Made in China Chapter 1

Zula Zane is the most beautiful woman left in this rotten rancorous asshole of a world, stolen by a madman and kept in his metaphoric pocket. She was the most beautiful woman in the world before the shit hit the fan, which is all that can be said about everything that has happened since 2027.  But it can be said conclusively, agreed upon by all men with peckers that she is the most beautiful woman now, at least, the most beautiful with a pulse (not including electro-circular vibration). I am not a writer, but I feel that someone must sing Zula’s praises and document some of this insanity because I have to believe that someday this will all be looked back upon critically by a new society with utter repulsion and baffled contempt, the way someone looks at an unflushed toilet. All the writers are either dead, eaten, or have given up to become survivalists, or they have become so brainwashed that they do not see this as anything unusual, the creativity sucked from them by their perverse contemporaries or by the mounting calamities. There is no money in writing anymore and that is all that ever really interested them. No one is going to spend a few hours or a couple days in this terrible life reading a novel for pleasure so writers stopped producing vampire-werewolf love affairs and murder mysteries and science fiction sexy to focus on surviving or gaining acceptance in other more practical ways. There are no publishing companies anymore that publish anything besides text books, trade manuals and high-quality hardcore pornography which sells like gold.

I write by hand in a journal I bought at a general store. The cashier looked at me curiously for buying it and even more skeptically for buying two pens. There was dust on their package. Kerosene, batteries, flash lights, toilet paper, canned foods, rubber cement, life jackets, lube and dildos are the best sellers these days and I, a weirdo, came in asking for a journal and some pens… In the aforementioned year, more people died than in any other single year in the history of the world. 2027 made any medieval year look like tiddlywinks. That was the first year of the terrible vaginal disease called KITTY, which killed 78% of all women in the world (and counting). It could be more or less. It could always be more and it can always be less.

Zula lived in Malibu in a quaint bungalow overlooking the once beautiful Pacific Ocean, which has become very violent, full of hurricanes and mini-tsunamis and worse, with sharks as big as school buses. Super-sharks, they call them, junk-eating monsters that scientists created in a lab from 2019 to 2021 to eat the excessive amount of trash in the oceans from inland humans and cruise ships. They eat everything—most unfortunately for other aquatic life they ate most of the other sharks, whales, adorable and sexy dolphins, mermaids, fishing boats and all their crew, and delicious delectable fish. No one saw that coming. Science has become so dreadfully short-sighted operating in a panic these days often creating something new to make up for something they screwed up before and in the end, they screw everything up worse. The sky above the Pacific is always dark and foreboding. There is very little beauty, sunshine, or anything like that left in the world, besides for Zula. I keep a picture of her in my pocket from her last movie. Her movies were successful efforts in bringing decency and hope back to film and to life. They all had inspiring stories of the human spirit while seemingly all other films these days are pornographic, action drama or reality, which leave you with the feeling of eating junk-food. Perhaps, that is why I love her.

Zula is being kept hostage by a madman, former President of the United States, the sixty sixth, former game show host, Heathcliff Bernard. He is keeping her as a prize for the winner of an automobile race across the country that he has sponsored merely to entertain himself with the death of so many would-be heroes. He hates heroes and loves death. There are two kinds of men in this world. Men who like watching other men die and suffer and men who like watching women shimmy up brass poles, chaffing their thighs, or seeing the rise and fall of a pony tail in their crotch. I am neither, but I feel that I am the exception, a foreigner in my own world and that maybe if I write this all down I will be better understood by future generations. That hope gives me the feeling of decency and gives me a sense of purpose. I find amusement in finding and reading rare classic books that people have mostly burned for fuel or warmth. I try to learn as much as possible about what is happening around me while most others don’t want to know. For others, amusement is hard to come by since they used to be so amused by only sex, alcohol and TV. I am not too sure what KITTY stands for, but it is the worst thing to happen to men since those popular penis enhancement pills caused a gargantuan outbreak of testicular cancer back in 2019.

So the joke went…Doctor says, “Good news is your penis grew a quarter inch! Bad news is we’re going to have to chop off your balls.”

Ho hum.