SETTING SUN

John Jacobs

 

My name's Robert Thorpe. I'm a veteran of the first Gulf War. I hope this message finds you well, whoever you are. Maybe some day you can hand it over to the national archives or something, just so people remember this dark time for America . Hopefully this'll never happen again, but that's what they said last time.

I was born and raised in Chicago 's Wicker Park neighborhood, back when it was still a little rough. Well, it's bad again but that has more to do with our present situation, which I'll get to later. Anyway, after I was honorably discharged from the service I went to study business at DePaul. I graduated 3 years later with a degree in finance and a degree in economics. That was also where I met my wife, Janet.

We were married shortly after graduation, then about a year and a half later Brett was born. This was all during the "dot com" boom of the 90's. I was down at the Chicago Board of Trade and Janet, who got her degree in computer science, was making money hand over fist working for an Internet startup. When the market folded the first time around she decided to stay at home full-time for Brett. Fortunately she'd saved more of her earnings than her coworkers, so when the market tanked again in 2007 we had some decent cash on hand to help us get by. Some of it I had in gold futures, which went up like a rocket and some I even used to buy real gold—bricks of it—which I stashed in our basement.

God, I can still remember that day... at first when the numbers started dropping the entire exchange went silent, and then everybody cheered, just like what happened in '87. It's the most natural human response when faced by something so frightening and inexplicable. Like the child laughing at the boogeyman in his closet we had no choice but to joke about it. Unfortunately for us the boogeyman was real, and when the numbers kept dropping smiles turned to screams of horror and delirious panic as traders trampled each other to unload every position they had. Most were screaming incoherently, like they were possessed by some demon of capitalism that had taken their souls. Some lay on the ground and wept like infants. By the end of the day countless trillions of dollars had vanished into thin air.

Outside, the building was surrounded by fire trucks and ambulances as paramedics rushed to evacuate people that had suffered heart attacks or were trampled on the floor of the exchange. Down the street there were firemen fishing the bodies of businessmen out of the Chicago river , and further down, past crowds of horrified onlookers the police were setting up barricades around oddly scattered places on the sidewalk and on the street. I even caught a glimpse of one of them as he fell, a little black spot against the skyline, separating from a skyscraper and then disappearing behind some smaller buildings. It was like a dream I was in, a dream I wanted more than anything to wake up from. When I got home Janet had already seen the news on TV. The Dow had dropped some 27% in a single trading day. This wasn't just another mild recession... we were in a fucking depression.

Of course all those market-manipulating rascals that'd gotten us into this mess in the first place were doing just fine. I don't recall hearing about Greenspan, Bernanke, or any of the other monetary illuminati being hard up, while in main street America all hell was breaking loose. In fact, old Ben even made the situation worse than what it was by literally dropping crates of money out of helicopters. Good old Gutenberg Bernanke, printing money like there's no tomorrow. He didn't realize (or maybe he did) that he'd end up rendering the dollar more worthless than the paper it was printed on.

When I saw a homeless man taking a shit in the street and using a $100 bill to wipe his ass I knew that we were in serious trouble. It'd be a matter of time before John and Jane Doe got tired of hauling around trash bags filled with monopoly money just to pay for a loaf of bread. Sooner or later they were going to opt for a change in government.

That's when I told Janet we were moving to Canada . Brett was 14 and I was teaching him to shoot. He was a surprisingly good shot but I knew he didn't have the stomach to kill a man. Still, two guns was better than one and I had a feeling we were going to need both of them getting out of Illinois, especially with about 75 lbs of gold in the back of the van.

Gold... that's what this whole thing is about now. In the wake of an economic collapse gold always emerges as the universal currency. In fact, its value has gone up so much in the past couple of years that some serious violence has occurred because of it. Whether it be roving militias or gangs of corrupt cops, any one of them will take your shit and leave you for dead if they think you have any "sun" on you. Hence, the Chicago adage that came to replace "vote early, vote often"—don't carry sun without a gun.

That's why they forced our hand, and why they did what they did to Janet... God I'm sorry, my love. Now we're on the road sooner than I'd hoped and I'm writing this letter to you, whoever you are, from a hotel room in southern Ontario . All for what, I ask myself. A couple of bars of some stupid metal? All because the bonehead policy makers in our country had to dicker with a system that was too complex for them to understand, something they did in the name of greed?

It was about two weeks ago that the incident occurred. I was coming home with some food supplies I'd managed to barter for when I noticed a mysterious vehicle parked in front of my house, a black Lincoln . I had my Desert Eagle on me in my shoulder holster under my coat. I pulled the car around one block over and snuck around the back of the house, feeling some very bad vibes. When I looked through the bushes I saw two men in black suits at the door, talking to my wife.

"How are you today, ma'am?" one of them said. "We're with the Bureau," the other one said, flashing a badge. "We understand that your husband is a veteran, is that correct?"

"Y...yes," she replied.

"We're here on a routine weapons check," the man said. "We just need to see if your husband has any large caliber weapons, that's all... you know, M60's, rocket launchers, assault rifles, that sort of thing."

"To my knowledge he didn't bring anything like that back from the Gulf, so if you gentlemen don't have a warrant..." my wife tried to reply, but one of them pushed her aside and walked through the door.

Goddamnit , I thought. FBI my ass .

If it really was the feds I wouldn't have cared as much. But first off, federal agents didn't drive around in Lincoln Continentals. Secondly, there were so many weapons floating around the streets these days that they couldn't give two shits if I had an AK in there or not. If these guys were from the Bureau then I was the pope. These guys were syndicate.

"No guns in here, huh?" I heard one of them say as they pushed Janet inside. "How about some sun? Or maybe just some moon?"

Motherfucker , I thought.

I crept up to the door and listened. I heard them breaking some things and Janet yelling in protest but I didn't hear any gunshots. And oddly, I didn't hear Brett's voice either. Maybe he was at a friend's house or something? I didn't know. I heard footsteps trampling upstairs and took that as my cue to sneak inside.

There were some drawers turned over on the floor and some paintings torn down from the walls but that was it. Suddenly I heard Janet scream upstairs and in a flash I kicked into survival mode. A twinge of both fear and rage went through me like a jolt of electricity. I'd felt something similar in Desert Storm and a few times after, but never like this. It was fight or flight, kill or cower, and I wasn't about to let them get away with this unhurt. I pulled out my gun and took out the clip, checking to make sure I had enough rounds to kill both of them. One a piece would do it but I needed to make sure. There's no margin for error when it's a matter of self-preservation.

As I started to make my way upstairs I felt a hand on the back of my jeans and I swung around. It was Brett with tears in his eyes, holding my Berretta in one hand. The poor kid. If I was scared then he must have been terrified. Still, I had to admire the little guy's courage. It takes a lot of stones to go up against two grown men with that pea shooter, especially for a 14-year old. If it were me in his shoes I don't think I'd be able to do it.

"Mom..." he whispered.

"I know," I replied.

We both crept upstairs slowly, trying not to let any of the boards creak under our feet. It seemed like an eternity that we were climbing those stairs, and it only grew longer as we got closer to the noise. I turned off the safety on the gun. My heart was thumping like a jack rabbit's as I gently pushed open the bedroom door, and I heard Brett gulp from behind me. The two men were shirtless, and both in the process of violating my wife. I saw that one of them still had his gun so I took aim at him first and squeezed the trigger. The Desert Eagle went off with a thunderclap so deafening it rang through the whole house. I quickly took aim at the next guy, who was scrambling for his own weapon and I unloaded on him, ending his life like some archangel dispatching the holy wrath of God from on high. You don't want to know what a Desert Eagle does to a person so I'm not going to tell you.

When it was over I told Brett to wait in his room while I dragged the bodies out of the room and then I held Janet. I squeezed her tight while she sobbed but I didn't say anything. Nothing I said could have changed what happened. I carried her into the shower and cleaned her up, then told her to wait in the basement with Brett. I went through my closet and took out the 12-gauge pump action shotgun I had in there.

"You know what to do," I said, handing him the shotgun. "Guard Mom and the gold." Brett nodded and went downstairs.

Then I busted my ass and gathered supplies as fast as I could, using my hastily scribbled list as a guide. We were leaving tonight. When the van was loaded and ready I went down to the basement where Brett and Janet were holding each other. Both of them were pale white.

I scratched at the stubble on my chin and wiped sweat from my forehead, then I turned to Brett. "I'm gonna need your help, big guy."

"Sure, what do you need Dad?"

"You know where I've got all those old ammo cases, right?"

"Yeah."

"We're going to need every last one of them."

Working together with Brett we managed to put all the gold in the ammo cases and move them to the back of the van, grunting from the weight of the precious metal as we struggled to move it up the stairs, case by case. Before the crash all that gold was worth about half a million dollars. There was no telling how much it was worth now.

When everything was packed and we were ready to go I went back into the van, where Brett had packed away the shotgun and pulled it out. Then I went around and reached through the window into the back seat, holding it out for him.

"Take this," I said. "Point it at anyone that approaches the van, understand?"

Brett nodded.

I peeled out of the driveway and rolled through the first stop sign we came to, never looking back. As I turned onto Belmont I saw a crowd of protesters surrounding a giant papier-mâché George W. Bush. At second glance I realized that it was actually made of money—the now worthless greenback. In the rearview mirror I saw it go up in flames.

"Where are we going, Dad?" Brett asked.

"To your Uncle Jack's cabin," I replied. I turned up the radio and switched it to the news.

I tore through the intersection at Belmont and Milwaukee , nearly running down two old Polish ladies crossing the street. I silently cursed myself, but at the same time I knew I shouldn't stop if I could avoid it, not until we were out of Chicago . There were two middle-aged women on the corner too, both wearing business suits. They were obviously prostitutes but it wasn't far-fetched to imagine that they had worked legit jobs some time before the crash, maybe even both had MBA's. But when the pyramid crumbled it didn't matter what you had, because if you were in the one out of three adults who were unemployed then you did whatever you had to just to eat.

"Don't look at them if you can avoid it, Brett," I said as we pulled up to the intersection at Kimball. "We don't want to draw attention."

At the subway entrance an altercation was fomenting between police and a crowd of young men in black shirts and cargo pants. Their shaved heads and shaved eyebrows gave away their affiliation; the eye & serpent spray painted on the glass only confirmed what I already knew—they were Namaath street soldiers. In the past couple of years the Order of Namaath, a quasi-political occult society, had gained shocking support in the Midwest and their numbers were growing. I heard my father's words echoing in my head from a long time ago. We were both watching a World War II documentary on TV. "This could never happen in America ," my father had said.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I whispered as we turned the corner.

Going under the I-90/94 overpass I saw row upon row of sleeping bags, together with a sprinkling of cardboard box homes. But then we were on the highway and all of that was behind us. All in all it was the same Kennedy expressway that I'd always known, but with one marked difference—there were no trucks on the road. The Who's "We Won't Get Fooled Again" came on the radio as I flew through the first toll booth. Janet and Brett were both fast asleep.

At the Wisconsin border we stopped for gas and food. I was so tired that I would've let Janet take over had it been under any other circumstances, but I knew I couldn't do that so I got back behind the wheel and we pressed on. I was a little queasy entering the dairy state. Even though I wasn't speeding there was always a chance that a Wisconsin state trooper would pull us over just for being from Illinois . And if they found out how much gold we had back there... holy shit, I don't even want to think what would have happened.

Fortunately, however, we made it up to Jack's cabin without any incident. I sent Brett away to go play with his cousins and then Jack and I unloaded some of the gear. When we had the gold stashed away and secured we went back up to the living room and I flopped down on his couch. Jack lit up a bowl and passed it to me. One hit was all it took for me and then I was coughing.

"Holy shit, man... what do you got in here?" I wheezed.

"We call that Wisconsin gold," he chuckled. "Before the crash it'd have been about a buck forty for a quarter ounce."

"No shit?" I said.

"No shit. I can feed my family for a couple of weeks on that."

Jack's wife Heather came into the room with Janet. I could smell that they were both drunk on wine. Heather glared at my brother.

"Hey asshole, what are you doing smoking our money?"

"Relax, babe. Just treating our guests to some hospitality. Want a hit?"

She didn't say a word, just grabbed the hitter from him and sparked it. When we were all good and stoned my brother went into the back room and came back with an arm full of wood. Then we all gathered around the fireplace and talked about old times. Jack was an expert bow hunter and had perception beyond that of a normal person. I could tell right away that he sensed something wrong with Janet. When the fire started to go out I told him that we were going to call it a night. The girls went up before us, and before I went Jack put his hand on my shoulder.

"Listen, man. If there's anything I can do..."

I gave him a hug and patted him on the back.

"You've done enough. Thanks again for all of this."

Jack laughed and replied with a line from an old Johnny Cash song—"If a man turns his back on his family, he ain't no good."

I turned and went up the stairs to the guestroom we were sleeping in. I made slow, passionate love to Janet, and when we were done I held her naked in my arms as she cried. I told her not to worry, I told her I was sorry, and then I just kissed her all over and tasted the bitter salt of her tears. This was just a passing phase, I told her, but she shook her head. I squeezed her tight and she fell asleep in my arms. Moments later I passed out too.

That night I had a dream in which all human beings had at last discovered Utopia—a state in which all men and women could live in a state of virtual harmony without fear or desire. This "golden age" was possible through the introduction of cold fusion and the outlaw of fiat currency. Everybody had enough to eat because, ironically, the world was already producing enough consumables to feed itself, as it had for centuries! What had caused all the previous cycles of war/famine wasn't a shortage of food or any other commodity but an artificially low valuation of those commodities as a result of trading in fiat, or government-backed money. In the past if a group of people were starving it was because a farmer had a silo filled with rotting bundles of wheat somewhere that weren't worth enough to sell.

In my dream this was no longer the case. Everybody had enough to eat and much to my surprise... everybody had gold! Yes, mountains of it! Through the use of self-sustaining fusion reactions they were manufacturing pound after pound of solid, authentic gold. They were using it to build everything from houses to roads and from what I understood, they'd even found a way to use the "vibrations" from it as a means of eradicating cancer. The arts and sciences flourished, and it seemed that humanity was at last prepared to take the next step by becoming an intergalactic species.

But a dark cloud descended on my dream, and I saw a group of people emerge from the shadows. They called themselves the Sons of Belial, and they wanted to take control because they couldn't stand living in a world where they were equal to everybody else. In the end they destroyed everything and the world fell into another 10,000 year dark age.

Upon waking I heard a voice in my head:

"Utopia isn't profitable..."

We left in the morning. Most of the gold ended up staying with Jack at the cabin. I kept the petal down the whole way to Minnesota , and by early afternoon we were in Duluth .

We stopped for food and gas, and also to look out at the lake. On the shore of Lake Superior I held Janet in my arms while Brett climbed on the rocks. I was trying not to be bitter but I couldn't help it. I knew that there was a reason for it all, and that it could have been easily avoided. The stock market is a wholly psychological animal, a living manifestation of the herd mentality of human beings. The few that are "in the know" have always manipulated that same market for their own well-being, ever since the United States of America was in existence.

When I was in college I'd learned about the early dollar that had been used to finance the Revolutionary War. A currency in shambles by 1790, Alexander Hamilton had come before Congress with a brilliant idea to salvage it—issue bonds. His idea worked and the dollar eventually did shoot back up in value. However, congress held off until every congressman had toured the countryside, buying up dollars for 10 cents each from the naïve public. Only when they were loaded up did the congressmen approve the sale of bonds, making themselves filthy rich in the process.

If the system was always corrupt, then is there any hope for the future? I don't know anymore. Time and again the thieves on Wall Street dupe the public, enticing them with tales of riches and the "American Dream". And when every last sucker has mortgaged his house to play the stock market all the big guys sell off, leaving the small investor holding the bag as the market plummets and his net worth shrinks down to nothing.

I sighed and turned to go back to the van. It was their fault too, I knew—John and Jane Doe in Everytown , America . They wouldn't keep getting fleeced every time around if they'd only spent a small amount of time and effort educating themselves. In this day and age, especially with Internet access easier to obtain than ever, there is absolutely no excuse. But they don't want to learn about how the market works, or why it moves in cycles. Theirs is a world of flat screen TV's, SUV's, and a false sense of security that only a financial mania can provide. And when their world comes crashing down they blame the first scapegoat they can find, a whipping boy for their sins, never realizing that they'd sown the seeds of their own destruction.

Fuck em , I thought. Fuck all of them. I've got my gold.

By sundown we were in Grand Portage. Before us lay the Canadian border.

I stopped the van so we could look behind us, have one last view of the Land of Liberty before I left it behind forever. Brett was wearing my Big Red One t-shirt from the war.

"So we're never going back, Dad?" he asked.

"Not in my lifetime," I replied. "When the dust clears it won't be the same America ."

"What about Uncle Jack, and Aunt Heather..."

"They'll be up here soon, too, I'd imagine."

I was about to get back behind the wheel but Janet stopped me. She grabbed me by my shirt sleeve and pulled me next to her, then pointed.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she said.

I looked up at the fiery orange globe as it settled in the west, and thought again about the life we were leaving behind. She was right, of course. It really was beautiful.

I turned from the setting sun.