THE AMERICAN

a novel about the morality of revenge by Seanie Blue  

This link "Shark on Lava" above takes you to a central part of the novel.

What follows is the latest written piece for "The American" . . .

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And on Monday I quit Babylon.

A judge gives a suspended jail term to an executive at Tyrus Chicken and accepts a fine for thousands to undo the runoff of poison into the Potomac River. It’s another tiny piece of news, barely a pebble in the avalanche of destruction, but the arrow in my ribs is this exchange in court:

Judge: I’ve taken your past good deeds in the community into account while deciding what to do for your punishment.
Harold Stephens: And I will accept that punishment, your honor.
Judge: And your contrition, I’m taking that into account, too.
Harold Stephens: I realize that, your honor.
Judge: But on top of the fine and the term, I need you to tell me you are capable of change, and of working to rectify this mistake in the future.
Harold Stephens: Oh, yes, I intend to be a different person after this, Sir.
Judge: I hope so, Mr. Stephens.

I point my wheels back towards the East Coast after paying $17.89 for somebody to plant a palm sapling in Rondonia on the web, and cook up my plans along the way, until I arrive in a boil in the Imperial City. I have the address for the judge, and I knock on his door at dinner-time and tell his wife I’m a school chum when she opens the door and she tells me to wait, but I don’t, and in five seconds I’m at the dinner table where Judge Nigel Montserrat looks up at me in astonishment over his potatoes and beans before pow pow pow he’s in two pieces on the Persian carpets next to his tipped chair and fork, splayed out in the comfort of his home as were the thousands of bass on the shores of Deep Creek after the diethyl contaminates ate the fish through scale to spine. The judge's wife screams hysterically until I wave the Wesson in her face. I stroll backwards out the door, back into the muggy night, pungent with petunia and diesel.

And that same night, I pose as a feature writer at the Post and call Stephens the chicken farm attorney. I ask him if he has plans for change and he gabbles for five minutes about carbon trades and oxygen footprints, balancing industry and monkeys, until I interrupt him: I just shot the head off the judge who put that collar on your ankle and it could easily have been you because you’re more sin than guilt, but it’s the judge who has compounded your evil so he’s being tagged right now while I’m speaking to you on the cellie, and I just want you to remember that I might go down in a squall of bullets but perhaps not before I get to slice a few of your organs to pieces, are you listening to me?

“Yes,” says Harold. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to feel guilty you filthy piece of shit.”
“I do.”
“Good. Make sure your kids get into biology instead of finance.”
“I hear you.”

I hang up and leave town as quickly as I entered and the gloom lifts a little as I drive into the rounded ancient hills of Pennsylvania. 
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