Clappers

It's after War III. The US government has been re-established but there were heavy causalities; the costs to rebuild the country was beyond anything anyone could have imagined. We got it wrong telling the American people that our enemies had brown faces and funny sounding names and that they weren't
anything like us. What a crock of shyte that was. Turns out the number one threat to national security is homegrown terrorism, organic domestic fanaticism. Yep, the iceburg variety in your own backyard.

Our greatest enemy are the off-spring McVeigh would have had. They sprung up like dandelions after the war. They're pissed and they're exacting their revenge big-time. Their weapon of choice, clappers, suicide bombers (hey some things don't change). A clapper usually looks like one of those kids who used to model for Banana Republic ads: blond, tanned and ridiculously thin. So much for profiling.

These days, the trappings are gone. There are no complicated schemes, no layer upon layer of strategic planning, no acquiring materials to manufacture a bomb, no orchestrating elaborate ruses to get pass security measures. And gear? That's a joke. Put on a funky, retro tee-shirt, jeans and sneakers and you're good. No bomb, no backpack. Their body is the reactive, a walking bomb with liquid nitrogen bubbles cursing through their veins, the result of six weeks worth of doses of a tasteless, odorless explosive drunk from a Dixie cup, four times a day. For six weeks, wear an extra pair of socks and don't get slapped on the back.

With directions to a designated public location, a clapper shows up for his big revival. All it takes is some old fashion, earnest church clapping and- boom! You're an instant martyr (like I said, some things don't change).

If you'd like to know the inspiration for this piece, check out Neal Shusterman's, Unwind. Clappers are his invention.




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