Under Control

I thought I was safe from being caught, years after fleeing that coup against me and other senators and representatives and county judges in Texas. I thought I was safe from all the other searches for us politicians after that stupid Gen Z Revolution of the 2030s. But no, I was proven wrong.

Those Gen Z hip kids who are now in their 40s or 50s somehow found a way to track me down. Track down my Super Mansion Vehicle to arrest me for “crimes” against them. The “crimes” they blame me for committing. Wasn’t I protecting them from dangerous content? Wasn’t I protecting them from being radicalized? Isn’t age verification required by scanning a government-issued ID the best way to do that?

While I was relaxed in my Super Mansion Vehicle in the middle of nowhere, enjoying my time hiding out from that revolution, its door was broken down somehow. Then some guys put handcuffs on me, and I was thrown into some windowless van. I heard a click that locked me in the van. I hope they don’t seize my Super Mansion Vehicle while I’m stuck here not being able to see anything. It was a gift from the CEO of KualieT-Data to me.

As the van drove, I just sat there, complaining about how banal the van was. After all, didn’t they strip me of that leather couch, the gold-lined lights, the huge soft bed, the free Internet, all the other good stuff of the Super Mansion Vehicle? The ride was poking me in the back and legs. Don’t they know I'm between 70 and 80 years old? They don’t even show respect to old people these days!

“Hey Ron, shut up about your stupid complaints.”

I turned my head to find an old friend of mine. Someone who was a Republican like me. 

“David Freeman?” I replied. He’s as old as me, but he’s wearing a cheap new suit with a purple elephant on the left side of his shoulder. What a traitor he is, joining those kids.

“I didn’t expect you to remember me, Ron,” he said. “How were your corporate gifts?”

“Did you join the Democrats?” I responded bitterly.

David just smiled. He took out his phone and showed some pictures. “I would’ve, but they passed their Digital Age Assurance Act in California.” I saw the people in Ron’s photos were Democrats, but with handcuffs. I guess that’s a plus side. “So no, I didn’t join the Democrats. I just left the wrong sides of both.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why did we expand SB 20 of 2025–the SAIGCP Act–beyond AI-generated content?”

David looked different when he inquired about that law. He didn’t smile this time, but didn’t seem to frown. What is David Freeman thinking, asking me about Texas Senate Bill 20? Wasn’t that for protecting children from being discomforted by artwork created by offenders? Protecting them from all visuals inappropriately depicting people who look under 18 years old?

“Ronald Konchrol.” David said my full name; I guess that’s a first since we haven’t seen each other for years. “What was everyone around the world thinking, racing to copy the UK’s Online Safety Act from the summer of 2025? Why didn’t they copy Japan’s Law 79 of 2008 that actually delivered Internet safety for kids through filtering without banning VPNs or collecting data that could be stolen while also allowing parents to opt-out if they wanted to?"

It must’ve been the whole day sitting in the back of this torturous van. Then the back doors opened to prove me wrong with afternoon sunlight and the realization I would’ve naturally slept. Next was some other guy in a suit, similar grayish-whiteish hair, and wrinkles, just like me. They put him in handcuffs as well. Actually, a bunch of other guys dressed similarly, with similar hair as me, with wrinkled faces, and handcuffs were joining me in this van, too.

Behind them was a white-haired guy in a cheap suit, but with a purple donkey where the purple elephant would have been on David. He didn’t even have those cuffs on him, and he also had some wrinkled face, too. Why do all these guys without cuffs have purple on them?

“Hello there, Konchrol. How do you do?” said that guy with the purple donkey.

I didn’t respond. I tried to look away from him, but then I would be looking at the traitor David Freeman. I tried to look between them, but then I’m looking at a Gen Z guard with his Gen Beta colleague. I guess I can only look at David Freeman.

“They may have gotten me, but they haven’t gotten my Super Mansion Vehicle unlike you,” smiled one of the guys in handcuffs as he sat down next to me. “I’ve hidden it in Chicago.”

His smile flipped upside down when the Gen Beta guard pulled out her walkie-talkie.

 “Seizure Unit,” said the Gen Beta guard, “There is a Super Mansion Vehicle somewhere in the Historians’ Republic of Chicago."

The van doors slammed shut, and we were driven on.

The bench was aching me with its vibrations and cool. I wonder how much longer we’re going on this ride, so I decided to ask David just one question. “Where are we going?”

He merely responded with, “I’m not gonna tell you.”

My old friend wouldn’t tell me, so I looked at the suit guy with the purple donkey. He shook his head. I looked for answers from the Gen Z guard. He shook his head. I looked at the Gen Beta guard. She shook her head. Is there anyone who is going to tell me where we’re going?

***

I was thrown against the wall of the van and piled on by the other guys that sat on the bench of this van. One by one they were yanked back onto their feet. The guy whose Super Mansion Vehicle is now being seized from Chicago, a woman who wasn’t yanked but instead gently lifted back up, and a bunch of others who sat with me.

“Let’s go Ron, there’s a buncha stuff to do,” said David. He wrapped his fingers around the back of my shirt collar. I expected him to yank me back up harshly, but he must’ve had some kind of “good ol’ days” kind of thing for me. “You younglings, can ya help me with him? You too, Henry.” The Gen Z guard comes with the Gen Beta guard and Henry Wright, who is the suit guy with the purple donkey.

They marched me out into daylight that instantly turned to evening orange. Then it flashed daylight for that brief while again. Turns out it’s the media flashing their cameras, actual ones or phone ones, complete with helicopters shining lights on me. All the other guys from the van bench were in front of me but static. They were standing there and stopped.

Henry slapped one of my shoulders. “Ron, there’s a specific order and you’re at the front.”

He pulled me forward while other official-looking people arranged the others in whatever their specific order was. There were people everywhere, staring at me and the others. There wasn’t much talking above a murmur; the sounds of the cameras and helicopters were the only things louder than that murmur. Even though it was only murmur, I could still hear what they were all talking about me.

“Was that the former county judge from Texas who was serious on banning comics?”

“Wasn’t he the one who enforced Texas Senate Bill 20 in his county by reading from Fahrenheit 451 somewhere?”

“Did he also read 1984 to enforce SB 20 and SB 2420 in his county?

“Too bad they aren’t gonna try him for violating the Constitution in America.”

“I’m wondering how he’ll react to the Statue of Liberty.”

I do not know what these people are talking about, but it could’ve been better for them to call limos for us to ride around. Apparently, the van stopped at the entrance of New York City, and I don’t know why. Again, if they could call us limos or helicopters, it would be much better than walking.

We were marched across the state border on this highway. All traffic was in just one lane while all the other lanes we were walking were closed. They should’ve marched us on another road. Because if they kept that lane open, we wouldn’t have that traffic jam. I cried out loud about this, but one of the guards pointed to a long passenger train on that neighboring rail line and said that the traffic on that one lane was better than I thought. I bent over to pick up a rock with my two hands cuffed at the front. I almost fell over, but I managed to grab it and threw it over towards the tracks, yelling about how they could’ve reduced traffic jams by adding more lanes and that their way of “reducing” traffic was an insult to me, a man of high stature. The guard didn’t even look at me, yanking me back up by the shirt collar. That’s one way of telling me my stature is worth less than railroad scrap metal. Stupid gaslighters.

Staten Island, then the Bayonne Bridge and back into New Jersey. When we were herded back into New York, the sky was purple and the Copper Lady enters my view.

I always dreamed of buying the big green Copper Lady. The one with the torch, spiked headwear, and holding some tablet in her hand. I always dreamed of buying her so I have a place to stay while I’m away from Texas on a vacation. But the Copper Lady didn’t welcome me into New York from her island and brownish-grayish standing platform. Apparently, she was now holding a giant banner that read “We will never accept Texas SB 2420 of 2025, Texas SB 20 of 2025, California AB 1043 of 2025, UK Online Safety Act of 2025, or EU CSAR” for some reason.

It was getting dark already, but there was still enough light for me to see a wanted poster with my name on it. Posted on the first building I see in New York City, my face and bounty in the thousands. What the hell are all these crimes I’m being listed for? Enabling fraud and identity theft? Suppressing freedom of speech and other forms of expression? “Trojan-horsing” law enforcement? KualieT-Data was just giving me gifts, and they call that corruption? How was I resisting arrest for the 20 years I fled the Gen Z Revolution? How come protecting the kids makes me a criminal? I looked away from the poster as I was slowly marched. At that exactly wrong time, the flash of news reporter cameras with my face right next to the poster. Making it worse, some phones joined the mix, too. All those Gen Z kids should be on trial for falsely accusing me.

We all marched towards Manhattan, where there was a building I recognized. It had some United Nations illustrated thing on it, but I didn’t know it still had its lights on at night. It stood tall with miraculously intact windows despite its funding cut due to overthrown governments. What are we being marched there for?

There was some kind of judge there, and next to him is some young man in a suit, wearing some pin with a castle and crown on it. In addition to those two, there were also three guys who looked like they came from Asia flanking that judge-looking guy and the young suit guy. Their mouths were either straight lines or frowning at me. Then David came up to join one of their sides, alongside other guys, gray or colored hair, sitting on the other sides. The guys who came after David all had either purple elephant or purple donkey pins on their suits. I almost forgot to mention there was a crowd of people behind me in normal shirts, jeans, sweatpants, or whatever it is they wear.

“Welcome to the former United Nations Headquarters,” said the guy who looked like a judge. He looks at me. Then he glances up and down at the others surrounding me in their suits and handcuffs. “More selfish former politicians today, I see.”

I thought up my response, and walked up to the guy, banging my handcuffed hands in front of him on the table. “Callin’ us selfish? We were protecting the kids back in the 2020s! You call that selfish? You think–”

“What you meant by protection, you meant putting the IDs of adults and kids with driver licenses into centralized points of data that attackers broke into thousands of times over and over again to steal the birth dates, addresses, faces, Social Security, bank card numbers, and other aspects of identity, just so those adults can access the Internet and you can arrest them for posting stuff making fun of you (which you can see because you have their ID) while locking out kids younger than 16 years from seeing what you don’t want them to see like news stories on how there was a spike in violence since people lost the safety valve that is Internet anonymity or the other news stories about suicide increasing since suicide and other mental health topics are stuff that need to be locked behind ID checks to see you’re at least 18 years old just to see them?”

“You are one to mouth!” I was not going to back down after the semi-judge's wordy response. “But I was also protecting the kids by helping to enforce the law in removing the visuals they should’ve never been seeing–”

"Just by viewing some of the statistics and bookstore camera footage, I can very much tell you read Fahrenheit 451 yourself to enforce Texas SB 20 of 2025, going beyond Internet visual content, to the physical visual content. You led your county to join Project Rage Against Youkai among other counties within Texas on interpreting and enforcing Texas Senate Bill 20 of 2025, and I can safely say Project RAY went far into illegal territory, far from the legal limit of enforcing the ban on AI-generated CSAM content.”

“You will not speak–”

“Several homes alongside any of their residents who decided to play old woman from Fahrenheit 451 killed just because those homes burned down by your firemen contained Bob the Builder and Doraemon and Pokémon and similarly harmless stuff on your list, alongside pedestrians killed by your fire trucks competing to race to burn comics and figurines. That left all children who survived your antics orphaned without parental protection, not to mention the screwworm flies eating up your county’s cattle and that power grid failure of your county during that certain winter while you were diverting money from sterile fly production programs and power grid fixing to fund Project RAY while SB 20 to keep out the animation that provided your county an economy if cattle was gone. Care to say more?”

Ugh, he brought up that horrifying winter storm. The storm that forced me to hide away from Gen Z. I missed a lot of what he said, but I did catch him lecturing about how Ireland destroyed itself–economy becoming poorer than the British economy for the first time in decades included–by enacting new laws.

“However, you several lot of corrupt Dems and Republicans are not going on trial in anywhere of the former United States of America.” What did that judge-like man just say? Why? “Your punishment if found guilty of your crimes is not imprisonment. It’s not execution either. Now the Emperor of Japan, King of the Windsor Isles of Britain, Prime Minister of Japan, King of Xinqing, delegates from Taiwan, Singapore, and all the Purple Dems and Purple Republicans may speak about you, the defendants.”

I didn’t pay attention to what was being said by them or the translators, but then two men in suits, helmets on their heads, and guns in their holsters brought my feet off the ground. In my struggle, they wrapped a black ribbon over my eyes, and I could only hear someone talking about me. About how unfortunate it was for them because they couldn’t try me in former America, because jury bias was inevitable due to the overwhelming evidence of my crimes to any American. That voice quickly faded, and I felt a thud on a cold, metal floor with the background sound of a jet engine fading as I heard some door close.

***

The jet engine faded back in, and I was thrust upwards onto my feet. The metallic footsteps stayed with me for a staircase, then became concrete footsteps. Then I couldn’t tell what my footsteps were, only that they were in the air while there were other footsteps on both sides of me, and I couldn’t tell if they were concrete or metal.

Something rotated as I heard beep after beep accompanying the footsteps, then I somehow found my feet on concrete. I can tell by the sound. I tried to look around, but it could only change how I’m hearing things, which had been just a couple random somebodies saying, “Baka,” in the direction of my ears for the past quarter of an hour or so. Then there was the sound of the steel screech from behind me, and there was some announcement I didn’t get, not even the English version. A few seconds later, a melody, and I hear electric motors fading out. They still haven’t stopped chanting that baka word at me.

The steel screeching screamed at my blind face and stopped. There was some hiss and a click, and the hands I couldn’t see pushed me in and seated me down on something. Then some melody played. A hiss and click silenced the music and the motors accompanied me. I wasn’t just kept in the dark metaphorically this time, and it seemed like a bunch of guys took notice of the blindfolded me, under the watch of armed guards. I know they are talking about me, but they’re talking in a different language that I don’t know. Each time they laugh, each time I sweat one more tear.

The motors changed pitch, and an announcement flickered into my ears. First, the language I don’t speak or understand, then in English, “The next station is Tokyo Station.” There was this steel screech, then another hiss and click. At this point, my head felt weird, like I needed to sway or rotate it a little. As I was forced onto my feet, I decided to point my head towards what I blindly believed was the floor to help with my dizziness. It apparently didn’t help much, and my eyelids hid my eyes from seeing the blindfold black while I felt a shove into some van.

***

Somehow, the black ribbon that hid my eyes disappeared. I can no longer just see black, but finished wood? Are those people? What was going on those hours or days I was blindfolded? What are those people doing, turning and murmuring? Unlike in New York, I can’t even get to understand what those guys are saying.

“Is the Defendant Ronald Konchrol awake?” Somebody is calling my name. I wonder how long they were doing that. I finally got my eyes open and gazed in the direction of where those words came from. “Is the Defendant Ronald Konchrol awake?” It was actual, American English and not the accented version I expected. How? “I am the AI translator for this court, currently speaking to you in English mode,” said the thing. It came from a screen attached to something holding it to the roof and must be moving along some track given its movements. “Do you respond, Defendant Ronald Konchrol?”

I just stared at the screen, the screen that must’ve asked me. I said nothing to it.

“You have indicated responsive,” said the thing, continuing, “You are currently on trial in Japan for a variety of crimes committed during your tenure as a County Judge in Texas during the 2030s. To further level the playing field for you, we are straying from the typical Japanese ways of conducting your case and instead proceeding with you in an American-style jury trial you are more familiar with. Japan was chosen for obvious reasons already mentioned when you were in New York.”

This screen can really talk. It said a lot of stuff after explaining to me about why we came to Japan, which I lost track of as I looked behind its back to see who all were participating in the trial. There are two White guys and a Black guy in the entire jury of 12 jurors. I recognize the familiar Texan tan on those White guys! The English I heard from the Black guy talking with the two White guys sounds like the Texan accent, too! Are they now living in Japan?

“Hey.” I turned to see another guy. It’s my long-time lawyer. I never got his name, but he was always loyal to me. “I was assigned to you for this case.” But I couldn’t get a good enough look at him when that robotic voice interrupted.

The screen spoke the language I don’t know, then said in English, "Sinclair Reese Faber shall be called for eyewitness testimony.”

As that 20 or so kid walked in, I looked over to my lawyer. He seemed uneasy when he stared back at me. He pointed towards Sinclair and shook his head. I turned back to see the Judge with some remote control in his hand, and the screen asked Sinclair to begin her testimony. The Prosecutor asked questions and the screen translated the questions for her, including how her parents died. My lawyer managed to make an objection that the Prosecutor has strayed beyond what it was supposed to be about, but I can’t tell if they sustained or overruled it.

When it was my lawyer’s turn to question Sinclair, he just said, “No questions.” The screen repeated it in Japanese to the audience. We both turned to face each other, and I could see his face was pale, with eyes rather wide. They augmented a bit when we both heard that new evidence entered the court.

It was video camera footage that showed some guys dressed in black streaming into some place, hoses in tow. Out those hoses came orange and yellow to engulf some wooden rows with colorful stuff on it, with a “Manga” sign above. The guys in black left with their hoses, and we all watched the fire spread everywhere before it blacked out. Some guy explained how it wasn’t generated by AI to the jury. It probably gave them quite a stir, and some of the screen’s translations indicated they couldn’t believe someone would do such a thing to their cultural identity. Another video popped up, and I recognized my voice from it. I also recognized the voice of another guy from the video, which was from the time I bought a book with a red and black cover. I needed ways to enforce laws from Austin back then.

After three weeks, I somehow needed to hold the railing to walk into the court despite getting the sleep and coffee I needed. From now on after that time we stared at each other, my lawyer’s face stayed white like a ghost and his eyes might’ve been the size of golf balls. We took our positions and waited. My lawyer and the Prosecutor were ready for their summaries or conclusions or whatever you call them (I’m no lawyer), and my lawyer goes first. After he finished, the Prosecutor also came and spoke.

***

“I am ready to begin translating,” said the screen, “Please press a button on the remote controller to continue.” It repeated those words in Japanese.

The Jury Foreman began to read, and a beep told us the screen was greenlit by the Judge. “Ronald Konchrol, found guilty by the Jury, is hereby sentenced under the special conditions of this trial,” said the screen. I didn’t quite catch what the “special conditions” were, but the fines and compensation seized my attention. “Konchrol is paying no less than nine billion Yen in total damages to multiple parties.”

Did they order me to pay the 2025 price of five Super Mansion Vehicles?

I didn’t even catch who I must pay for all the damages, but I did catch that I am on charges only Gen Z would put me on for protecting the kids. I must’ve fallen asleep during all that, because I woke up being taken off the plane in handcuffs again.

I expect to be getting off in New York again, but not only do I not see the Copper Lady, I don’t see any skyscrapers. Only a track the guards keep me on. A track that leads to a steel snake on another track that leads to who knows where.

***

I’m taken off the train and escorted out of Dallas Union Station. I thought about berating the guards about how I could’ve been put in a limo instead, but then I remember seeing those gaps on I-30, filled in with rubble and piled up cars and trucks. I’ve survived such things before. I remember seeing from my escape car the explosion that severed I-35, severed by those Gen Z kids who were too lazy to find jobs to apply their college degrees to. I could’ve lobbied Austin to take away gun rights from those lazy kids. That could’ve prevented the Gen Z Revolution I barely survived.

I was marched through the streets to the pain of my feet and bounded hands. Where are all the cars? What happened to those highways? This doesn’t feel like the Dallas I always came to. Not with even more people walking these streets than in the past. Not with them giving dirty looks. We kept walking beyond the point I looked back and saw that Dallas was now smaller than the palm of my hand, getting smaller as I’m forced to continue the walk.

That familiar sign no longer feels welcoming after all I’ve gone through. I used to lead this place to greatness, but I’m stripped of my status in leading it. The guards forced me onto a path that seemed rather familiar. I was always driven along this road where I could look out and see the cattle grazing the fields. But now, there are only bones and flies here.

I hate that the Barnes and Noble in the county seat has reopened without the burn marks. The firehouse I tasked with burning comic books and DVDs has been replaced by some hobby shop advertising figurines called Nendoroids. Anime Expo has returned to give me and Texas the middle finger. No matter where I go, everyone’s throwing tomatoes and other rotten stuff in this county seat, and the guards don't even bother. They just forced me to continue down the uncanny route, and the destination I was familiar with is probably gone.

I guessed correctly.

Those Gen Z arsonists destroyed my estate. KualieT-Data financed the purchase for me, and I have proof of arson; the wind brought it from the former security room and dropped them in front of me. Turns out the firemen I gave my red-and-black cover books to (I can see their faces) were also involved, and I still remember when they curiously asked for the copies I held. Stupid traitors.

“Why have we stopped?” I asked the guards, looking back up. One of them has a key.

“Didn’t you hear your guilty verdict?” said one of them, putting the key into my cuffs. “We’re keeping you under house arrest for the rest of your life.” The cuffs drop.

“I’m supposed to live in those ruins?”

The guards didn’t respond further. Was that what they meant by me not going to jail or being executed?

I decided to walk through the gates as drops of water fell from the cloudy sky. It was only seconds before my suit–already ruined by dirt and being in Japan–became the weight of armor. Armor that didn't protect me. Much of the roof has already collapsed or burned down, so I don’t know where to seek shelter.

I remembered the location of my bedroom in this former home, and it was luckily still intact, on the first floor. The second floor still gave a roof for this bedroom, and the door to this room was charred but still intact. In all the ruins of my estate, I see that my bedroom door is still here. So I grabbed its knob and yanked, letting it groan as I walked into my home-turned prison.

They literally vandalized this only remaining intact room when I was gone for all those two decades. The offensive figurines are all on a shelf that’s drilled into the wall of my room! I tore out a protruding piece of half-rotten wood next to my room door and tried to smash them all. The only problem was they were in cases of some sort. I slammed a case with all my might with this plank, the one with the teal twintails hair. But the case only had scars. I tried destroying another case, the one with decorated yellow twintails, blue eyes, sailor-like uniform, and a magic staff. The casing didn’t break–it broke my wooden plank and sent splinters flying all over. I wasn’t hurt, bleeding, or got any caught in my skin.

Because my plank was broken, I tried to pull down this shelf. But I only managed to lift myself up.

I became a meteor that left no crater on the room floor, looking up at my failure as I stand back up. Then my knees strike the floor. I put my hands on the sides of my head. My jaw drops, prepared for a scream.

Why are they punishing me for saving kids?