ATROPHY: BOOK ONE written by todd guilmette aka maximillian todd

CHAPTER TWO: 1999 THE LITTLE PEOPLE

transit

"Do you know where you are?" Visiness asked.
"No."
"At a pivotal point in our planet's sordid history. Look, look around. Witness history, as it was. Not as it is remembered."
Bob watched Visiness' history lesson unfold.

1
Darell Hudson was watching a mindless cartoon on his television when the three men in dark purple clothes opened the door to his apartment with force and killed him.
It wasn't fair, Darell thought, as he saw the men standing at his door. He didn't have anything anyone wanted. He still had a television, for crying out loud. He had a job that worked hard and paid harder, and when he came home, he didn't do anything but watch the TV. This was his favorite cartoon, about some wierd puppy-children and their antics, and he was enjoying himself. But then the Purple People Eaters came in. Absurd, stupid that name was for an ultraviolent radical faction, but they made up for their light name with equally brute force. Darell knew when they appeared that he would be dead soon.
And for no reason. He had seen the news, heard stories at work about these crazy white boys knocking off brothers and sisters left and right just because they felt like it. But he hadn't given a lot of thought to them. He wasn't anything, he never was, so why him? It seemed like the most farfetched idea that he would be their next victim.
They didn't take long, and didn't say much, either. No ritual, no drawn-out political rant. The Eaters just walked in and dispatched him with a concise diligence that said that they had still much to do that night. They wore their trademark clothing, the dark purple sweatshirts and jeans, and hoods more than resembling certain figures from their past. Two men slammed back Darell's chair before he could really react, and the third slid a large metal blade through his torso.
Darell heard the blade hit the floor through his chair, impacting the hardwood with a muffled, deep thud before he realised he had been stabbed. And then the blade was out, and the men were gone, silent as they had come. He tried to see what his stomach looked like, but fainted before he could see. Before dropping off into a deep fuzz, the room closed around him, as if he was drowning, and an old lyric from a hip-hop song chanced his head: "I'm just a black man caught up in the mix, trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents."
The Purple People Eaters strode from Darell's apartment building, never looking back, quietly surveying the city street and it's cool reflective gaze. Wearing footwear that made little sound, they moved down the sidewalk, their clothing speaking of the black swirls of emotion projecting from them but quietly denying the darkness it's catch of will. A stray pedestrian barely saw them coming, and crossed the street to the opposite sidewalk. He waited until they were out of sight, located a pay phone and called the police.
"911."
"Hello? I just seen some goddamn People Eaters walkin' around here. Those mu'fuckas musta' plugged someone with they damn swords."
"Sir, could you give me your address and nearest cross street?"
"Yeah, but I ain't stickin' around. Those mu'fuckas aint no joke."
"Yes, sir."

2
"The Purple People Eaters," Jacob Brock said. "Why that damn kids shit?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Why not the whoremongers or the pussy-busters or something adult like that?"
"You're asking me?"
"No, I'm just talking to that fucking butt-ugly tie you got on, Kelly."
"Of course, chief."
Atlanta Police Chief Jacob Brock threw another incident report onto the floor of his office, and hit his desk with his fist. Looking up at the detective, he sighed.
"It just makes shit worse for publicity."
"I think they know that, chief," Kelly said.
"Yeah. They seem to know everything so far. Kelly, sit your ass down."
Detective Reuben Kelly landed on a chair opposite Brock's desk. His larger-than-average frame pushed the air out of the chair's cushion with a squeak.
"Kelly, we have to make this our top priority. The press is tearing us apart. The rich people of this city don't want to leave their homes, and the poor people want to move to D.C. Or anywhere besides here. This is bad, the worst damn thing that's ever happened to Atlanta. How many do these crazy mothers claim to have 'liberated?'"
"Five hundred some," Kelly said.
"Five-Hundred. Right. 'Liberated.' That's a fucking sadistic thing to call it."
"They're political, chief. They don't have to make sense."
"Yeah, that's for sure. Well, I am putting you in direct investigation of this matter. Anything you need, I can get. And when you get a hold of these motherfuckers, I'll get a whole marine unit to carve these son of a bitches out of this city like a scalpel."
"I will, sir. You can bet on it."
"I hope so, Kelly," Brock said. And then he stood, staring into the night through black blinds. When Kelly was gone, he turned out the lights in his office and watched his city move. It was his city, his reputation, and possibly his life that was on the line. The Purple People Eaters had made one thing very clear: that whites were the only people who would not get harmed.
It was the KKK all over again, he thought. His father had dealt with them, and his grandfather. And back further. And now it was happening to him. All the posturing of well-meaning government officials could not erase the deep hate that once again showed itself in mainstream thinking among citizens of the United States. The thing just kept coming up again. And maybe it never had gone away. Maybe it just had lay dormant, brewing like a thick malt, until again it could be ignored no more.
Brock had doubts about his country. He had doubts about the future, and that scared him more than anything else. What could he look forward to now? Could he really stop what was happening here? Jacob Brock watched his city move, and then he sat down and watched some more.

3
Charles Lassiter, Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United States of America, sent a coded document to the Union of Fact and Influence on Tuesday, October 7, 1999. It stated in the clearest of terms, in wording so concise as to make the most devious lawmaker proud, his total allegiance to the UFI and its cause, belief in its philosophy and allowances for certain actions performed by the assassins of the Purple People Eaters. Charles Lassiter, in an action that was to set forth a radical tidal movement of dissent that would divide his country and the people within it into two unmoving masses of morality, had committed himself to a terrorist faction. Lassiter suspected that when the media got wind of this, his strongest move against the piles of social freeloaders that threatened to destroy every decent American's way of living, there would be a reaction. Possibly a reaction that would make those citizens that were as yet undecided and still found the prime time sit-coms more interesting than this particular political issue wake up and start noticing.
Lassiter slipped the document into the feeding tray on his fax machine, and pressed the button for a dial tone. This letter, he thought, would get rid of anyone who was still in that group of reluctant cowards that was "percentage undecided." After this news was announced, there would be no one under his influence that could not take sides. Either you were for the controlling of all persons of non-white lineage and dissipation of all those persons' powers and property, or you were against it. There was no fuzzy, unclear divider. No politician and no citizen could hop back and forth between one side and the other. Once you had committed yourself, there was no turning back. Either you were a racist, bigoted white anarchist or a colored tit-sucking loser. No one could be mistaken anymore.
Lassiter found great satisfaction in his decision to start this ball of thread spinning. As he dialed the number and recieved an electronic handshake, his face showed a smile that was utterly lacking in any warm sincerity. Instead, it showed a primal, vicious sneer of guiltless power. He would become a hero for ages for this. This one fax would light up the dark wallpaper of his lost dominion. It would change the world. House Speaker Lassiter pressed 'send' on his fax machine and watched the plastic box draw his future in and convert it into binary intent. When his contact had received the letter, the person would send back a short reply.
Charles waited for his confirmation, and it was a great moment of anticipation. He sat in his leather office chair, eyes closed, breathing deeply. His stomach was restless and so was his bowel. In fact, he thought, he had not been this nervous when they had sworn him in to his office. But then that had just been a step, just a point of interest along his road of change. This was the landmark of all his journeys. His bitter end, he thought sarcastically.
Laughing, he continued to take deep breaths. And then the receiver on the machine rang: an incoming call. The laser jet translated the bits into readable text, and he read it as it popped out a slot at the base: "Thank you, House Speaker Charles M. Lassiter. We appreciate your support and hope to form a successful and profitable relationship with your office. Sincerely, UFI Chief Executive Officer Joseph White."
Lassiter let out a great sigh, and stood. Leaving his office, he prepared for a short respite. He had no doubts that he would not complete his sleep this night. Undoubtedly he would get a call first from several members of the press, and then the President of the United States. He had prepared little sound-bytes for all of them, and he would be clear. His responses would reflect his letter. Driving toward home, and away from the quiet office building, he smiled again when he thought that when he returned, the world would be a much different place.

4
"Is this a line of bullshit? Please tell me it is," said the editor-in-chief of the Georgian Sun Times newspaper company.
"Nope, John, this is the real noodle. I had a reporter call the Speaker's office. There was a recorded message," said the journalist.
"You know, Alan, when we had that damn fourth of July party, and I got drunk and started joking that someday the House Speaker himself would turn out to be one of those purple guys, I really was joking."
"Maybe you oughta be in palm reading, not news."
"Shit. Well, confirm it with another source, no, two live sources, not a damn recorded message, and then run it in 100 point bold. I have the feeling that every rag in the union is going to do the same, but what the fuck, this is supposed to be the stuff that keeps us in business, isn't it?"
"I thought it was a responsibility to the truth."
"Don't lose your perspective, Alan-man. You know us yellow rumor-spreading liars would never print anything that wasn't true. Especially when it involves the Union of Fact and Influence."
"I wouldn't, John."
"Yeah. Well, go shake in your boots down in the newsroom. We've got a paper to put out."
Alan Reed nodded and stepped into an elevator. "If you ask me," he remarked to no one. "It's about time someone stood up against those niggers." And the door closed with a deliberate clunk.

5
"Mr. President," said a quiet voice. "Have you seen the paper?"
The President did not respond. He gazed through the bullet-proof window of the oval office, and waited for someone to tell him that this was really a great practical joke on the world. Just a mean, sick playground joke, made by a hateful child that simply didn't know better. But no one had come to tell him that. And now he could feel the masses of Americans waking up to the top story of the hour, the only topic on the good morning shows, and wanting to know more. He could feel that they needed guidance, they needed to be told what to do. Now, more than ever before, he felt that the people needed guidance. He knew that whatever he said today would change the world. For the better, he hoped, but right now he could not see a way out of this issue that would not cause incalculable suffering. He could not be undecided. He had to take a side. He was the President of the United States.
"Benny," the President said. "call a press conference. In a half-hour. The press is already outside the gates. They're ready."
"Mr. President," the aide prompted. "What are you going to say?"
"I don't know yet, Benny. I don't know."
The press rushed in among miles of cable and thousands of electric eyes. Representatives of the Press sat at the edge of their seats, barely holding their tongues, salivating with rabid tension. And the President made his statement. He had no prepared speech. He had no rehearsed act. He talked to the people of the United States, and, for once, they listened.
"Citizens of the United States of America. I speak to you this morning with my heart, with my feelings, and with my morality intact. I have no speech to give, no wasteful, time-consuming argument to present. I only have a decision to make.
You have heard about the terrorists of this country who call themselves the Purple People Eaters, and the organisation known as the Union of Fact and Influence, who backs these assassins' movements financially and politically. Now, this threat to all that the founders of this great country had hoped to achieve has reached into the heart of our lawmaking processes. This morning, Speaker of the House Charles Lassiter informed the world that he was in fact one of these UFI members, and that he would from now on act under their direction.
This brings to the forefront a very important question, and one that must be answered by the highest powers of this country: Is Charles Lassiter acting for the benefit of the people, on behalf of the people, and for every citizen's well-being? I think the answer to that question can only be, no. Mister Lassiter has acted shamefully, and in the so-called spirit of the racist, fascist divisions of hate that have threatened to destroy this country from the inside out. And I say this cannot be allowed to happen.
I am issuing an executive order this morning. The order will relieve Mister Lassiter of his duties as Speaker of the House of Representatives until further notice. This order will be effective immediately.
I wish to assure the people of the United States that my position has always been one of tolerance, and of diversity. I will never condone, as long as I am your president, any willful act of violence against any ethnic group or division. I will not act on behalf of these terrorists, and I would rather die than succumb to these murderers. Thank you, that is all, no questions, please."
The President left the podium with deliberate haste, concluding his statement with a show of stubborn will. He left the press room of the White House quickly, and strode to his office without saying a word. Reporters were dissapointed, but nevertheless turned to their cameras for a concluding statement.
"Mr. President, we should watch the reaction of the media to see if your point was made," an aide suggested.
"I trust my point could not be made clearer," the President said. "But go ahead."
The aide turned on a console of five monitors, each labelled with the three network's names, and the Cable News Network. All were engaged in comments by resident political analysts. Taking a remote control, the President switched from one monitor to another, using the buttons to select which channel to hear.
One channel: "I think the President has spoken very clearly on this matter, and he has established his position as directly opposing the UFI and Lassiter."
"Do you expect a reaction by the UFI?"
"Yes, I do, and I see no way to stop it. There are only so many police in the big cities, and you can't protect everyone from this threat."
Another: "--UFI's reaction. The president can mean as well as he can, but is he going to go out and stop these attacks personally? I don't think so. He can say whatever he wants, but when it comes to the safety of my family, it's me and my fucking gun that'll decide who lives and who doesn't.
Another: "In all my years of analysing the political wavelength of this country, I have never heard a statement so direct and imposing as the one the president has just made. He has virtually declared war on the UFI."
"Can you see this situation improving in the near future? Can the President and the UFI agree to stop the violence, or will it all end in more violence?"
"I don't think the President has a choice. He has to stand by his words, and the only way I can see in doing that is to mobilize more force to combat these people. We have a situation here that would qualify us now as a terrorist country. And I see something that could be compared to martial law being declared in some areas of this country in the near future."
Another still: "--in the past. The Oklahoma City bombing is proof of our government's inability to stop terrorist acts within these borders. Restrictions of many kinds must be placed in action to decrease the likelihood of more random violence against the ethnic people of the United States."
"You mean, increased security at airports--"
"I mean, monitoring of every kind of person who might possess the will to kill or to support the UFI and it's killer men."
"So... excuse me, but I have just gotten word that a broadcast from the UFI is being prepared as we speak."
The anchorwoman leaned to one side of the screen, and listened to someone that the President could'nt see. "Hold on for a moment, please. We are at work connecting to the UFI link. Just a moment. Yes, now we have it. The person speaking is UFI CEO Joseph White."
The camera switch was accompanied by static and a jumble of noise, and then the image was clear. A middle-aged man sat at a desk, against a backdrop obviously set to mimic the oval office. The man's white hair contrasted with his deep-purple business suit.
"People of the United States, I am able to speak to you now because of the freedoms of this great country," White began. "And because you need to hear our side of the story, as it were."
"I believe in this country's founding guarantees, except those which aim to put in power those who cannot possibly hope to make intelligent and informed decisions for the citizens of the U.S. The fact that these people have positions, in schools, in government, in control of our children, our friends and, yes, even you, is unforgivable. It runs contrary to my very fabric of beliefs in the justice system given to every deserving man by God Himself."
"Now. If this country and it's rightful citizens are to proceed in a way that will benefit the world at large, and move the world forward in the way that is fit for all human beings, then we must sacrifice those who are less fit for living. This may, to some people, be unlike any kind of logic that you have experienced. But I say that in time every man will see the beauty of the organization that is the Union of Fact and Influence. Propaganda is all around. Lies and half-truths are all around. I ask each and every one of you to review our World Charter, and decide for yourselves."
"Our charter offers a way of living for the sovereign people of our planet that is beyond peace, beyond order, into an age of co-operation with our planet, and it's riches. But I am saying too much. You must read it for yourselves, and decide for yourselves. I think, that in time, you will see the wisdom of our charter. Do not believe anything that seems too good to be true."
The image blackened, and was replaced by a logo of the UFI. Then, the network anchor returned, and resumed her chat with the political analyst.
"I don't think you should have let them do that. No organization should be able to rebut the President," the aide said.
"If our laws did not permit it, our country should not be worth fighting for. Anyway, they would have made their point in another way," the President mused.
"But this is the most theatrical. It was like watching a bad movie. The way they had that background in there, and with White wearing a purple suit." The aide made a disgusted sniff.
"It doesn't matter. If someone has to resort to theatrics to make their point, they are not based on solid ground."
"Terrorists don't need solid ground. They thrive on broken ground."
"With all other considerations to the side, the one thing that remains is that these people are committing capital crimes to make political gains. And they can have no respect from any decent person."
"Take a look out your window, Jeff. How many people are out there that you would be able to call decent?"
"I can't afford to give in to such thoughts, Matthew. Not as long as I occupy this office."
"Yes, sir."

6
"This came in the mail for us," the tall black man said. His superior, the current leader of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored Persons, looked up at him and glared in a way that surely could have burned titanium.
"What is it?" the executive managed.
"It's a greeting card. From the UFI."
"What does it say?"
"It says, 'welcome to tomorrow.'"
"Throw it out. I have enough trouble without childish game play."
"Of course. Then let me suggest--"
"I am not in the mood to be bothered by trivia, John. In a few moments, I am expected to make a decision regarding the deployment of a certain force of young African-Americans to protect our people and combat the UFI."
"We have always been for the advancement of our race. Can I afford to enlist the help of the New Black Panthers? It goes against everything I have ever believed."
John paced about the office, listening to his boss. He, for one, had no trouble accepting such a radical move. But he suspected that the other black man in the office had higher convictions. Convictions that may mean more deaths.
"I have no choice, do I? If I say that I won't support them, will it make a difference? They don't need my support. It's just the icing on the cake. Just like the UFI and Lassiter. Lassiter is their big political chess piece. Can I afford to be one?"
John considered for a moment, then gave his best pitch. "This organization has always been more democratic than any other black group. We want to preserve the peace. But, seriously. What chance to we have in dealing with a government so easily swayed by hate? How long will it be before we can't ever strike back?"
"Or will our government even let us start?" the executive asked. "Will they allow a civil war to break their cities in pieces?"
"I can't say."
The executive sat with elbows on his desk, palms together. Then, he spoke again. And his voice carried much weight.
"Let the man in," he said.
True to the image of the powerful racial group, a muscular black man strode in, clad in black, non-reflective clothing and a black beret. Even though it was quite dark in the office, the man wore dark eyewear. He stood before the executive stolidly. "Sir."
"The Black Panthers have this organization's support in dealing with any offensive moves by the UFI."
The Panther allowed himself a small smile. "Thank you, sir. We will act for the benefit of our people."
The executive nodded. The dark man took this as a dismissal, and walked to meet his men. Nearly two-hundred black men stood in formation outside the NAACP headquarters. He addressed them without an amplifier, and his voice carried throughout the lot.
"We have the blessing of the NAACP! This is all the permission we need! We start with our plans tonight!"
The crowd did not cheer; it saluted in one movement, and their leader returned the gesture. Then, the formation moved off the lot in eerie quiet, their feet making little sound.
Inside the headquarters, Executive Marlan Raymond was not done making decisions. Shortly after the Panther had left his office, his phone rang. The caller was the White House Chief of Staff.
"Mister Executive," the Chief started.
"Sir. It is always good to talk to you."
"Of course. And you, sir. I have just heard some more disturbing news, floating in the wind, you might say."
"More disturbing than this morning?"
"As disturbing. I will pose only one question to your organization. Is the NAACP in support of the militant activists the Black Panthers?"
"Then I will offer one answer to you, sir. Yes."
There was silence on the phone line, and then a sigh. "I hoped it was just a rumor. Then, as it is not, I have to warn you. The NAACP has an important lobby, and much political power, but I must tell you that any violent action by the Black Panthers will be met with the same force as the UFI. These are all terrorists, Mister Executive. They will be dealt with as such."
"Dealt with by whom, Chief? In days, there will be no-one left that has not taken sides. But it does not matter. This situation takes us back further than anyone can know. After this, I think it will never be the same again. Even if we don't succeed."
"Mister Executive, I hope that you are wrong. I hope that everyone can come out of this conflict unscarred."
"You are too optimistic, sir."
""Perhaps. But you and I know what happens if the Black Panthers and the Purple People Eaters go at it. And what about the hispanic gangs? Once started, this can only get bigger, and more violent."
"Sir, I ask you, what is more violent than the willful slaughter of an entire race?"
Silence again, except for the quiet hiss of electronic pulse.
"The United States government cannot condone any action by the NAACP or the Black Panthers that will limit the lives of the citizens of this country."
"I understand, chief. I'm sorry."
The Chief of staff hung up, and slowly, the executive followed suit. He sat at his desk, and reached out towards his window, pushing the blinds away. What if this does come to war, he asked himself. Could it be that tomorrow, if I was to stand in front of this window, there will be a white man out there to shoot me?
Shivering, he came away from the window.

7
In Atlanta, Chief of Police Jacob Brock was angry. He could not look out his window tonight, because his city wasn't moving. It was burning. He yelled at the person on the phone, and he didn't care if the entire building heard him.
"I'm telling you what to do, god-- DAMMIT if you don't find out where those motherfuckers are getting their cover from I'll personally come over there and stick your nuts in a hydraulic press and turn the fucker on slow. Now I'm giving you one fucking thing to do with your entire life, Detective Kelly. Find out who is supporting them. A lot of shit is slipping through my fingers and my hands are still brown and I'm ending up with nothing! Now you find out who is covering up these people's activities."
"Well--"
"Why are all these people getting murdered and no one seems to be able to remember anything, no one's seen anything, or heard anything, or even know anything except the shit they're shovelling? Would you tell me that?"
"I--"
"Just find it out."
"Well--"
"Find it out. Now. Go!"
Brock slammed the earpiece onto the cradle, and then slammed the phone on the floor. It did not react well.
Pacing the room, he breathed fast, and tried to control his frustration. Incredulous was an understated summary of his mood. The UFI was successfully hiding it's every movement from him, and getting away with everything it did. People were being killed, and he couldn't tell anyone the first thing about who, what, when and why. All there was was where, where the bodies lay. And that wasn't anything.
"GODDAMMIT WHY THE FUCK IS THIS HAPPENING? FUCK!"
Brock paced the room, breathing fast, and tried to control his frustration.

8
Alan Reed, reporter extraordinaire of the leading news journal in Atlanta, Georgia, the Georgian Sun Times, was on the story. The story of the century, he thought. The story of all stories. This was a brilliant time for news, a time that would catalog the events of this exciting year for everyone who cared. This was a time that would be detailed in the books of history for all time. And he was living in it.
Alan Reed walked out of the relative safety of his newspaper office and into a living cliche. He walked along a dark street in a less-than-desirable portion of the city, and turned down an alley which dead-ended in what he knew was one of the Purple People Eaters' operations units. Taking a last drag on his clove cigarette, he stomped it into the wet asphalt. Then he performed his ritual.
"I wish I was an oscar meyer wiener," he sang to the bricks. "but I ain't, 'cause I want bacon bacon bacon bacon E.S.O! Bacon bacon bacon bacon, ice, g-spot!" Finishing off his humiliating line of complete nonsense, he tapped a few times on the ground and bowed to the garbage cans.
"Evening," a voice from a small speaker, quietly permeating the smog.
"I am the pirate king," Reed said matter-of-factly.
"I am the very model of a modern major-general," the voice claimed.
"Well, you can stick it up your ass, motherfucker."
His routine done, Reed stepped into a small doorway which opened behind a dumpster smelling of a peculiar touch of vomit and soiled diapers. Quickly moving through a foyer which turned back on itself twice, curving in an s-shape of total darkness, he moved out of the felt walls into a room the size of a soccer field. The room glowed with thousands of incandescent bulbs, blinding him instantly. Waiting for the lights to go out, he closed his eyes.
"The Pirate King, no doubt," someone spoke from behind the lights.
"Yes, the Pirate King, now can you turn off the lights?" Reed asked.
The lights dimmed, and Reed was through the last of the security precautions in place to weed out nasty rats, as put by the owner and operator of this particular joint. Opening his eyes, he saw the room as it was, a well-lit lounge, adorned in furniture that at least looked expensive.
"White-boy!" Reed addressed his friend.
"Alan, my man," Joseph White returned the greeting with a wide smile. The two men briefly embraced, then found spots on sofas of white leather.
"Damn, look at this," Reed looked around at the decor. "You got Robin Leach as your decorator."
"Naah, he's too cheap. I got this Italian guy, I can't even remember his name, and I'm sure he can't either."
Reed nodded. "I don't doubt it."
"So, Alan, tell me. What is going on in the minds and in the hearts of Americans today?"
"Well. I'll tell you," Reed said, dropping his cordiality. Business commenced. "Every person old enough to understand the news is either scared or angry, or scared and angry."
"So our plan to permeate the very concience of America is working," White assumed.
"I think so. It seems that your little code is working."
"Why shouldn't it? It was designed by the very best."
"So you really believe that stuff about subliminal consciousness?"
"Isn't what is happening proof?"
"I think at this point it might as well be coincidence."
"Ah. So you think that Americans just need an excuse to shove off their fears at another just because of skin color?"
"Any excuse is all they need. And it's not just skin color anymore. White people are being threatened by idealists in control of their lives, and thug subcultures that are poised to destroy the American way of life."
White laughed. "You sound like a recording of one of my speeches. Are you sure you're not being influenced by subliminal messages?"
Reed's face fell into a frown. "I don't need subliminal messages to tell me how much I hate those bastards."
White smiled. "All I need is that excuse, Alan. And whether it works or not, it's still a good, inexpensive tactic. If it takes just a few leaders to follow, to push those who wouldn't ordinarily take action into a mindset where they have no choice but to choose, then I will make it happen."
Reed nodded. "And what about the Black Panthers?"
White stood, and Reed joined him. Escourting him to the door, White smiled and gave his best impression of a man with no concerns.
"They are in the unfortunate position of being the reaction to the movement," he explained. "The defensive position is always the weaker one. And if the offensive movement is absolute, there is no room for defense. You can put that in your code for today's story."
White turned his follower toward him and met his gaze. "You are at the focus of a great thing, Alan Reed. Don't lose your way."
Reed smiled. "If it's too good to be true..."
White nodded. The inside door closed White in, and Reed found his way out of the foyer, into the alley. He went to write his story.
Joseph White, who thought of himself as being not too shabby of a writer, worked his way through rooms of humming computers and transmitters, into his private quarters. A door closed, and all sound was removed. As he listened to the ring in his ears, he wrote his next speech. It would be a strong address. He composed his first draft in his head, and wrote it out. It was good. Quite good. White slept, and waited for the next day to come.

9
The Black Panthers were mad. As much as the base of operations for the UFI was peaceful, the abandoned warehouse that served as headquarters for the Panthers was not. Flames of unseen rage worked itself among scores of dark figures, moving about in pumping arms and directed voices. The jumble of threats and cheers filled the warehouse as certain as a lethal gas.
Standing on bleachers in an unlit portion of the building, followers of the militant militia waited for their leader. Finally, a figure walked from the darkness to the only spot of light which poured onto the dusty concrete. As the cheers grew louder, the man surveyed the men who had chosen to follow him. Moving his head from side to side, he waited a moment, and then made a sign for silence. The sound cut off, leaving only an echo.
After a moment, the man spoke. His strong, deep voice reached every man in the room with power.
"Our brothers in New York and D.C. will stand with us. We have a great arsenal of power to combat these white devils. Under the grace of God and the power that he gives to us, we will be successful in protecting our brothers and sisters and ridding the Earth of these foul agents of madness. We cannot be stopped!"
A cheer rose toward the sky again, and then it fell back for a moment.
"And now that we have the force behind the NAACP to stand behind us, every black man can join us in our struggle!"
Another cheer.
"We have power and influence. We have the means to destroy our enemies. We have the will to vanquish the enemies of God and the righteous followers of Allah. We will not let these devils succeed. From the power and will given to us, we will win this fight!"
And another wave of voices started, and was not stopped until the dawn.

10
It was morning, and it seemed like each coming day brought more dire news. The President of the United States sat alone among a roomful of dueling politicians. He was out of the loop, so to speak. His congress had taken the matter into their own hands, and there was only one forseeable outcome of their debate.
He had no reason to say anything; he wasn't even listening to them shout at each other. His country had fallen out of his hands. Perhaps it was a failing of his government, he thought. Because whatever they decided, it would be nearly unanimous, and whatever he thought of it would not count. He might as well relinquish his power of veto, for the decision would be rushed through and countermanded. Unlike the leaders of past, he had no divine congress, no God-given sovereignity. He had been elected to lead, and now he was elected to stand to the side.
The president considered Lassiter, who sat at the opposite end of the long table in one of the basement levels of the Capital Building. The former speaker listened, took in the debate, saying nothing, for he could not. He was alone as well, but unlike the President, still had influence. Just attending this meeting, he stood as a constant reminder of the urgent matters to be solved. He was a mute position of power, and he could say nothing but still communicate in volumes. If there was one man who led this country today, the President thought, it was Lassiter. The leader of the movement, a figurehead of today. Power.
The president sat at the head of the long table, and waited for an end to the debate. And when the men had decided on their course of action, he would sign their forms. He would support his country. It was the last thing he could do.

11
During the second week of October in the year 1999, paranoia ruled. Accusations were thrown at one-another like filthy spit-wads. Threats were commonplace, and many of them led to violence. And, although steps were taken by the government to increase security and police forces, the Purple People Eaters continued to get their fill of carcasses. The Black Panthers, however, were met by authorised peacekeepers and many divisions were shut down, their members imprisoned. The UFI was not given the same treatment.
The NAACP accused the UFI of genocide, the United States government of harbouring and protecting the UFI and its constituents, and partaking in willful manslaughter of the African-American race. The Office of Hispanic Affairs joined the NAACP's cries. The United States government accused the UFI of committing acts of unlawful violence, unsanctioned murder and genocidal behaviour; the NAACP of sanctioning the unlawful acts of the Black Panther Party; the Black Panther Party of committing racial violence and willful murder and the Office of Hispanic Affairs of sanctioning gang violence against Caucasian-Americans. And nothing changed. The war continued, and an all-out battle emerged from within the carefully contained borders of the United States.
But the word had spread, and the ideas had spread. Soon after the news of a disrupted America reached the rest of the world, other countries began to follow the leader. South Africa returned to it's Apartheid practices, much of Eastern Europe claimed White Supremacy and exiled or killed every person with dark skin. All humanitarian aid to Africa and Asia was halted and many of the Red Cross and United Nations volunteers were slaughtered by enraged native forces. As of October 14, 1999, only Western Europe claimed immunity from the activities of it's neighbors. And it too showed signs of falling to racial conflict.
As the hostility towards colored-skinned people grew, tolerance for their actions shrunk, and the murders increased in frequency. Unsurprisingly, White murders were not as widespread. Support for the Speaker of the House grew, and there was talk of impeaching several members of congress who still opposed the peacekeeping efforts. It seemed the United States had succumbed to that which it tried to ignore for so long: the invisible barrier of uncomfortable relations between members of each race, unofficially dividing them into sections of class. Now, the barrier had closed into a shock-front fault line, and the earthquake had started. And over the course of the next year, it would only grow worse.

12
November, 1999. On a lukewarm day in Atlanta, Police Chief Jacob Brock acted very strange when three men in flowing purple robes strode into his office. Looking past the man into his secretary's office, he saw a still, flat figure on the carpet, staining it with a pool of dark liquid. Then, he smiled at the men.
"My turn, huh guys?" he asked. "Maybe your random violence is not so random anymore."
The figures stood, making no movement and no sound. Brock rose from his chair and waited. When one purple shape twitched his arm, Brock slipped his firearm from the small of his back. A hole opened in the wall to the left of a framed picture from his family's vacation in California, but he did not hear a sound.
"Missed ya," he said. "I won't miss again."
Taking aim, he noticed that his arm was not working right. It would not raise. Looking down, he noticed a slender line of silver metal protruding from his chest. So that's why I can't move my arm, he thought. Motherfucking cheap-shot.
Brock allowed his head to drift upwards, gazing at the robes. One of his killers approached him slowly and withdrew another sword. Lifting his hood, the Purple Eater locked his eyes on Brock's and thrust towards the Black man's head. The sword fastened to a stud in the wall, locking Brock to the wall. Brock trembled a little and died.
The last Purple People Eater drew his sword and detached Brock's head. Ten minutes later, two FBI officials arrived, took in the scene, called for an ambulance, and shook their heads quietly. Not a word was spoken. No one seemed to remember anyone with flowing purple robes and hoods. The FBI officials reported back to their office: there was no police chief in the city anymore. And there weren't any candidates for replacement. The city had stopped moving, and no one noticed.
Alan Reed stood by and dutifully took notes on a small notepad from a pay phone outside the Atlanta Police Headquarters. He wrote short phrases. Yes, the Chief was dead. Yes, it looked like a hit by the UFI's assassins. No comment to whether or not this indicated a change in the targets chosen by the faction. And no, you cannot get a snapshot of the head for a front page story.
Reed hung up the phone and sighed, considering the building in front of him. Well, he thought, there goes the cavalry. Or was it the Indians?
"Shit," Reed said out loud. This story was losing momentum. Nothing new was happening. People kept getting killed, but that wasn't interesting. Statistics of daily murders hardly qualified as groundbreaking ink. The natural progression from hate to unrest to rage to violence was moving forward obediently, pushed on by groups of people who all thought they were right. There was nothing new to that, either. And his primary source of inside information, the very center of influence in the world, had gotten sour. Indeed, Joseph White grew less and less cooperative every time he visited. Recalling the last time he had gone to the man for a new angle, White had acted strangely, as if he no longer trusted their mutual relationship. Reed had left with only a feeling of unsure confusion. Well, hell, he thought. I left with a really bad feeling. The guy has the power to drop me into a gutter on a second's whim. Or a mad moment's thrill.
Finding his car unharmed, which was becoming less of a likelihood each day as more and more people were thrown out of their cars by some wacko with a gun who needed a ride and did not want to take the bus, he dropped into the driver's seat.
Reaching over to insert his key, he heard the quiet wisp of soft fabric against plush upholstry. Knowing instantly what was happening, he spoke to the hood.
"Isn't that a bit cliche'd, waiting for someone in the back seat of their car?" Reed asked. "Like a damn movie or something."
Something poked him in the back, and he half-uttered a comment before he realized what the poking must be. A sword, the trademark tool of the Eaters, had sliced through his seat from behind. Since he didn't feel any pain, he knew he had been spared for now. This man wanted something from him.
"To the UFI."
Reed slowly started his car and pulled into traffic. There was considerably less than usual for this time of day, and he had no doubts as to the reason for that. He tried only once to make conversation with the purple hood, but he received another poke in the back as his answer.
"Cliche'd," he muttered. "But what the fuck, it worked."
Reed was instructed to place his car a distance from the alley where he knew White had important business to discuss. Then, he was escourted behind the mounds of garbage.
Joseph White was smiling, and it made Reed nervous. The sincerity, the concern, that he had seen in White's eyes, was gone. The joy, the determination of purpose, was hidden behind a plastic grin. Reed had a really bad feeling.
"Reed," White said. "The time has come."
Alan Reed blinked for a minute, and then laughed despite himself. "The time has come? You guys are full of cliches today!"
"Well, then," White said. "I guess what I had in mind wouldn't work, since you seem to know what's coming. You see, I had planned a theatrical display of affection and sympathy for our inner torment. But I see that will not be needed. A shame, too. I didn't take acting classes for nothing."
Reed heard a sound, like a loud hand clap, and his ears were pressured, like a plane was landing. And he felt something in his back. Looking at his chest, though, there was no sword.
Reed looked up in confusion.
"No sword?" White asked. "You deserve better--" he kneeled close to Reed. "than those pigs. This phase of our plan is over. This chapter in the storybook is complete. Everything has begun anew. We will leave no trace of what was."
Reed coughed bright red blood at White, and White's face was coated in color. Then, Reed slid to the ground.
"God be with you, friend," White whispered, and stood, walking toward his private quarters. He gave a last command to the purple robe, standing aside, waiting.
"Take care of him. I'm going to clean up."
The purple robe took Reed up in his arms and took him to the alley. Pressing a red button, a trash compactor counted another victim of the Revolution. But the world moved on.