Debt Troopers
A short story
Simply put if you read and loved Frank’s previous short story Head Count, then you are definitely going to love this one. Like that previous effort- and like the best of pulp and dystopic sci-fi before it- today’s story manages to be both enthralling, entertaining and have a lot to say about the current world. This is what genre fiction is all about, and Frank is clearly a great student (and on the way to becoming a master) of these tropes and themes.
Enjoy.
Cold nights like this always draw in a crowd; a throng of screeching idiots with their cardboard signs, colored hair, and tattered clothes, standing on the pavement and beaten down by the torrential rain.
Tonight, they came in with a fiery spirit I’ve never seen before. Their eyes sharp black and soulless like the rodents they truly are. Mouths spitting contempt, rage, and disgust as my men rush into the rundown apartment lobby.
As a special unit dispatched by the Banking Commission, we’re accustomed to urban resistance. In the end, we simply follow orders from the highest authority. Each assignment is simple: Procure the Debt or Procure the Debtor.
Shame the Boston PD set up the barricade out front. My God, nothing would give me more pleasure than to introduce each of their fat faces into the hard street. Or to have my hands wrapped around their throats as I watch the last bits of air escape their lungs. Perhaps the rain will flood them out, washing away the awful filth in one clean stroke.
The stench of their organized protest is enough to coat the smell of cat piss coming down from the hallway. I relit the end of my half-smoked cigar just to knock it out my nose. The dense sound of drenched boots slamming against the creaking wood staircase sends a clear warning to the other tenants to stay inside. My squad’s advance makes an easy reminder for pesky onlookers to keep out of Bank business. Four flights. Twelve commandos. A symphony of armored brute strength rang throughout the complex. I took another draw of my cigar and released the sweet smoke from my lips as I considered the business at hand.
Another special assignment for me and my men. Special. These assignments are never special, are they? Our caseload never varies.
But tonight is different. We have a new mode of operation. The banks wanted to balance the books. The bailout money dried up and Congress wouldn’t lend another cent.
The old days of shadow ops and secrecy were behind us. Now my men and I could operate freely, openly, and legally without interference from the courts or congressional oversight. No more police permits, purchased warrants, or buying off stuck-up, nosey lawyers. We had the flexibility to pursue our targets and collect the outstanding student debt. And since we are the only working contractors, each assignment gets more lucrative than the last.
This is the easiest gig I’ve ever had. It beats serving twelve years to life for murder and grand theft any day. Getting sprung to run this little team of psychopaths warms my heart and fills me with a sense of purpose and duty to my country. If only Momma could see her little boy now.
I put out my cigar stub on the window glass and made my way up one flight of stairs to Apartment 41. The rest of my squad rallied just outside the door in their full-body black Kevlar.
Lieutenant Porter approached me. He’s young, but he follows instructions by the book and is skilled with a stiletto.
He handed me a small, black tablet. “It’s the Commission, sir.”
The camera in the tablet scanned my badge number on my chest plate and the screen went blue for a moment. Then a live feed of High Commissioner Tilton appeared. Tilton oversaw the Commission with an iron fist. His wrinkled scowl and well-groomed, white beard came through the video crystal clear. His voice was slow, but deliberate. “Commander Davies, you and your men are cleared to engage. Find Marcus E. Matthews. Procure the debt or the debtor, by any means necessary.”
“Understood, sir. With pleasure.”
The screen dimmed to black just as two commandos arrived at Apartment 41 with a portable battering ram.
I said, “Rifles set to stun. On my command.”
I reached into my pocket for another cigar. Sliced the butt with a combat blade and wedged it between my teeth. The men looked on. Their eyes patiently anticipating the signal to engage. My boys could be a rowdy bunch if held on a leash too long.
I flicked the wood match and brought the flame to the foot making sure I took my time with each puff. I couldn’t resist the tease. They all were practically drooling over that door like Pit bulls waiting for their master’s call. I took my last puff.
“Let’s begin.”
The door collapsed from the hinges. My men bolted through and cleared the room. The smell of wet socks and rotting wood permeated the air. The curtains shut out the light and the power to the unit was dead.
Inside I found five pale-faced, quivering twenty-something-year-old rats. The kind that pay a hundred thousand for a four-year education — with the bank’s money no less.
My men put them face down on the grimy floor with their hands above their heads. I looked them over.
“Which one of you shitheads is named Matthews?”
The rats lay there, frozen in time.
I grabbed one of them and shoved his portly body against the wall with the barrel of my P320 shoved into his mouth, breaking a few teeth.
“How about you, buddy? You know a Matthews?”
The crotch of the rat's light blue jeans turned dark.
In a quiet, nasally voice, a tall, thin rat on the floor said, “I’m Matthews.”
I tossed the fat rat aside and kicked Matthews in the face, crushing his thick-rimmed glasses. “Scan him Porter. Just to be sure.”
The lieutenant aimed his tablet at the rat, and a ray of blue light traced his face. The screen read, Confirmed. Marcus Emmanuel Matthews.
I looked down. “Well, Marcus Emmanuel Matthews. Your loan is past due.”
His shrill voice was muffled, but I understood him.
“I missed one payment, man. It was the stupid loan or food. They shut off the power two nights ago. I’ll pay you next week. I promise.”
“We’re past that now.”
I gestured to Porter, who lifted Matthews from the floor and handcuffed him. “By order of the High Bank Commissioners Tilton, Prescott, Fowler, and the United States Hamilton Act, you are being detained for the duration of your original loan term.” Then he slipped a black bag over Matthews’s head and we took him out.
As we exited the complex, a black Humvee pulled up behind the barricade to intercept Matthews and Porter. The unruly mob greeted us with groans and shrieks and chants. They even had cute names for us, like “Fascists!” and “Corporate thugs!”
But the most creative name they gave us, and by far my favorite, has to be “Debt Troopers!”
God, I love this job.
 | A guest post by
|
Damn, I'm glad that I paid my loans off years ago.
Good thing I’ve paid off my student loans. :) Anyhow, its power comes from its plausibility; it feels like things can go that way. It also shows the power of a strong point-of-view voice.