[ WP ] People are sick and tired of their government , thus come the next election , the vast majority of them go to the polling booths but leave blank ballots

Pvt. Marshall sat on a haybale, and older New American outlined in the sights of his rifle. He sighed, and pulled the trigger. 
 
 The man ignored the crack of the rifle when it reached him a full second later, merely passing a hand over his head after the bullet ruffled his hair. 
 
 `` They really do n't seem to care anymore.'' Marshall said. 
 
 “ Can you really blame them? ” Marshall ’ s shooting partner, Rockfield, responded from behind his binoculars. “ Fire again. ” 
 
 “ What ’ s the point? The guy ’ s not going anywhere. ” The New American disaffection was starting to get to Marshall. He watched down his scope as a group of the rag-tag defectors slowly tilled what used to be a BP oil field. 
 
 “ This shit is FUBAR, you know. Just three months ago, you ’ d probably see that guy walking around Randalls, swipin ’ his credit card, driving home in his Ford. Now we got ta pass shots at them like they ’ re enemies of the State. ” Rockfield said. 
 
 “ Orders are that they *are* enemies of the State, Rockfield. Look at them, tilling up BP property like that. I don ’ t think you can get any more enemy of the state. ” 
 
 One of the tills had gotten stuck, and the small group of New Americans had gathered around it, appearing to puzzle over the problem. 
 
 “ Dude, ” Rockfield said, “ They aren ’ t *doing* anything. They ’ re just... ” 
 
 “ Not participating? ” 
 
 “ Yea. ” 
 
 The soldiers sat in silence for a while. 
 
 “ Yea, this is FUBAR. ” Marshall said. 
 
 The New Americans appeared to have solved their problem with the till, uprooting and holding up, with an air of triumph, a hunk of piping with a clear “ BP ” label painted on the side. 
 
 “ What ’ d they say, something like 49 % of the population has gone over to the other side? ” Marshall asked. 
 
 “ Something like that. It ’ s probably more at this point, but C in C can ’ t have us questioning our morals at this point. Military ’ s about the only thing left keeping things from falling apart. ” 
 
 “ God, this is surreal. You seen their propaganda? How we ’ re just serving the interests of the corporations. ” 
 
 Rockfield spat. “ I don ’ t buy it. Way I see it, a bunch of Americans got in over their head in debt, and just decided to stop paying it. The rest is history. ” 
 
 “ Makes you wonder though, I mean, what *crime* are they committing? Why we got ta sit out here, baking in this fuckin Texas sun, taking potshots at old farmers? ” 
 
 “ Non participation my man. Can ’ t have people thinking it ’ s ok to up and revert to the stone age. ” 
 
 “ They look pretty content to me, ” Marshall said, staring through his rifle scope at the New Americans who, having apparently completed their tilling, were walking arms over shoulders down the cracking and out of repair road towards suburbia. 
 
 “ They look like a bunch of fucking hippies to me. ” Rockfield said. 
 
 Their field radio crackled. 
 
 “ Field team 2, report. ” 
 
 “ Rockfield here, farmers have finished tilling, now they ’ re walkin home like a bunch of fuckin tellytubbies, arm in arm. Over. ” 
 
 “ Roger that, prepare for airsweep. Danger close. ” 
 
 “ Affirmative base. Field team 2 out. ” Rockfield rolled onto his back. “ How do you like that? Helluva martial strategy. Try to scare them away from their farms, and if that don ’ t work, tear the shit up with a god damned A-10 gun run. ” 
 
 “ Technically not their field. ” 
 
 “ Yea, I wonder how BP feels when the Air Force punches 10 ’ holes in their pretty little oil field. ” 
 
 The distinctive roar of the A-10s could be heard approaching. 
 
 “ Let ’ s stick around, ” Rockfield said. “ Maybe we ’ ll get to see oil spurtin out of the ground like a fountain. ” 
 
 “ Don ’ t think it works like that, Rockfield, ” Marshall said. But he stayed sitting on his haybale, and he watched. As the A-10s roared into view, he took a peek through his scope at the planes. Massive things. Serious overkill for a bunch of rag-tag Americans just trying to make a living, completely separated from society the way they were. 
 
 “ Rockfield, ” he said. “ Check out the planes. ” 
 
 “ Hmm? ” He pointed his binoculars at the approaching planes. “ Christ on a fucking cracker, Marshall. ” 
 
 As the planes spun their cannons into a thundering, ripping shout, the two soldiers saw their new paint jobs come into focus. Two clear, colorful, pointed circles pasted on another. The BP corporate logo. 

