BORIS

IN

ONE-WORLD-LAND

The Liberty Tree

By Thomas Paine

In a chariot of light from the regions of day,

The Goddess  of Liberty came;

Ten thousand celestials directed the way,

And hither conducted the dame.

A fair budding branch from the gardens above,

Where millions with millions agree,

She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love,

And the plant she named Liberty Tree.

The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground,

Like a native it flourished and bore;

The fame of its fruit drew the nations around,

To seek out this peaceable shore.

Unmindful of names or distinctions they came,

For freemen like brothers agree;

With one spirit endued, they one friendship pursued,

And their temple was Liberty Tree.

Beneath this fair tree, like the patriarchs of old,

Their bread in contentment they ate

Unvexed with the troubles of silver and gold,

The cares of the grand and the great.

With timber and tar they Old England supplied,

And supported her power on the sea;

Her battles they fought, without getting a groat,

For the honor of Liberty Tree.

But hear, O ye swains, 'tis a tale most profane,

How all the tyrannical powers,

Kings, Commons and Lords, are uniting amain,

To cut down this guardian of ours;

From the east to the west blow the trumpet to arms,

Through the land let the sound of it flee,

Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer,

In defense of our Liberty Tree.

Beginning words from

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

By Charles Dickens

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

From the 'Wisdom of the North Pole'

by a Mr. Santa Claus.

The U.S. is the nicest of countries,

The U.S. is the naughtiest of countries.

Chapter 1.

Down

The Blab-it Hole

Saturday, December 1, 2007

The Ark

Parked on a street in Washington D.C.

    Poor fourteen year old Boris was a little glum. It was the Saturday of the Thanksgiving Day Weekend and Boris was very tired from too much studying. And why was he studying on this glorious holiday weekend? Well, you see he was a little sick and therefore not strong enough to go out merry making with his parents and his younger sister. In addition, his parents, believing that idleness was the handmaiden to evil,  gave him something to pre-occupy his time. This was in fact the study assignment he was engaged in now which was to peruse much of the websites of one Alex Jones, a radio talk show host and believer in political conspiracies.

   If his sickness and studying weren't conspiring enough to tire him, he now thought that a gas main was leaking in The Ark.  All in all, his eyelids now started to droop, but he forced them to stay open.

   "Now, where did his parents and Anya go?" thought Boris as he laid down on his small bed.  "They had gone to the Smithsonian Museum and should have been back by now.  In addition, I don't know how much longer we can park The Ark here on the street. Oh, well, I'll take a little nap and then I will look for them."

***   

00:00 hours

Sunday, December 2, 2007

First day of Advent

The Ark

    A little later Boris woke with a start and saw nothing but darkness outside.  "Oh no!" exclaimed Boris to himself" What time is it? The police must have ticketed us by now and soon a tow truck will be coming.  Or worse, they will kidnap me and put me into one of their dreaded publikskuuls! I must find my parents and now!"

   With that, he sprung out of the camper and looked around with blurry eyes. As he rubbed his eyes, he thought, "Now where is that Museum?  My parents said they had to take three buses to get there.  But, ho! There it is!  Right in front of me!  They must have been mistaken.  They were always doing that. They were smart in their way, but specific practical details sometimes stymied them.  Oh, well, I hope that the museum is open.  Doesn't look like it.  I see few lights and no people around.  But ho! The door is open."

    So Boris entered the museum, for it was indeed open. However, he thought it strange that he didn't see anyone else, even guards or guides.  He was about to leave, thinking that some guard has forgotten to lock a door after close-up, but after a while he espied a person here and a person there, though none seemed to have noticed him and all seemed very still.  In addition, all the people looked strange in some way he couldn't at the moment put his fingers on: it could be that they all seemed to have full and bushy mops of hair on the top and bottoms of their heads. "Well, perhaps my tiredness is making me see things," thought Boris as he scratched his long, floppy and hairy ears.

     "This ghastly and unnatural silence is getting to me," thought Boris. "I must make some noise and wake these people up." So he held-up the bullhorn that he conveniently found in his hand ("Must've picked up his father's 'Protesting Aid' as his father called it," thought Boris.")  

    However, this largesse didn't seem to activate the people there and so Boris subsequently thought, "I'm beginning to get tired of using this bullhorn to lecture these museum goers about the our problems in our Homeland. Oh, when will the truth get through to the public at large. Maybe I should just give up."

   With his eyes sometimes closing by themselves, he stood before a painting of the Liberty Tree and wondered how many knew its story and true meaning. Walking on, robotically it seemed, he peeped at the newspaper a patron was reading, but it had no politics or conspiracies in it, "and what is the use of a newspaper without politics or conspiracies?"

    Boris felt a cold breeze as if he was now outside, but Boris thought is strange, for he was still well inside the museum.

    So he was considering in his mind (as well as he could, for the ubiquitous uniformed 'assurance watchpersons' made him feel a little unsettled) whether the pleasures of taunting--I mean teaching, oops sorry--a nearby watchperson would be worth the trouble of a few hours or days in 'meditative seclusion' at a 'freedom center' when suddenly a man-in-black came up to him and said to him, apparently in some kind of code, "I'm the White Rabbit and work for the White King.  He wants to talk to you. Follow me. No time to lose." 

   There was nothing so remarkable about that; nor did Boris think it so very much out of the way to hear the White Rabbit say to himself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! We shall be too late" (for these types from De Capital--D.C. for short--are always dithering about this and that urgent crisis); but when the White Rabbit took a copy of the Constitution out of his trench coat pocket, and looked at it, Boris started to his feet, for it flashed across his mind that he had never seen a White Knave with either a copy of the Constitution or the need to read it and burning with curiosity, he decided to follow him.  As Boris did this, the White Rabbit got out of his tight thinking circle and started quickly in one direction.  The White Rabbit was fast but Boris caught up to him in time to see him swipe a card at a door and enter through it; Boris was just in time to catch the door before it closed and he too followed through it.  He noticed that he was now in some long dark tunnel or corridor. All at once on entering this place, he was hit with a cloud of some strange chemical and he became woozy on his feet.

    The corridor went on for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Boris had not a moment to think about himself before he found himself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.

   He was frightened at first when he realized he was falling very slowly;  puffs of hot air were keeping him up in place: this was nothing remarkable for if all the hot air in D.C. wasn't channeled into underground vents, the whole place would have a meltdown.

    Boris had plenty of time to look about him, and to wonder what was going to happen next.  First he tried to look down and make out what he was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; he looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with filing cabinets and bookshelves; here and there he saw maps, pictures and notices hung upon pegs. 

    These notices all seemed to have the same message in slightly different forms: "Do not read," "Absolutely no reading, especially by Congress," "Conclusively, no reading, by anybody, and I mean anybody, even by the person who wrote it,"  and one that made Boris worry a bit, "Do not read this notice you are reading right now under penalty of death."  Boris thought this a bit much: how could he avoid reading it: but that is the D.C for you.

    He took a document down from a bookshelf; it was labeled "AGENT ORANGE," but to his great disappointment it was all blacked out;  he did not like to drop the document for fear of giving somebody underneath a paper cut, so he managed to place it on another bookshelf as he fell past it.  An automated voice from many horn-like speakers blared out to Boris: "This document does not belong here.  Shelf it in its proper place."  Boris tried to argue with the voice that this could not matter so very much for the whole document was blacked out, but could not get any headway with it but gave up as the voice gradually faded to nothing.

    Then the hot air became quite thick--and as anyone knows who has gone to D.C. and has become inundated by the hot air there--nothing else could happen but one thing: thick, dreamy sleep.  Boris felt that he was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that he was walking beside James Madison and was saying very earnestly to him, "Now, Mr. Madison, did you ever think that the very Constitution,  the one whose writing you presided over, would ever be so abused," when Boris fell into a totally dreamless, restless sleep.

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