Title : Think I’ll Do A Little More Angry
link : Think I’ll Do A Little More Angry
Think I’ll Do A Little More Angry
Enjoy the following political wet dream:
“According to our laws, we have to house you ‘refugees’ here…but only until we can return you to your home countries in safety. So here’s the deal: you’ll be living in tents, in this compound, which you won’t be permitted to leave. There'll be no WiFi, no electricity, and no entertainment of any kind. Yes, there’ll be food and water, but we won’t care about your opinion of the food, and water will be all you get to drink. Clothes? What’s wrong with the clothes you’re wearing?
“The compound is surrounded by crew-served machine gun emplacements that are continuously manned. Anyone who tries to scale the fence will be shot down, no questions asked. His neighbors can dispose of his body; we certainly won’t want it.
“For extra security, you’ll all be wearing ankle monitors. Very special ankle monitors: if you cut through the band that holds them on, they explode. Guaranteed amputation of your lower leg. If one of you is detected outside the compound, he’ll be tracked down and executed wherever he’s found, again no questions asked. Yes, kids too. Some of you ‘teenagers’ have mighty impressive beards.
“We aren’t interested in hearing any demands from you. In fact, the very first demand any of you makes will get all of you loaded onto a raft and dragged a mile out to sea. Think you could make it back?
“Whoever survives this regime will be returned to his homeland when we think it’s safe. You won’t get a vote. After all, we didn’t get one when you decided to leave, and fair’s fair.
“So make yourselves at home! Those of you whose phones are working should call your buddies back in Dumbfuckistan and tell them about the conditions here. Especially you should tell them about the size of this compound – the fixed size of this compound. No matter how many ‘refugees’ arrive here, they’ll all be confined to the space you occupy now. No enlargement will be considered.
“Have a nice day!”
President Whiteman considered his task accomplished and returned to his desk in the Icosahedron Office. He’d been there barely a minute before his secretary began to bombard him with messages. All of them were from members of Parliament. They were unanimously upset. Angry minorities among their constituents were bombarding them with complaints that ranged from decorous protests to death threats.
Whiteman had a uniform response to those calls: “Ignore the protests. I have defined the policy, and I intend to enforce it. See to it that the law is enforced in your constituency, and leave mine to me.”
Over the next three days the cascade of complaining parliamentarians dwindled to a trickle and then ceased altogether. There were scattered reports of angry street protests, which Whiteman ignored. A couple featured low-level violence. The president directed the relevant police forces to enforce the law without fear or favor, and they did so. After a week there were no more protests.
Whiteman reviewed the reports from the “refugee” compound each morning. For a week there were no hints of difficulty; the “refugees” appeared to have accepted their lot. The absence of any discord made him increasingly suspicious. He ordered a doubling of the guard force.
Then came the escape attempt.
“How many dead?” Whiteman said. He did not look up from his paperwork.
“Twelve.” Interior Minister Frank Tenderfoot was desperate to get the chief executive to alter the “refugee” detention policy. He hoped the announcement that bloodshed had finally occurred would do it.
His hopes were dashed.
“Good,” Whiteman said. “That should be enough to get the rest to draw the moral. Was there anything else?”
“Mister Prime Minister,” Tenderfoot faltered, “aren’t you the least bit concerned about the loss of innocent human life?”
That brought Whiteman’s eyes up. Tenderfoot was shocked to see him smile.
“Not at all, Frank,” the prime minister said. “First, by definition the escapees were not innocents. They broke parole. They chose to defy the conditions I placed on their refuge. Second, I put the existing policy in place well before they arrived here, so they had no excuse for not knowing what the consequences would be. They chose to doubt my will. That was on them.”
Tenderfoot was taken aback. He’d known Whiteman to be callous about human rights matters, but he’d never imagined that it would lead to mass bloodshed. He groped for words.
“Was there anything else, Frank?” Whiteman said. “I am rather pressed, you know.”
“Mister Prime Minister…” Tenderfoot breathed once deeply. “You should be aware that—”
“That the Justice Crusaders will be staging a protest right in front of the compound fence later today?” Whiteman shrugged. “I know, Frank. I’ve known since last night. My agents inside that organization reported it to me. As long as they don’t obstruct the gunners’ view of the fences, I’ll have no problem with it. If they do, on the other hand…” Whiteman’s smile became shark-like. “Let’s just say that their troubles will be worse than they can imagine. As will yours.”
Tenderfoot staggered where he stood.
“Yes, Frank, I know about your involvement. I’ve known for a while. Good intelligence is vital to a chief executive, especially in this snake pit of a government, so I made it a high priority from day one in this chair. I probably have the best network any PM has ever had. And I will nail you to a cross if your comrades should pose my patrols the least little difficulty. So you should make sure to tell your Justice Crusaders to keep out of the way of the compound guard force. I can trust you to see to that, can’t I?”
Tenderfoot stuttered and choked. Presently he shambled out of the Icosahedron Office.
The next morning’s news coverage was all about the medical condition of Interior Minister Frank Tenderfoot. Apparently he’d been set upon by an angry mob during what the papers called a “gathering of his constituents.” Why that gathering had occurred far outside his parliamentary constituency went unaddressed. Those who attacked him had beaten him savagely, some with clubs. The hospital to which he’d been taken reported him to be in critical condition.
Whiteman noted the reports and had his secretary send a bouquet to Tenderfoot’s hospital room.
It was barely nine o’clock when his secretary told him that a large majority of Parliament had demanded that he appear before them at once. He shrugged, buttoned his jacked, and went to the Chamber of Deputies to confront them. When the speaker admitted him, he strode to the lectern, panned a smile around the members, and said, “Well? What is it?”
The gathering drew a collective breath so sharp that Whiteman could feel a draft flow from him toward them. After a moment, a Member rose pointed an accusing finger at him.
“Mister Prime Minister,” the Member shouted, “your refugee detention policy has already caused twelve deaths and could well be responsible for the assault on Interior Minister Tenderfoot!”
Whiteman nodded. “So? What of it?”
There was a moment of shocked silence.
“Aren’t you the least bit concerned about these events?” the Member continued.
“I did not send Minister Tenderfoot into the den of villains where he was attacked,” Whiteman said. “Therefore I have no responsibility for the consequences. As for the fatalities at the refugee compound,” he said, “that was in accordance with policy. My policy. And as long as I have the authority over such matters that the Refugee Relief bill gives me – you did vote for that bill, didn’t you, Arthur? – that policy will not change.”
The Member was visibly stunned. He’d plainly expected the spilling of blood to force Whiteman to modify his detention policy. He had not dreamed that the prime minister would choose to stand fast.
“While I’m here,” Whiteman said, “allow me to acquaint you with a few facts. First, the refugees are all fed, watered, and protected from the elements. There have been no reports of violence within the compound. No one has attempted to tamper with the fences or the ankle monitors. Second, statistics on the refugees’ home countries are now generally available, and they point to a single, inarguable fact: They’re better off in the compound, statistically, than they were where they came from. They’re eating twice as many calories per man per day as their compatriots. They’re not subject to political persecution. Not one of them has asked to be repatriated. Yes, twelve did attempt to escape. They paid a price that had been made known to them in advance. It’s my hope that no others will pay it, but that’s up to them. So tell me, Members all: Are you ready to deport them en masse? Because that’s their sole alternative to detention in that compound.”
Whiteman started to turn and depart the dais, checked himself and turned back to the gathering. “You should also know, Members all, that since I had the compound fenced and guarded as it currently is, not one additional refugee craft has approached our shores. Word has gotten around, it seems. Nearly all of the refugees came equipped with phones, and they sent word to their homeland about the reception they’d received. Inasmuch as controlling he refugee influx, with its accompaniment of crime, welfarism, and other social pathologies, was one of the tasks you set me, I deem the goal achieved.”
“You’ll be unseated at the next election!” came a shout from the gathering.
Whiteman smiled. “Will I?” he said. “Perhaps. But perhaps not. Perhaps you gentlemen should consult your constituents before you decide to range yourselves against me. And with that I shall say, as I said to the refugees when I addressed them a week ago yesterday: Have a nice day.”
And he left the dais to return to his office.
Likely? Not very. But plausible. The pendulum of public opinion, in First World countries worldwide, is swinging toward that pole. It would be unwise to imagine that Whiteman’s policy simply can’t happen, that popular sentiment would forbid it.
What if it were it to become policy here in America?
Thus Article Think I’ll Do A Little More Angry
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