At the corner of Wisteria and Hope lives a snotty little shit named Miss Hola Americana Chic. She’s a he. She wears a velvet garter. Hola wears penny loafers with a silver dollar. She has three titties and speaks Esperanto, but she’s Greek. She’s a delegate to the UN. She’s afraid to fly. She travels by boat. She spends her weekends boar hunting. When she goes hunting, she takes an entourage of three Irish setters and a black body guard. He’s a she. He speaks Swahili and is an alcoholic.
His most prominent feature is his feet which he refuses to clean. He wears a shoe size of 17 EEE. His Reeboks cost one thousand dollars. For eighteen, he’ll let you smell between his toes. The smell is known throughout the area as an aphrodisiac.
Hola is twenty-eight and is 6’ 4.” She wears Manolo Blahnik high heels. Hers is an obsession with embellishment. Her first-grade teacher, Miss Lion, told her so. Despite her height, everybody remembers to call him her. She doesn’t need hate speech laws to protect her. She kicks high and will drive her heel like a spike right between the eyes of anyone who forgets she is a girl.
Adios, her bodyguard, is sixty-three. Hola carries a pistol and Adios wields a knife. So far, there have been three attempted assassinations. She shot her attackers in the gut; he chopped off their balls. She has accepted nomination to her party as a candidate for mayor. It is her intention to legalize prostitution and eliminate the police. Her party is called Eye for an Eye. They took the White House in 2041. Their motto is FUCK OFF.
Hola was born Cecil but the boys called him Cecile; believe me, they lived to regret it. She was more violent than any boy named Sue. Next to her, Adios is a dwarf. At home, her husband, Bub, wears a collar. She even makes him bark. She won the Mile-High race at the top of Mount Everest. Like the Kennedys, during childhood, she was forced to play tackle football and then at the dinner table to submit to questions from her mother on her sexual fantasies.
Hola promises to campaign in the nude. Her bodyguard wears a cape with his sneakers. She wears red high heels. Her speeches are electrifying. First in Esperanto, and then a translator steps forward. She passes out copies of her speech in braille. Hola sells her autographs. For $10, she’ll bend over to tie your shoes. Although a she, Hola still has her male equipment. She sells pictures of it, too.
She’s all-woman all right. She just can’t bear children. Who cares? She’s taller than Michelle Obama. She’s harder than advanced math. Being called Cecile at ten toughened her up. But things opened up after she began wearing heels. Now she looks like Melania Trump. Her husband loves to bring her breakfast in bed. He loves to wash her feet. Even better, every Saturday night, she makes him suck her toes.
Eye for an Eye is by now the largest political party in US history. Its goals include the elimination of all opposition. It models itself on the Bolsheviks. Followers, in fact, are called Bolshies. They are known for their beheadings. Unlike the Soviets, they don’t believe in wasting bullets. Heads are left in the gutter.
Hola has an image to maintain. She buys a new pair of shoes every month, this time in tangerine. Fabulous. I hear the Pope is jealous. He knows. She writes to him daily.
Young Cecil rode his bike in heels. Every morning, he delivered the New York Times. He had the job since he was twelve. Nobody forgot to pay him. Her entrepreneurship began young. Hola still sells lemonade at campaign stops.
She even sells neighborhood protection to shopkeepers and homeowners. If you carry her policy, you never have to worry. Bugsy Segal got her into the rackets. He preferred heels, too, but wore stilettos with his tuxedo. Hola never wears pants. She never chews gum. She wears crimson lipstick and green eye shadow; she dyes her hair yellow. Back in the day, she might have worn a polka-dot dress and a slip, but now she wears a moo-moo and a bullet-proof vest.
The good citizens of the Only State wake each and every morning to reruns of Forrest Gump. They enjoy a four-ounce cup of regulation chocolate milk and gummy bear multiple vitamins. Then to the bath house for a good soak and a State-monitored enema.
Today is the Day of Unanimity. Universal suffrage and mandatory disclosure. Your vote is tattooed on your forehead. We all must choose the Benefactor in Chief, the source of our guaranteed incomes and free tuition. Now the government selects student majors. We clamored for it and we got it. The end of liberty and the secret ballot.
They took my friend Jessie away for kissing someone of the opposite sex in a sting operation in Malady Park, a well-known wooded area where nymphomaniacs look for heterosexual perverts. Cameras known as Eyes hang in the trees. Nathan got picked up for drinking out of a large Styrofoam cup. He had dumped his State-dispensed 4 oz. Jolly cup designed for kale and fish egg smoothies and guzzled home brew instead. The government’s surveillance campaign is called THE EYES HAVE IT.
Hola is all girl. She does all the cooking and likes to clean up. She reads dime store romances on her phone, drooling over the men with sex-pack bodies and pronounced bulges. She spends her free time shopping. She talks on the phone and won’t be told what to do. She likes it when men lean forward to smell her hair. She became a pilot for TWA straight out of college. Her mother made her to stop drinking. The Embassy gave her small packages to deliver when she flew to Moscow and to other places like Santiago, Chile. She made quite a reputation for herself.
I will vote for her. I live with my State-authorized male partner. Our incomes will double if we marry. We are expected to adopt and raise three children, two from the Ivory Coast and one from Nepal. We have six months to accept. If not, we will be castrated and turned into State Drones, our right to live together rescinded and our workloads doubled. We will be marked for early death: 45 for men; women at 50.
We’ve both been targeted because we are old enough to remember living in a state of liberty, back when people were permitted to go outside to eat, defecate, or fornicate at will. Now the Eye counts. During the Confiscation Wars, we lost our freedom. Permanent curfews are now imposed along with Contentment Schedules. Millions have been gassed. All guns now belong to the State. Eye for an Eye won on their slogan: YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR.
Freddy and I are allowed to fuck once a day from 8:45 pm to 9:15 pm. Water is allotted from 9:16 pm to 10:00 pm for showers and toilet. As we have no kitchen, no eating is permitted within our dwelling, not until we adopt. We take our meals at work. My school serves three a day, each at 750 calories. I must watch my weight. Obesity has been outlawed, so I must maintain a BMI below 30 or I will be recycled for body parts.
Gratitude sessions are held nightly. I missed mine last night and will be fined. Freddy attended so his salary will not be cut. If this continues, Freddy will be assigned a new partner. I will be sent to live in a prison complex for the Ungrateful. No one has ever graduated from Gratitude School; it is a life sentence. The Benefactress herself is known to loath the Ungrateful and personally supervises the punishment blocks. The Benefactress is Hola’s mother.
Testicles removed in Castration Clinics from males who refuse adoption are fed, it is said, to the Benefactor’s prized herd of Shropshire rare breed hogs, bred for her and other royals exclusively. Severed organs, such as those harvested by Adios, are scattered on pasture lands stretching as far as the eye can see. It is rumored that the pork is sold at $1000 per kilo to private armies throughout the world. All other meats are banned except rat and dog. Protein is supplied through massive insect production.
Yes, there is a rumor that Hola works for the CIA. They recruited her when the Director first saw her in tangerine heels at a reception held at the UN. He had to have a pair. When she told him she wore Minnie Mouse panties, he offered her a job. Sometimes, they swop underwear. He’s always lending her bras. She and the Director are the same size. He pays her to spy on her mother. He is jealous, as one might expect. No worries. Hola reports everything directly to the top. Her mother works for the FBI.
Today I learned Freddy has been assigned to a reproduction unit. If he sires a child, he will be released from adoption duties. I must report to Gratitude Learning Center #267, just outside Maya Angelou City, where Mayor Hola resides. My life is over. They revoked my teaching license. I will be required to track signs of “adverse proclivities” and perverse yearnings” among men who surf porn sites. They will be targeted for “imminent” elimination.
I just found out I will be castrated for my failure to fulfill my social contract. I am to be renamed and given diversity training. Despite my preference for male companionship, I must bunk with three lesbians. They, too, have been identified as “unproductive” and marked for early termination. They can earn life extension credits by working in brothels and sex clubs for refugee laborers. They’ve offered to teach me techniques needed for earning credits.
Some trace the end to the Confiscation Wars which, admittedly, were brutal. Others, to the Supreme Court’s decision allowing the Benefactress to disguise herself as a Person of Distinction, in a digital mask of Marie Antoinette, Queen Elizabeth and, recently, Neal Armstrong in full drag. She is a well-known transsexual. The new Constitution forbids a man with a penis from serving as Our Most Honorable Mistress. Hola will undergo surgery at the end of the year. She is now looking for a son. The motto for her presidential bid has already been decided: THERE IS NO TURNING BACK.