Revolutionizer Alpha: The Revolutionizer Stories, Volume One
Excerpt. Available now.
A botched government coverup times perfectly with the initial rumblings of the next economic crash. These two forces intermingle, playing off of each other in worried citizens’ minds. Each makes the other seem worse while also linking to wider societal problems. When responsible parties panic and go silent, the only thing a stressed-out public can do is take speculation to new dimensions.
Some find their voices, connecting the buzz to larger truths in the chaos and trading rumors about Revolutionizer Alpha and the Revolutionizers. Some learn that people share their hopes and fears, that they are not alone. And a small group of humans discovers that our planet is known. More accurately, they start to learn how deeply the universe values Earth. If we human beings choose to destroy our home, many will be sad to see it die.
Stagnation is dangerous. So is progress.
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Opening to Part I: “Low-Yield Nuclear Warheads”
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Prof. D clicked the cursor inside the ‘Header’ box and typed in his idea for a headline: A Revolution vs. Revolutionizing.
The post’s ‘Body’ section, a rectangle of white space, sat beneath the ‘Header.’ As a yawn formed in his mouth, the tip of his right index finger dragged across the computer’s trackpad. On the screen, the cursor’s vertical line floated down to the ‘Body.’
Stacks of crumpled papers, marked-up books, and a green coffee mug full of water surrounded the university-issued laptop on the secondhand desk. The one-room Brooklyn apartment’s sky-blue walls should have displayed various degrees, awards and certifications. However, those framed citations had been sitting in a milk crate occupying one corner since Prof. D moved into the place last year.
His alarm clock went off eighteen hours ago, but before going to sleep once again, the part-time college professor needed to finish this response and blast it out to over ten thousand connections. Both of his editors sent messages earlier that day. Neither wanted a lengthy piece, just his initial reaction to the events that had unfolded.
Shivers. Only boxers and a white t-shirt covered his slightly overweight frame. On a mental level, the cold sensations didn’t bother him. Warmth brought drowsiness.
Prof. D watched shadows on the wall come to life and move in the opposite direction of the cars driving by on Bedford Avenue two stories below, wiping the sleep from his eyes and running his knuckles across his hard, grayish beard stubble. Dryness and dragon breath coated the inside of his mouth. He took a sip from the green mug. His bleary mind appreciated water’s inherent ability to refresh.
Placing the cup back on the messy table, he focused on the press conference that day — no, yesterday. Correcting himself, he realized that it was a new day. As of one hour and nineteen minutes ago, it was a new day.
Yesterday: a private military contractor — popularly known as a papa mike charlie — stood behind the podium in her oversized eyeglasses and answered reporters’ questions with non-answers.
Today: people are already calling bullshit.
Prof. D thought about her addressing the barrage of reporters’ questions. At first, the private contractor, a late-thirties-ish Latina, seemed like the stereotypical papa mike charlie warmonger as she dodged inquiries about weapons systems and cover-ups. Medium-tall height, athletic, blue business suit of the industry. She stood ramrod straight and broad-shouldered behind that podium. While her poised head swiveled in the direction of each journalist, her body remained rigid.
As the media pressed on, her armor showed its imperfections. Sure, that agent looked tough, Prof. D said to himself. But the eyes behind those oversized frames shared too much. When the telecast finished, he spoke with fellow educators and political associates. All agreed: she had panicked as she verbally danced around the demands for answers and adjusted her large glasses. One friend laughed that she would probably lose her job.
Another buddy — a fellow Jew who liked to kid Prof. D for not being more observant — said, “What if, on her way out, she firebombed that eerie new security complex by the Williamsburg Bridge?”
Those words barely left the man’s mouth when a colleague blurted his response: “If she took out those monolithic government buildings…then restored the Lower East Side to its former glory…I’d elect her president.”
All agreed to support the agent 100% if she torched the Williamsburg Bridge Security and Research Complex.
Prof. D once again wiped his puffy eyes and looked at his computer screen. As a person about to turn fifty, he no longer pulled all-nighters and appreciated the value of nourishing, regenerative sleep. Only tiredness didn’t own him, because the ones in charge had quit scapegoating and said it. They finally admitted it. The government sent a private-industry messenger/whipping pony to stand in front of the media to say…well, to say as little as she said. But she had said enough. Enough to make it official.
Prof. D quit thinking about the tense press conference and looked down at the screen, zeroing in on the blinking cursor. His fingers hit the keyboard and he typed.
Guess what, everybody? We’re not paranoid. Their gaslighting is real.
Reporters were right to hound this spokeswoman.
Whether her crowd is trying to cover up some new type of nuke, or a black op, or another Wall Street fiasco, or…whatever…
Whatever they deflected about today — your instincts were right. If the mainstream media isn’t paying attention, who cares? We are.
***
A boy, six years old with a head full of black hair and bundled in a gray coat, walked out of line. Step by step, he made his way along the sidewalk until he stood ten feet closer to the row of self-driven vehicles in the auditorium’s drive-up loop.
He had come to this presentation in a yellow school bus driven by a human and wanted to get a closer look at the boxy, pewter-colored vehicles. Parked in the loading area by the stairways, six driverless school buses formed a neat line.
Rocking back and forth on two sneakered feet, hands in the pockets of his jacket, he stared at the row. Raising his voice, the curious boy turned to another group of kids. He wanted to know if robots drove their buses. Also, he added, if they did…he was wondering if he could check one of them out.
A girl his age, with similarly thick black hair, stood in that other line of students, her hands jammed into the pockets of her puffy orange jacket. After hearing his question, she shook her head and replied that some robot somewhere else did the driving. No robot sat behind the wheel.
Since her answer satisfied the boy, he walked back to his line. Kids from the different schools waited for teachers and chaperones to bring them inside.
The year-old, glass-and-steel auditorium jutted off the north side of the spherical, glass-and-steel, two-year-old sports arena. Reflections of clouds from the gray, overcast skies painted many of the windows gray on the two structures.
Classes from five elementary schools congregated at the bottom of the shallow steps in front, organized into rows.
As the students waited outside on the winter day, technicians in the auditorium finished preparing the live feed.
***
After the auditorium seats filled and the lights darkened, all eyes fixed upward on the high-definition screen. The mix of first- and second-graders giggled and oohed-and-awed as the crew introduced themselves. Here and there, a student would point up at the five-story, curved viewing surface and add their two cents to the show.
In HD, eighteen astronauts who occupied the station Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin — called the Buzz — floated in the weightlessness of space. Many of the six- and seven-year-olds marveled at how enormous each person looked.
Crystal-clear graphics and a state-of-the-art sound system brought their oversized bodies and fun, yet educational insights directly into the auditorium. Some crewmembers did back-flips, front-flips, rolls — rebounding off the curves of the compartment. While they showed off, others discussed concepts like gravity.
Astronauts wore one-piece, fireproof flight suits, half of which were green for the European Union. Americans sported royal blue, Indians saffron and the lone Japanese scientist, red.
All eighteen of them congregated in the central compartment of the Buzz and flew around in the long titanium/Kevlar tube. Before today’s talk began, the inhabitants cleaned out the clutter so the camera could fully show this section of their home. Students learned that two rocket launches had carried the compartment halves into orbit and international teams in spacesuits had assembled the station.
Nearing the wrap-up, the presenters now roamed around with microphones. Kids sat up as high as they could in their auditorium seats and raised their hands, clamoring for a chance to stand up and ask the astronauts questions.
A seven-year-old girl with walnut-brown curls and light brown eyes played with the hem of her blue dress as she waited. Finally getting her chance to speak into the microphone, she asked if they could talk to the other space stations.
A French woman of Algerian descent — the climate systems specialist onboard — smiled. “Of course we can talk with them, but…the other two stations usually stay pretty busy, like we do.” Her accent wasn’t pronounced, as she had spent years studying in America.
The girl asked her next question. “When the Moon Station is all done, will you be able to talk to it, too?”
Smiling, the female PhD candidate replied that talking to the future outpost on the moon wouldn’t be a problem, either.
Reporters from more than a dozen publications captured the event. Kids staring up at the screen, laughing, sharing thoughts with each other, eyes full of wonder.
***
As the presentation took place inside the auditorium, a group of seventy-five people, ranging from their twenties to late sixties, stood outside near the steps where the kids had congregated earlier.
The overcast skies didn’t let up, but protesters stayed dry as the threat of rain remained only a threat.
One cardboard, hand-lettered sign read EDUCATION FOR ALL. Another read KIDS NEED AFTER-SCHOOL PROGRAMS.
Two retired teachers and two younger activists addressed the small crowd. The quartet stood at the top of the sloping stairs and passed a megaphone around.
Reporters, photographers, and videographers worked inside the auditorium. Another few covered the outside gathering.
One of the organizers had just turned twenty-eight. The youngest of the four, she wore a green, knitted skullcap. Tight brown curls peeked out from its bottom. An unneeded green rain jacket stayed tied around her waist.
After she received the live megaphone, she brought it up to her mouth but didn’t touch the microphone end with her lips. Instead, she held the device directly in front of her face. “What you see in there, on that auditorium screen — it’s a smokescreen.
“Don’t let this so-called ‘good will’ event fool you.” This wasn’t her first protest and she knew not to yell, but rather speak from the diaphragm and let the invention amplify her voice as it was designed to do. “We’ve got an economy that’s crashing, and congress just eliminated even more federal funding for after-school science and math programs.”
Photographers got shots of the firebrand strutting at the top of the steps.
“They cut science. Then they cut the arts, they cut math, and now they cuttin’ science again.” Members of the crowd shook their heads. A few “nuh-uhs” got shouted.
Changing directions, her voice volume rose a bit. “I went to Stedman Elementary, just like some of those kids inside. Congress don’t want black kids or Latino kids to study engineering and go to space. They don’t want people of color around at all.”
With the microphone pointing slightly upward past ninety degrees and her back rigidly straight, the grip of her right hand on the megaphone stayed loose but firm. Her two brown eyes, narrowed and focused, surveyed an audience that hung on her every word. Fingers outstretched, her left hand gestured and danced in the air to the rhythm of her voice. A photojournalist snapped a picture as the sneer in her lip became defiant.
Over the course of the next year, the story would win three industry awards.
The activist continued. “The main extra-curricular program they want for poor kids is Junior ROTC. My school? For boys, it was football and JROTC. For girls, it was just JROTC. No school paper. No yearbook. Nothing. That’s the way it was years ago. And it’s only getting worse.”
She turned in the other direction as her left hand went from gesturing in the air to posturing on her left hip. “They pushing us to fight wars — how many wars we got going now?”
The congregation cheered her on with nods and raised fists in the air. Photographers shot pictures of the organizers at the top of the stairs and the concerned citizens at the bottom of the stairs.
The speaker pointed the megaphone at the crowd. “You don’t have to be that Revolutionizer Alpha guy to see what’s going on here.”
***
Angel undulated her hips from the right to the left. Before ambling back to begin an unfolding roll, her left hip thrusted to the thumping beat four times. She gave Kyle’s camera flashes of skin. Both hands ran along and played with the folds of her thin, dull-yellow skirt before venturing up her body to stroke the strands of reddish-brown hair that spilled from the loose bun on top of her head.
Shirtless and holding the phone in front of him, Kyle told her how sexy, big, and round her ass looked in the frame of the shot. After leaning forward to get a close-up of her shakes, he sank his skinny frame back into the two-bedroom apartment’s only couch, eyes not leaving the screen as he continued to film his eighteen-year-old girlfriend of six months.
Kyle filmed Angel as she twisted, spun and gyrated in her long skirt and Kyle’s sky-blue tank top. The sides of his loose-fitting shirt fell down far enough to show that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Their living room/kitchenette’s overhead lights were off, the single floor lamp dimmed low. With few decorations on their walls, nothing distracted the viewer from Angel’s dancing.
Kyle told her she was “sexy-flirty.” She brushed aside the thick hair from her face and showed off some more.
Angel dug this down-tempo house track — a switch from his harder stuff.
Kyle got footage as his girl’s body reacted to the steady hit of beats. She batted her eyes as her lower body began the full circle that her upper body would soon follow.
They had met six months ago. At the outdoor festival, Angel had painted her skin green and wore a purple bikini with yellow, thigh-high go-go boots. Two antennas protruded from her wig, a white afro. Plastic, pointy ears completed the costume.
Kyle had noticed Angel’s little square stage from the DJ booth when one of the crane-mounted spotlights shined in that direction. Grinding ferociously, owning every millimeter of the black platform, the dancer appeared to be on the short side and the thick side. Perfect.
That evening, he sported a yellow tuxedo with outspread, glitter-covered dragon wings sewn into the jacket’s shoulder blades. His alien mask featured a bulging forehead and oversized, black eyeballs, which were offset by a tiny mouth and chin. On both sides, Kyle had cut earholes for his DJ headphones.
After finishing his set at “Area 51 Reduxx,” Kyle waded through the crowd of five thousand. With high-energy psytrance filling the desert night sky, he removed the mask and grinned as his deep green eyes made contact with her soft brown eyes.
“Your bald-ass head is as bald as the bald-ass head on that rubber Martian mask,” Angel said, her smile huge.
“I know.” Kyle smoothed a hand along the side of his scalp. “I shaved it for tonight — my head, I mean. Not the mask.” Then he found his pack in the yellow coat pocket and offered her a cigarette. They had been together ever since.
***
In their apartment, under the light of the single lamp, Kyle’s mobile zoomed in.
Angel allowed the music to move up and down, electrifying each part of her body as it traveled through. When the beats and melody reached her head, they changed direction to work their way toward her feet. Once there, they did a 180.
Some songs would spiral through Angel in paths. Others would zigzag, or go off on their own tangents. This one meandered from foot to head, then back again.
Kyle went by DJ Scrawnydog until recently, when the universe told him to become DJ Kilo Kyle. Their third roommate told him that he was an idiot, but Angel believed that the universe had indeed spoken to Kyle.
However, she didn’t support Kyle’s decision, five days later, to tattoo the word kilo on his right cheek. When Angel first saw it, she said, “That thing makes you look like a drug dealer, dummy. A dumb drug dealer who has a big ad for his drug business written on his face.”
Tonight, as she moved and played with her messy hair, then her skirt, revealing glimpses of leg here and there, Kyle’s phone captured it all. Nodding, he said, “I could film you shaking that big ass all day, baby.”
While she danced, her mind wandered back to the press conference. Kyle and Angel first saw the video of the papa mike charlie speaking after their friend, DJ Guevara, posted the link. This version of the video contained an afterword, a five-minute discussion about global conspiracies and unseen power-brokers from a panel of fringe activists and freelance investigative journalists.
After the clip finished, Kyle said, “That agent-chick who looks like my cousin Maria, only if Maria, like, worked out and wore big-ass eyeglasses — that chick said the Revolutionizers have designations. Designating people with designations is some serious shit, Angel. That expert at the end of the video, the one who wrote that book about that bullshit about the military complexes and industries, he said so.”
“I’m confused.” Sitting next to him, head resting on his shoulder, Angel squinted. “Does this still have to do with the no-yield nuclear things they been talking about, or are they making new bad shit now?”
“I dunno. Maybe…maybe the Alpha guy and his three guys took the things.”
***
Sketching passed the time at this convenience store, a lame, lower-tier place. There were no magazines, or even newspapers. Candy and snack choices remained second-rate. Customers primarily bought gas or electricity. His manager rarely mentioned the thin layer of dust on the semi-bare shelves.
The art student sat behind the counter and dinged-up bulletproof window of his part-time cashier job and finished the rendering. A lot of drawing had happened since he started working at this dive of a store three months earlier.
The heavyset twenty-year-old ran his fingers through his shoulder-length black hair and checked out his latest work.
A flag. The graphic on the flag showed a second, burning flag. He drew this on a diagonal, with the pole end pointing to the lower right of the rectangular flag and the flag end aimed at the upper left corner. That flag appeared to be recently lit, the flames climbing upward from the edge of the flowing cloth.
He shifted his sitting position on the rickety stool before adding the final touch to his sketch: identical flames, proportionally larger, in the same position on the larger flag.
What he captured, he liked. A blazing, about-to-disintegrate flag, with a graphic of a blazing, about-to-disintegrate flag. A video of a cryptic press conference and the panelists’ conspiratorial discussion afterward had inspired the idea. After finishing off the rendering, he took a picture of it with his phone and uploaded it to his campus Art Department’s community page.
It got traffic. A few friends forwarded it on right after he posted it. His friend from next door responded within minutes: OMG my fav of yours ever!!!
Her quick response and obvious excitement brought a smile to his roundish face. The woman, who was two years older and on the bigger side as well, majored in Fashion Design and always styled herself out. Between her hair, makeup, and clothing from secondhand stores, she knew how to look good.
Thinking of her also prompted him to remember the late-night talk show host’s opening monologue. A couple of nights ago, the Fashion Design neighbor was going to come over and watch the show with he and his roommates, but got busy.
The cashier/art student rented the split-level, four-bedroom house with five other guys. Their dark hangout TV room in the basement permanently smelled like mold. Above the beat-up couch in the corner, a flat-screen TV hung from the ceiling next to one of four beer neons that adorned the basement walls.
On the night that the Fashion Design neighbor was supposed to come over, the talk show host addressed the rumors. Chilling on a legless, red couch and clad in his blue sweats, the art student watched the opening monologue.
In Burbank, California, the lanky, boyish comedian strutted the curtained stage, splitting his attention between the camera and the human faces in the crowd: “Folks, we got an economy on the verge of crashing, war, top-secret weapons getting stolen or whatever, layoffs all over the place, DC is corrupt.”
The show’s host stopped pacing to finish his next point, fixing the lime-green cuffs on the wide-collared shirt while smirking at the live studio audience. Scanning their faces, mostly tourists, the mid-thirties funnyman said, “But separate fact from rumors. Take the rumor that the environmental saboteur Alfalfa is behind all this, remember: he’s been in jail for the last ten months.”
Looking into the camera, the skinny comedian dropped the goofy expression as he delivered his next line with more energy. “To put this another way: the revolutionary Alfalfa is not Revolutionizer Alpha — now say that three times fast.”
Immediately, he broke into a grin and improvised a tap-dance. Audience members and viewers at home laughed, while saying it three times fast in their heads.
After the show’s closing musical number, the roommates relaxed on the beat-up couches in their smelly basement, smoked weed, and debated the pros and cons of revolutionizing. Here and there, one of the scruffy males would lament that their crew needed to meet more women.
***
Dancing in the dim light now, Angel let her body feel every nuance of the funk-infused electronic tune. Kyle kept recording as she stayed in one place, but pulsated throughout that limited space.
Her mind focused. Four fellow humans had been given designations. That Mexican agent-chick — the super-in-shape version of Kyle’s cousin — had made it official.
Designations. Revolutionizer Alpha. Revolutionizer Bravo. Revolutionizer Charlie. Revolutionizer Delta.
Four fellow humans had received designations because of something they had done.
Angel looked back at Kyle. More specifically, at his cheek.
Her father didn’t teach her much, but attempts at bonding involved musings and recollections about his time in the Marine Corps. Before he got discharged for a DUI.
She talked about it the second time they hung out, two nights after “Area 51 Reduxx.” Seven months ago, they strolled along a busy boulevard as the weather stayed mild. Both were still broke from the festival, so they decided to hang out and walk around the streets instead of spending any money. They wore jeans and jackets instead of the club wear like the night they met.
Standing at an intersection waiting for the light to change, Angel looked up at him as she finished sharing a childhood memory. “My dad taught me weird military shit, like military time and the phonetic alphabet, because his drunk ass couldn’t talk about normal shit.”
Angel’s skin held the yellow hue for one day after the festival, but by their date on that second night, it had returned to its normal honey-colored tone. Kyle had on a pink polo shirt he had found in the park the week before. He considered sporting his favorite purple ballcap but had decided to go hat-less and look nicer for her.
“I don’t get that Army shit…or your Irish shit.” Kyle shook his bald head as the light turned red, prompting the northbound cars to brake. “But your Mexican shit — your grandma getting on your shit because she’s all Catholic and shit — my grandma does that shit. Then I got German in me, because my mom has part-German for blood.”
Months later, in the apartment, underneath the dim light, Angel stopped grooving and concentrated on Kyle, his face. After staring for a second, she spoke.
“Do you think our roommate would mind if we borrowed his card again?”
***
A week after uploading his burning flag visual, the art student again sat behind the counter at the convenience store. While scrolling through his connections’ postings on his phone, the hungover twenty-year-old sipped an energy drink and wished he hadn’t forgotten his sketchpad at home.
A meme sent him into an explosion of laughter.
Its visual showed his burning flag/graphic of a burning flag rendering, accompanied by a caption:
REVOL ALFA DRU THE FLAG 2 KEP THE FIRE BERNING! NO NOOKS! NO BOMBZ!!
The shabbily-dressed art student grabbed his pack of cigarettes and stormed outside to call his roommates. Strutting the length of the store’s parking lot, he said, “My Filipino/Scotch-Irish ass is Revolutionizer Alpha, bitches. You payin’ my part of the rent from now on, muthafuckas.”
His Midwestern twang went gangsta as he shouted about the takeover that was about to begin.
Over the course of the next few weeks, he saw renderings of his idea across various mediums. Every time he did, he half-joked about being owed royalties.
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Keep reading at the Revolutionizers site.
Revolutionizer Alpha: The Revolutionizer Stories, Volume One.
©2019, Chris Maley
