June 23, 10:14 p.m.
Until now, I’ve merely been an unhappy citizen of these supposedly free United States of America. Things have changed.
I write this as a government prisoner, trapped in my own home. I announce this via my blog, positive that bureaucratic **** are reading it. No need to dissemble my phones to find the bugs; they’ll replace them as I sleep (how my unconsciousness is achieved is another issue entirely). I found one of their “hidden” cameras already; if they search long enough, they might find the part of it that jammed my garbage disposal. God only knows how they’re currently monitoring my computer. If I’m to live under this microscope, what need do I have for secrets?
My name is Michael Johnson. I now live in Upper Darby, PA. When I was homeless, I roamed near 30th Street Station and posted from U. Penn.
Served three years in the U.S. Army. Took a bullet in the hip by my C.O. after my full house beat his flush. Friendly fire, my ****. Uncle Sam rewarded me with a limp and a dishonorable discharge for bitching about it.
Parents sold the house while I was on duty. Somehow neglected to leave a forwarding address.
Ambulance crashed into my car in Chester. Guy in the back of the box died. I got the worse end of the deal: Boxwood’s health plan.
Moved. Dover. Newark. Richmond. Employers see somebody who’s been screwed so much, they drool waiting for their turn. Convenience stores. Fast food. WalMart. **** ‘em all.
Pulled my bootstraps so much, they snapped. It’s time to strike back.
Readers, there is an Office of Constitutional Defense. Find it. Hack it. Break it. Get out your decoder rings and stock your bomb shelters. This will get ugly.
Van Pelt library. 4:00. July 3. Phase 2.
I already grew up with a big sister I don’t like. I never wanted a big brother.
If the O.C.D. won’t let me live behind closed doors, let’s bust them into the open. See you in ten days.
SPARK SOME CHANGE!
Marty omitted a crucial detail: there was no chance he’d be anywhere near the University of Pennsylvania, July 3 or any other day. Maybe the post itself wouldn’t make the news, but a congregation of angry protesters at an Ivy League institution could give the O.C.D. some trouble. Make them juggle enough balls, and maybe they’d drop one. Maybe?
All those years of going incognito, and yet Marty felt unsure how to travel undetected. Had they injected a tracking device under his skin like some bad spy movie? He rubbed his neck; thankfully, the world didn’t lose color. Staying on Germantown Road was out of the question. He had to go somewhere.
He stuffed his tax forms, switchblade, and a couple changes of clothes into a backpack. He went for his emergency cash box and was shocked to find it still stashed in a compartment behind the shower spigot. They hadn’t found it.
That belief was shattered as he unlocked the container and discovered a sticky note.
There was no food in the box.
Marty returned to the computer and scrolled one last time through his post. He didn’t want to be a hero. He sure as hell didn’t want to be a martyr. He just wanted to get lost. He clicked Submit and checked his homepage. There it was, in illuminated black and white.
The abrupt chirp of his cell phone startled him. Unlisted number. Of course.
He hurled the phone full-throttle against the wall and watched it explode into bits of plastic and electronics. If the O.C.D. wanted to play hardball, so be it. “Throw your curveballs, Chuckles” he growled. “I’m a knuckler.”
He let himself out the front door, left it wide open, and started walking down Germantown Road, thumb extended over the curb.