December 13, 2009
Drone Wars: Urban Wars III
Panicked crowds pressed up against the sides of buildings. Drones hung over Park Avenue. Some people prayed. Others turned their shoulders at the hiss of the first rockets let loose on the civilian population. "Operation Rapture Day" was underway. Missiles ripped through the pavement. They tore into storefronts. Large chunks of asphalt and concrete flew through the air. Taxis and other vehicles were sitting pigeons in the congested traffic. Drivers jumped out of cars. It all came back to Smalls Hawkins with a rush of cold sweat. He was sitting in the back of a cab when the first bombs hit. There was a gust of hot air. The taxi was momentarily airborne. It hit the ground upside down with the sick crunch of broken glass and crushed metal.
At the time he couldn't have known it, but the same scene was repeated all over town. Manhattan was under attack.
"We wanted the game to get off with a bang," one of the Drone Wars creators reminisced about the initial launch.
"It had to be big," his partner explained the pressure they felt from their financial backers. "Really big and very loud."
Mystery surrounded the inventors. Neither had ever agreed to an interview before.
"Every square inch of every surface of life made esthetic," the video game entrepreneur described his fantasy world.
"But it quickly became evident to us that only a few chosen people could participate in the design revolution," his partner explained the shortfall of their dream of a world in which everything was completely art-directed.
"Our first mistake was to think about it in terms of a single ideal esthetic for everyone. We had to step back and look at the whole picture."
"Popular art was as good a place to start as any. And, if you think about it, many of the most popular forms of entertainment are very dark. People are scared. Fear is real. But they can't stand the uncertainty. They want their worst fears to come true as fast as possible so they can get on with their lives. Drone Wars is nothing but a perfectly designed version of the nightmare world they want to get out of their minds."
"All we are actually doing, in a sense, is frontloading everything bad and terrible. Maybe it's a false premise, but if everyone wants to believe the world will be a much better place after Drone Wars is over, who are we to tell them any different?" the co-creator went off on a tangent.
"But there are still some severe limitations to the game," his partner tried to get the interview back on track. "Lamentably, private moments between people are still so elusive to machine logic. Our interactive vision requires that everyone is an equal participant in the video game (whether they like it or not). We are currently working on tools that will hopefully make it more possible in future upgrades to..."
"Did you say your name was Plastic?" Smalls Hawkins pulled out one of his earphones so he could hear her better. "Are you a hostess?"
"Shasta," she repeated from behind the foldout table at the Pleasant Valley Nuclear Association booth and pointed to her nametag. "As in Mount Shasta... The sex booths are on the other side of the park."
"I'm looking for electronics," Smalls Hawkins looked up from under the brim of his fedora as if to convey how foolish he felt for his mistake.
Her perfect teeth glinted when she smiled. It was the previously agreed-upon password. "By the zoo," she winked and quickly handed him a promotional brochure she had set aside from the others.
Central Park looked almost medieval, transformed into an extended modern-day frontier outpost town -- like Woodstock with Power Point presentations. Chickens and other domestic animals ran wild. Muddy thoroughfares connected the various districts. Anything and everything was available for the right price; sex, gambling, drugs, you name it. The place had an electric bazaar-like feel. Folks came in from New Jersey, Connecticut and Delaware to purchase what was outlawed in their own neo-Puritanical Christian-ruled states. Pirated drones circled overhead. Every so often an NYPD drone broke through and managed to let loose a missile, but most of the time they were shot down before they got anywhere near the various booths and stalls in which business was done. Rebel officials bragged it was safer in the park than in the nation's capitol.
"Heard what the young president said the other day about the massive explosions that practically leveled several federal buildings, including the Department of Justice," the Electronics District contact chatted up Smalls Hawkins. "He said: 'There are a few assassinations, bombs go of every once in a while, but besides these major attacks, it's not a bad place for the country to be.' Can you believe it? The Feds are crazy out of their skulls with the crap that comes out of their mouths. What phony-baloney. His own mother wouldn't believe him."
To anyone else it looked like a chance encounter. But to Detective Alejandro Chomsky's well-trained eye the exchange between the two men took on sinister proportions. He observed the whole scene from a dark corner of the park. Nothing about the seemingly casual rendezvous escaped him. Smalls Hawkins clearly shoved something into the other man's pocket -- probably the brochure he picked up at the Pleasant Valley Nuclear Association booth. Detective Chomsky wanted some answers. It was time to bring his former partner into custody for questioning.
An old grifter's con was employed. A man steps out in front of you at the last minute holding out his bifocals like a toreador holds his red cape in front of a charging bull. Inevitably the glasses are knocked to the ground by the supposedly incidental contact. In case the impact of the eyewear on the asphalt does not smash the lenses they have already been cracked ahead of time. The scam-artist raises heck about his broken eyewear. In full throat he demands as loudly as possible so everyone nearby can hear him that the victim of the swindle compensate him for the accident. Nine-out-of-ten times even the most seasoned cynical New Yorkers will fall for the trick.
Before Smalls Hawkins knew what had happened he found himself surrounded by a crush of irate witnesses all of which insisted he do the right thing and compensate the poor nearsighted man for his broken glasses. All Detective Chomsky had to do was make sure there were enough undercover officers in the crowd to block the suspect's escape and apprehend him. When it works it's a thing of beauty. Before anyone knew what had happened Chomsky's men were walking him away in handcuffs. None of the Central Park bystanders had any idea what had just happened.
"HitList writers might do well to take some notes on how to detain a suspect," thought Smalls Hawkins dryly as he was shoved into an unmarked NYPD cruiser.
"Allan Arkin," Detective Alejandro Chomsky paced the interrogation cell, "once said 'There's two people in this world who can talk without making sense. That's John Wayne and Fred Willard.' I'm thinking of adding your name to the list Hawkins." The pressure was on. NYPD brass wanted answers and they wanted them fast. "You might recall Version XIII of Drone Wars overturned the US Constitution. We don't have to call it 'extraordinary rendition' anymore. We don't have to farm it out to contractors. We don't have to send you to black sights halfway across the planet. We don't have to lie to the American people about what we are doing behind closed doors anymore. Call it torture if you want to. Call it any damn thing you please.
"If we have to harm you to get the information we want we can do it, easy as that. NYPD can hurt you so you can never walk again, or hold a spoon. We can drug you so you piss blood and shit your pants," he knocked Smalls Hawkins hat off his head. "Don't you get it, man? You are on your own. Can't you see that there's no one to stop us? Don't test my patience. I don't care if you once wore the uniform. You better start talking and start talking fast. I saw you make the exchange in the park. I got it on tape. We got your Ms. Shasta in the holding room across the hall and I'm in a rush. She won't hold up as long as you. Are you going to tell me what was in that pamphlet or do I have to order my goons to ruin that perfect smile of hers?"
--Daniel Mendel-Black, copyright 2009
