Sterner-Neely / Preemptive Strikes
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Preemptive Strikes
By
Matthew Sterner-Neely
“Since the Great Breakup of 2046, on which the 29th and 30th Amendments to the 2nd US
Constitution were based...” I am interrupted by the sound of zippers and backpacks. Ugh. I hate
this part. Is it lunch already? I turn around and face the lecture hall. The ancient analog clock
reads “12:15.”
“Okay, class....don’t forget to turn your Prime Scanners off for Thursday’s class. We will
be simulating pre-COVID Internet shopping!” They file out, and I am positive that I will have a
plethora of Amazon Pre-Emts to sift through in a couple days. I think for a second and send them
all a message. Not that they will think about the notification. Half of them are on their way to
being day-drunk by now.
“Doctor Sterner-Neely?” A short blonde with glasses and vintage, high-waisted jeans
stands in front of me, her textbooks and a well-worn copy of J.K. Rowling’s In Defense of the
TERFs tucked under one arm.
“Awfully brave,” I say.
“Brave?”
I lean in and whisper. “Not many people would want to be seen with that book, but here
you are, and its actual pages, too.” She smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ears.
“Oh...right.” She places her copy of the book behind a biology text. “It’s for my
Women’s Lit class.”
“246?” I ask.
“Opposing Forces in 20th Century Fascism, yes.”
Sterner-Neely / Preemptive Strikes
“Well, Rowling is nothing. Wait till you get to President Lahren’s bio.”
“Was it really as bad as they say?”
“That’s what they say.” I turn to the board, and I hear a Prime drone down the hall. “I
was only just born when she came to power. Hell, Rowling was still known more for Harold
Potter at that point.
“Harry,” she says. “What a bitch.”
“Rowling?”
“Tomi Lahren,” she says, and she repeats herself. “What a bitch.”
Something pings in my chest even now.
“Right, well,” I say, “You need something...”
“Twitter,” she says.
“You need something, Twitter?”
“No,” she says, “Just wanted to let you know that they moved the clocks forward.”
I look at my wrist, and sure enough, the blue tint under my skin reads “12:04.”
“Jesus,” I say. “I have been falling for that one since I was a TA at St. Obama’s.” The
door opens, and a drone flies in. I only just catch the blue Amazon Prime smile before we kneel
and avert our eyes, waiting for the delivery. Twitter whispers to me.
“For you or me?” she asks.
“No idea,” I whisper back, and as the drone chimes, we recite our prayers in unison:
Oh, Father Bezos,
We thank Thee for Thy Gifts
Of Bread and Thought,
Of Touch and Love,
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Sterner-Neely / Preemptive Strikes
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Of Joy and Social Responsibility.
In the Name of Thy Adopted Son,
Barron Trump, Amen to Thee.
We finish the prayer and stand, watching for the obsolete technology to begin. A
hologram – an Alpha model, by the looks of it – comes to crackling life.
“For...ur ple...gi...wine an...” the voice trails off. Twitter and I exchange a glance.
“Now how are we going to know who it’s for?” she asks.
“It’s a 2063 Pinot from Côte de Nuits,” I say. “Pretty sure it’s not for a college student.”
“Maybe they were out of Mad Dog 20/20,” she says. I laugh, despite her comments
earlier.
“Thanks, Twitter. If you’ll excuse me,” I say.
“Right,” she says. “No problem. See you Thursday, Prof!”
#
I am in my home, moments later, and I call to my wife from the front port. She comes to
me, dressed in a slinky, pink nighty, blonde curls bouncing on her shoulders.
“As lovely as the day we were wed, my love,” I say, and I hand her the bottle of wine.
“You remembered?” she asks. I give her my best shocked face.
“This is my best shocked face,” I say.
“So, Amazon remembered,” she says.
“Amazon remembered,” I say.
“After 33 years, can’t you remember?” she asks, and her eyes narrow.
“I know that look,” I say. “Trick question. 34 years.”
Sterner-Neely / Preemptive Strikes
“Very good!” she says. “Now take off your pants. We have work to do before you go
back to the university.” I do as she says, and she enters the bathroom. “How was class?”
“Same stuff,” I say. “Kids played the trick on me.”
“And you let them?”
“I let them. Had to get home,” I say. We are silent for a while, and then I speak again.
“This kid was trash-talking again.” I hear laughter from the bathroom.
“Not surprised,” my wife says. “Damn centennials.”
“Didn’t they say the same thing about your generation?” I ask.
“Millennials,” she says. “And I was one of the smart ones.”
“You’re still alive,” I say, “and that’s fairly smart.”
“Especially in this pansy-ass day and age,” she says.
“Not like we will have to worry about it after Thursday,” I say.
“Well, you won’t,” she says, and she comes out of the bathroom, climbs on top of me,
and presses a switch behind my ear. “Taking this out first, so kiss me while you can,” she says.
“Fucking ironic that I am getting all emotional about my emotion chip,” I say. She
ignores me and covers everything a final time.
“12:12, where will you be?”
“Classroom; lecturing,” I say.
“And the kids?”
“Students,” I say.
“You’re worse than them.” I don’t back down. “Okay, ‘students.’”
“My students will be in the classroom, monitors off for the classroom simulation, and I
will be in the center of the hall.”
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Sterner-Neely / Preemptive Strikes
“Then all there is to do is to take out the chip,” she says.
“And put in the Warhead,” I say.
“You sure you want to go through with this?”
“With all my heart,” I say. She grabs the pliers and lifts the skin from my chest to access
the emotion chip.
“By this time Friday, I will be back in the White House.”
“Praise Rowling,” I say.
“Praise Rowling,” she says. “Damn, I love you, Doctor Matthew Sterner-Neely.”
“And I love you, President Tomi Lahren.”
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