The sun is high in the sky when prince Jonathan steps out onto the balcony overlooking the town square. All eyes are upon him immediately and the young royal fails not to squirm under the attention. Thankfully no one notices, his robes are oversized enough to hide his movements, but no one would dare to mention it even if they did notice.

The queen steps out right after him and the crowd bursts into cheers. She’s dressed in black in honor of her late husband, just as some of the royal guards standing on the sides of the crowd. The people aren’t wearing black though. Their mourning period is over and now it’s time to celebrate the new king, by dressing in their best clothes.

Looking down at them, the queen wants to scoff. She wouldn’t touch “their best” with a ten foot pole.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” The royal advisor steps forward. “We are gathered here today for the coronation of our new king, Jonathan I.”

Another wave of cheers starts. A man from the crowd whistles and a shorter man standing next to him shoves him, barely making him budge, before joining in. A few people look at them disapprovingly but no one says anything. No one dares to make a scene.

Prince Jonathan launches into a practiced speech, promising to be a good king and treat his subjects fairly. The short man from the crowd rolls his eyes and as he turns his head, he meets the gaze of a farmer’s son. His shoulders are wide, his only good shirt stretched tight over the muscle on his arms, but he only smirks and nods.

The short man nods back and when his taller friend notices the interaction, he too looks out into the crowd, only to find a pair of eyes already looking back. The servant girl, wearing her mother's dress that hang on her small frame unflatteringly, gives him a smile and a nod of her own.

More looks are exchanged between all four of them, when a stone rolls on the ground between the short man’s legs. He turns around in the direction it came from and locks eyes with another young man. He too nods.

“Lastly, I want to say that prior to tonight, I have read my father’s coronation speech, as it is the only one I wasn’t present for,”prince Jonathan continues talking as some of the noblemen snicker. “And I would like to promise you one thing he never did. I promise to be kind.”

As prince Jonathan steps away from the microphone and the crowd erupts into cheers, the short man looks away from his friends and locks eyes with one of the guards. Both of them freeze for a moment, their time slowing down in the middle of the celebration, but then the guard wordlessly pushes his shoulders back and looks up to watch the coronation.

The short man nods to himself and pushes his hand into his pocket. His fingers wrap around the grip of the pistol.

As the crowd calms down, the royal advisor steps forward again, this time holding a crown. Silence falls over the town square and prince Jonathan stands tall as the golden jewel is set into his hair. The advisor leans into the microphone and says, “Bow before your new king.”

The crowd moves like one body, dropping to the ground, when a gunshot rings out across the town square.

Gasps can be heard from every direction as the new king, just like his people, falls to his knees.

Once upon a time, there was a man with conviction! He looked around him at all the sad sacks and whiny sops and pathetic worms and he was filled with disgust. He also felt a little sad for them. So, this man, this convictuous man, he put it upon himself to destroy the doldrums once and for all. He Spoke:

"I will destroy depression! Grr! The specter of sadness will plague society no longer! With the power of science I will change this world forever! I Freaking Love Science!!"

So, the man shut himself into his study for five long minutes, and when he emerged, he displayed the fruits of his labor for all to see. He Spoke:

"Kha-loo Kha-lay; what a glorious day!! I've procured the cure to cure depression once and for all. Now all you piteous wretches line up so I can administer my cure unto you! I Fricking Love Science!"

But the witless masses did not line up to receive their cure. They balked at their salvation! They had come to love their sadness. Caught up in their own tragic beauty, the thought of not bitching 24/7 made the bile in their stomachs curdle with rage and indignation. (Bile should not do that). They spoke:

"We hate you, Man with Conviction! You have over-stepped and threatened our very way of life! In your hubris, you failed to consider that if we really weren't resigned to our lives of misery, then we would've already taken a long walk off a short pier... and drowned! We love depression and whining and complaining and posting about it on social medias! You are a fool, The Man Who Cured Depression! Grah!"

And lo, did they pounce upon their enemy. This man of science let out a horrible howl. It was a howl of shock and betrayal. The mob ripped his arms and legs off, then they stacked all their hands together and, with the added strength bonus, they threw the cure for depression several kilometers into an active volcano. Finally, the Man Who Cured Depression was loaded into The Kill Cube. Thus did the cube enact it's vile nature upon the man.

EPILOGUE: Society remained depressed forevermore. Until the Sun blew up or an asteroid hit the Earth or they nuked each other into oblivion or some plagued killed them or they all long-walked off a short pier and drowned. I don't know what happened; I looked down at my phone for a couple centuries and when I looked back up they were all gone. I'm God, by the way. I love you :) Bye :))))

“I took an oath many years before the bombs started to fall, and so did everyone else, but after the sky burned to the ground, and incinerated all that was around us, the few hundred who stayed behind are the only ones left upholding it. Our call sign is Wagon 29, but we are more popularly nicknamed as “the Bulletproof Crew,” by the other ambulances. Though, we are immortalized for going into places that no one else will, we are anything but eternal. We come out alive each time sporting our trademarked “don’t give a fuck” attitudes, and I guess that leaves an impression on people after a while, but it isn’t hard. We just have a “More action, less talking” outlook. We bottle that shit up, only to spit it back out at the city the next time we go in.”

“Perhaps believing that we are demigods, somehow makes them feel safer. They know we bleed, but they choose to ignore it. This delusional crumb of hope is magical to them, and has them thinking, if ’29 get home each night, they could too. But if magic does exist, it most certainly wouldn’t be a cute and fuzzy pulled out of a hat, instead it would be a slight of hand; A lure of cheese for all those field mice scurrying about, trying to find the scraps of life to hold onto just for another day or perhaps another nibble. Those are the ones who die first, because they don’t focus on the right things, and they have all the wrong motives. They-re selfish. The reality is that there is no hope strong enough to bring anyone home, not me, not you, and there certainly is no special wand to save your ass. Many more are gonna die, it’s a fact. There are piles of bodies lining those streets from those who already have, and every day they get higher. You got to accept the inevitable out here. Maybe today, a little girl with a 9mm picks you off while you are trying to resuscitate her mother, maybe it happens in a week. Maybe next year. We all do eventually, but the quicker you realize that, the quicker you can focus on the oath and not the other shit. That’s when real work gets done, and that’s when you become idolized like us.”

“The district already lost two guys this week in the suburbs just outside the city. One, was on the interstate heading back to the station. He was taken out by an alcoholic with a rifle who was just fucking around. The god-damned asshole was using the ambulance for target practice, while putting down his toilet wine. The other nicknamed “Tommy Gun,” from Wagon 47, was self-inflicted before his shift even started. I don’t blame him for it, cause this shit can get to you after a while, but if you’re gonna be on my crew, you gotta get past that emotional bullshit, stop looking at life as life, and humans as humans, then you can get to work without any fear.”

“The difference between them and us was how we look at our patients. Yesterday, Gary Andrews, of 3335 Cherrywood Ave, wasn’t Gary. He was a sucking chest wound that needed constant pressure, a plastic seal, 180cc’s of pure saline, and one hell of a lead foot to save his overdosed ass. They aren’t patients, they’re injuries. They’re body parts that are in the wrong places either needing re-alignment or a lot of fucking staples. You gotta take the human out of the humanity nowadays. Too much shit has happened for us to stop and think about it, now.”

I lean over to shake the hands of the new recruit sitting next to me, while I casually take my eyes of the road, and loosely steer us down the merge ramp onto the interstate.

“Enough of the pep talk, you ready for this shit kid? I’m Axel by the way, but everyone calls me Ax.”

His eyes were wide and full of uncertainty or regret, or both. He leaned against the door as if he was hopping it would open to save him. I didn’t know if he was more scared of me, or the stories of city we were soon driving into. With a soft, fresh out of medical camp-nod, he squeaks out.

“Ronnie, sir.” while loosely shaking my hand.

I have seen this look before, and it usually doesn’t end well, but hell we need people, and it takes balls to sign up, so, I will give him that. He gets brownies for the Sir too. I whip out of the merge lane onto the I-30 ramp on a direct path with Dallas. The skies ahead are crimson-black with its usual ongoing fire and thick smoke. The city was just the way I preferred it and the smell of danger was in the air.

“Get your gun ready kid, Today, we got some lives to save!”

As we approach the city at my usual warp-speed attempting to avoid as many stray bullets as I can, while the remaining ones ricochet off of us every few minutes, our radio sounds with our first call.

“Wagon 29, Dispatch.”

I reach for the radio, but Ronnie beats me to it. I shoot him a glare to warn him not to fuck it up, but nod with approval to continue on. He lacks confidence, and sounds questionable, but responds correctly; which is exactly how we all started out.

“Go for ’29?”

“We got a car accident just off exit forty-five Bravo, southbound on Riverfront. One victim, female, approximately thirty-eight years of age. Possible head-wound, and other injuries. Caller says she is bleeding bad and does not have much time. Over”

“Copy that, over”

The radio goes silent for a couple seconds, then sounds on to produce a constant flow scratchy airwaves, then clicks off. After a few moments it comes back on with the dispatcher’s voice again, but distressed.

“Ax?”

I immediately snatch the radio out of Ronnie's hand, slide my fingers onto the side button, and press it in.

“Go for Ax.”

There is a long pause again.

“Ax, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the victim is driving a Blue Colorado, license plate GXT 4598.” The radio clicks off for another moment, giving me time to comprehend the numbers, and the description. I twist my head in confusion, while an overwhelming flood of memories and heartache from the last four years rapidly begin to surface. The radio breaks through my thoughts, confirming my best and worst suspicions.

“Ax, I think we just found your wife…and I think she’s dying!”

--My foot welds the gas pedal to the floor.--

We all thought the police would be the first to go. I remember my dad's phone, the soft glow as he listened to the report. Someone had leaked documents claiming that due to the high deficit spending in the U.S., there would be a restriction of emergency services. Everyone assumed the "restriction" applied to the police. President Demi Carter was attempting to do damage control, but it was too late. Protests were erupting. But in my house, I remember my dad crying in the dark. They had already cut the electricity. Lights were a luxury that only the rich could afford these days. Plumbing? Forget it. We were lucky. We had heat in the winter and air conditioning in the summer. Most people didn't even get that.

He was crying, and I was afraid, but when he looked at me, he was smiling. Not sad tears after all, or even angry tears. Tears of relief. He clutched my shoulders.

"You're gonna live in a better world, Erial" he said. "No more fear. No more brutality."

I only barely knew what the word "brutality" meant. I was eight.

We were informed a week later that the emergency service they were cutting was not the police after all. It was the firefighters. Since electricity was quickly becoming a thing of the past, there were fewer fires. Sending both ambulances and fire trucks to the same place was a "waste of energy" and we really only needed the ambulances to save people.

That was what the spokesperson said, anyway.

That day, my dad's tears were not tears of relief.

And when Ronald Grand led the insurrection, my dad's tears dried altogether. Terror had left his eyes dry, his mouth dry, his lips pressed together in a thin cracked line.

I was twelve. Old enough to begin that journey towards comprehension. Old enough to understand that "insurrections" weren't supposed to happen. Old enough to understand that Ronald Grand was not the patriot that the rest of the world seemed to think he was.

His first order of business was a crackdown on crime, a two strikes rule: life sentences for any two convictions in five years. Drug addicts and murderers were suddenly in the same boat.

My dad and I didn't leave the house for those first few weeks. Any news we had was drip fed to us through the glow of our phones.

Too much spending. President Grand— as he insisted on being called— would finally put an end to the rampant deficit spending that had plagued our country. Welfare, the little pockets of it that remained, anyway: gone. Any shred of monetary assistance that we could have received was gone. With it went our heating and air conditioning. They were unnecessary services that only created more risk of fires— and we no longer had a fire department.

Then, of course, the cost of maintaining medical facilities was such a huge drain. They just couldn't remain open. There were too many people injured or sick and not enough money to treat them. People

The police were all that was left. And President Grand worshipped the ground they walked on.

By the time I was sixteen we never left the house at all. Even after my dad went crazy, even after he tore up the house, even after he was frothing at the mouth, even as his body began to rot... I did not leave the house. I was alone. And the only thing worse than being black outside was being black and alone outside. At least my dad was sane enough to tell me that before the cat bite that drove him to his frothy death.

I knew that eventually the news of the smell would spread through the floors of the apartment building. The whispers of our white neighbors would reach the police. And the police wouldn't bother to ask for a cause of death. That is a job for medical professionals, and those no longer exist. their job is simple: eliminate a potential threat.

It was everything my father had feared and more. What little news I got from the outside world, whispers leaking through the cracks in the sagging walls, only solidified my dread, like curdling milk.

I had to leave. There were only two fates awaiting me: death by disease, like my father, or death by police. I could not continue to sit here waiting for one or the other to take me.

I knew I had to leave. Every bone in my body begged for me to run, every synapse in my brain screamed for me to flee. By every law of nature I should have ran.

But I didn't. Not even when the police broke down the door to my neighbor's apartment. Not when I heard the subsequent gunshots, the laughter that quickly turned to swearing, and then to screaming.

My neighbor, whoever they were, got the last laugh. They knew the police wee coming and they soaked their building with gasoline. Probably killed at least one of the cops.

It was the perfect moment to leave. And yet when I watched the flames I remembered that first decree, disbanding the firefighters.

I decided that fire was a fitting way to go. Better than disease. Better than police. A few moments of agony and then nothing. After all, there would be no doctors to save me. No firefighters to carry me from the building as they desperately tried to drown the flames. The only thing awaiting me outside this building was persecution.

It began with fire. And now I will end with fire.

My last wish was only that the entire country would burn. That fire would run rampant until the government saw its errors spelled out in ash. The fire that claimed me would claim everything.

But I'd never be around to see that vengeance. I'd have to be content with pretending, in my last, agonizing moment, that my death would have meaning.

And yet, I knew it wouldn't. In a world where death is so prevalent, it loses its potency.

Life has meaning. And we're being deprived of it. One by one.

I am just another casualty of the war on crime.

Jerry pulled on her helmet. She checked the programming for the bots who took care of the various fires derelict broken hulks of human beings lit overnight to stay warm. Every morning brought at a thousand illegal burn sites. Not that she would mention the intentional conflagrations ignited to get around legal requirements for demolition. A burnt out building was an eyesore, and immediate action was required. City administration would not tolerate eyesores.

She pushed the go button for the the extinguishing bots. Effeciency was their middle name, and in this misty, pearly hour before dawn every visible sign of dissatisfaction and the poor would disappear.

The next line of semi-sentients strode forward. Backpacks filled with necessary medications and easily assembled transportation devices, slapped hollowly against the metal framework beneath their plaskin coverings. Medics. The next bastion in the defense against the dirty underbelly of night. How many of them had broken down in yesterday's collapse of Unity Church? She scanned her monitor. Only one hundred. Not bad. The factory on the outskirts of Valhalla would easily replace them before tomorrow morning.

She tapped the red cross flashing on her screen. Damn the insistence of strict scheduling. Really, did the powers that be think a few seconds would make a difference? But then again illusions were the only thing that mattered.

Looking across the suddenly empty void of the robotics staging area, she waved. Her partner climbed into the sleek solar powered double bike. The whine of electric motors spooling up, brought her hands to her ears, and Jerry fumbled for the activation switch for her noise cancelling function.

"Right power on first," she muttered. "Why can I never remember to activate before I put the damn thing on?"

"You ready?" Evan asked. His cyborg enhancements flashed miniature blips of green as he flexed his legs.

Jerry checked her own replacements, noted the all good on her HUD. and swung onto the seat in the back. Time for another day of mindless patrol. Graduating to day shifts should have been a relief, but the gritty reality of night was more to her liking.

"Ready for the bore?" She tapped Evan's shoulder to give him the signal to go.

"Not yet. There's still another couple of minutes before everyone wakes up."

Evan's snarky remark matched her own disgust. Promoted to boredom becausee they didn't keep their mouths shut. Never mind, the truth would come out. It always did. Even in 2369, there weren't enough plugs to stop the leaks from city hall.

The police were the first to go. Not that that shocked anyone. With all the brutality, abuse of power, bribery being done, it had gotten to the point where they were causing more crimes than they prevented. The final nail was when a bribed chief of police shot the local politician he was meant to protect on national TV. It didn’t take long after that for the remaining politicians to unanimously decide that “While the police have in the past have done a great job at keeping the people of this country safe, it is time for the government to step back and allow private security companies take over.” The police stations were all shut down in quick order, and almost as quickly organized crime grew tenfold. Those who could afford personal security didn’t notice a difference. Those that couldn’t learned to be more careful where they walked.

Next to go were the ambulances. With rise of organized crime also came a rise in drugs. Not all drugs though were harmful. Many in fact were the same kind used in the hospitals, being made readily available for cheap. With the increase of black-market pharmaceuticals, less people opted to go to the hospitals. In response doctors increased their rates to make up for lost revenue. This in turn drove even more people away. In the end it was to expensive to keep the hospitals open any more, so they closed. Doctors open up private practices, and the need for ambulances just went away.

The fire department is the only one still around. They put out the fires still, and help get cats out of trees. The increased budget from the defunct police department allowed for better equipment, training, and pay. Most of hospital staff that did not join private practices also end up there. They might not be able to protect you from trouble, but you can bet they will do their best to get you out. You need help, emergency or not, call the fire department.

Well, if I were to,

to Court myself,

I'd take my Self

to Trial...

I'd wanna note

the ugly, wild,

and unkempt

Company...

That unvarnished

monday morning,

Me polite-society

doesn't see,

Not ice creaming

in a blind-date at

the big Cafeteria

of the mall...

Nor shooting up

friendly hoops,

after some three-

point remark...

Nor snooting aires

in fine-wine-n-dine

bouquets of the

town square...

It'd surely take an

odder masquerade to

have me sashay Me

into City hall.

Court Yourself Challenge @Last