to-do in attendance. “We will not be bothered with the nuisance of public revolt when we pick up stakes and leave the Plaza of Victories Won in five years’ time to install our Gamblers’ Paradise and Hallowed Mixed-Use Arena/Resort Space in the more fertile and tax-friendly ground of neighboring Irvingrad. Our work is nearly complete.”
The right wheels having been greased, now the real work begins for these self-elected titans, in lavish rooms a thousand miles away from the countless fans whose lives are affected by the decisions being made therein. The distraction of Draft Lottery odds and the manufactured semblance of hope provided by a well-placed rookie operative by the name of Coopernicus Flagg keeps the attention of the frightened masses right where the Adelson Regime has aimed it.
“It is time for the implementation of Phase Three of Our Grand Design,” Esteemed President Richard the Weltian announces. “Now begins The Great Leveling of Societal Structure.”