Inger’s Finger needs a stage. NUUSA is that stage. Inger first appears in this space 11-Aug-2016 when she accuses a coworker of rape. This was in the MeToo years when the slightest flirtation exploded into an existential threat against all women. Women needed to show that creepy pig Hair Gropenfuhrer that he stole the election from HRH Billary Clinton by wearing pussy hats on the National Mall. Because that sea of pink would make him realize he screwed up and should step down. It didn’t quite work. The pussy hats were nice.
So what if the noise makers won? What if the revolution swept through the land like a firestorm and burned the government to ash? DC gone. Trump lynched, his corpse hung on a spike on the National Mall. Ding Dong the Wicked King is Dead.
Chaos at first. Civil war for a while. The usual rabble rousers with visions of a Peepul’s United Demokratik Free Anarchist Republik of Berkeley (PUDFARB) now have a problem: nothing works. The cops went home—no municipal entity to pay them. Anarchy was awesome until criminal gangs and vigilantes started taking their shit. Phones and LTE went dark. Looting emptied the shelves. You can’t buy what you need. Not awesome.
Warring States
A story needs a place. It will exist in a place built out of my imagination. The place for Inger’s Finger began where I live, in Richmond, VA. The story began with a bit of wool gathering between myself and an Uber rider. Someone parked a Cadillac Escalade in front of my house. That’s sort of a story. It’s not enough for me, though. So I invented an amputated finger found in the footwell of the passenger seats under a pile of fast-food wrappers and bags. Now this is going somewhere.
Sort of. I started adding details to the world I was building. Magical doors that let you travel thousands of miles just by walking through. A stalker who is obsessed with Inger and has made it his purpose in life to possess her. A resort casino with a retreat center attached to it. And . . . a grumble I have with starry-eyed fanboys, fangirls who believe tantrums can magic utopia.
RVA today isn’t dystopia. Yes, we have our youngins who are sure that us boomers are making a mess of things. And that turning my city into glass is a plan. Not story worthy, imho. Inger’s Finger needs a world reflective of the fight between Inger and her stalker Damian. A wounded dystopia where some things still work.
End USA Begin NUUSA
Inger has three properties. One, on Stewart Street near Robinson Street in Richmond, is the showcase her Mom renovated for her. It’s a recreation of the antebellum life her Mom idolizes–nothing worth anything exists after 1858. The novel is set in 2125. 1858 is ancient history. The second property is 1107 East 16th Street. She lives about a block away from me. Property third is the former Buckskin Mine between Paradise Valley and Orovada. The nearest paved road is Nevada state highway 95. The property changed hands over the years with the last change a foreclosure auction that Inger won.
It is 2025 as I write this. The novel is set a century from the date of this post. In that time the American Experiment ended. This great land I love collapsed into five fiefdoms: Pacific Cascadia, the Great Lakes Compact, Calizona Rocky Mountain Pact, the Appalachian Freehold, Texahoma, and the Gulf Confederacy. Inger’s desert getaway is in the Rocky Mountain Pact along with Paradise Valley where the resort casino is. Her other two properties are in the Appalachian Freehold.
The Rocky Mountain Pact is ranches and mining. There is some industry. It’s biggest trading partner is Mexico. Buckskin has gold, silver, uranium and mercury. Most of the gold is chemically dissolved in quartz. Extracting the gold is expensive and toxic. Inger isn’t interested in mining. The old assay cabin and family home on the property are her escape from the noise of Richmond. She works as a bar back at the Paradise Resort and Casino for the Saito-Gumi clan. If you follow this space none of this is news.
三軒の家
Damian broke into the Stewart Street home and stayed for a few days until he was found. He also murdered Jace Varo, a Door Dash driver who frequently delivered meals to Inger at East 16th Street. Both Stewart Street and East 16th Street held bad memories for Inger. Buckskin was the one place left besides the resort where she felt safe.
The old mine shafts collapsed over the years. There are still tailings piles and remains of rails and ore carts. Up the hill from the assay cabin is the family home where there are terraced garden plots. Not far from the cabin and the home is a cistern supplying water to both buildings and the terraced gardens. Inger can grow tomatoes and potatoes along with greens and some herbs. Hoop houses help manage moisture and heat.
Desert living has challenges. Buckskin is at about 8,500 feet in altitude. The nearest town with supermarkets is Winnemucca, about 45 minutes from Orovada after you drive an hour on gravel roads to get down the mountain. No supplied electricity from a public utility. Water is from snowmelt that drips into cisterns. She captures grey water that is cleaned with reverse osmosis. Her toilets are connected to a septic system. But all the tech can’t make the distance from people easy. She misses her East 16th Street neighbors.
Gimme
What’s behind the hunger for ash? Why would the fashy thing be to take from people like Inger and give it to those less fortunate? Inger has because she began in high school. Her plan was to have her own money.
Damian has not because he spends what he gets. Also, because he was raised to envy those with more ability. It’s not fair that some have and he has not. Inger was his Shangri-La. She had the beautiful home on Stuart Street, the looks, and the intelligence he envied. He must own it or destroy it. If he couldn’t have it no one would.
It’s what happens when people tear down what they envy and call it “fair.” They didn’t solve the problem—they just trashed the blueprint. The need for structure didn’t vanish. It just got duct-taped to a surveillance state with bad robots and fake elections. Damian’s threat to destroy Inger if he can’t have her? Same energy. That kind of possessive rage doesn’t heal anything. It’s not love. It’s a tantrum with consequences. His soul stays broken. Inger’s just collateral.
Don’t Threaten the Nest
All three of Inger’s spaces were violated. East 16th Street has blood on it. That’s where Jace Varo died. Stuart Street is where Damian crashed for a few days until he was evicted. Buckskin was breached through messages sent to her screens. Even the Paradise Resort and Casino was permeable for Damian.
Inger shares this with many women. Threats to her safety, to the safety of her nest, are fighting threats. The claws come out, and she wants your pound of flesh. This is not hot. This is time to fight.
We have been at civil war since HRH Obummer left DC to go play golf in Palm Springs. The Generalisimo Barack came back to win a revolution against his most hated enemy Salmon Voldemort. Baroke is losing. His old Titans in DC are losing. Trump is laying the foundations of a generational shift in DC led by young guns like JD Vance. Damian’s fantasy is a tweenie dream. Victory means owning the thing he desires most. Like a puppy who catches a squirrel he has no idea what to do with a woman like Inger. It would be based debauchery, right?
Through the Door to NUUSA
NUUSA is the wreckage left behind when zealots burn the system down and called it justice. They duct-taped the ruins to glitchy bots, fake elections, and surveillance tech that doesn’t even pretend to care. The hunger for structure got louder.
Trump won’t vanish. He becomes the beat. JD Vance and others are here to build. Meanwhile, the ideologies that promised utopia—Marxism, Maoism, all the envy-coded scripts—have been tried. Cuba, North Korea, Laos, Vietnam, China—these five flags still wave, still promise equality of outcome for all and empowerment for everyone. What resulted was genocide, ubiquitous misery for most, and obscene privilege for those more equal.
Inger’s properties live in fiefdom’s that still remember the need for governance. The Rocky Mountain Pact and the Appalachian Freehold won against the zealots who promised that the people would do a better job than the bougie leaders removed from power. The Rocky Mountain Pact is run by a Japanese Yakuza clan, Saito-Gumi. The Appalachian Freehold defeated the rebels who overthrew USA. Most of what was DC moved to the old Confederate Capital, Richmond. Inger’s nests are safe, almost. Damian is a problem.
1 Comment