In the glorious armpit of Star-Spangled Shitholia—where the American Dream went to die, get taxidermied, and then unionize against its own taxidermist—there squatted Liberty Landing. Picture a strip mall so rundown it made abandoned Waffle Houses look like five-star resorts. Faded signs hawked everything from "Psychic Plumbing Repairs" (guaranteed to unclog your aura and your pipes) to "Guns 'N' Bibles: Buy One, Get One Free Eternal Damnation." And right in the greasy heart of it all? The Bald Eagle Bounty Hunters' HQ, a glorified storage unit with a door that stuck like a lobbyist's conscience.
Jax Hawthorne slouched behind the front desk, which was really just a repurposed cafeteria table scarred with katana slices and coffee-ringed manifestos. His silver-streaked hair stuck up like he'd lost a fight with a faulty toaster, and his eyes—hazel orbs of perpetual "why me?"—stared at a flickering holographic ad for "Vote-O-Matic 3000: Because Your Opinion Matters... To Our Shareholders." He popped a strawberry shortstack into his mouth, the kind from the drive-thru that promised "all-natural freedom flavor" but tasted suspiciously like regret and high-fructose corn patriotism.
"Another day in paradise," Jax muttered to no one in particular, or maybe to the universe at large. "Or as we call it in Shitholia, 'Tuesday.' You'd think after that whole 'life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness' schtick, we'd get at least one decent bagel out of the deal. But nooo. Just more ads for walls. Big walls. Yuge walls. Walls that Mexico—er, Mexi-Galactica—will pay for. With interest. And probably their firstborn spaceships."
He crunched down, crumbs scattering like confetti at a failed filibuster. The fourth wall? Oh, that flimsy bastard had been kicked down so many times, it was more like a suggestion now. Jax could practically hear the author chuckling in the ether, typing away on some overpriced laptop while sipping artisanal kale smoothies. Bastard probably votes third party just to feel edgy, Jax thought. Like that ever changes anything.
A crash from the back room shattered the morning zen—or what passed for it in a place where zen meant not accidentally summoning a demon via expired takeout. "Lila! Goddammit, not the vending machine again!"
Lila Vargas burst through the bead curtain like a human cannonball fired from a clown college. At four-foot-nothing (on a good day, with lifts), she was a pint-sized tornado of chaos, her wild purple hair tied back with a bandana that read "Debtzilla's Mom" in glittery letters. She clutched a half-eaten energy bar in one fist and a slingshot in the other, her eyes—bright green and manic—sparkling with the unfiltered joy of someone who'd just discovered that corporate espionage could double as a cardio workout.
"Sorry, boss-man! But that thing ate my last quarter! And you know what happens when machines start hoarding my caffeine fund? Revolution!" She punctuated this by hurling a spitball at the already-dented soda dispenser, which wheezed like a chain-smoking uncle at Thanksgiving. Lila was the crew's resident powerhouse, a Rustbucket Riviera kid raised on rust flakes for breakfast and reality TV for lunch. Her super-strength? Courtesy of a "minor lab accident" involving a knockoff energy drink and a runaway particle accelerator from Silicon Savanna. Or so she claimed. Jax suspected it was just spite and Red Bull.
Before he could retort, the door to the adjacent "office"—really a converted janitor's closet—creaked open. Dr. Theo Beaumont emerged, glasses perched on his nose like a bird of prey eyeing roadkill. Tall and lanky, with a mop of brown hair that defied gravity and a tie patterned with tiny Constitutions (the ironic kind, with footnotes), Theo was the glue holding this clown car together. Or at least, he tried. As a former poli-sci prof booted from his cushy gig for "excessive sarcasm in syllabus footnotes," he now balanced the books, forged the occasional fake mustache, and spouted trivia like a malfunctioning Jeopardy bot.
"Theo, tell me you fixed the quantum ledger," Jax said, wiping shortstack syrup from his chin. "Last time it glitched, we billed the mayor for a unicorn. And not the fun, glittery kind—the kind that sues for emotional distress."
Theo adjusted his glasses, peering at a tablet that hummed with illicit algorithms. "Fixed? Jax, this isn't a ledger; it's a cry for help. Half our clients pay in IOUs drawn on the back of fast-food napkins, and the other half? Let's just say 'crypto' here means 'crypt keeper favors.' But fear not—I've cross-referenced it with the latest from the Beltway Battlefield. Congress just passed the 'Avoid Accountability Act of 202-whatever,' so we're golden. Or at least, bankruptcy-proof for another fiscal quarter."
Lila snorted, vaulting over the desk to snag a fistful of Jax's shortstack stash. "Boring! Wake me when they pass the 'Free Tacos for Life' bill. Or better yet, the 'No More Student Loans, We're Sorry We Screwed You' amendment. Ooh, or that one where we nuke the whole system and start over with rock-paper-scissors for president!"
From the corner, a gravelly cough erupted like a volcano of cheap cigars. Big Bubba O'Malley unfolded himself from the ratty armchair that served as his throne, his massive frame creaking like the national debt. Six-foot-five of pure Irish-Italian-American beef, Bubba was the enforcer: ex-FBI, current cynic, with a face like a map of potholes and a perpetual stogie clamped between teeth yellowed from too many stakeouts and not enough kale. His trench coat—stained with what Jax prayed was just coffee—bulged with concealed baseball bats, zip ties, and a dog-eared copy of The Art of the Steal (the one about politics, not heists. Mostly).
"Kids these days," Bubba growled, exhaling a cloud that could choke a lobbyist at fifty paces. "Back in my day, we didn't whine about loans or tacos. We chased commies with butter knives and called it patriotism. Now? It's all apps and aliens. And don't get me started on that spray-tanned sonuvabitch in the Oval Outhouse. Promises to 'make Shitholia great'—yeah, great for his golf game and his golden parachute. Rest of us? We're just the chumps holding the umbrella in the piss-storm."
The room fell into a comfortable bickering rhythm, the kind that bonded misfits better than therapy (which, in Shitholia, cost an arm, a leg, and your firstborn's social security number). Jax leaned back, propping his boots—scuffed cowboy hybrids with hidden tanto blades—on the desk. This was their life: scraping by on bounties for escaped interns, ghostwritten memoirs for has-been senators, and the occasional "ethical" hack of a rival's poll numbers. The Bald Eagle Bounty Hunters: Because when the law's a joke, someone's gotta deliver the punchline.
The bell above the door— a salvaged Liberty Bell knockoff that tolled discordantly—jangled like a bad omen. In stumbled a wiry guy in a rumpled suit, tie askew like it'd lost a bar fight, clutching a briefcase that screamed "mid-level bureaucrat on the verge." Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyes darted like he expected the IRS to drop from the ceiling via parachute.
"Y-you're the... the hunters? The Bald Eagle ones?" he stammered, slamming the door shut as if pursued by the hounds of fiscal hell.
Jax sat up, flashing his trademark grin—the one that said "trust me, I'm only half a con artist." "That we are, friend. Jax Hawthorne, at your service. Or against it, depending on the paycheck. What'll it be? Skip-tracing a runaway stripper? Auditing a senator's browser history? Or—"
The client collapsed into a chair, briefcase popping open to reveal... papers. Stacks of them. Legal-sized nightmares stamped with eagles, seals, and enough red tape to lasso a brontosaurus. "It's worse. Much worse. My name's Morty—er, Murray. I'm... was... a clerk in the Dysfunctional Records Office. Low-level stuff: birth certificates, death tax forms, the occasional cover-up for a cabinet member's parking tickets."
Lila perked up, slingshot twanging idly. "Ooh, juicy! Spill it, suit-man. Did the Prezident's pup— I mean, the Big Cheese—get caught with his hand in the cookie jar? Or pants? Both?"
Murray swallowed, voice dropping to a whisper-shout. "Worse. The Great Geronimo Giveaway. You heard of it? That casino out on the Rez-Rim—big Native-inspired joint, all feathers and firewalls. It's the last honest game in Shitholia: slots that actually pay out, blackjack where the house loses on purpose. But last night? Poof. The whole vault—gone. Not just cash. The votes. Sealed ballots from the last primary, the ones that could've swung the Rustbucket states. Stolen. By... by them."
"Them?" Theo echoed, leaning in, his prof instincts kicking in like a caffeinated ferret.
Murray's eyes bulged. "The Machine! You know—Super PACs, dark money donors, that whole carousel of cash. Word is, the front-runner for the 'Freedom First' ticket— that windbag with the comb-over that defies physics and the ego that eats economies— he's behind it. Calls it 'election insurance.' Rig the rez, rig the nation. And if those ballots hit the black market? Forget recounts. We'll have recounts of recounts, each one more crooked than a politician's spine."
Bubba's cigar nearly dropped. "Sonuvabitch. That's why the TweetFart feeds are exploding with 'glitches' and 'ghost votes.' I've seen this rodeo before—back when I busted that ring of holographic hookers laundering bribes. Ends with fireworks. Literal ones, if the drones get involved."
Jax drummed his fingers on his katana hilt, the blade humming faintly under the desk like it sensed bullshit in the air. This was bigger than their usual gigs. Smelled like a paycheck with benefits: dental, maybe. Or at least hazard pay for dodging federal goon squads. But in Shitholia, nothing was ever just a heist. It was always a hydra—cut off one head (a corrupt capo), and two more sprouted (his idiot nephews with AR-15s and AR-guably worse impulse control).
"Alright, Murray," Jax said, standing with a theatrical flourish that sent shortstack wrappers flying. "You're hired. I mean, we're hiring you as a client. Five grand upfront, plus expenses. And by expenses, I mean tacos. Lots of 'em."
Murray fumbled for a wad of bills—crisp, suspiciously unmarked—that made Lila's eyes light up like a slot machine jackpot. "Deal. Just... get 'em back. Before the Giveaway Gala tomorrow. The whole rez's counting on it. Hell, the whole country's counting on something not being a total sham for once."
As Murray scurried out, promising coordinates and a floor plan sketched on a cocktail napkin, the crew huddled. Lila bounced on her toes. "Road trip! With explosions? Please say explosions."
Theo scrolled his tablet, frowning. "Blueprints show laser grids, guard drones modeled after those old 'peacekeeper' bots from the Border Wars. And get this: the vault's rigged with 'patriot protocols'—trip one wire, and it broadcasts your mug to every news drone from here to the Savanna."
Bubba grunted, reloading his bat with what looked like brass knuckles etched with "Don't Tread." "Sounds like a party. The kind where you bring bail money and a lawyer who moonlights as a bartender."
Jax sheathed his katana—Liberty's Edge, a family heirloom forged from melted-down campaign promises—and cracked his knuckles. "Then let's crash it. For truth, justice, and the right to arm bears. Or samurai. Whatever."
They piled into the "Eagle Van"—a rusted El Dorado knockoff with more dents than a politician's excuses, painted in stars-and-stripes camouflage that fooled absolutely no one. As it roared to life (more like wheezed, really), Jax glanced at the rearview. In the distance, the Dysfuncion City skyline loomed: the White House a funhouse of mirrored walls reflecting infinite lies, the Capitol a dome that looked like a rejected snow globe. And overhead, a bald eagle circled—not the majestic symbol of freedom, but their cursed mascot, Eddie, who shat "prophetic" droppings that always predicted the next scandal. Today's? A splat right on the windshield, forming what Jax swore was a tiny toupee.
"Fuckin' figures," he sighed, flipping on the wipers. "Chapter one's barely started, and we're already knee-deep in eagle shit. Strap in, team. This ballot's about to get bloody."
The van peeled out, leaving Liberty Landing in a cloud of exhaust and unresolved angst. Little did they know, the Great Geronimo Giveaway wasn't just a heist. It was the spark for the mother of all powder kegs: a conspiracy that'd drag in shape-shifting senators, AI astrologers, and a fast-food mascot with a grudge. But hey, in Shitholia, every Tuesday's a Tuesday. And Tuesdays? They always ended with fireworks.
Or impeachment. Same diff.