UnBooks:The Redneck Elite (Abridged)

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Censor's Note: This text has been abridged by the Junior Anti-Sex League to remove all references to William's sexy sexy relationship with his colleague Sharon. A full text is available here.




William Darling sat at his window and tried to imagine a time at which Washington had not been so bleak. Were there always these vistas of swampland, crumbling buildings, and boarded windows pasted over with posters of a stunningly ugly, mulleted man who, we all assumed, lived somewhere in the city? The slogan on each was constant and unmistakeable:

Uncle-Dad Is Watchin' You.

From his high window, William could see the two departments of government. The Department of Fire, where broken bones were manufactured and agitators disappeared, loomed largest out of the foggy distance. William had never been to Fire; it was surrounded by snipers and barricades of burnt-out European cars for half a mile on all sides. Before Fire was the National Mall, now the largest stockcar racing track in the western hemisphere. William's workplace was closer: that was the Department of Earth, where employees would co-ordinate the movement of mud and clay throughout the Union, for use in improvement projects such as wallowing pits and motorcross tracks.

For William, writing all of this down was a terrible risk. His diary was contraband, you see: the Party had banned all unauthorised use of blank paper, but William had always liked to end a day as one would begin a chapter. Gathering his nerves, quickly he picked up his pen and wrote:

The novel The Redneck Elite is also available in paperback.

March 19, 2029

A common target of the Hate.

Last night went to the cinema. Only showing sports comedies.

Before films showed the Hate. The usual suspects: flashing photographs of waving rainbow flags, Jewish Liberals, and free-living San Francisco beatniks.
Same reaction as ever. An audience hiss. The sound of a thousand proles simultaneously spitting out tobacco.
The Thort Police on patrol. Jed spears black people while Jethro searches for the next bottle shop.

Strange encounter today at work, during Arts and Crafts. Was painting a WWE placard when an old friend Brother O'Reilly stopped in, saw me by chance. Working in Fire, but I didn't dare ask what at.
Thought I saw something different in his eyes, though. Not like the others in Fire.
Another that thinks like me. Revealed through a fleeting glimpse.

Mentioned something about a Village People Appreciation Society. O'Reilly is stranger than I remember.
We don't discuss big ideas any more. Only NASCAR.

Education is stupidity

Two days following, William sat with Brother Spyke, a loyal Party member and 'academic'. "Did you know," he told William, as if he had some quota of nonsensical rhetorical questions to fill, "that American English is the only language that becomes stupider every year?" William made a sound of non-committal and refocused his attention on his bowl of pig-swill.

Spyke was another prole, blindly loyal to the Elite. The Elite was the common name for members of the higher echelons of the Party. William preferred to think of them in terms he had once heard uttered by a group of coffee shop dissenters: "the Redneck Elite," they had called them. That was their crime. It didn't take long for the Thort Police to turn up on their quad bikes, hollering and breaking vodka bottles, to lasso the offenders. They would have been taken to Fire, and were probably never seen again -- unless their pictures became a part of the Hate.

With this, William recognised that he was already dead. He had committed the ultimate crime: failing to wear a flag lapel pin in the workplace. Well, that and thoughtcrime.

Fine literature of the 21st century.

Later, William returned to his window, and to his diary.

March 21, 2029

If there is hope, it lies in the proles.

William re-read this proclamation to himself, and then threw down his pencil in despair. How could the proles overthrow the party, when the Party had created for them a slumdog's paradise? Every base desire was catered for, from animal husbandry to perpetual inebriation.

A knock came at William's door. Postman. William went outside to greet the man, but he was already gone, leaving a package on the mat. "10th Edition New Dikshonry", the parcel read. The New Dictionary was a joke, William knew. Normally it was just an old copy of the New York Post with some key words circled in thick red marker: words like "scandal", "side-boob" and "Pet News".

Unwrapping the parcel, William was surprised to discover not a tabloid, but a book. It was titled, Emmanuel Goldstein's Excellent Guide to Overthrowing the Government, and was constructed from more leaves of paper than William had ever seen before in his life. He opened the cover; inside the dedication read:

"Let's go do something sometime ;)

Into the fire

Three days following, after much hand-wringing and nail-biting, William had decided that he wanted to overthrow the Government. Probably. The book offered no real guidance on how to do this, and William found this odd. He decided to visit O'Reilly and ask him what he should do.

Braving the barricades, and the marauding bands of bandana-donning chainsaw-wielding inbreds, William nervously made his way to the Department of Fire for the first time. O'Reilly's office was on a basement floor, between a covert cock-fighting arena and a storage room for surplus denim shirts. O'Reilly answered his door quickly and ushered William in. "Sit, sit," he said, "make yourself comfortable." William sat on a sofa covered with leopard-skin velour, while O'Reilly poured scotch.

"You received the new edition of the dictionary?" O'Reilly asked. William thought he had better play along. "Yes, I was pleased by the removal of adverbs," he ad-libbed. O'Reilly gave a hearty laugh as he walked towards the two-way telescreen and turned it off. "You can do that?" William asked, shocked. "Yeah," said O'Reilly, "ours have power buttons."

This distinctive splash-pattern was created by two grams of elephant tranquiliser.

"I think I know why you have come here, Brother Darling," O'Reilly said to William. "You want to know what you can do to damage Uncle-Dad and the Party." "Yes," said William. "In that case," O'Reilly continued, "I must know what you are capable of. Are you willing to commit murder?"
"To commit acts of sabotage which may cause the deaths of hundreds of innocent people?"
"You are willing to practice as a necrophile, if and when we order you to do so?"
"You would perform the most lewd and disgusting sex-acts on your superiors, should you be given the order?"
"...Yes?" O'Reilly was becoming visibly aroused; William was becoming drowsy. The drink had a certain tang about it.

William collapsed.

Room 101

William awoke aching in an open-air cell, crudely constructed from bamboo and road barriers. Brother Spyke was sitting on an upturned keg across from him. "Thoughtcrime, Brother Darling?" he asked. "Yep," William confirmed.

"Me too," said Spyke. "My daughter caught me screaming 'Death to Uncle-Dad' while giving myself wet willies and Chinese burns in the hallway. Still, glad they caught me when they did!"

William looked around the cell. It was littered with metal chairs, rusty chains and two-by-fours: it resembled the storage closet of a professional wrestling association. William picked up a chair and demonstrated to Spyke how upset he made William feel. "Well done," said a voice outside the cell. O'Reilly stood there with one leg on a plush armchair, wearing only a wide-brimmed hat, silver hot-pants, and assless leather chaps. O'Reilly's lackeys burst into the cell, manhandling William into the chair. Once William was bound, O'Reilly drew up a metal seat and sat in front of him.

Are you really surprised?

"Brother Darling," O'Reilly snarled, "how many fingers am I holding up?" "Five," said William. O'Reilly looked at his hand, seemingly annoyed. "Never mind, we'll skip that bit. The point is this: you've passed the test."

William sat, staring, confused. "What test?" he asked. "What test? Come on Darling, you didn't really believe that the proles were controlled by a pack of rednecks, did you? The Redneck Elite are a figment of the collective imagination; Uncle-Dad is a police mugshot somebody found on Google!"
"You're saying... none of this is real?"
"Oh, it's very real," said O'Reilly, "the control is very real. But the methods of control... imaginary. The good news Darling, is this: you don't have to live with the proles anymore!"

William began to understand the big picture, and elation crept through his mind. "Where do you -- the liberals, I mean -- the ones in charge -- where do they live?"
"About twenty years ago, a like-minded group of liberal elites began moving to Omaha, Nebraska, lured by its classical architecture, ethnic diversity and cold New England-style winters. Once we controlled the city, we gradually established a national shadow government which pushed for the election of extremely dogmatic conservatives to positions of power. The rest was easy, really: the destruction of civilised society by rednecks in suits requires remarkably few resources. The Hate is really just misdirection Darling; I, for one, salute the rainbow flag twice daily."

"Well, that's fairly vague," said William, "but I'll accept your brief explanation for now. What I can't understand, though, is why you would do this? Sure it's nice to get away from the rednecks, but why do you want to control them?"
"It's hard to say, really," said O'Reilly. "To be honest, it's probably because most of us are Jews."

William looked squarely at O'Reilly.
"I can live with that."


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