Hamish the Protector

Standing before the great statue of Hamish the Protector, the Saviour of the Wastelands, Trevor was dumbstruck with awe, his mind as thick as molasses. — I can’t believe we found him Honey, he said to his wife whose name, coincidentally enough, was Honey. — All hail our great idol, said Honey. — All hail the Great Protector, said Trevor. Flies flew in and out of their mouths with free abandon as the pair stood gaping at the colossus.

It was a new world; Hamish the Protector was a new kind of leader—one who, as the four-hourly Renewal of Vows reminded everyone, had brought the steel hand of order to the chaos of the world just departed. While many had anticipated a second crash after the antics of 2008, few had suspected how bad things could get.

As it turned out, they had gotten bad enough to create fertile soil for a Hamish the Protector.

The thing about overaccumulation crises, sucking money out of the real economy and pouring it into financial instruments, was that they were like a feedback loop that gets louder and louder until everyone is so deaf they forget how to tell the difference between quiet and noise.

It was the forgetting that made victims out of people in the end. When you can no longer tell which way is up, you’d better know—not believe—you can trust someone who wants to give you directions. You want to know the difference between knowing you know, and thinking you know.

Trevor and Honey had been too Respectable to need to be told anything of this sort of noise. They were, perhaps not coincidentally, as deaf and as amnesiac as they come, as pawns unaware of the chessboard.

Wandering rather aimlessly in the oblivion of his own personal amnesia, Trevor unglued his mind long enough to remember the purpose of their pilgrimage; he prodded Honey, and the pair of them began their Recital. Presently a Guardian from the Organisation came past to inspect their efforts; he smiled as the pair rattled off the lines of fawning praise for their Protector. — Our Benevolent Overlord, who art in the Big Chair, hallowed be thy shadow, thy empire come, thy will be done in the gutter as it is done in the stars . . . and so on.

Trevor and Honey had long since committed their Pledges of Loving Faith and Obedience to muscle memory, having mysteriously also gotten habituated to the idea of saying what they were told without thinking or understanding. This was, they both felt, proper and good; it was a cardinal understanding of the New Way that faith alone could rescue humanity from its Tribulation.

It was, after all, those who fetishized Critique, with all their precious and pedantic rhetoric about Ideology and the Perils of Teleology (whatever the hell that was), that had bred the decadence that destroyed the old world. It was clear the world was an act of glorious Creation; anyone who said otherwise was clearly enabling the evildoers, so toxic in all their jealousy and spite.

The New World could not, would not, tolerate such pointy-headed foolishness any longer.

— All hail the Protector! The Guardian said suddenly. — May his great name live in eternal glory now and for all eternity, Trevor and Honey parroted from somewhere down towards the back of their respective brains, around near the top of their spinal columns.

— Yes, yes, my children, very good, he commended. — I can see you have been learning much from our titanic leader. The wisdom of Hamish long and deep, like a river. May it evaporate up into the sky and rain down over one and all. Trevor and Honey were as happy and excited as small children to discover how pleased the Guardian was with their genuflecting. — May the Protector shower us from on high with his wisdom, they droned.

— And yet there are those who deny the greatness of the Protector, those running dogs of corruption, and decadence, and evil! In this day and age, my children, there are those who would perpetrate the evils of the old world yet! As though the misery and destruction it caused for everyone, up to and including themselves, was not obvious for all to see!

— I hate them! Trevor exclaimed. Honey needled him in the ribs. — Don’t speak out of turn, said the Guardian. — You’re a Soldier of Hamish now, act like it. — Sorry, Trevor said meekly.

— Listen to me closely now, my children of Hamish, the Guardian said more softly, leaning in closer to them in the manner of a confidant. — Are you ready to go to war to defend the great values of peace and justice our Benevolent Overlord and Protector has been defending from the malevolent evildoers all these long years? he asked. — Are you ready to do what needs to be done to protect the world that he has made, that he has so generous bequeathed to us out of the ruins of corruption and moral decay?

— Oh yes, Trevor agreed hastily. — We are ready to give anything, we love our Great Benevolent Overlord so. — And we hate the heinous barbarians who want to destroy our way of life, Honey added. — We know they are only jealous of the power and magnificence of Hamish the Protector, who was sent to save us from evil in every form. — Including ourselves, Trevor interjected. — Especially ourselves, Honey added with marked enthusiasm.

The Guardian smiled. — Good, I’m so very glad to hear that. Hamish needs True Believers like the pair of you. It’s people such as yourselves who know the meaning of faith and loyalty who will make all the difference to this fight. Trevor and Honey looked at each other and made the faces of piglets rolling around in shit as the love bombs fell about their ears.

— But he does need practical demonstrations, the Guardian quickly added. — Just as he has shown you so much generosity in rescuing you from the chaos and disorder of the world we have left behind. You can start with all your worldly wealth.

With that, the Guardian held forth a large heart-shaped locket, which Honey and Trevor opened and placed a folded cheque representing the proceeds from the sale of their house, their cars and all their worldly possessions. — This locket represents your love for the Great Benefactor and his love for you, the Guardian said. — As a repository for everything that symbolises your ties to the old world, it represents a direct Covenant of Trust between yourselves and the Protector.

Trevor and Honey both nodded with as much genuine comprehension as they would have at the end of a long lecture on particle physics.

The Guardian stood to attention and bellowed, — Do you, Trevor and Honey, accept this Covenant with your Benevolent Overlord, the One Great Protector Hamish the Eternal Savour of the Wastelands, in the defence of freedom, justice and the value of each individual? Trevor and Honey followed suit and bellowed back, — We do! The Guardian smiled and bellowed louder, triumphantly, — All hail the Protector! All hail the Savour of the Wastelands — All hail the Protector! All hail the Saviour of the Wastelands! Trevor and Honey bellowed back.

The Guardian closed the heart-shaped locket and handed it to a passing Minion, who placed it into a large box containing a considerable number of other such lockets, and disappeared into the dark recesses of the Temple of Light behind innumerable others collecting boxes from the thousands of new initiates lining up in the large square.

Without giving too much pause for time to reflect, another Minion quickly appeared with some rusty helmets and old rifles, handing them to the Guardian. The Guardian stared closely at Trevor and Honey. — Will you now and forever and ever after live true to your vows and your Covenant and defend what you know to be right?! He demanded. — Oh yes, the pair replied in unision.

Raising his pitch, the Guardian again demanded to know, — Will you stand up and be counted against the barbarians and degenerates who sew chaos and disorder and refuse to assimilate?! — Oh yes, Trevor and Honey answered again in unision, with increasing desperation. — Will you give your lives for the Great Benefactor, for your Beloved Protector? he asked Trevor and Honey, raising to a fever pitch. — Oh yes! They both cried, desperate to be set upon the savages.

The Guardian thrust the rusty helmets and old rifles at the pair. — Then go forth now and slay the evildoers! Show them that the civilised world will not go quietly! Do not let love and justice disappear quietly into the night!

Practically beside themselves with fury and nervous energy, Trevor and Honey snatched the helmets and rifles from the Guardian and, without further ado, barrelled through the open gate and down the stairs from the Temple of Light and into the pitched battle in the streets below. The bullets that immediately struck the new and totally untrained initiates were razor sharp, like bees made of knife, and they both collapsed in shock and agony.

Momentarily, Honey died of her wounds. Trevor lingered a few moments longer, long enough for his heart to pump precious litres of blood into his lungs, his liver and the ground beneath him.

As he began to hallucinate, Trevor saw a soft and doughy figure approach, smelling of a delicate perfume and bathed in a golden glow, as though he had been spending a lot of time in a tanning booth. How was this possible? There had been no tanning booths for some time now—hadn’t there? The figure looked a bit like Hamish the Protector.

— My Beloved Protector, is it really you? You don’t look at all athletic like your statue; you look like you’ve been living high on the hog. What gives?

The ghostly figure put a finger to Trevor’s lips. — Hush now, be silent and still now, my child. Lack of faith is the disease that left us to our fates. Faith and belief is the glue that binds us together and makes us strong. I know you know the wisdom of this, I know you know the higher purpose it serves. Don’t go and ruin everything by breaking your vows at this, the moment of your greatest glory. Don’t you understand you were fated for greater things?

And with that, Trevor died.