law day
citizens were the first to raise grumblings of rebellion against
the unpopular government. As people continued to spend,
and taxes continued to rise, those grumblings soon grew to
full-on shouts of Social Contract: if the government would
not give the people what made them happy, they had every
right to rebel.
So people went mad—they took rebellion to mean that there
was no law, with the wealthy aristocrats directing the insanity
from their thrones as the struggling, impoverished class
debased themselves in the name of righteousness. The
levels of rape, assault, and murder rose higher than ever
before; children were shot like rabid dogs in the street—and in
broad daylight; public property lost all sanctity, as government
buildings were destroyed with the stench of urine and angry
words written in spray-paint. Worst of all, people stole like
there was no tomorrow: that was the very activity in which
Marcello was involved on the last day that he saw the sky…
and freedom… When one stole, not only would they show
the government who was boss, but pocket “pretty” things
for themselves in the rough economy… Most storekeepers
were so frightened that they hid behind their own counters
when the armed and infuriated robbers appeared, practically
throwing merchandise and money at them.
Marcello could not deny the fury that propelled him to
steal: the thievery was an addictive drug that would cure
his frustration—it gave him the same feeling of power in a
hopeless situation as piercing prisoners’ souls would later
in his life. The cause of Marcello’s fury began long before
the torrential year of 2012—he had never had much of
anything, actually. He never knew his parents, and spent the
first eight years of his life in foster care, without once being
adopted, until he ran away. That was in 1997, and he had
lived alone in a life of petty crime ever since. He was nearly
arrested one year later, but was so hardened by then that
he swiftly ran from the police, scaling a fence with ease and
losing them in a series of side-streets and alleyways. By
the year 2012, he was a grown man—23 years old—with
much more experience in crime than any of the desperate
newcomers. He may even have been agitated by the fact
that storekeepers now submitted so easily (this took the sport
out of it), but he took advantage of it nonetheless.
On Friday, August 31st, nearly half a year after the turmoil
began, Marcello strolled comfortably into an electronics store
and inspected the televisions on the back wall (near the
back room for employees) to see which he could carry to the
nearest pawn shop the easiest. He decided on a portable flat
screen, and exited the door with alarms blaring, but no notice
was taken: the police were too busy these days to respond,
anyhow. As he stepped outside, television burrowed in his
arms, his life changed forever.
The Official News Publication of the Atlanta Bar Association
Walking along the street, Marcello felt an eerie presence: it
was more silent than usual. After a few minutes, he stopped,
looked around him, and then allowed his eyes to rest on
the blue sky. He had the strange sensation that he ought to
absorb its beauty while he could afford the time. He could
walk on for only a fraction of a minute when a flurry of voices
and flashing lights assaulted his senses. Turning to his left,
he saw an area closed off by what appeared to be federal
vans on the road, and men in army attire with gas masks.
Stepping closer, he noticed many men and women laying
face-first on the ground, as though they were fast-asleep.
And— he was shocked to see what he looked like children
in the mass grouping as well. The soldiers were moving the
bodies into the enclosure of vans in a frightening, robotlike manner—much like a farmer might move bales of hay
into a wagon. Marcello lost his grip on the television, and
it plummeted to the ground, making an awful noise as the
glass screen broke and scattered. In a uniform motion, the
soldiers’ heads turned, but their bodies continued working…
that is what scared him the most about that moment: why did
they not care that a citizen had witnessed them committing a
clearly unlawful act? He backed away, and before breaking
into a sprint, he shuddered as he noticed the new label on
the vans in place of “FBI”: it said “N.O., the New Order.”
Remembering the backroom in the electronics store, Marcello
returned to whence he came, hoping that he may find refuge
with the employees when he revealed what he had just seen.
When he reached the back door, he was unnerved to find it
unlocked, and timidly pushed it open. He found army-men
in there as well, binding the employees’ hands and feet.
Once again, they swiveled their heads in unison, but never
ceased in the work they were doing... This was the beginning
of Marcello feeling trapped. He stumbled backwards into
the room, and, simultaneously, all of the televisions on the
back wall switched on. After a short moment of static, a
man in a black suit, with a balding head and a grim, skeletal
demeanor appeared on a podium. He had the aura of a
wealthy man… The corner of the screen read “Supreme
TV.” The grim man began a speech in a voice more ominous
than his appearance:
“Good afternoon, America. You do not know me, but I assure
you, you shall know me very well soon enough. My name
is Richard Wailer, and I must begin by telling you one thing:
the Revolution has been achieved…Many of us in this nation
aspired for the Revolution through chaos and violence, but I
hope to bring a New Order… I have been with this movement
from the beginning, and I know its ideals: Revolutionists want
problems solved, not created. This can be done only with a
knowledgeable leader, and that leader is me… along with my
party, the Supreme. America wants its problems solved, and
this may be done only with Order—with someone to steer
May 2012
THE ATLANTA LAWYER
19