Respect my authoritah

Authoritarianism drug treatment - in utero? Alternatives to drugs? E.g. genomics

50 years in the future sounds good, maybe less…30?

No WWIII, but lots of cold war / proxy war / terrorism / etc.; religious/genetic prejudice/supremacism?

Unification, homogenization of the "first world": North America, Europe, Russia, China, Japan, Korea, Australia, Brazil, India, Iran, Israel/Syria/Iraq/Arabia, Egypt/Kenya/Libya/Sudan, South Africa, Argentina, Peru, Venezuela, territories, etc.

Occupation, rebellion of the third world, Iraq-like anarchy, Chechnya-like oppression

Religious, traditionalist, highly conscientious, moderately agreeable, moderately neurotic, low-moderately extraverted, low-moderately open, highly absorptive, low self-monitoring, high death avoidance & fear of death, low need for cognition, high control/harm-avoidance / low impulsivity, high internalizing / low externalizing

Pseudo-communistic: career tests & assignments, corporarchy/corporocracy/plutocracy, limited civil rights—organized dissent illegal, CJS euthanasia- /reprogramming-based

Neo-Mormon/Scientologist/Christian Scientist? Anti-intellectual (moderate? I mean, how dystopian should I really go?), officialized but regionally variable?

Mildly male-chauvinistic: feminism in regression because homogenization & revival of religious traditions occurs before equality of ownership achieved. Integration of military cut back due to terrorist attacks & casualties, male domination of military reflected in "cold-war-administration," and society by extension/association.

Incomplete programmability, limited control over IQ/g/ attention span / body type, no direct access to thoughts/beliefs except truth serums / new & improved lie detectors.

Service-based economy, mechanized manufacturing sector & military

About 70% upper middle class, 10% upper class, 3% owners, 17% menial service positions / unemployed welfare (non-monetary, life-support food-stamp- /homeless-shelter-type programs)

African-American main character, underperformed in vocational colleges due to attention deficit & type A psychoticism (maybe some stereotype threat for good measure), but graduated thanks to meds. Relatively large/stocky build but only average reflexes & dexterity (vocationally useless combo), no particular quantitative talent (some disinclination? due to stereotype threat?), verbal skill and sharp wit but too disagreeable for most service jobs (sort of a Kellum/Jimbo crossbreed)

narrated in first-person, present-tense

Spoiler warning!!

plot details follow:

exposed to "dangerous ideology" (misanthropic/Nihilistic/atheistic?) and goes noncompliant w/ meds, comes under scrutiny, maybe reassigned a few times, reevaluated, scheduled for some reprogramming, ditches appointments, gets threatening government messages, goes into hiding among unemployed, caught, interrogated & medicated, released on leave pending reassignment

flees country (so soon?): trouble at airport (pursued by parole agents? Steals ticket / fakes ID?), stopped at ticketing/reception area, sent for special interrogation but waved through by half-assed interrogator, tense wait at gate (someone else arrested/detained by agents?), boards and sinks warily into seat, falls asleep (dream sequence?)

Arrives: Madagascar? Somewhat narrowly manages to bullshit through customs, trouble finding a hotel that takes walk-ins

kills time at a narcotic bar: overhears loud, shockingly profane talks (arguments?) over politics (between a middle-class neutral and a lower-middle-class revolutionary?). Feels revolted but intrigued, maybe angered. Inner monologue (dispersed throughout text in 'single-mark quotations' or maybe (parentheses)?) counterpoint with all/most anti-union sentiments, "resolves" in inner confusion/conflict and disdainful decision to drink/smoke the questions away and worry about his own problems. Gets direction to a walk-in hotel, waits in line while others get checked in / checked out (i.e. screened), recalls training to report suspicious dissenters, notices wanted posters & heavily-armed soldiers at entrance and stairway, gets nervous/shifty-eyed, drugs interfere, gets frightened when he catches the soldiers' eyes a few times too often, sees stairway guard glance at other guard and say something into watchie-talkie (wrist-worn like secret service, but probably functionally more like a palm pilot), gets frightened, steels self and turns to leave line, bumps someone else who insults him, hurries out past entrance guard, glancing up at the last second for a little stare-down (write out in great detail—e.g. guard's eye color, hyper/incoherent inner monologue, nervous laugh or some other suspiciously revealing micro expression, fumble with door—so as to make this tiny event last half-a-page/half-of-eternity), counts steps from the door once outside, description of tunnel vision, counts steps, jumbled inner monologue going over potential consequences of being caught, counts steps, sprints away after 28&1/2 steps and the sound of the door opening abruptly. Detailed description of sudden acceleration & sprinting (throwing weight forward from shoulders halfway through 29^th step, feet slamming blacktop, arms pumping instinctually but catching his attention strangely as if supernaturally coordinated), ducking through a dark alley, doesn't look back, end of chapter.

Lungs burning, he stomps to a stop and catches his breath, finding himself deep in a semi-forested central park/zoo (like NY's Central Park and/or Como). Plods over to a bench and sits heavily, exhausted.

Inner monologue: what now? Was he chased or did he just overreact? Did he arouse too much suspicion? Will he be chased? Where to go? How long with a limited budget? Will his credit accounts be suspended? What can he do if so? How can he survive in this society? He only knows a few words in French and has a heavy accent; and any English-speaking businesses are liable to check his records and suspect him, especially if his credit is declined. (Guilty alienated outsider fugitive mentality setting in heavily at this point.) Anxiety attack combined with intoxication causes panicked mess of thoughts to collapse, begins to somaticize stress, feels nausea surge, faintly tastes vomit but suppresses it, hyperventilates somewhat, becomes faint, tries to do a little Zen from some stupid anger management seminar he was sent to in junior high school, triggers flighty memory sequence from teenage era (content somewhat irrelevant except as transition; chronologically sporadic, emotionally themed, perhaps romantic, maybe sent to seminar for decking some douche who slapped a girl he liked)…drifts…

Subtle (seamless? Tense switch from past as a specific event is recalled to present as he relives the event?) transition into semi-nightmarish dream sequence: maybe something like trying to follow after her as she runs crying from the conflict. Pushes past the assembling crowd of nervous spectators, starts to jog-chase but has lost sight of her, swings to a walk and slow stop, looking around, having gotten lost on a dark, heavily-forested bicycle path with a flickering streetlamp overhead, walks slowly into the gathering darkness, listening to the wind in the trees and the alarmingly conspicuous noise of his own footsteps in the leaves and twigs, noting then that he'd lost the path…hears strange bird calls, an faint & distant clanging as of bone against resonant metal, steps through some tall brush to a fairly broad clearing, louder bird calls, a few steps into the open, a strong breeze, glancing up to the sky, almost blinded by the moon, full and bright and bigger than he's ever seen or thought possible, he looks away and rubs his eyes, feeling a slight headache from the light, he hears a low, muffled, slightly distant, slightly snarling growl. He feels something poke his calf and recoils in involuntary, reflexive shock.

Squinting in the light, he shields his face with his hands and coils his stricken leg, bracing for whatever's next. A gruff and odd, familiar man's voice says hey. Buddy. (a French/Malagasy accent is apparent.) you can't sleep here man. There's a patrol coming soon, they'll give you grief if you don't look busy. Might take you away if you don't straighten out and sober up, huh?

He collects himself, sits up, and squints up with one eye closed in the mid-morning sun to recognize the rebellious man from the bar. A white guy with a beard and longish, messy hair. Looks Italian or German. His head throbs from the sudden movement, he grimaces, and nods, as if ready to get up after a short rest. Convinced or uninterested, the man haughtily fakes a small laugh, turns, and walks away slowly, as if hesitant to return to his charges. He wears the uniform of a park/zoo caretaker, and an archaic walkie-talkie on his belt at his right side; but in his right hand he holds a trash spear, no doubt for double-duty as the vagrant-prodding instrument. A merciful measure considering the damage he could do with a call to the cops.

Sore, hungry, and hungover, he stumbles to his feet, finding them somewhat stubborn and still half-asleep. He shuffles out down the main walkway toward the open gate (was it open the night before? Did he scale it?). He hears two men approaching from a side path, chattering loudly and obnoxiously. As they round the bend he sees that they're soldiers, and they look and sound like they might be from his home region. Suddenly self-conscious, he straightens his disheveled shirt, feeling the cool and clammy parts shift from where he had sweated into them. Head down, hands in pockets, and brow furrowed, he walks on without skipping a beat, feeling almost at home, just exuding inconspicuity while passing the local authorities.

Hey! (the banal conversation stops, but not the marching.) Aint you sposed to be somewhere sprat? (They must be rural, this "harmless" sort of patronistic racism was making a comeback out there.)

The dick chortled with self-satisfaction.

Aw, leave em alone Lowell, he's goin already. 'Sides we're already behind, gonna hafta pick it up if we're gonna make the checkpoint on time.

Y'hear that? You lucky y'aint the only one runnin late today boy.

Muttering something under his breath, Lowell quickens his pace, and the good cop follows suit.

Realizing he was gritting his teeth, he unclenches his fists in his pockets and glances over his shoulder at the soldiers hurrying away. Glancing over his other, he sees the caretaker man standing off to the side, watching with his arms crossed and a hard look on his face—half sympathetic, half ready to chew him out. He must see this same shit happen every Sunday morning. Or was it Monday already? If it'd been church the soldiers expected him to be at, they might've just talked some shit about him amongst themselves, old Lowell wouldn'tve been that close to hauling him in personally. And sure the resistance was here too, but in this area they were weak enough to know better than to pull some stupid shit on the holy day, so why even send a manned patrol through a damn zoo on a strict schedule if it wasn't a workday? That fuckin clinches it. Must be Monday. How long was that flight? What time zone is he in? He can't even remember what day he got on the plane. What the fuck is he gonna do now.

Wanders around town, just getting the lay of the land and trying to find someone who could take his credit without looking like he spoke enough English to question him about it, maybe even give him some currency for it, whatever the hell they used for money here…(starts to think with frequent profanity now.) sticks to the busy streets so as to look like he's going somewhere. Almost blends in better here than at home, gotta take advantage of that. It's the prey mentality, safety in numbers…and fuck if he knows anything better than to just play his odds as safe as can be.

Random city life scenes pass by, day fades to dusk, no luck, no food, no nothing. Starts worrying about where he's gonna sleep this time. Winds up in familiar territory, passing the upscale joints, toward the walk-in hotel, feeling desperate enough to try his luck. A face-scanning drone flies in overhead from around a corner, and before he realizes it he's hugging a wall under the canopy of a butcher shop's entrance. He edges along in front of the window, bumping it a bit with his elbow. He hears a loud thwack from behind the window and turns to see the swarthy Arab butcher lift his gaze and his cleaver with a scowl. Probably missed his cut or something, what a jackass. Turning back to the street, he realizes he's attracting some attention from passersby with his odd posture plastered up against a butcher's window. The drone has flown past down the street though: crisis averted. Stepping out into the throng he is absorbed again into the flowing mass of early evening life, a dewdrop falling from some higher place into this dirty little gutter, drifting listlessly toward some sewer unasking of a name.

He passes the bar again, on his way to roll his dice; only then does he feel his heart still pounding in his chest, the sweat coalescing on his forehead. He steps twice aside to a stop, leaning with his hand against the windowless wall of that old dive that did him in the night before, itself no more than a hole in the tall brick wall. As he wonders why he ever went in in the first place, he hears the odd, uplifted voice of the rebel zookeeper emanating from within again. Sounds like he's winning this argument. The taste of that old Scotch just teases the tip of his brain briefly enough to get him thinking. What the hell gives this place the right to serve that kinda shit like it was on tap? Who was the last Scotsman to set foot on this God-forsaken island? And why did he leave his liquor behind, here of all places…Fuck it. Maybe if I take it easy this time it'll help me stop shaking. Never gonna get a room like this anyway. If my luck's so fuckin bad that those jarheads at the hotel recognize me, then I might as well be drunk when they catch me. Maybe they'll come find me here and I wont even have to fuck with the hotel. That's fine by me.

Heads in, sits at the bar near the table where the heated debate is still sounding pretty one-sided. Bartender's busy at the other side. Groundskeeper Willie sounds like he knows about the Scotch here too, but he's just good enough to not give a damn if he runs the other guy into the ground or out of the bar…and before the barkeeper can get his opponent the bill, he does. Looks like he's got a little crowd with him, but they're all mum, nobody wants to argue with this guy. So he goes and picks his next opponent for himself.

Hey, you're that guy I found sleepin on the bench this morning. You got a real pair on ya to go doin a dumbass thing like that on a Sunday night. Look like you got some other place you can go too, not like all the other trash I have to pick up after. Yea you probably deserved to get harassed by those two tools today, you really oughta fuckin know better. (He can see he's getting a reaction outta me. So tough to play it cool when somebody really sincerely thinks YOU'RE the dumbshit, and it's always so fucking ironic!)

But hey, at least they backed off huh. Fuckin tools, all they care about is getting paid and looking good for their sarge. You should see how they treat guys like you who decide a bench in the middle of the fuckin zoo is a good place to sleep, when they KNOW you ain't got nowhere else to go. Its like not a fuckin word, just off you go, never to be seen or heard from again. Y'know how people like to pretend the homeless and the refugees are invisible? They're the guys who make it so we don't have to pretend so much. That's the one time they take their jobs seriously, when they get to put some poor fool on ice. And I heard they take pride in how—

(Bartender's done at the other end by now, Ive been ordering that drink while this dink runs his mouth off, so now, shot in hand, ive had my fill. Aint no way that gate was closed if all this vagrant scum keeps tumbling in like he says.)

Look jackass. You're the poor fool who deserves to get iced. I bet you come in here day after day looking for some small-minded sucker to bitch to cuz you're sick of your job cleaning up after all the human shit that falls in your lap every morning. Well heres some advice from a dumbass with a bigger brain than yours: either quit drowning your sorrows and wasting this Scotch long enough to remember to close your fucking gate, or put down your shit spear and pick up that piece of shit walkie-talkie and call in somebody who'd be more than happy to do your fucking job for you. Then maybe you could shut the fuck up and just let a motherfucker be. What business is it of yours if some dipshit wants to sleep his life away. (Or enjoy his Scotch for god's sake. Which reminds me…)

Aha. That's funny. WANTS to sleep his life away? REMEMBER to close the gate? You don't know nothing bout what Im talkin about do ya. Well don't cut me off this time and you might learn something, Mr. BiggyBrains. That "human shit" that falls in my lap? They used to be just like your sheep ass. Did something stupid like loiter in a park after-hours and skip out on work like I know you did today, you're still wearing that same nasty shirt. Where the hell did you find that ugly shit anyway, you look like a Union desk-jockey. But I digress.

Ya don't go and sleep in a public place that aint even sposta be OPEN to the public when there's a curfew. And you're fuckin lucky you don't just happen to come from one of these countries all these refugees are comin from, we aint got martial law here yet. Where they come from, they get shot on the fuckin spot if they get caught doin what you did today. Yer soldier boys in those countries aint so soft as ours, they figure if you aint a model citizen then you might as well be a fuckin terrorist and you're better off dead. No hesitation, you literally sleep your fucking life away, they just come to collect. And it's the same no matter what you do wrong over there. No questions asked. Over there, when you got no job and no place to go, you cant afford to fall asleep. That's why they come here. Here they can take their chances with the boys in black (soldier colors, when their camo isn't turned on anyway), they can learn their schedules and sleep around on weekends and get up early enough to get the fuck out of the way. They cant afford to get stupid drunk and sleep through sunrise like you, they never had no credit and they know the value of their damn lives. And yea I complain cuz they don't pick up their damn trash when they pick up and go before I get in; you don't even know how nice my job was before the refugees started coming. but trashy as they may be, they're still HUMAN, not shit. And I leave the fucking gate open on purpose, cuz if my animals got the right to sleep peacefully in their cages, then my fellow man damn well deserves somewhere to sleep too.

Oh, oh, that's just great! You leave the fucking gate open and you wonder why your job's gone to shit? You wonder why there's so many damn refugees comin here to a fucking island and not going somewhere else when you damn well know it'd be easier not to steal yourself onto a plane and bullshit your way through customs and wander the fucking streets of a city that's still got some semblance of civilization about it? Heres a hint you traitor son of a bitch: you lit up the fucking vacancy sign yourself! Hey and another idea while I'm at it: why don't you just put up a scrolling marquee saying terrorists wanted?? Maybe then you can get a real job cleaning up some REAL mess.

(now it was about the time I was halfway through this sentence that I notice some chick with a butch haircut in his little audience is givin me the coldest, sharpest eyes I have EVER seen. Like she had x-rays trained on me looking for that space between the ribs to just slip that steak knife through. I almost choked on my words as they were comin out, but Willie's too drunk and pissed to notice. But did she?)

Whoa now, better watch what you say in front of my friends man, I aint no traitor. Me & mine been here since before the empire came knockin'. Our loyalty is where its always been, aint no reason I should have any to these motherfuckers that come to take it away from us. And once again you just prove you don't know jack shit about what we're talkin about. Throwin the word terrorist around like it's the newest slur, you probly never even met one. Well I have man, and aint none of the people in my park like that. Theyre on the run cuz people like you think they're terrorists just cuz they're disenfranchised, and they cant watch their back 24/7 when nobody trusts them and there aint nobody they can trust. On top of that, where they're from they got real honest-to-fuckin-goodness terrorists runnin around, and those motherfuckers don't care who you are or where you're from. They just know they'd rather die than live in the empire, and they figure they're doin a favor for anyone they manage to take with em! Aint no reasoning with them, they don't even operate on reason like civilized people do anymore. They're wild fuckin animals, all they know is blood flows, and if you spread it thin enough, it stops flowing. We of the resistance aint nothing like them. We don't kill each other, we kill who's come to kill us. We kill who killed our brothers and our fathers and our mothers and our sons in front of us. But we still got plenty of family left to protect. We're all family. Every one of us that's human. Only ones we disown are the distant ones that came for our closest ones. Now you tell me what part of that aint reasonable.