Deep in the Emergency Command Center of the Texas Bullion Depository in Leandar, Texas, a meeting was called to order.
“Ok, everybody, let’s get this here show on the road. Y’all know we’re here to draw up the REAL 2020 Census redistricting plan for the congressional districts of the Great State of Texas for REAL Texans! Got to do it in secret, you know, otherwise it’s too democr … I mean, messy. Aw hell, y’all know, democracy IS messy, attracts too many of the wrong kind of people, so our job here is to make sure the right kind of people get elected. Gonna do it here all nice and tidy, that’s right.
Each of you got summoned here on the recommendation of top anonymous donors to various Super PACs. You will not know who your sponsor is and that’s the way they want it and that’s the way it’s gonna stay. Suffice it to say, they expect you will go back to your possibly new districts and do the right thing. I’ll go ahead and say it now and will be repeating it several times – what happens in the Emergency Command Center of the Texas Bullion Depository STAYS in the Emergency Command Center of the Texas Bullion Depository. That’s why y’all were given burner phones.
Some of us know each other, some don’t. How ‘bout we go around and introduce ourselves.? I’ll start with me, ha! My name is Robert Burbank but you can call me Bobby. Bobby Burbank. Hell, y’all know I’m the chair of the Texas House Redistricting Committee. I represent the Fightin’ State Congressional 1 over there in East Texas where our US congressman is the great Louie Gohmert, and we’re gonna protect that sucker for sure. Well, sorry, folks, I got carried away but then, hell, I’m a politician, ha! So let’s get going with the introductions, boys.”
“(cough) Ahem.”
“Oh, sorry about that, little lad…um … les’see here … oh, I mean woman of the female gender. Easy to overlook you. Why don’t we start with you?”
“Thank you, and don’t worry, I have my husband’s permission to be here. My name is Betty Bowers.”
“Well, all right then, Mis … Mz … uh, is it ok if I just call you Betty?”
“Well, Bobby, seeing as how you seem some trouble with … what’d you say? … women of the female gender, I think it would be an act of Christian charity. Speaking of gender, need I remind you – the Lord tells us there’s only two genders – you’ve either got an inny or an outy, and marriage is between one inny and one outy.”
“Whew! Boy howdy, you saved my bacon there, Betty. Anyhoo, let’s everybody give a short description about yourself, where you from and what’s your … er … who do you think most needin’ the right kind of representin’? And how much money have you donated to Donald Trump?”
“As I said, I’m Betty Bowers and I worship in Houston and all over through the United States. Some of you may know me as America’s Best Christian and if you don’t, please visit my Betty Bowers America’s Best Christian YouTube Channel where you can donate money! And just like the Bible says, 10% of all your donation will go to Donald Trump! Now, I know all Good Christian Republicans have been working hard on suppressing black votes …”
“Uh, please call it Election Integrity out there in public, folks, but here in the confines of this highly secure room, it’s okay to call it what is,” Bobby interjected.
“But don’t forget about the Jews! Like, make the official election day on Saturday when they’re all at Sabbath or whatever. Oh Lord, we must never allow a Jew like Joe Straus be Speaker of the Texas House ever again!”
“Amen, Sister! Hallelujah!”
Bobby asked, “Who said that?”
“Me, Reverend Ollie Sheen of The Church of the Godly Dollar where Sister Bowers and I have a very special relationship, finding ecstasy in the Lord together. We often meet to share His love between us.”
Sitting next to him, Betty Bowers poked him in the ribs and muttered, sotto voce, “Ollie, we’ve talked about this.” The Reverend winced.
“Oh, yeah, you have that famous mega-church in Houston,” Bobby observed. “So what brings you here today?”
“We need to return this nation to the Christian principles on which it was founded, Glory!”
“Amen!” someone shouted.
“Ah, well, go on about the Christian nation, redistricting-wise,” Bobby said, trying to keep the Texas Bullion Depository’s Emergency Command Center from becoming the site of a tent revival.
“I will! A return to the Christian principles of capitalism and free enterprise as preached by our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ and as envisioned by the Founders, a nation of apostles spreading the gospel, a nation where our representatives must pass a Christian religious test to hold office. None of that Old Testament hooey. Except for Genesis and The Prophets, the rest of it all sin and wickedness. One Nation, Under God! It’s in the Constitution you know! Hallelujah!”
A few of the attendees shouted “Amen!” and started waving their hands in the air. One attendee asked, “What about the Constitution? No establishment of religi…” and was escorted from the room by a couple of Onward Christian Soldiers armed with AK-47 rifles who had been hired for security.
When the excitement subsided, Bobby said, “Amen, indeed, but let me remind everyone this meeting’s about redistricting. I think we can safely conclude that districts should be drawn as to minimize representation for not only blacks, but also Jews, Muslims, atheists, agnostics, um, what else?”
“Mormons,” exclaimed Betty, who was also a Christian fashion designer and consultant. “I mean, that underwear thing! Hideous!’
“Hmmm, well, Let’s put it to a vote. Should we, uh, minimize Mormons too?”
The vote was unanimous in favor of.
“What about Catholics?” someone yelled.
“Well, there’s good ones and bad ones.” Bobby observed. “We’ll make sure the good ones are accounted for. Betty, you writing all this down?” Bobby asked. “I bet you know shorthand.”
“You betcha. I’m on it like white on rice,” she answered.
Someone asked, “Speaking of white, what about Mexicans?”
Bobby said, “Well, sir, I guess you have the floor then. Tell us who you are, where you’re from, and what your special interest is. Oh, hold on one second, sir. Before I forget, Reverend Sheen, how much do you give Donald Trump?”
“10% of the 10% tithes from The Church of the Godly Dollar for the 45th President of the United States, our nation’s redeemer, Praise Be! Stop the Steal!” the Reverend responded.
A chorus of Stop the Steal! echoed around the room.
“Good, that’s good, Reverend. 10% of 10%. Sorry about the interruption, sir. Go ahead and tell us about yourself and why you’re here.”
“Thankee. My name is Stetson McGrath and I’m from up ‘er in Comanche where we done whupped the Comanches back in the day. Anyway, so that nice Christian lady said white on rice and that perked me right up. We still grow cotton in Comanche and that’s white too, and that’s exactly what this county should be too – white. And Christian – preferably Presbyterian but Protestant will do. Anyway, what with all the machinery these days, we don’t need no Mexicans no more, but they just keep on a-coming in hordes over the border and reproducing like rabbits. Us white folk done slacked off in the reproducing department and we need to get humping. Ah, so to speak. Bottom line, us good Americans are getting replaced by Mexicans and pretty soon we’ll be overrun by a bunch of brown Catholics. That’s why we need Donald Trump to Stop the Steal – round ‘em up and send ‘em back!”
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” someone yelled.
“Hold on, sir! I’ll get to you next,” Bobby said, trying to keep control. “Stetson, how much you give to Trump?”
“Coupla thou every now and then, depending on crop prices and subsidies.”
“Excellent! Now you, sir, who you are, why you’re here.”
“Thank you, sir. My name is Rubio Cruz, proud Mexican-American from Harlingen, down in the valley. I must take exception to the last gentleman’s remarks. My family has been in the valley since before the Republic of Texas. We have paid taxes, served in the military for generations. We are patriots!”
“Well, I must say, your people down in the valley started coming around in the last coupla elections, voting Republican more than ever before,” Bobby observed. “Just don’t carried away, okay? Just curious, how many children do you have?”
“I’m the proud father of ten children.”
“See, I told you!” shouted Stetson.
“Hold on there, Stetson, let the gentleman speak. And how much money are giving Donald Trump?” asked Bobby.
“Well, sir, honestly, should they run in 2024, we would consider donating to Marco Rubio or Ted Cruz,” said Rubio Cruz.
The Onward Christian Soldiers escorted him from the room.
“Well, all righty then,” Bobby said after a pause. “Who’s next? How about you there in that fine three-piece suit? A real gentleman, I see.”
The real gentleman stood up, pulled down the vest on his Stefano Ricco suit, straightened his Salvatore Ferragamo tie, and adjusted his Gucci eyeglasses,
“My name, sir, is Swanson J. Trucott IV. I give $100,000 to Donald Trump on a routine basis, all dark money you know, unlimited. Of course, I expect a return-on-investment in return, namely significantly increasing the oil depletion allowance and ceasing all federal subsidies to the renewable energy industry. All those huge windmill farms in West Texas around Amarillo, where I’m from, are a great shame to my family’s heroic ancestors, stretching all the way back to the 1930s.”
“Yessir, we got to save the fossil fuel industry from socialism, that’s for sure. Also, the meat industry from the veggie munchers. Now, what’s your voting … um … redistricting interest here?” asked Bobby.
“Yes, of course,” Swanson J. Trucott IV replied. “Only the wealthy should be able to vote, say restrict the vote to property owners with assets in excess of one million dollars. Hell, this great country was founded by rich white men with property for rich white men with property. That’s what Thomas Jefferson really meant when he wrote all men are created equal – if he’d done that, he’d have saved us rich white men with property a whole lot of trouble. Why should a bunch of damn ignorant pissant drunk roughnecks have a say in the affairs of this great nation, for instance? But in the meantime, redistricting should disproportionately favor the wealthy, which I assume includes everybody in this room.”
“Well, you got that right. Only the best!”
“If not the brightest,” muttered Betty Bowers who had mastered sotto voce through years of practice.
“Okay, who have we missed? You, sir,” Bobby pointed to a man wearing a huge ten-gallon hat.
The man stood up and said, “My name is Scooter Houston from Archer City, you know, home of Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove, all that. SECEDE! That’s all I got to say,” then sat down.
“Oh. Ok. Anyone else? No? Well, I’m gonna try to sum it all up, it that’s even possible. New district lines should be drawn up to minimize representation for minorities, Jews, Muslims, atheists, agnostics, socialists, communists, the poor, liberals, city-slickers, and above all, Democrats. We’re gonna own the libs! Have I missed anything?”
Swanson Trucott IV stood up, adjusted his glasses, and said, “I beg your pardon, I forgot to mention union members. I know, I know, lot of overlap with communists, but not completely.” He sat back down.
“Boy howdy, how did we miss that! Thank you, uh, Mr. Trucott IV. Now onto maximizing districts drawn for the right kinds of people like…like, us! Well, all righty then. I’m talking about wealthy white Protestant Trump-lovin’ patriots! And … uh, les’see here … well …”
“Secessionists!” bellowed Scooter Houston.
“Of course, of course, Scooter. Anything else, anyone? Going once … going twice … sold! Ok, got all that, Grub?”
Hubert “Grub” Hobbes, with ink black hair and ink black horn rim glasses, had been listening in from a very dark apartment whose windows had been covered up with aluminum foil, illuminated only by monitors and the blinking lights of servers. He got his nickname from calling for food delivery twice a day. “Hello GrubHub? Yeah, this is Hub Grub. Yeah, pizzas and Pepsi’s.” Hence, his apartment was littered from stem to stern with empty pizza boxes and Pepsi cans.
“Yeah,” his distorted voice came over an intercom. He had hacked into the Emergency Command Center. Child’s play, he thought.
“Folks,” Bobby explained, “that’s Grub, who prefers not to use his real name, but he’s legendary in the redistricting software business. Why he can draw district lines zigzagging through an apartment complex, for chris- ‘sake, separating units according to their voting probabilities. His districts can look like spilt milk or a rotten tomato stomped on the floor, if that’s what we need.”
Grub didn’t give a damn about politics; he just liked a challenge. He thought the people he was talking to were idiots. “Uh, the demographics show a lot of poor white Trump voters, you might want to consider that. Also, clusters of Mexicans in the valley.”
“Uh, well you can just smoosh them in there with the wealthy Protestant districts.” Bobby thought himself quite a statesman for this.
“Done.”
“Done?”
“Done.”
“Well, everybody, that just about wraps it up! Great work, folks! Oh, I’ll go out and talk about fair representation and election integrity and all that bullshit, but really now, it’s in the can. It’s … what they call it? Fate accomply, something like that. Remember – what happens in the Emergency Command Center of the Texas Bullion Depository stays in the Emergency Command Center of the Texas Bullion Depository! Any questions, call me on your burner phones, then burn it, dern it! Ha!”
Applause all around.
“Well alrighty then – Scotty, roll out that top shelf joy juice! Folks, this here’s Scotch “Scotty” Highlander of Highlander Liquor Distributorships and he brought us nothing but the finest of the finest, tell ‘em, Scotty.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve got 18-year-old single malt Highland Park Scotch, Pappy Van Winkle 12-year old Bourbon, uh, chilled martinis made with Sipsmith London Dry Gin, Rosati Rose’ Wine from Napa Valley, none of that frenchy stuff, and, uh, some Coke – the drink, that is.”
Betty Bowers shouted, “Fruit of the Vine! Put on some George Beverly Shea and let’s boogie down, boys!” proving that Christians can be hip, too.
And with that, the celebration of the Redistricting of Texas 2020 began.
Copyright © Johnny Clack 2022
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