These cops woud pay for this; a clear breech of the uneasy truce between the MFM and the government. Plus, I have a delicate medical condition.

8...9...10

I’m back up, just a peek around the corner of the pillar and I see the juggernaut is still at it. There are bodies and evidence of his carnage everywhere. Only one way to get this wildman. I leap out and make a full-speed run straight at him; my hand clutching the button of a plasma-grenade. He executes his own suit-enhanced leap nine-feet to the side, whips out a SPNKR while still in the air, and sends a missile into the ground maybe six feet in front of me.

Dammit, I’m dead! I was almost within range. I fly apart, literally...and man, that hurts.


1...2...3...4...

Oh, there’ll be retribution for this—I guarantee it. The Middle Finger Militia protects the working class from the government. It’s our charter, since the civil war of ‘43. When a sizable mass of free Americans finally said, STOP! We’ll not have you putting chips, and trackers, and recorders and nano-shit inside of us. No, what we’ll do is send you a final easily-translated message, screw off and leave us alone.

Most folks decided to let the government get away with whatever hare-brained crap they devised. The masses just wanted to work, have virtual sex, live and eat; and they didn’t really mind who controlled them. Some of us did mind, militantly.

So we had this system, with the working folks in the middle, being preyed on by the business hawkers luring them from one corner—steadily grinding away at their assets, the government in another corner—controlling their every move, law enforcement in another—doing just whatever they felt like.

Then, you have us, the Middle Finger Militia—we preyed exclusively on the other three corners.

5...6...7...

The people finally realized they had no protection, and overwhelmingly voted to give the Middle Finger Militia a charter. We protected the people from their own government. The so-called news or Fifth Column wouldn’t do it—bad for profits. The courts wouldn’t do it—chaired by easily controlled, geriatric dickbrains. The U.S. Constitution wouldn’t do it, since every President since Roosevelt had used it to wipe their ass when it stood in the way of what they wanted to do. The legislative branch wouldn’t do it—they were too busy making money.

That left us, the Middle Finger Militia.

8...9...10

And I’m back. I got lucky. If the master of mayhem had just shot me, I would have respawned in the same place and he would have been standing there waiting—ready to deliver another shot to my eyeball. Nobody comes back after three times.  But, he blew my ass into several pieces and the capriciousness of the Random God respawned me right behind him.

I leaped onto his back, thumbed the button and blew us both into the lofty heights of the Senate Chambers. Man, that hurts like a bastich!

1...2...3...4...


I know, I said no one ever comes back after three times, and this is three for me. I have a medical condition.

This dying crap is a sideline for me, I’ll be paid—big-time. Still, it won’t save those cops from retribution. I’m gonna get some payback.

That’s what we do. When the big guys get caught humping the regular working-class folks, we strike. And we don’t care which one did it, we choose someone, and take them out. That randomness keeps them on their toes. They know we don’t investigate shit, because we don’t care. We just like to kill authority figures. That keeps things in a precarious balance, they think hard before they pull any shit—or allow anyone else to.

This too, will break apart. This temporary system; they always do. That’s why so many Senators were on the floor of the chambers; a big vote today, On new year’s no less. It was planned that way, the backers knew the lawmakers would want to vote and get home for their usual bacchanalia.

5...6...7...

They were voting on a law to place nano-recorders in everyone, then download and monitor their daily thoughts, action and even dreams. ‘To weed out and isolate troublemakers’, they claimed.

They just wanted to catch any young folks who might turn out like me. That is the whole motivation behind this law—stop people like me from becoming. A little behavior modification, or disappearance, if the subject were recalcitrant and unresponsive to mental manipulation.

8...9...10

I’m back, and I quickly zero in on where my nemesis has respawned. He’s still disoriented, and I drive an elbow into his back, spin him around and see from his eyes that he still has some fight left.

It’s cruel, and will probably kill him for good, but I plaster another plasma grenade to the faceplate of his helmet, and blow him into several sections.


While I wait for him to respawn; if he’s going to, I look around at the massive destruction. Nearly all of these lawmakers are dead—really dead. Not that there will be any shortage of greedy dolts ready to take their place. Not that I give a shit in any event.

This was a serious hack, with massive consequences.

The guy respawns and I see his face, his real face. He’s rabid, feral, gone shootin’.

I kill him again, with my hands; and this time he stays dead.

I slap the button on my shoulder and someone on the other end pulls my jack.

I’m on the floor, still in the bar; cops all around, and a crew of my own guys standing ready.

“On behalf of the lawful government of the United States we extend our appreci...”

I interrupted the cop who was jabbering, before he could piss me off worse than I already was.

“Shut up,” I hissed, rising to my feet. “I better have a large check, and you can expect reprisals.”

“We couldn’t find the guy,” the cop. a chief of police, said. “He’s been in God-mode for three days, hacked an old Urban Warfare modification onto the Capital building and run amuck. We have over two-hundred dead—most VIP’s; we had to do something and you are the only one who could get this guy.”

“I’m still not hearing about the check,” I said, walking back to sit at the bar.

“It’s on the way, and I’d like to personally...”

“Shut the fuck up and leave,” I said, swiveling around to face them. “Before I take you all out.”

I got a medical condition. There’s too many people, and not enough resources, so everyone works in the virtual world, hell, most people live in it. Outside, in the city—that’s gridlock. So most folks spend the majority of their days on the net.

Once you suit up and jack-in, you can die in cyberspace and when you do, you die back in the world as well. It’s just too damn real, when you’re in, you’re in deep.  You feel the pain, the shock, and your body reacts to it.

Me, I got a medical condition. You can kill me a thousand times, I just get back up. As far as I know, I’m the only one. Too bad I had to frag that sociopath just now, we could have been friends.

I call my condition, Idontgiveafuckitus’, there is no fancy name for it. The shrinks would like to get a hold of me for some testing, but that ain't happening. I had to disappear a few of the herringbone-elbow-patch-wearing bearded bastards before they got the message and stopped trying.

I always tell people, those wargames are dangerous. Much safer to sit among friends and have a few beers.