“You want it? You got it. This is the Dan Stone Show.
Welcome to the machine!” said a demonically distorted voice over the
underground radio waves. The heavenly contrast of Gregorian chants echoed
throughout the dark studio while Dan Stone bathed in the minimal light of his
Christmas tree and computer screens. Even when being surrounded by nyctomantic
pleasures with nobody else in the room, Dan always wore his trench coat,
fedora, and skeletal mask.
“Good evening, revolutionaries,” said Dan into the microphone,
his voice still distorted with devilish effects. “As many of you have seen in
the mainstream media, I’ve made a lot of enemies. These enemies can be anybody
from the sexual predators at Cluster Fox to the idiot politicians with
Umpa-Loompa skin to the whiny CEO’s who’d still be mad if they won the lottery,
you know, because they wanted one million one dollars instead of just a
million.”
Dan cleared his throat in an ogre-like tone and said, “I
obviously take great pride in my work of pissing off the spoiled brats of America. The
ones who have five hundred summer homes and two hundred winter homes. The ones
who pay next to nothing in taxes and still need more money. The ones who
disenfranchise the poor in this country and wonder why those same working-class
people can’t reach the top.”
The radio host clicked his tongue several times before
continuing with, “I’ve said some venomous shit over the many years this show
has been on the air. Shit that made my targets want to sue me for everything
I’m worth. The same well-to-do motherfuckers who tell young people to toughen
up and stop being snowflakes, they’re the ones who can’t take criticism and
because of that, they want to see Dan Stone in the defendant’s chair.
“There’s just one problem with that: Dan Stone doesn’t
exist. You can’t sue somebody if you don’t know who the fuck they really are.
Dan Stone is an alias. This radio station is so far off the map that no GPS can
find it. I get my mail at…actually, it’s none of your fucking business where I
get my mail. All you need to know is that these politicians, these corporate
welfare kings, these officials in suits, they all want a heavy chunk of my bank
account
“It is Christmas after all. They do deserve something for
the holidays. But my true identity isn’t one of them, let alone any form of
payment for their lost tears. For all of you overpowered suits out there who
can’t stop smearing your tan job with your tears, I’ve got two presents for
you. One of them is a middle finger big enough to see from space. The other
present is something you desperately need: facts. Cold hard facts that can’t be
disputed by even your craftiest lawyers.
“You see, you’ve gone after me all these years looking for
yet another corporate handout, yet there are still many more radio show hosts
out there who go untouched. Hosts who are even more offensive than me. Rush
Limbaugh says offensive shit on a day-to-day basis. Yet you go after me! Howard
Stern accused Roger Waters of bigotry even though Mr. Stern constantly tells
his female guests to take their tops off. Yet you go after me! Tim Allen calls
college students snowflakes and then bursts into tears at the sight of a
burning flag. Yet you go after me! You know what I think? I think this is a
conspiracy.”
“No, Mr. Stone,” said a feminine voice, which was followed
by a gun clicking. “It’s not a conspiracy. It’s a crime. Jackie Thomas, PCPD.
Put your hands where I can see them. You’re in so much shit it’s almost
unbelievable.”
Dan raised his gloved hands in the air and slowly rose to
his feet. Even in the dim lighting of the Christmas tree, he could make out
Detective Thomas’s features: Marlboro lines in her face, blond hair in a
ponytail, and a pants suit worthy of a certain former democratic presidential
candidate.
“Are you seriously the only one here, Miss Thomas?” asked
Dan. “Shit, I’ve always envisioned my arrest coming at the hands of a SWAT Team
or something like that. I guess defamation suits don’t really warrant that many
armed cops. Or maybe there’s another reason you’re all alone. You want to be
the only one who can claim you’ve shut down Dan Stone’s radio show. You want
the fame and fortune that you couldn’t get by a hosting a show of your own, or
doing something else that’s actually commendable and creative.”
Jackie fired a warning shot and barely missed Dan’s ear. She
said, “You’d better watch that silver tongue of yours, Mr. Stone. Insulting an
officer is seen by the law, for better or worse, as being just as bad as taking
a swing at one. You really don’t need more charges on your record.”
“Yeah, I get you,” mocked Dan. “But before you take me to
the courthouse to face my accusers, I just want to thank you from the bottom of
my heart. Thank you for proving my point about how fucked up our defamation
laws are. Thank you for proving that conservatives are just as worthy of a milk
bottle and diaper change as the so-called snowflakes they target. I guess
you’re going to have to pile on more charges, Miss Thomas.”
“I guess that’s the case indeed,” said Jackie. “Turn around and
place your hands behind your head with your fingers interlaced.”
As the detective was ready to make her arrest and Dan turned
around to comply, the radio show host pulled an electrical cord with his foot
and the Christmas tree came crashing down upon the detective. The bulbs broke
over Jackie’s face and the studio drowned in complete darkness. Dan hid
underneath his desk while Jackie kicked, struggled, and swore trying to get the
giant tree off of her. Once she was free, a beam from her club-like flashlight
illuminated a minimal amount of the room.
“Alright, smart ass!” she belted, little streams of blood
dripping from her already nasty face. “I was actually planning on letting you
live tonight. Well, you don’t have to worry about being sued any longer. You
can’t sue a man named Dan Stone…if he’s fucking dead! No where are you, you
little shit?!”
Dan desperately felt around for anything he could use as a
weapon. His hands worked faster as Jackie’s booted footsteps grew louder,
crunching on fallen Christmas bulbs and kicking pieces of tree out of the way. Dan’s
search involved him quickly unscrewing something from his computer with the
bolt digging deeply into his fingers despite the gloves he wore. The bolt came
loose, but a singular drop of finger blood splashed on the floor, the tiny
sound effect giving away his biggest secret.
“Ah-ha!” Jackie yelled with the gun pointed in Dan’s face.
“That better be you or else I’m shooting up this whole fucking studio!”
Dan had one chance to get away and he took his leap of faith
by throwing his unscrewed computer part at Jackie: acid from the storage
battery. Jackie gripped her melting face and screamed loudly enough that she
could have broken more bulbs, boots or not. Out of instinct, she fired random
shots in the dark while Dan ducked down low and ran across the studio. And then
the liberal firebrand dropped to the floor after a final shot in the dark,
clutching his throat and wheezing desperately.
Jackie’s screams of pain turned to grunts of rage as she
stomped over to the source of the hacking and coughing. She shined her light
all around the studio thinking it was here or there. She belted, “You’re one
dead son of a bitch, Danny-Boy! One less tree hugging hippie! We don’t need
smart-asses like you talking shit about our finest citizens! They earned their
billion dollar salaries by working their fingers to the bone! That’s how this
country works, Dan: the harder you work, the more money you make! It’s common
fucking sense! Being a loudmouth radio show host isn’t hard work! It’s bitching
at its worst! And now matter how much you cry or whine, nobody’s going to bring
the system down!”
Jackie’s flashlight beam shone upon Dan’s booted foot and
slowly made it’s way up his body. Dan could feel the light burning a hole in
him like a demonic stare. His goose was cooked and cooking couldn’t happen
without some degree of deadly heat. All of the hard work (that Jackie easily
dismissed) and all of the sacrifices (which she also dismissed), they were all
for nothing. Then again, clutching his throat and feigning a gunshot wound was
also considered laziness since he was technically laying on the floor doing
nothing.
“What the fuck?” snapped Jackie, just then wishing her
flashlight had shone on Dan’s other foot. That other foot was the one that
jerked the cord on the Christmas tree some more, tripping the cop and landing
her on the back of the neck. Her gun danced across the ground and seemed miles
away. She reached for it, but instead got a boot sole clamping down on her hand
and her flashlight taken away. Dan ground his boot into Jackie’s hand some more
until her screams and her bones crunching created the perfect symphony to his
ears.
The radio host shone the light underneath his masked face as
though he was telling a campfire ghost story. “Truth is, you crazy bitch, this
isn’t the first time one of you copper-toppers came after me. You may think
you’re dealing with an amateur, but I’ve been in this business since I was old
enough to have my first beer. I’ve had to change studios a few times. I’ve had
to buy new computer equipment. But the message has been the same. It’s the same
message I’ll take with me when I move to yet another dark studio.”
Dan pulled off his fedora and mask to reveal that his face
had been surgically replaced with metal parts, much to the wide-eyed horror of
Jackie, who was still huffing and puffing in pain. “I got my ass kicked by the
cops once. That’s why I needed this surgery. But I got sued anyways because I
somehow caused those cops a great deal of undue stress. You know how much those
fuckers in blue wanted? Ten million dollars. Ten fucking million! But as you
know by now, Dan Stone doesn’t give away ten million dollar handouts to crybaby
conservatives. Why? Because Dan Stone doesn’t exist. Welcome to the machine,
bitch!”
The final part of his broadcast featured him beating Jackie
over the head with the flashlight several times until her skull exploded into a
sea of brains and blood. He didn’t have to work hard at killing her since her
face was already softened from the battery acid. In fact, he had an unfair
advantage this whole time. “So this is what it feels like to taste the silver
spoon,” Dan said to himself before he wiped two fingers across Jackie’s
bloodied head and sucked them down. “Peace sells, but who’s buying it?”
