“Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained of God.” –Romans 13:1

Brian Austin leaned back in the leather lounge chair, one of many lining the balconies of his tan-stucco McMansion. He chomped at the slimy end of a cigar, watching the laborers prune his lawn and hedges by hand. He told them he didn’t like the noise of the gas mowers and clippers and insisted they use shears and push-mowers for the entire seven acres of his estate. In reality, he just liked to watch them pass out and flail around in seizures from working in the heat of the central-California summer.

They were hotter every year, the summers. The winters were colder, though, so Brian knew it wasn’t global warming – probably all the fucking hippies and obeds smoking too much of the weed, he speculated. From his robe, he retrieved a saturated handkerchief and wiped at the fetid globs of sweat attempting their escape from his dangling jowls.

When the government passed AB1312, Brian’s job was rendered obsolete. More obsolete, that is. He still wore the floor-length black robe. It lent a sense of authority and intelligence to his otherwise Denisovan appearance. Since summary-executions by landowners and police drones had been legalized under the bill, there was no need for the courts. Anyway, he still got to oppress the innocent with his literal and metaphorical iron gavel. And now that there were no more elections, he didn’t have to worry about making payouts to the city council, the county board of supervisors, the attorney general, the governor…

It came back around, though. Even though he lost every election, he’d kept his post through a series of convenient ‘retirements’. Or appointment to a newly established department. Family law was his favorite. Criminals were one thing, but ruining the lives of regular people who had been fooled into the American Dream really got him off. It was easier to use his religion against people in family court, too. As far as he was concerned, Family was created by God and heathens deserved to be punished for failing to uphold their compulsory covenant with God.

As a young lawyer, Brian was willing to do whatever it took, even if it meant ‘bending’ the rules and cutting corners. His courtroom theatrics and persuasive arguments earned him a reputation as a formidable adversary, but behind closed doors, he was not above striking underhanded deals and greasing the palms of those in positions of authority.

Emboldened by the allure of wealth and influence, Brian threw himself headlong into a world of deception and betrayal. Once he became a judge, he wielded his gavel like a weapon, dispensing justice not according to the law, but to the highest bidder. Bribery, blackmail, and coercion became his tools of choice, and he used them with impunity to further his own ambitions and line his pockets.

As a card-carrying Republican and church Deacon, he was afforded the spoils of war – including watching those lib-tard friends in high places prune his azaleas.

Brian looked out across the vast acres of hand-manicured Bermuda, stood, flicked his cigar nub at the nearest laborer, and switched on the sprinklers as he went inside. His robot assistant, Cosby, kept pace by his side through the cavernous, marble-tiled rooms. Brian ignored the floating device the same way he ignored anyone or anything that was ‘beneath’ him, which was basically everybody in this shithole hotbox of a town.

Huntington Drive was once lined with towering oaks and cobblestone walkways. Before that, orchards and homesteads appeared just as soon as the canals made their way through town. From the farms grew historic neighborhoods of Victorian mansions and picturesque cottages that had woven the fabric of the community for generations.

After The Regime reapportioned the land and gave their followers carte blanche on land claims, they descended on the town with a voracious appetite for development, their eyes set on the historic neighborhoods that stood as a testament to the town’s diverse heritage.

Led by a cadre of wealthy investors, The Believers saw these neighborhoods not as a cherished part of the town’s identity, but as prime real estate, ripe for exploitation. They dreamed of McMansions with sprawling lawns and cookie-cutter, ticky-tacky facades, symbols of status and wealth that would blot out the character and history of Huntington Drive altogether.

The eponymous Mr. Huntington would have been proud of their ‘development’ of the area and the exploitation of the workers. Not so much for the destruction of the libraries and museums.

Despite the outcry from what remained of the townsfolk and the efforts of preservationists to protect their heritage, the developers wielded their power and influence like a wrecking ball, demolishing one historic home after another in their relentless pursuit of progress. Bulldozers rumbled through the cobblestone streets, reducing once-beloved landmarks to piles of rubble, while the echoes of protests were drowned out by the sounds of AR rifles and police baton on bone.

Amidst the chaos, there were those who refused to surrender to despair. A band of rebels emerged from the shadows, united by their determination to defend their town from The Believers’ insatiable greed. They waged a guerrilla war against the developers, sabotaging construction sites and staging protests in the streets, their voices rising in defiance against the tide of progress.

But as the battle raged on, the odds seemed stacked against them. The Believers wielded their wealth and influence like sword and shield, crushing dissent with a ruthless efficiency that seemed unstoppable. With each passing day, more of Huntington Drive’s history was erased, replaced by the sterile facades of the McMansions that stood as monuments to the insatiable appetites of ‘progress’.

Brian found a renewed calling in the form of an internment camp – a place where those deemed undesirable by society were held captive under the guise of national security. With his silver tongue and masterful ability to grease palms, he rose through the ranks to become the camp’s ruthless overseer, wielding power and authority with a cold, calculating precision.

As Brian’s grip on the camp tightened, he learned to ignore the tendrils of guilt and remorse that threatened to consume him. Deep down, he knew that what he was doing was wrong, that he had become the very thing he had once sworn, albeit dishonestly, to fight against. Yet, fueled by a burning desire for power and influence and a twisted sense of justice, he buried his doubts beneath a facade of stoicism and resolve.

Beneath a midway that was once replete with neon lights and pulsing music, lay an underground network – a complex system of tunnels and bunkers that whispered of clandestine operations and covert activities.

As Brian descended into the subterranean realm, the air grew thick with the scent of damp concrete and metal. LED strip-lights lined the narrow passageways, casting a cold, sterile glow that banished the darkness. Tiles chiseled from antique delftware were fashioned into a wainscoting that lined the walls, their vibrant blue and white a stark contrast to the monotony of the gray surroundings.

Security cameras monitored every inch of the underground maze, their unblinking eyes, a silent reminder of the watchful gaze that loomed over this hidden domain. Access doors, equipped with keycards and biometric scanners, stood guard at regular intervals, their reinforced frames a testament to the secrets they protected.

The tunnels twisted and turned with calculated precision, intersecting at strategic points like the veins of a vast, transversal circulatory system. LCD screens illuminated the way, their AI-controlled directions guiding individual visitors through the labyrinthine passages with clinical efficiency.

At the heart of the underground complex, under the long-ago scrapped Ferris wheel and crumbling concession stands, lay a central chamber – a command center buzzing with activity. Monitors lined the walls, displaying a constant stream of data and surveillance footage. Technicians moved with purpose, their fingers dancing across screens as they navigated the digital landscape with practiced ease.

Should one delve deeper into the depths of the bunker, they would uncover hidden chambers and classified facilities, each one a puzzle piece in the enigma that lay hidden beneath the surface. Here, amidst the concrete and steel, the secrets of the fairgrounds above were guarded with unwavering vigilance. And it was through these manufactured caverns that Brian made his daily commute.

Though his estate was a straight-shot under Baron Boulevard to the fairgrounds, he often detoured to the command center to make sure he got himself seen by the rank-and-file. He’d bang his metal gavel on the door as it opened in front of him, sending the room into a wave of salutes, crisp shirt sleeves percussing across the banks of workstations.

He’d order coffee and whiskey before taking a seat before the main viewing screen like an obese Captain Picard. His day often started with ordering the next round of executions. Belial were dispatched as quickly as they could be rounded up and brought to the camp. This, he considered merciful. Dissenters and rebels, however, were sent across Baron Boulevard to the former Community Medical Center for ‘testing’.