Nachgedacht für 15sYankee Samurai Shenanigans: The Endless Ballot of Bullshit Chapter 2: Feathers, Firewalls, and a Whole Lotta Fowl Play
The Eagle Van tore down the Rez-Rim Highway like a bald eagle with indigestion—wobbling, belching exhaust, and occasionally swerving to avoid potholes the size of congressional egos. Star-Spangled Shitholia's outskirts blurred by: billboards hawking "Build the Wall... Or At Least a Privacy Fence" alongside rusting windmills that spun promises of green energy but mostly just generated tumbleweeds and despair. Jax gripped the wheel, one hand on it, the other clutching a thermos of lukewarm joe spiked with "patriot's pride" (code for moonshine that tasted like apple pie regrets).
"Remind me again why we didn't spring for the hyper-rail?" Jax griped, dodging a drone delivery pod that looked suspiciously like a flying tax form. "Oh right—because the government's 'infrastructure bill' went to subsidizing gold-plated golf carts for lobbyists."
From the shotgun seat, Bubba puffed his cigar, turning the cab into a rolling fog machine. "Hyper-rail? Kid, that thing's got more delays than a filibuster on fast-forward. Last I checked, it's stuck in 'review' because some suit in the Savanna decided it needed 'disruptive' cup holders. Ones that tweet your latte order before you sip it."
In the back, Lila was sprawled across a nest of fast-food wrappers, using Theo's lap as a makeshift trampoline. "Booooring! Wake me when we hit the neon. Casinos mean free buffets, right? And not the sad kind with wilted lettuce and dreams deferred. The epic kind—shrimp the size of my fist, ribs slathered in sauce that whispers 'fuck your diet.'" She mimed a dramatic chomp, nearly clipping Theo's ear with her elbow.
Theo yelped, shoving his tablet between them like a digital chastity belt. "Lila, if you launch one more 'energy surge' back here, we're all ending up as roadkill memes on TweetFart. And Jax—per the client's napkin blueprint, the Great Geronimo's got layers: outer ring's tourist traps—tomahawk steaks, VR teepees, the works. Inner sanctum? Armed to the teeth with 'cultural sensitivity' mines that zap you with guilt trips and gluten-free tasers."
"Guilt trips?" Lila perked up, mid-bounce. "Like, 'Sorry for stealing your land, here's a coupon for 10% off moccasins'? Sign me up! I could use a new pair after that time I arm-wrestled a golem in the Riviera riots."
Bubba chuckled, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Heh. Back in the day, we called that 'diplomacy.' Stole the land, built a casino on it, then taxed the winnings to fund more land-stealing. Circle of life, Shitholia-style. But this heist? Smells like the Big Cheese's paw prints all over it. That comb-over clown's been yapping about 'fair play' while his PACs play dirty with more mud than a hog wallow."
Jax nodded, eyes narrowing at the horizon where the casino loomed like a fever dream of Vegas and a history textbook hate-bang. The Great Geronimo Giveaway: a glittering behemoth of faux-adobe towers etched with holographic totems, neon eagles that pulsed red-white-and-blue, and a central dome shaped like a peace pipe that belched fireworks every hour on the hour. Signs blared "Win Big or Go Home—Sponsored by the 'Honest Abe Amnesia Fund'" and "Slots So Loose, They're Practically Sedition." But beneath the glitz? Fort Knox with feathers—drones disguised as thunderbirds, guards in buckskin tactical vests, and firewalls that could fry your neural implant faster than a bad tweet.
As the van screeched into the valet lot (which was really just a corral of self-driving jalopies programmed to judge your parking skills), a holographic host materialized on the windshield: a chiseled Native avatar in a headdress of circuit boards, smirking like he knew your gambling sins before you confessed them. "Welcome to the Giveaway, patriots! Remember: The house always wins... unless you're the house. Scan your soul for entry?"
"Fuck off, Clippy 2.0," Jax muttered, slapping the dash until the holo fizzled. They piled out, the crew morphing into their "disguises"—a term Jax used loosely, like calling a mullet a 'business up front, party in the back' strategy.
Lila had opted for "sexy showgirl": a feathered headdress that doubled as a boomerang, a sequined mini that barely contained her chaos, and heels that clicked like castanets of doom. "Ta-da! I'm Featherstorm Fury! Ready to dazzle and demolish."
Theo, ever the planner, had gone "high-roller nerd": a rented tux rumpled by nerves, fake monocle, and a tablet rigged to spoof VIP signals. "According to the napkin, this gets us past the velvet rope. Just... don't ask about the safe word. It's 'gerrymander.'"
Bubba? He lumbered in as "security consultant"—trench coat over a polo that strained at the seams, bat tucked like a gentleman's cane. "If anyone asks, I'm here to 'assess vulnerabilities.' Like how many heads I can crack before the feds notice."
Jax, naturally, was the wildcard: a rumpled tourist dad in a Hawaiian shirt patterned with exploding fireworks and katanas, cargo shorts stuffed with lockpicks and shortstack bars. "And me? Just your average Joe Schmoe, here to lose my shirt and maybe my dignity. Author, if you're listening—next time, give me a jetpack or something. This infiltration schtick's older than the filibuster."
The casino's maw swallowed them whole. Inside, it was sensory overload on steroids: slot machines chimed like a choir of greedy angels, roulette wheels spun prophecies of bankruptcy, and blackjack dealers dealt cards with faces of past prezidents—Lincoln winking, Washington stone-faced, and that one with the perpetual squint looking like he'd just smelled his own bullshit. Air thick with smoke, desperation, and the faint tang of "freedom cologne" (eau de deep pockets).
Lila beelined for the buffet, because priorities. "Holy rez-urrection! Look at this spread—buffalo wings with a side of ballot stuffing? Nah, but close." She piled a plate high, feathers shedding like confetti as she elbowed past a pack of suited goons nursing highballs and grudges.
Theo tailed her, monocle fogging. "Focus, team. Vault's sub-level three, behind the high-stakes poker den. We need to—oh shit." A guard drone—brass eagle with laser eyes and a badge reading "Eagle Eye Enforcement"—hovered into view, scanning the crowd like a judgmental uncle at a family reunion.
Bubba stepped forward, cigar glowing like a challenge. "Easy, birdbrain. We're just here for the vibes. And maybe a comped steak."
The drone whirred, projecting a holo-scan that lit up Bubba's coat like a Christmas tree of contraband. "Anomaly detected: Unauthorized phallic enforcement device. Surrender the... 'bat'?"
Lila snickered, mid-bite. "Phallic? Bubba, your stick's got a complex!"
Before Bubba could retort—or swing—the drone chirped an alarm: "Intruder protocol initiated. Alerting the Nest."
Chaos erupted faster than a TweetFart scandal. Slot machines locked down, spewing quarters like metallic vomit. Patrons screamed, diving under tables as holographic barriers snapped up, herding everyone toward emergency exits that looped back to the gift shop ("Buy a teepee or bust!"). And from the shadows of the poker den slunk the goons: burly types in fringe vests, holstering tasers shaped like peace pipes and sidearms engraved with "Thou Shalt Not Steal... Except From the Poor."
Jax drew Liberty's Edge in a fluid arc, the katana humming with that old familiar buzz—like it was tasting the air for lies. "Well, shit. Plan B it is: Run like hell, fight like demons, and bill the client for dry cleaning."
The first goon lunged, swinging a tomahawk that whistled like a bad campaign promise. Jax parried, steel singing against steel, and countered with a slash that parted the man's vest like the Red Sea (or at least, exposed his "I Heart Tax Cuts" tattoo). "Nice ink, pal. Too bad it doesn't cover soul-searching."
Lila vaulted a craps table, her headdress feathers flying like shuriken. She grabbed a goon by the collar, hoisting him overhead like a dumbbell. "Wheee! Air jail!" With a twirl, she hurled him into a cluster of his buddies, bowling them over in a tangle of limbs and lost dignity. "Strike! That's for underpaying the dealers, assholes!"
Theo, less combat-ready, dodged behind a pillar, hacking the drone swarm with his tablet. "Got 'em! Rerouting to... uh, the unisex bathroom cams. Should buy us thirty seconds." A laser zinged past his ear, singeing his tux. "Or not! Jax, little help?"
Bubba waded in like a one-man riot, bat cracking skulls with the precision of a filibuster—long-winded but effective. "Come on, you featherweight fucks! I took down cartels in the Cartel Cartel Wars. This? This is Tuesday brunch." He connected with a drone, sending it spiraling into a chandelier that rained crystal shards like tears from a broken system.
But the tide turned—or rather, flooded—when the Nest Boss emerged: a towering figure in a war bonnet of fiber-optic threads, face obscured by a mask etched with dollar signs. "Intruders! You dare feather our nest? The Big Cheese sends his regards—and his compliments on your timing. The ballots ship out at dawn. Care to join the cargo?"
Jax smirked, wiping sweat and sarcasm from his brow. "Flattered. But we're more the 'deliverance' type. Tell your cheese-whiz overlord: Next time, steal something useful. Like a spine."
The Boss laughed, a digitized boom that shook the slots. "Spine? Boy, in politics, spines are for suckers. We got money, machines, and a mandate from the morons. Now—"
He never finished. From the rafters dropped Eddie—the cursed eagle mascot—claws extended, eyes glowing with petty vengeance. Whether drawn by the chaos or just his usual flair for drama, Eddie dive-bombed the Boss, talons raking the fiber-optic bonnet in a shower of sparks. The mask shorted, revealing... a face? No—a holographic projector glitching to show the sneering mug of "Comb-Over Cal," the front-runner himself, mid-golf swing on some taxpayer-funded green.
"You!" Cal's holo snarled, voice tinny and tan. "You'll pay for this, you ronin rejects! My wall will have your heads on pikes!"
The distraction was gold. Lila whooped, charging the vault door—a monolithic slab etched with "No Refunds on Reality." She punched it once, twice—dents blooming like bad policy. On the third, it buckled, hinges screaming surrender.
"Open sesame, bitches!" she crowed, as the crew tumbled inside.
The vault was a cavern of contradictions: stacks of chips beside sealed ballot boxes, gold bars mingled with "dark money" duffels, and a central pedestal holding... a single, glowing urn labeled "The People's Choice—Handle with Voter Suppression." Guards swarmed from side vents, but Jax's blade danced—a whirlwind of slices that disarmed without disemboweling (mostly).
"Grab and gab!" Jax yelled. Theo snatched the urn, Bubba covered the rear with bat swings that echoed like gavels, and Lila? She improvised, rigging a slot machine fuse with energy bar wrappers and spite.
But as they bolted—urn tucked under Theo's arm like a football from hell—the Boss recovered, slamming a console. Alarms wailed: "Containment breach! Deploy the Thunderbird!"
The ceiling split. Down plunged a mech-eagle the size of a semi, wings of razor feathers and eyes like searchlights. It screeched, a sound like democracy dying on live TV, and dove straight for them.
"Run!" Jax bellowed, the crew scattering into the service tunnels as the casino erupted behind—fireworks from Lila's trap blooming into a spectacle of pyrotechnic patriotism.
They burst into the night, van roaring to life just as the Thunderbird smashed through the doors, hot on their tail. Eddie perched on the roof, squawking defiance.
In the rearview, the casino blazed, holo-Cal's face projected skyward: "This isn't over! The ballot's mine!"
Jax floored it, grinning like a madman. "Lady and gents, welcome to the campaign trail. Next stop: Dumping this hot potato before it hatches more headaches."
But as the van hurtled into the dark, Theo cracked the urn's seal. Inside? Not ballots. A single drive—pulsing with data. And etched on it: "The Whopper Hoax: Phase One."
Theo's face paled. "Guys? This isn't just votes. It's... everything. The fix for the whole election."
Lila blinked. "Wait, so we're not heroes? We're, like, super-villain sidekicks now?"
Bubba reloaded his bat. "Worse. We're interesting."
The Thunderbird's shadow loomed. And in Shitholia, interesting meant one thing: Imminent, explosive bullshit.