The Yuge Wall of Jina_It's Fully Loaded Read online

  Copyright © March 2018 by Jaid Black.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher: Valentina Antonia, LLC.

  The Yuge Wall of Jina

  It’s Fully Loaded

  By Jaid Black

  FULLY LOADED JINA WARNING

  Dear Losers, Haters, Fake News, Black NFL Players (Past, Present, and Future), and Anyone Named Hillary, Obama, Mueller, Pelosi, or Schumer…

  It would be a bigly mistake to continue reading this book without having read its predecessor first. Consider yourself warned.

  This is the point of no return. You are now choosing to enter the Fully Loaded Jina at your own risk.

  Prologue

  NSA (Normal States of America)

  April 27, 2073

  A series of bells rang in synchronicity throughout every city in the bicoastal nation. It was a purposely calming, harmonious sound, yet one rarely heard. From Boston to Honolulu, Normal Americans stopped whatever it was they’d been doing and waited for the Emergency Broadcast System to commence. Citizens already at home hightailed it to their domicile’s nearest televisual surface while those outside turned to face the closest building.

  Schumer and Reid Summers stood hand-in-hand in Times Square as they waited with their fellow New Yorkers for the impending broadcast. The long-married couple had freshly indulged in a late morning Broadway play and were casually strolling toward the bistro they planned to have lunch in when the bells began.

  As expected, the outer façade of every building in Times Square lit up and morphed into a televisual surface. Husband and wife exchanged a quizzical glance before turning their attention back to a façade. Finally, words began to roll across the screen as a disembodied voice spoke:

  “We interrupt your regularly scheduled activities to bring you this very important public service announcement…”

  The televisual surface morphed again, this time tuning into a live news broadcast. A hologram of Maddow Lawrence, an iconic and highly regarded tele-journalist, caused a murmur to ripple through the crowd. If Ms. Lawrence was the person about to impart the public service announcement that usually meant the communication was pretty serious.

  “My fellow Normal Americans: I extend greetings and positive affirmations to all of you on this most unprecedented occasion. The news you are about to receive is disturbing, but I have been assured by the president herself that the crisis is being looked into and will be dealt with accordingly.”

  Schumer gave his wife’s hand a comforting squeeze, but didn’t look away from the façade. Maddow Lawrence never appeared in a public hologram as anything less than poised and calm, yet today her dark eyes were wide, alarmed. Her braided hair, usually coiffed into a tight schoolmarm bun behind her head, cascaded into quasi-disarray around her shoulders.

  “At some point during the late hours of April 25th or possibly into the very early morning hours of April 26th, three female citizens of the NSA were kidnapped by a wild herd of gun-wielding Cro-MAGAnon males.”

  Gasps of shock and muffled cries of fear rippled through the crowd assembled in Times Square. Schumer’s green eyes widened as he shared a worried glance with his wife. Please, God, don’t let this be about our daughter, he silently prayed. Neither he nor Reid had been able to reach Snow, but it wasn’t unusual for their grown child—one of New York City’s most renowned artists—to go off the radar for a few days when she was focused on creating her newest masterpiece. Still, she had gone to a retreat in a border town so he was worried. Snow attended nature getaways with other Affirmationologists at least twice a month, sometimes every week.

  “The details we’ve learned are still rather sketchy at this time, but what we do know with one hundred percent certainty is that all three of our female citizens were taken beyond the border wall and into Trumpgolia. Reporting on this terrorist incident live from Port Jervis, New York is our very own Haines Goldberg. Haines, are there any new developments in this case?”

  The hologram morphed, this time becoming a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman. Haines Goldberg, much like Maddow Lawrence, was another well-respected tele-journalist. She was standing in front of a forest, the Delaware River visible in the distance.

  Schumer’s musculature tightened. Wasn’t Port Jervis where Snow’s retreat was always held?

  “The police are still in the process of downloading eyewitness documemories from their brain scans, however, I was permitted to speak with a few of those bystanders off-camera. Frankly, Maddow, the details are chilling. To protect the psychological health of small children, I recommend all citizens take a moment to engage the parental control monitor of their main televisual surface’s console.”

  Maddow’s hologram appeared next to Haines as the emergency broadcast system gave every citizen thirty additional seconds to comply. In Times Square, Schumer could see several parents frantically reaching into their purses or wallets to retrieve the small device that would block the signal from the emergency broadcast system from their children’s brains. Whereas the adults could see and hear the live news report, the children now heard and saw age-appropriate programming no matter what façade they looked at. At the thirty second mark, Maddow indicated to Haines that she was free to continue her report.

  “Apparently the kidnapped women were communing with Mother Nature at the time of the incident. I must say, Maddow, the ensuing scene described by eyewitnesses reads like something out of a horror novel.”

  Schumer heard his wife’s small intake of breath. He held Reid’s hand tighter and prayed their daughter was one of the eyewitnesses instead of one of the victims. It was a selfish hope perhaps, but every parent has a natural bias toward one’s own child.

  “Within minutes of taking to the forest floor to become one with Mother Nature and her healing herbs, at least three Cro-MAGAnon males—possibly more—were seen absconding with three Normal American females. Eyewitnesses described the terrorists to me as tall, heavily muscled, and well-trained. One of the observers noted that the Cro-MAGAnons engaged in the radical jihadist chant ‘repeal and replace’ as they forced the NSA females under the wall and into their patronizing den of iniquity.”

  A couple of women near Schumer and Reid fainted, but most just continued to stand there in Times Square in a state of shock. Many of them raised one hand to cover their disbelieving mouths, his own wife included. Schumer could hardly blame Reid and the other female citizens. Nothing so horrific had ever taken place in NSA before.

  “I knew something like this would happen eventually!” an old man snapped. “Those border town residents are notorious for catapulting old food over the wall.”

  “They shouldn’t feed them!” an old lady agreed. “For the love of facts and science, how difficult is it to understand the Cro-MAGAnons are scavengers? And now three Normal females are paying the price for their idiocy!”

  Haines’ hologram disappeared and Maddow’s 3-D image was once again prominent. Schumer swallowed heavily, his attention once again transfixed on Maddow.

  “While it is our station’s usual policy not to release victims’ names prior to the government notifying their families, we have been asked by the freely elected, ruling body of NSA to make an exception in this case as attempts to reach the families this morning have thus far yielded no results.”

  Reid’s haunted gaze flew up to meet h
is. Could the one day he and his wife decided to take in a Broadway show…?

  No! He refused to even consider the possibility.

  “Please prepare yourselves, citizens, because most if not all of the following names will be familiar to every Manhattanite and likely most of NSA. Here we go…” Maddow visibly steadied herself. “Investigative Journalist Warren DiRoma of the New York Times—age thirty-one.”

  Schumer’s entire body stilled. His blood turned to ice.

  “Dr. Hillary Ferguson, the tech genius who invented the televisual surface. Like Ms. DiRoma, Dr. Ferguson is from New York City and is also age thirty-one.”

  “Oh God,” Reid cried, trembling. “Schumer…?”

  Schumer murmured to his wife that everything would be okay, but was silently worried that it wouldn’t be. Warren and Hillary were Snow’s roommates. The inseparable trio had been best friends since kindergarten. This wasn’t happening. Their beloved daughter—no!

  “Please don’t say her name,” Reid breathed out. “Please don’t say—”

  “And, finally, thirty-one-year-old Snowflake Summers,” Ms. Lawrence intoned, sending Schumer and Reid’s world into an out of control spin. “Snowflake is the renowned painter and sculptor from New York City whose most critically acclaimed work, La Pee-ahh-ta, is the 4-D fountain statue that depicts the circumstances surrounding the demise of Trumpgolia’s dictator. La Pee-ahh-ta graces The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s main atrium and is, in the words of the curator, its most beloved piece.”

  Reid turned to Schumer for comfort. She buried her face in his shirt as she sobbed. He held his wife tightly as he watched the remainder of the broadcast.

  “The freely elected, ruling body of NSA asks that the next of kin for all three victims please make their way to the closest government substation. You will be assisted by the NYPD from there.” Maddow took a deep breath and expelled it. “May God, Goddess, or the Spiritual Entity of your choosing—if any—be with you.” The tele-journalist inclined her head slightly. “Reporting live from the Twin Rodham Towers, this is Maddow Lawrence of Nasty Women News Network.”

  The façades of every building in Times Square, much like Schumer and Reid’s entire world, went dark.

  * * * * *

  “Noooooooo!” I screamed. “Nooooooo!”

  “Our poor parents,” Hillary murmured.

  “I wonder how they took it,” Warren said aloud.

  I would deal with that most unpleasant thought later. In the meantime, there was the other part of the Nasty Women News Network’s report to be horrified over.

  “Snow?” Hills asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” I squeaked. “What’s wrong?!”

  “Oh God,” Warren muttered. She sighed and rubbed her temples. “I totally understand now.”

  Hillary arched a dark eyebrow. “Well someone clue me in then because…” Her voice trailed off. I could see the very moment when comprehension dawned. “How could they?!” she screeched. “That was a totally fucked up move!”

  I vigorously nodded my head. How much more miserable could life possibly get? After everything we had been taken through already…

  “I’ll sue!” I raged. “Suuuue!”

  Life on this side of the wall sucked the big one and now life back home would too. Soon everyone—including all the men the three of us had dated in the past six years!—would know the truth. Why? Why? Whyyyyyyy?!

  My bottom lip quivered as reality hit me hard. The carefully constructed lie my besties and I created six years ago had just been outed in a live televisual broadcast. Now what would we do in twenty or thirty years when the seeds of our manipulation would have otherwise born desired fruit?

  I crossed my arms over my breasts and pouted. “I’m sticking with our story,” I whined. “We’re all twenty-five—period! I can’t believe Maddow told the world our real ages.”

  Out of everything to be upset about, and there was a lot, for some insane reason divulging my true age was the shit-filled straw that broke the camel’s back. But then, isn’t it always something trite that drives people facing gigantic battles to the brink? I morosely decided it had taken everything leading up to today’s coup d’ poo to help me understand T.S. Eliot’s famous words:

  “This is the way the world ends,” I dramatically whispered, “not with a bang, but a whimper.”

  Chapter 1: She Said

  Two Months Later

  My lips pinched into a glower as I glanced around the archaic courtroom. The stupid farce of a congressional hearing Warren, Hillary, and I were being forced to endure was packed with Trumpgolian state “journalists” (I use the word very loosely) and what looked to be old school cameras from the days of television. While the cameras explained the lack of 4-D visual representation I’d witnessed during the Nasty Women News Network’s broadcast, they also served as a depressing reminder of how ass backwards my life now was.

  “At least our parents will know we’re alive,” Warren said under her breath. “The NSA will totally pick up this feed.”

  “Yeah.” Hillary sighed. “And hopefully our government will intervene quickly.”

  My besties were seated at either side of me, but I didn’t respond. I was too busy shooting looks of promised retribution toward the antiquated cameras as this ridiculous hearing grew closer to commencing.

  Only minutes before, the three of us had been forced to sit at a long table in the middle of the throng. Three individual microphones had been plopped down in front of us. Now we could do nothing but wait for the kangaroo court to begin. I was irritated by just how quickly Cro-MAGAnon men could whip up a witch-hunt of a congressional hearing when so inclined.

  My gaze flicked away from the cameras and toward the primitive television consul that displayed the courtroom scene being broadcast across Trumpgolia and possibly the entire planet. My nostrils flared as I noted for the first time the nameplates that had been set in front of our microphones. I couldn’t decide what was more horrifying—viewing the name Snow Whitey on my nameplate or the realization that everyone in the Normal States of America was seeing me dressed like this.

  Pence’s mother—or mee-maw as he so unpoetically calls her—had been responsible for outfitting Hillary, Warren, and me. Aside from my long micro-braids, metallic emerald nails, and righteous indignation, I don’t look anything at all like myself. I, just as my besties, resembled a damn prostitute—the apparent ideal of feminine beauty in the women-depleted land of the intellectually challenged and mentally deranged.

  “We might as well be naked,” Hillary hissed, as if sensing my thoughts. She waved a hand at nothing in particular. “We look like lingerie models.”

  “I know,” I said grimly. “And not the fashion-chic kind either.”

  “The incredibly tacky kind,” Warren muttered. “We will never live this down.”

  I raised a palm to my forehead. This was all too much. I, Snowflake Summers, renowned artiste and fashionista, was on Trumpgolian national TV dressed like a third rate hooker. All I needed was a cane-wielding pimp with a few gold teeth to act as my lawyer and the look would be complete.

  At that moment a hoard of men—our abductors amongst them—made their way into the chamber. My eyebrows rose inquisitively as Paul Ryan, Gowdy, and Pence took seats on the raised dais directly across from us. Though we were facing each other, their seats in the amphitheater were higher up than ours.

  My green eyes narrowed. The deliberately unequal seating was an intimidation tactic, I supposed, but one that would not work.

  “I don’t believe this shit!” Warren said incredulously. “Our accusers and questioners are one in the same?” The Italian She-Stallion looked ready to charge. “What the fuck kind of a hearing is this?”

  I shrugged. “This is Trumpgolia,” I said dryly. “Feel free to ask the question if you want a stupid, nonsensical, hypocritical, and nauseatingly patronizing answer.”

  “Are they also our judges?” Hillary squeaked. The mics hadn’t b
een turned on yet, but she covered hers with one hand as extra precaution. “Because this congressional hearing is bullshit if so!”

  I wasn’t given time to answer. The inquiry was called to order by the twanging exorcist. My lips pinched in a glower as I watched him take his seat in the very middle of the raised dais.

  “Oh good,” Warren said sardonically, “the leading Cro-MAGAnon expert on demonic possession has returned.” She rolled her eyes. “Maybe this time we’ll be burned at the stake.”

  “If we’re lucky.” Hillary harrumphed. “At least then this’ll all be over.”

  The three of us shared a much needed snicker. Hills did have a point.

  “Y’all listen up!” the twanger boomed out to the chamber’s many occupants. “I am one Professor-Preacher Angus and this here is the official adjourning of the hearing.”

  I shook my head and sighed. I wanted to scream “adjourn means ‘to end’, you fucking idiot!” but I resisted said temptation. Discretion was—at least for now—the better part of valor.

  “It’s time to begin,” the exorcist from hell intoned as he took a seat at the dais next to Paul Ryan. He patted his bleached-blond comb over into place. I idly wondered how that do could ever fall out of place. If the crunch-crunch sound of his hair being patted was any indication, the damn thing was all but shellacked to his head. “The Committee On Newliest Grievances & Related Enforcement (of mandates) on Spouses & Slaves is in session. Today we will hear from Master Sergeant Whitey, Sergeant First Class McKillery, and Sergeant First Class Michaels.”

  I absently drummed my fingernails on the tabletop as my eyes narrowed in thought. Committee On Newliest Grievances & Related Enforcement of Mandates on Spouses & Slaves? What did that even mean?

  “I thought we were testifying before congress!” Hillary said quietly but forcefully. “This doesn’t make any—” She swallowed roughly as her almond eyes widened. “Oh my lord.”