After the Great War of 2016, America became a devastated, post-apocalyptic wasteland, ruled by an authoritarian overlord with limited language skills. But then the Resistance rose up. This is a first-hand account from the front lines of the guerrilla army of social justice warriors as it fights back using every tool at its disposal, from social media accounts to self-published books.
Flint still doesn’t have clean water. This much is obvious to anyone who goes to Flint and asks a resident, “Do you have clean water?” The answer would be “No,” because they don’t.
It was also obvious to me, as I stood on a cliff looking over what used to be the suburbs. This land was formerly covered with verdant fields, forests, flowers. But the contaminated water had seeped into the ground, killing everything, and now it had all become a desert wasteland. It had also become a dessert wasteland, because the absence of clean water had made it impossible for any of the survivors to cook food, let alone cake. As a rule, desert wastelands are also dessert wastelands.
How I had arrived there after fleeing the hordes on the East Coast was a hazy memory, but all that mattered was that I had escaped, albeit barely.
I peered out from the overlook into the rusty expanse. Cracks in the earth spiderwebbed everywhere I looked, and the dry riverbank cut across my vision like a scar. There used to be houses, cities, and playgrounds here, and you used to hear music, laughter, and birdsong. Now, the only song came from my car radio, which was wheezing out a new Kanye West track. “Poopy-di scoop. Scoop diddy whoop.” Those haunting words echoed out over the vast landscape, unanswered, like some long-forgotten secret code.
It was hard to know who was crazy: me, or everyone else. Or maybe just Rudy Giuliani.
Behind me, a cloud of dust rose, and a dim murmur of engines grew louder. It was one of the groups of scavengers who roamed the wasteland, hunting down the Resistance.
I jumped into my car and stamped on the pedal, zooming away into the sand. But it was no use; the scavengers reached me, and a makeshift harpoon pierced my tires and flipped my car in a blazing fireball of metal, heat, and smoke. I tried to crawl away, but I felt hands grab my shoulders, and soon I was chained in the back of their giant armored truck as it hurtled through the lifeless wilderness.
Maybe the whole world has gone crazy. Or maybe “crazy” is just what people call you when you do things like invent new words to identify things that are already described perfectly well by preexisting vocabulary.
“There’s no gettin’ off the Battle Rig!” shouted the man on my right over the thunder of the truck. “We’re taking you to back to the Citadel!”
“The Immortan Bros will know what to do with you!” added the driver.
“What they mean is that we’re driving you to Mar-a-Lago, where they’re going to hand you over to Eric and Don Jr.,” translated the person on my left. As he spoke, he discreetly slid a piece of paper into my hand. It read:
Resistance Communiqué No. 1812
A convoy of scavengers has captured a group of witnesses who were on their way to speak to Robert Mueller and is now carrying them to Mar-a-Lago in the Battle Rig. Your mission is to take over the vehicle and bring those people back to the special counsel. Also, I am Robert Mueller.
I raised my eyebrows in astonishment, but he gave me a look that said, “Be quiet.” Then he whispered, “Be quiet.”
It was at this point that the driver reached down, grabbed a metal canister, sprayed the contents into his face, and howled in exhilaration. “Easy Cheese is the only food we have left, but it does the trick!” he screamed. “I have so much energy!”
While screaming, however, he closed his eyes, which allowed Mueller to jump up to the front seat, smash his head against the windshield, and push him out of the moving vehicle.
“What the—” exclaimed the guard sitting on my right, but I didn’t hear the end of his thought, because I shoved him out, as well.
“Robert Mueller, you saved me!” I cried.
“Consider it payback for when you saved me in the previous installment of Dispatches from the Resistance?” said the special counsel, using those exact words. “You are incredibly heroic, and I respect you.”
“That means a lot,” I replied. “You know, it’s been a difficult couple of months for me. Since 2016, nothing I do seems to be successful. Maybe that’s what a lot of people feel like. But I think I’m learning to start believing in myself, and I’m beginning to realize that I have a voice, that people will listen to me—”
“Let’s free the captives in the back,” he interrupted me. We parked the Battle Rig, walked to the back, and lifted the door.
It was empty.
We heard the faint sound of a motor and looked up. Far away, across the valley, we saw a cloud of dust. A truck emerged from it, identical to our own and speeding away in the other direction.