The Junkyard Capital

By Jak Locke

Senator Aphid only wanted to improve his country, though after four years in the District of Laws he really should have known better. He's removed from office and soon grudgingly finds himself paired with Frog Dell, the reckless and self-indulgent hermit of the junkyard.

As the two evade the wrath of a government run amok with corruption, dissension spreads through the public, and conspiracy reigns. What role does psychiatrist and part-time inventor Weasel McKenzie play in the upcoming Archministry election? How does front-runner candidate and acclaimed playwright J. Thomas Capra plan to fix the broken nation? Who's being stalked by merciless bounty hunter Jack Dingo? Why is Dead Fish wandering an empty version of the world?

The pressure escalates quickly in this twisting, zany, fast-paced and subversive satire that, like real politics, requires (and prefers) absolutely no prior political knowledge.

NOTE: This book is the heavily revised second edition of the now out-of-print book Frog Dell's Junkyard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jak Locke
• Release date: Feb 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386697572

Book preview

ONE

Frog Dell sat enjoying his eighty-ninth straight game of checkers with himself—actually, not with himself, but with a length of pipe about a yard long and an inch in diameter. He had smeared a semblance of a face on the pipe using some sludge from the bed of a small stream that trickled its way through his junkyard and it had long since dried into place. He called the pipe Mr. President and thought himself rather important to have somebody who was referred to as Mr. President in his presence, particularly when that somebody preferred to play checkers with him and only him. The sun was high in the sky, allowing Frog Dell to assume it was noon when it was actually one o'clock.

Your move, Mr. President, Frog Dell said to the length of pipe.

I believe I'll jump your piece there and there and then your king. That makes another game I've won, Mr. President said. Frog Dell's mouth dropped slightly before breaking into a smile.

So you have! he exclaimed. My, such a robust streak you've acquired in this little collection of matches, hm? Now then, won't you join me for lunch? I believe it is twelve in the day, he said, glancing at the sky. I'd rather enjoy to have your company, and I believe lunch was the running bet for this game.

That it was, friend, answered Mr. President, but I find that after such a wonderful breakfast my appetite seems to have not returned from its constitutional. Do feel free to indulge yours though!

Oh, well, if it's your preference, I believe I shall! Frog Dell answered, standing and stretching. I'm quite famished after taking such a thoroughly kingly thrashing as you've provided!

He stepped over to an old refrigerator that was plugged into one of fourteen rusted generators and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in cellophane. I do so love leftovers, he said, eagerly unwrapping it before filling his face with the mass of bread and sliced meat. Yes, quite! Nothing better this noon than a sandwich of scraps in a scrapyard in sand!

As he finished, he walked over to the pile of cars which he so loved to scale. It was a grand pile, particularly on clear days such as this with the sun gleaming off of every inch of chrome. It was nearly blinding, a mountain of pure light over a thousand cars high and twenty times as wide as its height.

I'm going for my climb, called Frog Dell to Mr. President. Help yourself to any of the magazines I have, they go back a hundred years!

Frog Dell picked up his favorite climbing stick, the remains of an old yellow umbrella that had been in two storms too many, and pulled a map out of his boot. Let's see. I believe I'll scale from point B today. I'm feeling lucky, he said to himself.

He spotted the top of a completely rusted-out old pickup truck from decades ago and set foot on its door handle. Wrapping the map up and sticking it back in his boot, Frog Dell climbed up and up and up.

TWO

Like every other aspect of the District of Laws, the session schedule for the Office of the Legislature had been determined by committee. Mondays had been written off immediately for being far too obvious a choice—if they were going to go to the trouble of forming a brand new government, they'd need something more daring than that. Fridays were proposed and quickly dismissed for being too daring. Wednesdays were the most logical and agreeable compromise, so after weeks of debate, the final arrangement had been set: it would alternate week to week between Tuesday and Thursday.

As he had every day for four years now, Senator Aphid entered the main lobby, greeted the receptionist and signed in from his lunch hour. He walked up the stairs and turned the knob of the door to his office, whistling a happy little song which had reached its peak of national popularity nearly twelve years ago. The knob abruptly failed to complete its turn and he stopped whistling just before the good part in the chorus.

Mm, he said, startled. He tried his key and made a face when it stopped halfway into the lock. He looked at the number on the door, 106—this was definitely his office. He tried turning the knob twice more then walked down the hall to the next office and peeked through the door, only to find that it was empty.

Hello? he called down the hall. No response. He warily paced through the corridors for some time before hearing a dull murmur echo down the passage leading to the main discussion chambers. A session on a Monday? he thought, jogging to the chamber doors. He opened them quietly. Bureaucrat Hound was in the middle of a proposal at the podium.

—the, um, the matter of which bus, that is, which, er, which bus company to—

At that moment the door shut behind Senator Aphid exactly as loudly as he hoped it wouldn't and Hound stopped talking. Every head in the room turned. Senator Electrode, an overweight and eternally-flushed middle-aged firebrand, stood up as soon as he saw Senator Aphid. Move to repeat resolution of old business item one, he called.

Seconded, a voice from the group said.

Nobody spoke for a moment.

Hound, Electrode said sternly and expectantly.

Bureaucrat Hound gulped loudly, then peeped, Ah, Mr. Aphid. We were, um, thinking, well. A few senators groaned. He continued, Some of us, that is, we were thinking that, perhaps, well, we were thinking, er…

Move to replace the reviewer, two senators said at once.

Seconded, four voices responded.

Senator Electrode stepped forward to the podium as Bureaucrat Hound shuffled back to his seat. I propose myself, all in favor.

Aye, said the group.

Opposed, he called out. No one said anything as he strode up to the microphone and grinned, straightening a document in front of him. Resolved that as of 12:15 today, in accordance with evidence, testimony and judiciary rulings referenced below, et cetera, et cetera, Senator Cornelius Aphid is hereby removed from his position in the Office of the Legislature.

Senator Aphid chuckled a bit, then frowned as he realized nobody else was laughing. This, this isn't a joke, is it? he finally said cautiously.

Lad, Senator Electrode said, relishing each syllable, you're done here.

What, you think it can be done just like that? sputtered Senator Aphid. Well, that's simply not how this works at all, no. No, no, no. And nope. Insanity. My constituency simply won't have it.

Executive Senator Powers, a slender figure with hair greased back to a shine, leaned toward his microphone at the back of the room. Let's not make this dramatic, Aphid, he said with a smirk, and don't be greedy. We may have arranged this emergency session to resolve the issue of you, but the senators do have other matters we need to discuss here as well. Senator Aphid's face shifted.

Amazing, Senator Aphid ground out through clenched jaws. You're apparently suddenly ignorant of how this process works at all. Okay, let's make a list. Listen closely, take notes if you must. You'll have to go through a formal proceeding. You'll have to go through formal inquiries. Court hearings, let's see, what else?

The door opened and a bureaucrat holding a cardboard box stepped inside. Archminister in the chamber! he announced. Archminister Wirevine walked in and noted Senator Aphid with a hint of disdain, then proceeded to the podium. Senator Electrode stepped off of it quickly and the archminister adjusted the microphone slowly.

Mr. Aphid, Archminister Wirevine said in a distinctly dry voice. Let me make this clear for you. We have already processed your removal through the necessary channels. My advisor, Mr. Brahma, recently informed me of some troubling details regarding your scrap and landfill secession committee four years ago, something I plan on rectifying with all speed and efficiency. I've appointed Mr. Brahma as your replacement to ensure this. I expect you to be absent from this building in five minutes. He stepped down and walked toward the exit.

Aphid's face appeared to go in three different directions at once. "Appointed a senator?! he shouted. Th-this is unheard of, absolutely outside of the law, to say nothing of Legislature procedure! I'll, I'll take this to the courts! I will!"

Good luck with that, lad, Senator Electrode sneered, returning to the podium. I wonder if they've forgotten yet how much of their time you wasted four years ago. The bureaucrat with the box handed it to Aphid, then quickly left.

Your belongings, Senator Powers said. "We've packed them for you. Consider that your retirement bonus. Take them and leave now. Senator Brahma will be taking residence in his new office at one o'clock and we would like this session to be concluded by then."

Two security guards entered the chamber. Aphid glared at them, then hastily walked out the door, his face twisted in an awkward mix of forlorn anger. Maybe you can start a new life at the junkyard! Senator Electrode called. Some senators began to laugh.

Enough, Senator Powers commanded. The laughing senators fell silent instantly. After a moment, he cleared his throat. Move to return to the matter of tomorrow's National Art Exhibition and our required attendance…

THREE

The ringing tone sounded for the second time. J. Thomas Capra shifted the phone on his ear and looked at the note in his hand again. URGENT — call me at the office at 1 — S. He sighed with resignation as he pocketed the note, hoping Stanley hadn't booked him on yet another morning show appearance. All they ever wanted to talk about about were such dreadfully uninteresting topics. He wished, just once, they would ask about something that mattered.

Of course, what then was it that did matter? All these people walking by, did his favorite blend of coffee really mean more to them than—

Right on time as always, Stanley's voice said.

What's urgent? Capra asked.

Been worried about all the pressure on you, he answered. So I think today you should—

Are you J. Thomas Capra? a woman gasped.

He is, one of his four bodyguards answered.

The woman offered up a magazine with Capra's picture on it. Could he possibly sign this for me?

I'd be delighted, Capra said, taking a small marker out of his pocket and autographing the magazine cover. May I ask your name, miss?

The woman smiled giddily. Mandy, with a Y.

Capra quickly wrote out, Mandy, we can make the difference! and handed the magazine back to her.

Oh, he writes in all capital letters! Mandy giggled to her friend as they walked away.

Can you get somewhere more private? Stanley asked.

'He writes in all capital letters', Capra repeated, shaking his head and thinking for once that maybe it was better for his own sanity to not understand what truly mattered to these people after all. He was, of course, absolutely right.

Stanley, on the other hand, knew exactly what mattered to the majority of voters. He had argued such nearly three years ago over drinks to Capra's former talent manager, an unfortunately idealistic sort with the equally unfortunate name of Bear Baer. They had met at the closing night of Capra's latest smash hit play at the time, an irreverent and well-loved comedy called Up The River, about three senators sentenced by the court to serve on a rural town's water council. There were two main types of voters, Stanley had posited.

Those with property and an adequate salary figured they were part of the oligarchy even while identifying themselves as the middle class. They voted doggedly and passionately for the status quo, regardless of any benefits the alternative may or may not offer them. Bringing those people up was generally a big hit at the annual Legislature Ball that they would never be invited to.

Those without property and living paycheck to paycheck also identified themselves as the middle class and were much more receptive to an opposition candidate, often regardless of any benefits that candidate may or may not offer them. Bringing those people up was generally considered to be in bad taste at the annual Legislature Ball that they would never want to be invited to.

Baer had argued that Stanley couldn't paint such a broad brush because not everyone in those groups would possibly fit in those categories, to which Stanley replied that nuance was for chumps, the tendencies of those groups' majorities was the only thing that mattered, and the outliers could get stuffed for all that the results would show. He was, of course, absolutely right.

Fine then, Baer had countered, What do those two groups possibly have in common that you could appeal to?

They both hate finding out they've been duped, Stanley had answered. Make 'em believe that the other side's been lying to 'em and as long as you keep your lie metric lower than the other side, you can say whatever you want from there.

And just how do you pull that off?

Find, say, a pretty face with some success vaguely related to politics who can turn on a charming personality for the camera, convince the people they've been lied to, convince them they've got an actionable plan, and then convince them theirs is the side that's winning.

You make it sound so simple, like such a specimen and circumstance is just ripe for the picking.

At that point, Capra had walked up to the table and said, What a night! A great way to close the run. And who's this gentleman?

Stanley Salamander at your service!

A fisherman trawling for bait, Baer had said. I don't think you'll find much to talk about.

As that ended up being the last night of his representation of Capra, he was, of course, absolutely wrong.

FOUR

Dead Fish had grown to loathe pale blue.

Pale blue had become the visual equivalent of dragging an ice pick along a blackboard.

Darker tones weren't so bad. Royal blue was almost appealing.

Pale blue now never failed to elicit the most agonizing and mind-clouding fog in Dead Fish, and the entire city was bathed in it. Not only that, it was a periwinkle sort of pale blue, the worst of them all.

Shading his eyes didn't help and closing them was futile, as it was so garish and glaring that it shone just as visibly through his eyelids.

Still no stars in the sky—no sky at all, actually. In an inexplicable visual phenomenon, there seemed to be an absence of a void above Dead Fish. It was impossible to process and he felt a primal and existential horror every time he looked up. He had learned to avoid looking up.

And no sound!