Attack of the 50 Ft. Democrats

By R. K. Delka

Senator Bart Brightman, a flag-waving patriot among a party of spineless Republicans, has watched his nation slip from its founding principles. Bitter and despondent, he's counting the days to retirement. But when an army of genetically-mutated 50-foot Democrats begin to ravage the landscape, the ex-soldier is ready to fight for his country again.

Brightman soon learns that America has a bigger problem than giant Democrats--a corrupt and biased media that will stop at nothing to pin the blame on Republicans in order to push their liberal agenda.

If the giant Democrats aren't stopped, the country is finished. But even if they are, can America survive a dishonest media?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. K. Delka
• Release date: Mar 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989009126

R. K. Delka

R. K. Delka lives on Long Island with his wife, two children, two cats, and Cuban-bred (but not communist) Havanese.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property.

If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [e-mail]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Copyright © 2013 R. K. Delka

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-0-9890091-0-2

First Edition: March 2013

Printed in the U.S.A.

Belliam Books

To my parents, who taught

honesty, generosity, and hard work—

and didn’t raise a Democrat.

CHAPTER 1

Captain Bart Brightman struggled to free his hands from the rope that bound them behind the chair. When the morning sun peeked through the tattered shade on the far side of the small hut, he knew he had been at it all night.

His rebel captor paced, muttering to himself in Spanish. He slapped the back of his neck and inspected the squashed bug in his palm. Sweat flowed down his forehead. He undid the top button of his camouflage uniform shirt, removed his holster, and slammed it on the table.

When are they coming? the rebel said in a thick Hispanic accent. He unsheathed his dagger and touched the tip of the blade to the prisoner’s nose. I will not ask again.

Brightman ignored the question as he had for the last few hours. The longer he could delay, the better chance he had of getting his hands free--it was clear his captor wasn’t willing, or didn’t have permission, to get more forceful.

As he continued working the rope, he looked deliberately at the rebel’s shirt and the letters D.U.M.I. stitched on the pocket. He grinned. Sorry, dummy, I don’t know.

The rebel looked at the letters, struggling to read them upside down. I ... Iwu ... Imud? He kicked a metal trashcan across the room and forced a slew of Spanish curses through clenched teeth.

But he quickly composed himself when he noticed that a man dressed in a double-breasted tan pinstriped suit, polished wingtip shoes, and a maroon velvet fedora was standing in the doorway. A leather satchel hung from his shoulder. Behind him was a slight man with an unassuming look.

The rebel returned his knife to its sheath and rushed to the well-dressed man. Señor Joros, he said. My apologies. I did not know you were there.

Scourge Joros was a titan of the American fashion industry who chose to use his money and influence in the world of politics. Little was known about him and he liked it that way. In fact, he demanded it. When a news story had the nerve to publish his birthday--October, 31--the billionaire with a penchant for social justice executed a hostile takeover and immediately shut the paper down. It was the first, and last, time his name ever appeared in the media.

Did he talk? Joros asked.

No, the rebel said. He is tough. Very tough. I don’t think we will get anything out of him. It seems he would rather die than talk.

Joros pulled a three-legged stool in front of Brightman and sat. It is not ‘dummy.’ It is simply the letters D-U-M-I.

That would be ‘dummy.’

No, Joros said. If anything it would be ‘doomy.’ Perhaps ‘doomeye.’ But it is not a word. They are just initials. D-U-M-I: Democrats Under My Influence.

They aren’t Democrats, they’re socialist rebels.

Tomato, tomahto. Socialist rebels, Democrats.

It still spells ‘dummy.’

Joros sighed in annoyance. I suppose you could read it that way, but I didn’t notice until after the shirts were made. Enough of this.

He removed a video camera from his bag, then placed it on the table, pointed it at Brightman, and pressed the Record button. We will get the information out of you sooner or later, Joros said. It is in your best interest if you make it sooner.

Brightman remained silent. His men were out there, and nothing would make him jeopardize their safety. He wouldn’t turn on them, and he wouldn’t turn on his country. The rebel was right. He would rather die than talk.

Joros took a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and pulled them onto his hands. Give me the truth serum, he said to the man that accompanied him.

The man placed a syringe in Joros’s palm. Joros held it up, squeezing the bottom until a single drop of fluid overflowed from the tip. Now, he said to Brightman, you will talk.

What’s the point? Brightman asked. He knew it was a stupid question, but it was the first thing that popped into his mind and he needed to buy more time. The rope around his left hand was loosening.

Joros relaxed. He seemed to enjoy the question. Once you give me the information, my rebels will drive back your forces and take over this government. Then, I will control the country.

For what purpose? Another dumb question, but his thumb was almost free.

The purpose is practice.

Practice?

Yes, Joros said, rolling up Brightman’s sleeve to reveal his right bicep. He lifted the needle to the captain’s arm, then paused and lowered it.

I think it is high time there are more victors for the world’s spoils. That, of course, cannot happen with the political, social, and economic structures we currently suffer. It can only be achieved through fundamental transformation. Unfortunately, fundamentally trans-forming the world is not easy. But, after some practice on a couple of smaller countries, one could transform a larger country. The USA, for instance.

Brightman’s blood boiled. To a man who had dreamed of serving his country since childhood, following in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps, Joros’s words were enraging. We have laws, he said. A governing document. It’s not the kind of country you can just walk into and take control of.

Joros smirked. You’re governed by people, and people are far more weak-minded than you give them credit for.

Brightman shook his head at his captor’s arrogance. I suppose you have some kind of control over the weak-minded?

I have a gift, Joros said, lifting his chin in the air. He brought the needle back up to Brightman’s arm. This will hurt a bit less than I would like it to.

Brightman gave one last, strong twist.

His left hand came free. He swung it around hard, landing it on Joros’s head and knocking him to the ground. Then he lunged at the rebel, sending him reeling back. He grabbed the gun from the table, shoved it into his beltline, and then kicked the door open.

A wave of thick, humid air pounded him as he rushed outside and raced across the dirt road, toward the jungle.

A commotion arose as rebels followed, but Brightman continued into the thick brush, slapping heavy leaves and thick branches out of the way as he forged his own trail. Every step drained strength from his already weakened body.

He stopped at a clearing where a dirt road ran left to right in front of him. He would be a clear target in the openness as he tried to cross. But if he made it, and the rebels followed, they would be in the open, giving him a clear shot.

He sprinted across.

Bullets flew by.

When he reached the other side, he dove, head first, over a fallen tree. He scrambled to his knees and peered over the log, steadying his weapon on top of it, waiting for his enemies to cross.

But they didn’t. They stopped and scattered, taking cover in the brush.

For now, the temporary standoff was the best Brightman could hope for, and he took the opportunity to rest. If he started to run again, the rebels would follow--and it was a race he was sure to lose.

He kept his eyes glued to the jungle across the road, monitoring the movements of his enemies by the way the leaves rustled. As the minutes passed, there were more rustles--reinforcements were coming.

***

*** SPECIAL EVENT ***

*** FRANK FRANKLIN REPORTING ***

*** BEGIN OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT ***

FRANK FRANKLIN: Good evening, America, I’m Frank Franklin, inside The Broadway Theatre.

I’m here with Suzie Jane, winner of the Tony Award for best actress. Suzie, your portrayal of a typical white woman in the hit musical Coming Home to Roost was groundbreaking. How did you prepare for the role?

SUZIE JANE: Well, I actually am a white woman. But not a typical one, so it wasn’t easy. I had to push aside everything I had learned over the course of my life and, basically, unlearn it all.

FRANK FRANKLIN: A lot of hard work, I’m sure. I imagine this award is something you have been dreaming of your whole life.

SUZIE JANE: Actually, when I was a little girl I dreamed of winning a Nobel Prize.

FRANK FRANKLIN: Well, you should be proud. They don’t give a Tony just anyone, you know.

SUZIE JANE: I know. I am proud and I’d like to thank—

FRANK FRANKLIN: Let me switch topics here for a moment. Earlier in the week, at this very theater, you dedicated one of your performances to a very special, courageous group of people. Let’s talk about that.

SUZIE JANE: There is a group of fighters, freedom fighters--let’s be accurate--down in the central and south Americas. They are valiantly fighting their oppressors.

FRANK FRANKLIN: And their oppressors are?

SUZIE JANE: (LAUGHS) I think you’re goading me.

FRANK FRANKLIN: (LAUGHS) Just a little.

SUZIE JANE: We are the oppressors. Okay, now you got me started so I’m going to rant. But I hate to talk bad about our country.

FRANK FRANKLIN: No, that’s okay.

SUZIE JANE: Well, we are imposing our capitalism on them because the ruling class in this country thinks that it will solve the world’s problems. But it won’t. What our worship of materialism boils down to is dirtier air and dirtier water--an environment where nothing can survive.

A perfect example--we know now that the albino gorilla, indigenous to that area, is extinct. It was the most beautiful animal you have ever seen. A few years ago there were still a couple, but now they are all dead.

FRANK FRANKLIN: And our soldiers’ conduct in this conflict has been disgraceful.

SUZIE JANE: Um, is that a question?

FRANK FRANKLIN: Oh. I mean, what do you make of our soldiers’ conduct?

SUZIE JANE: Well, we’ve all heard the stories of them destroying villages and that sort of thing. If it’s true—

FRANK FRANKLIN: It is. I mean, what if it is?

SUZIE JANE: If that sort of thing is true then I don’t see how we can support our government in this.

FRANK FRANKLIN: It’s hard to be proud of this country.

SUZIE JANE: Question?

FRANK FRANKLIN: I mean, is it hard to be proud of the country?

SUZIE JANE: It is hard right now. But I hope that, at some point in my adult life, I can be proud of it again.

FRANK FRANKLIN: I can’t see that happening. I mean, can I see that happening? Wait. Never mind. You know, sometimes--excuse me--what is that man doing over there? Why is he sorting through that trash can?

Security!

SUZIE JANE: Him again? Hey, is that--that’s my old lipstick he took from there.

(SECURITY GUARDS CHASE MAN)

FRANK FRANKLIN: Okay, security is on his tail now.

SUZIE JANE: I’m sorry. You know, that kind of freaks me out. I’d like to end this interview.

FRANK FRANKLIN: Okay. Well, Suzie Jane, everyone. The Tony Award-winning typical white woman.

*** END TRANSCRIPT ***

***

Dr. Albert Gress raced out of the theater and onto Broadway. He navigated through the crowded street and sprinted down 7th Avenue to the subway entrance. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, he turned and peered down the road.

The security guards were nowhere in sight.

He headed down the steps and took the E line to Penn Station where he settled into a seat on the express train to Washington, D.C.

From his jacket pocket, he pulled out Suzie Jane’s lipstick. A single twist of the bottom pushed up a small chunk of ruby red. He smiled.

Suzie Jane was one of the finest female specimens of her time. With electric-blue eyes, full pouty lips, and tight-curled auburn hair, her DNA was remarkable--and there was sure to be enough of it on the lipstick for Gress to work with. He had extracted genetic sequences from far smaller samples.

He twisted the small tube closed and returned it to his pocket, then

Reviews for Attack of the 50 Ft. Democrats

[mashak99 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is obviously a very specific kind of book. It will not change minds or ignite an intellectual discussion. It does, however, succeed for what it is: slapstick political satire. Poking fun at everything from vacuous Hollywood starlets to agenda-driven, Obama-obsessed reporters, it has a feel of a Rush Limbaugh parody or an SNL skit put into a book form. Some jokes are more accessible than others (no one but a political junkie will catch the "crease in the pants" reference), but on the whole it is very, very funny. In a manner of Family Guy, South Park (or if you prefer an older, cleaner reference, the Airplane! movies), the book throws jokes against the wall, and most of them stick. There are some decent action scenes and a couple of truly poignant moments that, though necessary for the plot, seem to belong in a more serious work, and show that the author may have potential as a thriller writer in the future.
Mostly, it's pure, light entertainment, just right for any reader who is ready for a break from dark cautionary tales that have dominated conservative/libertarian fiction in recent years. I'm giving this book 4 stars not for literary excellence but for sheer enjoyment I derived from it. If you agree with the author's politics, you are guaranteed to finish this book in better mood than when you started, and there is something to be said for that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my depressing dystopian read...