The Conversion Bureau: Tourist Trap

Contract of Residency and Citizenship
for the Nation State Formally Known as Branson Missouri

PART ONE: Simplified Overview of Subsections for Quick Reference.

I. Any rule of law not explicitly stated in this contract shall not be given representation as common law.

II. Any persons entering into this contract must be an eligible adult of their former country entering of their own freewill without threat of loss of quality of life through action or inaction.

III. All four legged races are explicitly accepted as nonhuman and therefore have no or limited rights within the country.

Blah blah blah, it means the “Country” of Pleasure Island is a scheme of course. You don’t make money selling razors, and you don’t make money selling movie tickets; you make money selling blades and popcorn. That’s how amusement parks work too so why not a whole country. Mr. Mann’s country was a nice little way to lure in ignorant people then hit them with hidden fees.

I very calmly pulled out my silenced 45, shot my horse in the head, and made sure it was completely dead before I signed my name to the contract.

Part III states that no four legged animal shall be killed by a citizen or resident, however, Part VI states that all four legged animals will not be allowed to leave the country and will be fed and handled by the staff at the expense of the “one responsible for allowing the animal to enter into the country.” It wasn’t the most complex legalese I had ever seen, and it meant simply that if you came in here with an animal, you were charged for it for the rest of its life. And of course, everyone came here with at least one four legged animal. Ever since the gas crash, the only way of getting around except by your own two feet was to be pulled by those with four. So horse, mule, cow, or herd of sledding dogs, Mr. Mann fully expected to cash in on anyone everyone and even twice as much on any fool who owned a pet. You couldn’t transfer ownership or weasel out of it. Even though practically everything was free, like any good business they would get you in the hidden fees. The only smart thing to do was to kill your ride right at the gate, before you became a proper citizen, of course.

Mr. Mann looked at the horse carcass with a momentary glance of disgust, “Well, Mr. Emerson, since you will no longer be requiring your horse, may I offer to buy the remains?” Mr. Mann was dressed in a red double breasted coat and blue ascot. The style and color of the two probably indicated that he was one of those “old southern gentlemen” who refused to believe the South ever lost the civil war from hundreds of years ago.

“Sure thing, Coach.” I said. Part II of the contract states in one of the subsections that when someone signs, they shall be known and called by that name throughout the country. Mr. Mann’s first name was lost to history, but his title of ‘coach’ seemed to fit the look of him – a man who grew up yelling at boys to live up to his glory days, while ignoring all the rules and demands himself. Part III of the contract detailed how no four legged animal would even have the right to a name, as if he just needed that little bit more of a reminder of how much better he was than everyone else.

Mr. Mann pulled a miniature toy like whip from his pocket and cracked it. Four tiny donkeys about a quarter of my size, were standing behind him flinched and rushed to a shed fetching a sled and ropes before rushing to the dead horse and worked to carry it away. It was clear they had done this several times for the smart people who actually read the rules. “Will four hundred be enough?”

“Yes, thank you.” I said. Of course, if he had offered a penny I still would have said yes. That’s how you deal with people who think they are the wealthy elite: make them think that you are smart enough and rich enough to roll with whatever they do.

Mr. Mann smiled and started walking through the main gates. I followed looking up at the guards on the towers. I couldn’t see their faces from the forty feet of distance, but I could see that they wore expensive professional body armor that included a helmet and carried various assault and sniping rifles. Pulsating gems stuck out of what looked like torches held in sconces against the outside and the inside of the wall. Reaching through the fold of his coat, he pulled out several bills, and handed them to me. “You strike me as a man who knows what’s going on here.”

“That you’ve built a fort that you’re calling an amusement park?”

Mr. Mann laughed, “Not just a fort, a last hold out. We’ll need you when the time comes, but please enjoy yourself as much as you can before the big day.”

He smiled as old men do when facing down war and started walking off, but I stopped him by saying, “Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Of course.” He really looked and sounded like the kind of man who couldn’t be moved by anything.

“How’d you do it? How did you figure out how to use the Equestrian’s magic to keep them out, and how did you capture so many of their donkeys?”

“Ah,” He smiled tilting his head down a bit even as he kept his eyes on me, “Well, Mr. Emerson, knowledge is power. I simply continued doing what I have always done. As for the donkeys,” He paused again grinning, “They simply didn’t understand the consequences of defaulting on our agreement. Remember to enjoy.” With that he turned while raising his hand and walked away.

I heard the roar of roller coasters and the cheers of the people riding it. I never cared for the things even before the gas crash. The inside of the park didn’t really look different from pictures on the internet from years ago. Everything was carefully nestled among trees to make it seem overgrown and hidden despite being in the middle of a city. All of the buildings were rustic log cabin style.

I sat down at one of the food booths, and looked up at the menu. Practically everything was free to citizens but there were prices next to everything for non-citizens. There was a donkey behind the counter wearing a paper hat just like you might find from one of those old diners. It looked around nervously and skiddishly tapped a sign on the counter. I looked down and read, ‘Donkeys not allowed to speak. Order when ready.’

“I’ll have a beer.” I looked at the menu and saw that every beer except house beer still actually cost money. “Make it a Coors.” I drank four ice cold beers, each a different brand. While other people missed air conditioning and cars, this was what I missed. I couldn’t believe even the Coach could get his hands on this stuff, I figured it would have all been drank by now.

“So, you can talk?” I asked, fully expecting the donkey to remain silent. It looked around then nodded slowly. “But you’re not allowed to?” He nodded again, took a step toward the side of the shack, and reached up to tap a copy of the rules stapled to the wall.

I started chuckling completely amused. It was like having a smart toy that could almost talk back to you. “Yeah, I heard how you all were enslaved because you didn’t read the fine print.” I took a swig. The donkey shook it’s head hard then pointed at me, then to itself, then ran it’s hoof across it’s neck in a slitting motion.

I reached over the counter smashing my beer to the ground and grabbed the donkey by the skin on its neck and yanked it braying over the counter. “You threatening me, you little shit?!” It was screaming too loud to hear me so I swung it over my shoulder and onto the top of a trash can before pinning it to the ground. “Answer me you fuck! I said are you threatening me?!” The donkey thrashed about refusing to say a word. It only shook it’s head as it thrashed about. “That’s fuckin’ right!” I punched it across the eye then threw the garbage can on top of it. “Now, clean this shit up!”

I could hear it actually crying as I walked away. I couldn’t kill them, I couldn’t maim them, but I wasn’t about to take no shit from an ass.