D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

The Old Days came to an end with the Washington Riots. People finally grew tired of the endless wars, the ever-increasing taxes, and a Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms that refused to sell you anything. So, for the second time in the nation’s history, the capital was burned to the ground. According to eyewitnesses, the first of the fires were started by Mitch Deslin and his men. They stood watching, silent, as the politicians fled.

No one seems to know exactly how Deslin became the head of the freedom fighters. Some say the government’s last breath was spent destroying vital historical records. Others say the revolutionaries hid the truth themselves, embarrassed that their leader was a game show host. Regardless of the reason, one thing is known for sure: it was Deslin who first suggested killing the president.

President John Solano’s assassination was not the first one to be filmed. It was not even the first to be shown live on national television. However, it was certainly the most entertaining. On the day of the Washington Riots, the Secret Service attempted to rush President Solano and his wife away to their bomb shelter, but Deslin’s men were already waiting by the helicopter. The band of freedom fighters quickly gunned down the Secret Service, and then Mitch Deslin, the host of It’s Your Lucky Day , shot the president in the head. As for Mrs. Solano, no one knows what happened to her. Seconds after her husband was killed, the station cut to a commercial.

Soon, politicians were hunted into near-extinction, like the snow leopard, the bison, or the teacup Chihuahua. The federal government declared bankruptcy and disbanded. Texas and Alaska became independent nations. The rest of the country forswore politics forever, becoming known as the American Free Territories.

The death of politics was the birth of a new American Dream. It was far better than the old American Dream, which was to die before your creditors found out where you lived. In the new America, hardworking individuals would finally get to keep everything they earned. No one would have to work forty hours a week, only to see half of their paycheck stolen by Washington. On the other hand, if anyone actually enjoyed wasting money on useless things, they could still go to college.

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When Nick Wergild regained consciousness, he was hanging from the third story window of a whorehouse in Beaver Creek, Montana. Forty feet below him was an ornate, concrete fountain that looked like a rather uncomfortable place to land. The only thing keeping him from the waiting embrace of gravity was a pair of handcuffs, a heavy, silver chain connecting his wrist to that of Quentin Fairbanks, former politician and current lunatic. Realizing where he was, Nick decided that opening his eyes had been a horrible mistake.

Quentin Fairbanks was a sizeable man, both in height and in girth, with all the charm and sex appeal of a young Joseph Stalin. He was seventy-three but appeared to be around forty. His wealth gave him access to advanced anti-aging medical treatments that most people only knew through rumors and urban legends. He had an odor like old milk, which he concealed with cologne that smelled like old fish. On this particular day, he was wearing a rumpled tuxedo, a black cashmere overcoat, and a smile like a crack in the surface of a frozen lake.

“So, the brilliant manhunter is finally awake! As much as I’ve enjoyed our little time together, I really must cut things short.” Fairbanks reached into his jacket with his free hand, producing a rusty, chrome hacksaw.

“The only thing worse than being murdered,” Nick thought, “is being murdered by someone making bad puns.” Calling up to Fairbanks, he said, “The handcuffs are spider steel. Impossible to cut. Why don’t you saw through your arm instead?” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. He had forgotten the most important rule of manhunting: Don’t taunt the crazies. Fairbanks removed his belt and jammed it in his mouth, scowling determinedly. He pressed the saw to his wrist and let its teeth eat away at his flesh.

“Oh, holy hell,” Nick thought. “I’m finally going to die. I wonder if my life will flash before my eyes. – No, I’ll be dead too soon. Maybe just the highlights: birth, first day of school, losing my virginity on a tugboat…” His reminiscing gave way to horror as Fairbanks’ blood began to fall. “I can’t keep living this way. No amount of reward money is worth this!”

Fairbanks was the one remaining evil from the Old Days, the last of the politicians. He had worked in the capital for years, right until the end. He would have kept working after that, but once the government collapsed, he stopped getting paid. It was hard for the government to pay for much of anything, once IRS headquarters had been burned to the ground. He had been in hiding since the day of the Washington Riots, using various aliases, forged documents, and fake mustaches. Apparently, he still had a lot of enemies. Even after all those years, they would still give a lot of money to see him behind bars. Or beaten with a tire iron. Either one, really. They weren’t picky.

With no government to collect taxes, there were no police. The criminal justice system and protection services were now the domain of insurance companies, private security firms, and manhunters. Manhunters like Nick were a special breed of private detective, experts in solving crimes, tracking down fugitives, and hand-to-gun combat. (It was easier than hand-to-hand combat, especially if you were the one with the gun.)

If criminals couldn’t be found by the security patrols, the victims offered a reward to the first manhunter who could. The reward for Fairbanks’ capture was the highest Nick had ever seen. After several weeks of searching, Fairbanks remained elusive. Finally, Nick had a stroke of inspiration. (For Nick, inspiration always felt like a stroke.) He found a way to get Fairbanks to come to him: he would marry his daughter.

Melinda Fairbanks came from a wealthy family, but her father’s years in hiding had left her nearly penniless, forcing her to take a job transcribing audio books for the deaf. Her mother had given birth rather late in life, making her not too much older than Nick. Still, this did not make him feel any better about what he had to do. Melinda was a thin, nervous sort of woman whose prominent nose and bizarre hairstyle made her resemble a malnourished Shetland sheepdog. However, if you had a few drinks, took off your glasses, turned off the lights, and gouged out your eyes with a spoon, she could be almost pretty.