The Bill

Chapter 1

House of Cards Representative Joe Herkiezen tapped his pen on his desk as he reread his bill, The Hunger Relief Act. He didn’t want this bill defeated like his last one. Joe remembered how Senatorian Lynn Voluble fell on the floor, kicking her fat stumpy legs, waving her arms and moaning loudly until she worked herself up to a hysterical cry. She didn’t even start with stamping her feet. She went right to a full-blown tantrum, and it lasted eleven hours. The Senatorians couldn’t stand it anymore, watching her roll around on the floor with her wig askew and whining, so the bill was successfully blocked.

Those damn Nay-Sayers, Joe thought.

At least his party, the Refuters, controlled the House of Cards and the Senatorian. So it was his party’s turn to block everything that the Nay-Sayers proposed, everything from funding medical research to school lunch programs. This was the perfect time for Joe to get his bill through. Joe went on PollTroll to check his poll numbers for today.

His approval rating was at seventy-five percent; yesterday it was at seventy-six percent. Why had his approval rating dropped a percent in one day? The answer, according to PollTroll, was his paisley tie.

Joe read PollTroll’s explanation and recommendation.

Paisley patterns are made up of tear-shaped designs, making the wearer appear to be a crybaby or weak. Their origin is not from the United Republic and suggests the wearer is unpatriotic. Furthermore, the pattern is often found in rugs, making it hard to discern whether they are wearing a tie or a rug. This makes their beliefs unclear, the wearer a flip-flopper and perhaps even their sexual orientation ambiguous. Our recommendation is to discard the paisley tie in favor of royal blue or emerald green, something that represents strength. People wearing one of these ties are certain in their beliefs and leave no doubt as to their sexual orientation.

This won’t go over well, Joe thought.

The tie was a birthday gift from his wife, and this was the first time he had worn it. Birthday gift or not, the tie had to go; it was costing him a precious percentage point in his overall approval rating.

He checked today’s headlines. The biggest thing in the news was still, of course, the public finding out that the government conducts warrantless mind tapping.

Well, you know what so-and-so wrote, If you want to keep a secret, you must also be able to hide it from yourself. Still, he did not agree with this; to have a warrant was one thing, but to read someone’s mind without the court’s authorization was something else. The mind is a funny thing. If every thought were made public that ever entered our brains, we would all be labeled as perverted, narcissistic psychopaths. Things fly into our brains all the time: strange things, random things, things we learned a long time ago.

Propose your schemes, ye Senatorian band, whose Ways and Means support the sinking land. That sentence had been popping in and out of Joe’s head all day. He didn’t know why; it was just a line from a poem he had learned in school. It meant nothing to him, but if it were made public, much could be made out of it. Mind tapping might be the kind of thing acceptable in Bordovia, but this is the United Republic. We are the greatest country in the world. We have spent over three trillion dollars this year; no other country even came close.

He took off his tie and threw it in the trashcan on his way out. Mike Jones, his driver and bodyguard, was waiting patiently for him.

The heat is a bitch today, sir. At least we don’t live near the coast; they just got hit with another severe hurricane, Mike said.

I didn’t realize that the coast was hit again. I stopped keeping track of them long ago, especially since there is no longer funding for disaster relief in the budget.

Mike always wore a suit. He looked more like a secret service agent than just a regular bodyguard. He kept a gun inside his jacket and one in the glove compartment; he was ready for anything. Mike led Joe to his car, which he had just purchased last week. He decided not to go with a sports car but with something more practical like the sedan. Mike turned the car onto the highway, and they hit a few pot holes along the way.

I’m sorry, sir; I’m trying to avoid the potholes, but there are just too damn many of them, Mike said.

Joe just waved a hand; he was more concerned about the herd up ahead. There were three of them, a young woman and two children—not small, probably teenagers—emaciated and frail, the trademark of their class. The young woman was lying on the side of the road. The two children were waving their arms frantically; the boy stepped onto the road to try and get them to stop. Mike had seen them too and was speeding up. He hit the boy, and the force caused him to smack the windshield and propel forward over the car, like a gymnast doing a somersault, onto the back windshield before rolling off into the street. The windshield did not even crack, thanks to the reinforced glass Joe had had installed.

Joe watched out the back windshield. The boy lay motionless, probably dead, as Mike sped on. There was blood on the windshield, and Mike turned on the wipers, like he did when a bug flew into the glass to clear away the mess.

The herds are a damn nuisance, Mike said.

I wish we could burn every herd ghetto in the United Republic, but there is no other place to put them. Those run-down tenements they live in are unsightly. It just goes to show you that public housing is a waste of money. I hate seeing them out. They are everywhere, entire families just roaming around looking for food and work, Joe said.

They do seem to be roaming more and more, probably because the funding for public housing was eliminated from the budget, Mike said.

Well, I guess they are not going anywhere. They are like a pestilence—

Mike hit a large pothole; the car thumped and rattled, putting the brand-new car’s shocks to the test.

Sorry, sir, you were saying something about a pestilence, Mike said.

Um yes, the herd is like a pestilence that’s hard to eradicate, unlike the common class, which is becoming an endangered species. I mean the disparity between the herd and the opulent is increasing exponentially, and the brunt of the financial burden is falling on them. They are like what’s-his-face from the mythology story. Do you know the one I’m talking about, the one that has to hold up the planet on his shoulders? Joe asked, forgetting that Mike was one of those very class members propping the whole thing up.

Yes sir, I know who you mean.

Except they are not holding up the planet on their shoulders. They are holding up economic disparity, taxes and a collection of empty nests. They are a thin reed, so frail, about to snap in half. The common class needs to ascend or descend the social ladder because there is no room for them anymore. Not the herd, though; they are going as strong as ever. There are far too many of them, and they are going to be around for a while, so why not propose a bill for them. That’s how I see it. Maybe we can straighten them out a bit, and that is exactly what I intend to do with my new bill, The Hunger Relief Act, Joe said.

That sounds ideal, sir, Mike said.

Joe smiled, I might be in the opulent class, but I know what the herd needs, by God, and if my bill is passed, it will change things dramatically for them. A lot of people in the opulent class want to be rid of the herd. They want to sweep them under the carpet, but not me, and I’ll tell you why. The herd have absolutely nothing except the absolute truth and therefore have everything. It is a simple concept if you really think about it, and I have a lot. Have you ever thought about it, Mike?

No, sir, not in depth.

The other classes have the illusion of truth. We need truth, and like any good capitalist society, if you want a commodity, you must be willing to pay for it. Give them what they think they need, without giving them what they don’t know they want. They think they are hungry, so give them some food, but don’t raise minimum wages so that they can buy more food. You must pat them on the head like a child and say, ‘Keep up the good work,’ without giving them the sage parental advice, Joe said.

Mike looked back at him through the rear view mirror; he hated it when Joe started to wax philosophical because he sounded like a horse’s ass with all his nonsense. I know exactly what you mean, sir.

You do not, however, give the herd enlightenment or means. Truth by itself is like the sea, fine on a calm day; but when you add factors like wind and rain, or enlightenment and means, you create the perfect storm. So if you give them something and add enlightenment and the means to do something about it, you might have a revolution on your hands. Pure truth is meaningless to them because we make sure they don’t have the means to do anything with it. By not giving them means, you would think that they aren’t allowed to vote and are subject to different laws from the other classes, but it’s not true. There are no sets of separate laws for them. There is nothing written in our great constitution that says that the herd cannot vote. You cannot point to any law book or word on a printed page that has the herd separated from the rest of the United Republic. They are equal, but these unwritten laws exist nonetheless because of our political system. Joe paused, waiting for confirmation from Mike.

Yes sir, that’s it exactly.

Joe continued; he was on a roll. The other classes do not have truth but the illusion of truth like fool’s gold. We cannot handle pure truth; the whole structure would come tumbling down. As politicians, we perpetuate the illusion of truth; it is our job to keep it going. Who would elect a politician that told the absolute truth? No one would elect someone who told the truth because the truth hurts, and we cannot bear the pain. Who would come out and tell you that your education system is failing, your infrastructure is crumbling, you’ve created irrevocable and irreversible damage to your planet, you’re unhealthy, you have insurmountable debt and taxes need to be raised? Would you elect someone, Mike, if they told you that you were a poor, fat, lazy slob and your life was meaningless?

Mike sighed, but not too loudly, so that Joe could hear. Why was he always answering Joe’s nonsensical bullshit?

No, I wouldn’t.

No, of course you wouldn’t. The only people who would tell you that are public servants, and we are not public servants. We are a restaurant with a limited menu, a salad bar that you pay for and serve yourself. We create labels and redefine words. We create boogiemen. If something works, but it is not profitable, then slap a label on it, call it socialism, unpatriotic or even call it anarchy. Make a word so taboo that no one will ever want to touch it again, but don’t put actual labels on things containing absolute truths. Don’t put a label on a package of food that says, ‘This food is bad for you,’ or a label on a bottle of medication that says, ‘You don’t really need this.’ Deny what is right in front of you if it doesn’t line your pockets, but give them an illusion because it’s free.

Joe remained quiet for the rest of the car ride home, and Mike was grateful. He had heard enough politics for one day.

Joe looked out his window at the Bordovia tower that dominated the skyline; it was now the tallest building in the United Republic. He gazed at the other skyscrapers, each unique in design, but all having one thing in common; they were owned by the country of Bordovia. The Bank of Bordovia where Joe banked was among them; it was now the world’s largest bank. He used to bank with Gold Line, a Republic owned bank, but it could no longer remain competitive against the Bordovian giant.

They arrived at the gate to his house. Mike punched in a code, and the gate swung open. Joe had recently had some people out to install a ten foot fence around his home with barbed wire at the top; the fence was also electrified. It made his property look like a compound from the outside, but at least it protected his lavish home.

With the herd roaming more and more, why take any chances? Joe lived in a typical opulent house. It had the best of everything, and when the best became obsolete or was superseded by something new, then it was time for an upgrade. That is what life was all about; it was one big upgrade after another. New is better was the motto that Joe lived by, especially in politics: new issues, new philosophies and new rhetoric. Joe could hear his watchdogs barking as Mike pulled in the driveway of his five million dollar mansion. They quieted down, though, when they saw their master. Joe surveyed the damage done to his car. The windshield had not even suffered a scratch, but he couldn’t say as much for his front bumper, which was barely attached. The bumper was like the common class, there to absorb the impact, but barely hanging on and about to be ripped apart from the rest of society.

I’ll get that fixed first thing tomorrow, Mr. Herkiezen, Mike said.

He punched in another code and opened the front door. Unless you need me for anything else, sir, I think I’m going to retire.

You go ahead, Mike; it’s been a long day. I’d like to get to the office by 7 am tomorrow, because I have a lot of work to do.

Yes, sir, that won’t be a problem, Mike said.

Joe went in the living room, and his wife Elizabeth was still up watching television.

Joe could hear a voice on the television announcing that for the month of May there were three hundred and two herd fatalities in the city of Hillsdale due to starvation. Hillsdale, like all cities, kept track of the herd fatalities; it was based upon categories starvation, illness, murder and other. The other category was made up mostly of accidents and suicides. The numbers varied from city to city because of population size. A lot of offices he knew took bets every month on how many fatalities the herd would have, and the person who was the closest won all the money. Larger bets were taken for a nationwide fatality number. Some businesses would even give you a day off if you won. It was harmless fun; it was a lot like betting on sports games or horse racing. The most important thing, though, was that it was a way to keep track of how the herd was doing. There seemed to be fewer and fewer fatalities each month, which was a sign that things were getting better for them, and so the government was able to cut welfare and affordable housing programs out of the fiscal budget because they obviously didn’t need any more handouts. It was good for morale. The herd knew they were doing better. They weren’t dying as much, so progress was being made.

Elizabeth gave him a kiss on the cheek and said first thing, Throw that damn tie away that I bought you for your birthday.

She had already checked his poll numbers and discovered the reason for the drop in percentage. Elizabeth put her feet up on the coffee table; she was wearing her nightgown, robe and slippers. She was all set for bed and just waiting for Joe to come home to find out about his day.

I did, and the polls seem to indicate a higher approval rating when I wear blue or green ties, so I’ll wear those colors from now on. How was your day? Joe asked.

I had lunch with Marcy Bearings of Bearings Incorporated. I thought it would be a good idea to start soliciting money for your Senatorian campaign. I hope to raise more than five billion for the next election cycle, Elizabeth said.

That’s smart; even though elections were just last week and I won’t be running for another two years, you have to hit them hard and hit them early. Whoever raises the most money wins, and I can’t remember a time when that was not the case. ‘Raise the most bread, you get ahead; short on loot, you get the boot.’ That is the unspoken rule, Joe laughed.

The amount of money it takes to win seems to grow each election cycle. There is an endless supply of money, and you have to know how to tap into it, Elizabeth said.

Joe gazed at Elizabeth. He loved this woman and unlike a lot of his colleagues, he had not had any sex scandals. They met about eleven years ago. She was a volunteer who worked on his campaign when he was running for the House in his first election. They didn’t have any kids and didn’t want any. They were fulfilled by each other. Elizabeth was still beautiful: a little older and a little plumper, but those brown eyes still lit up a room. Joe also had brown eyes, but his were a darker brown. He was also a few pounds heavier, and his hair was a little thinner. It was difficult to stay trim when you worked twelve-hour days, but he