Category: 10. Resistance

The Mole Men Chronicles

Dear Planet Earth,

I’m probably not dead if you don’t see any updates on here for awhile. Our ragtag resistance is finally moving on out, somewhere north if the rumors have any truth to them.

Some people are talking about not going, still clearly upset about the military’s execution of those two homie spies. I’m embracing my neutrality, not convinced either way whether traitors should be killed or locked up. No one’s really qualified to answer that. My new friend Ray or Roy or Brad or Barry said it best today:

“It would be easier if they weren’t just mole men, but something completely alien. Like Martians or something. Those people are just people though. And when you have to fight against an enemy that looks just like you, you might as well be fighting against firemen or librarians.”

It sounded a lot more logical and optimistic when he said it.

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Self

Dear Planet Earth,

I’m getting a lot of feedback here about my last post. I haven’t been able to go to the makeshift mess hall and eat a meal by myself for more than minute without someone coming up and asking me if it’s really true, if General Talpa really did kill those homie spies in cold blood.

Half of them get angry and curse, they say we’re losing our humanity, inching closer and closer to living under a police state. The other half nods, sometimes smiles, and says, “That’ll teach the bastards.”

I don’t know where I am. I’ve always framed this as an invasion of the mole men. I’ve been convincing myself that I could kill them, those inhuman tyrants. But their homeless minions are just as human as me. They look like me, they talk like me, they bleed and eat and drink and shit just like me. But then again, does someone who’s sold out their fellow humans have a right to be called “human” himself anymore?

I’m going to go crazy if I spend a second longer brooding on this. Here’s a funny cat video:

Pop

Dear Planet Earth,

I don’t know how to write this. I don’t know how to interpret it. But here goes.

General Talpa asked me to see him after the most recent cyber attack by our mole men invaders. I met him in the laundry room underneath the hotel. It was dark, only a few of the many fluorescent lights were on, giving each industrial sized washing machine a dim glow against its steel exterior.

“Mr. Panus,” Talpa said from the other side of the room. “Come.”

I was able to make out the unsettling scene as I approached. The general stood with four other soldiers flanking him on either side. They partly encircled a young man and woman on their knees. They were both blindfolded and had their hands and feet tied together.

“I need you to write about something, on your blog.” He pulled out a pistol from his holster. “We found these two playing with the fuse box last Wednesday. They cut the power to the hotel, and had a truck packed up with three children along with some rifles and grenades.”

He slowly circled the prisoners as they began to wail and affirm their innocence.

“I need you to write about how our resistance has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to humans selling out their own species. Tell your readers, tell the world, that these ‘homies,’ as you’ve decided to call them, are just as guilty and susceptible to our wrath as the invaders themselves.”

He pointed the pistol toward the man’s sweaty forehead.

POP!

He pointed the pistol toward the woman, whose piercing scream will follow me in every future nightmare.

POP!

“Write about that.”

Blah blah blah blah

Dear Planet Earth,

We lost power for three days. Maybe you all did too. We behaved as calmly and civil as we could. We’ve gone without power before, but this sudden change in our living arrangements inspired some fear in all of us nonetheless. Whatever. It’s over now.

The first thing we saw when we checked the Internet was this message from the mole people. It’s been seven months since they left a message on the entirety (with few exceptions) of cyberspace. I’m tempted to delete it from the blog, but I also see it as a possible turning point. The fact that they sent this now after such a long silence has to mean they’re surprised, maybe even scared, of the resistance we’ve put up. At least that’s what we’re all telling ourselves.

It talks a lot about what the first message said. Your demise is inevitable. You ruined the planet. Join us or die. Blah blah blah blah. But now that I’ve read their sacred manifesto, a lot of this message makes a little more sense. A little more.

General Talpa asked to talk to me personally tonight, presumably to get my take on the message since I spent the most time with them. I honestly don’t know what I can tell him that he couldn’t figure out on his own.

YOU CANNOT ESCAPE. YOUR PETTY INSURGENCY HAS FAILED.

A MESSAGE TO THE INFERIOR UPWORLDERS:

YOU CANNOT ESCAPE. YOUR PETTY INSURGENCY HAS FAILED. ALL FUTURE REBELLIONS WILL FAIL. THE UPPER CRUST IS NOW FULLY UNDER THE CONTROL OF ITS RIGHTFUL INHERITORS. YOUR PRIMITIVE TECHNOLOGY AND PHILISTINE CITIES HAVE ALL FALLEN UNDER OUR DIVINE CONTROL. YOU HAVE ABUSED THE PLANET AND STRIPPED IT OF ITS INTEGRAL RESOURCES. THERE MAY BE NO HOPE LEFT FOR OUR SHARED HOME. THERE MAY BE HOPE FOR YOU SHOULD YOU CHOSE TO PUT AN END TO THESE FIZZLING UPRISINGS. THE SMARTER, MORE PROMISING AMONG YOU HAVE ALREADY JOINED OUR NOBLE CAUSE AND SHALL BE SPARED A GRUESOME END. PAY HEED, UPWORLDERS! OBEDIENCE IS LIFE. DISOBEDIENCE IS DEATH.

Poultry Passion

Dear Planet Earth,

There’s a lot of grumbling going on today about the lack of diverse food options. Some of the guys raided a distribution warehouse and brought back a shitload of fried chicken originally intended for KFC or Chick-fil-A or Heart Attack Express. But with an expiration date that might as well read “when hell freezes over,” no one’s convinced it’s actually fried chicken.

Whatever. You won’t hear me complaining. This is some of the best stuff I’ve eaten in months and I’m not about to start watching my calorie intake during a global invasion of mole people. I’m not the only one who gets passionate about poultry products:

Ha ha! I wonder if they’re all dead now. . .

Miracles/Stories

Dear Planet Earth,

Sometimes all you need in life is some fried chicken and someone to call you “friend.” I was lucky enough to have both yesterday.

Karter, Maria, and I had a nice talk all through the night about the miracle that we’re all still here. It was a dark hotel room and a mostly dark conversation, though I am happy to report that they are very much an “item” now. They told me about the horrors they were put through in the labor camp. They worked sun up to sun down, building those strange towers with all the pipes — Karter thought they were some sort of power generators because of the heat they gave off.

At night, they all slept together in a large underground cavern. They could feel the red, glowing eyes of the mole people watching them as they slept on the rocky earth, and those same eyes greeted them as they awoke each morning. They carried rifles as big and alien as those towers.

Maria told me a story about a small child who slept near her each night and always cried about food or his mother. His whimpering grew softer and softer each night until one day, he wasn’t there. She didn’t have to ask what happened to him.

There were more stories — stories about the starvation, the beatings, the executions — but we tried not to focus on that. We tried to focus on the miracle. We justified our feelings of regret, shame, and loss by affirming our shared experiences as humans, allies, and above all, friends.

And then we went down to the kitchen and scored some fried chicken.