Chapter 12
The Beginning of The End
Nothing happens.
There is no flash of blinding white light. No raucous klaxon blares to life. No hollywood supernova special effect fans out grandly in a technicoloured wavefront widening into eternity, with the shophouse as its epicentre. There isn't even a gratuitious and unprovoked sex scene between Dr Chee and Jean. (unfortunately axed due to financial constraints)
On the bright side,
millions of Singalanders... go right on doing what they were doing. 1241911 Kits continue to wander mechanically about their daily tasks, at work, play or trawling lazily for something nice to eat (which is still the national past-time). 2500835 Kats, Barbies to their Kit-Kens continue to cluster in little groups (no larger than seven) pointing derisively at individual Kits and giggling dismissively, and trawling The Street gently foaming at the mouth in search of something nice to wear.
Somewhere in the background the rhythmical piak-piak noises which we've been ignoring till now continue to barely audibly nag at our collective subconsciousnesses. (because, after all, the BG is dead... hmm? a potential plot hole?)
Nobody's brain melts into a mushy putrid pink goo, with the exception of several thousand teenaged males, but only then as the result of wanking furiously to the latest issue of FHM and not because of the EMP pulse which, surprisingly enough is actually tuned to precisely the correct frequency thanks to a grudging last-minute plot reversal by the author. The deaths of their brains isn't even noticed by their bodies, which go on wanking enthusiastically.
Nothing happens at all... yet.
*****
Flicker.
The image on the screen changes to an immaculately dressed doe-eyed female staring intently into the camera as the words CNA Newscast scroll across the bottom of the screen.
"We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you a special news report. Minutes ago, dozens of degenerate subversives formed an illegal gathering outside Waffles Place and established a makeshift barricade. These reprehensible men and women are rumoured to be dangerous inmates from a nearby psychiatric un.. (someone offscreen whispers something) oh, haha, of course we have no mental illness in Singaland, so these inmates were originally foreign migrants who moved to Singaland before The Holocaust occurred. Our courageous Police forces have been mobilised and are even now bravely moving in to deal with this despicable threat. Citizens are advised to act wisely and avoid this area altogether until the situation has been resolved. Do not attempt to speak to the liars and cheats, or interact with them in any way. And now, we bring you our reporter on the spot, Ms Chua Mui Hasntgotaclue."
cut to a chaotic scene of a man and a woman perched atop a tower of office desks, chairs and conference tables. At the foot of the barricade, angry-eyed protestors mill noisily about chanting slogans and carrying placards declaring "TELL US THE TRUTH, Singaland", "WE WANT FREEDOM", "DOWN WITH THE EMPEROR", "BAK CHOR MEE 50 cents first turn on left, very cheap very nice" and "FREE MY WILLY!". Several cars blaze merrily in the background, filling the air with columns of oily black clouds.
A petite field reporter smiles sweetly into the camera and breathes, "Thank you, Ms Ru Nin Dog. As you can all see, the scene is of anarchy and chaos. These are the natural result of non-conformism and anti-establishmentism. Some of the degenerate scum behind me apparently do not even have O levels, and several failed mathematics at A levels! This is conclusive proof that..."
Someone runs up behind her and thumps her hard on the head with a placard, snatching the microphone away from the simpering sycophant as she falls out the screen.
"Listen to me, fellow citizens, WE HAVE BEEN LIED TO! THERE WAS NO HOLOCAU..."
the scene cuts out abruptly, to a blue screen with the words "we are experiencing technical difficulties, we apologise for your inconvenience". Soothing elevator music plays softly in the background.
Flicker.
The immaculately-dressed Ms Ru has been replaced by a large, bemuscled male wearing a black leather jacket and dark glasses.
"Ist Daas thing on. Ah gut. Danke. Hallo, ladies and gentlemen, I am Arnold Schwarzenkopfen of de Resistance and I am going to tell you all de Truth..."
*****
Something is happening now, all across the country.
Eyes are widening, as the germanic-accented words crash into their senses like an unstoppable, interminable tsunami. Hands are rising to mouths which are falling slowly open.
Brains are buzzing.
Back in the business district, passers-by have stopped mid-stride and are gawping at the prolific giant LCD screens (normally hosting political propaganda clips, and occasionally Mr Bean and Battlestar Galactica reruns) scattered through the city.
Heads that would normally be bowed, and eyes that would normally be averted are swivelling towards the spectacle of the rebels manning their barricade.
Feet that would normally be speeding up are dragging reluctant bodies over towards the protestors.
Unthinkably, as the truth emerges, people are beginning to drag furniture out of their own office blocks...
And nobody's brain is exploding.
*****
"Closing to range. Prepare to engage the enemy, men." The drizzletrooper captain's voice rings resoundingly through the coms unit, bearing all the wisdom, authority and conviction that only a pimply teenager fresh out of Officer Cadet School can delude himself into thinking he possesses. To the casual observer, the gleaming platoon of thirty seven-foot tall, armour-plated troopers presents an intimidating sight, marching with absolute discipline in precise synchrony, and in absolute silence with their gauss rifles slung at the ready.
In reality, two familiar voices are bickering over a private channel.
"Si... sarge it's hot in here. Someone should really think about air-conditioning these battle suits."
"Shut up, Ding."
"What if I want to take a leak?"
"Shut up, Ding."
"I don't see why we weren't executed instead of demoted to drizzle grunts, I mean we let the killers of the Emperor's son esc..."
"Shut up, Ding."
"I mean if I were the Emperor, I'd..."
Drizzletrooper Sergeant Sum resists a sudden urge to put an end to his misery by performing an impromptu lobotomy on Pte Ding with his gatling cannon. It would be so simple... so ridiculously... no, bad finger. Bad finger. Down boy. Stay on the trigger guard, yeah that's the ticket.
Clomp. Creak. Clomp. Clouds of dust rise up from the ground as the drizzle troopers clank heavily through the deserted city streets at high noon. A geographically misplaced tumbleweed rolls bumpily by along the road and lodges against the smoldering, burnt-out hulk of a mercedes hoverbus lying on its side. They keep marching. And marching, through Hill, Dale and Vale (Singaland's premier electronics boutique), past Mountains and Valleys (Garden Landscaping for the twenty-first century) and along Scenic Lakes (Travel Agency) until they round a corner and behold the rebel Ikea(tm) barricades towering before them. They don't even break stride then, till their captain raises an imperious hand and calls a halt.
"Targets acquired, prepare to fire! And... fire!"
Nobody moves a muscle. A worried chorus of voices returns over the officer's intercom :
"Sir, they're civillians..."
"Never fired on anyone before..."
"Not trained for this..."
"They're not even armed! It'll be a bloodbath!"
"Do we have to... isn't there any other way?"
pause.
The drizzle Captain's voice returns filled with fury and incredulity. You can almost hear the foam forming around his mouth. "WHAT?? How dare you fu**ers... (sputter)... spineless, poorly trained wimps... (deep breath)... Sergeant Sum, I order you to lead your worthless men in annihilating these rebel scum or I'll have you all court-martialled! Take down the two leaders NOW!"
Sergeant Sum raises his gauss rifle smartly and sights down the telescopic barrel at the two figures standing astride the affordable yet stylish woodpile, and there's a long pause while his rifle audibly powers up. (cue cheesy hollywood laser powerup sound) Sum continues to stand motionless with his rifle to his shoulder and his finger frozen on the trigger.
"WELL?"
"Sir, no sir."
"WHAT? You too?? What, you're prepared to disobey a direct order and get court martialled just because of some pretty c*nt???"
Pause.
"Sir, that pretty c*nt is my sister. And some of those protestors may be old enough to be your mother."
The gauss rifle swings slowly around to point into Captain Courageous's reflective faceplate, drawing a bead of bright red sighting-laser light along it.
"Sir, I'm sorry to have to do this. Drop your weapon, now."
"Men! Mutiny! Insurrection!! Help me!!!! ARREST THIS MAN!"
Twenty-eight rifle barrels rise hestitantly and train themselves as one on the captain's visor, their laser scopelights lighting up his helmet with a potentially terminal case of acne.
*****
"Flight leader Delta, this is base command, prepare terminate the rebel scum on your mark, over."
"Roger that base command, missiles primed and ready. We have target lock."
"Do not miss, over. The Emperor is watching."
The A44 Super Duper Ultra Powerful Skyhawk (Singaland's pride and joy, an outdated but heavily Singalander-modified once-upon-a-time-American design) screams high through the blood-red stratosphere, just beneath the vaguely translucent shimmer of the forcedome.
A gloved thumb flips up the safety catch on the flightstick and hovers over the trigger.
Pan camera to the empty tandem-seat behind the visored visage of the pilot...to the trenchcoat lying folded neatly in it.
Whoosh,whooshwhoosh. The 'plane begins to discharge its explosive manifest of deadly guided missiles. The whooshes seem to carry on for quite a while...
