Brand New World

The first edition of Brand New World

Available for only $11,95 on Lulu.com:

 

An excerpt from the first chapter of Brand New World

So I am going to save the world after all.

Not such a bad world to save. I can imagine worse.

What if the League of Nations hadn’t managed to unite humanity after World War II? What if Esperanto never had the chance to develop into a living language? Or what if economy still depended on oil?

Imagine a world where Martians had never landed on Earth. Or a world where Hitler actually won the war, where Martin Luther King had been shot dead after all, or where Obama is the name of an idealist who turned to terrorism out of sheer frustration. Yes, there are worse worlds to save than this one.

Ever heard of James Bond? J. Bond, a name for a boring oxygen salesman or a vapid Web Preacher. If you’ve read Ian Fleming’s books – which I am pretty sure you haven’t as they aren’t translated into Esperanto – you’ll know better.
It has always been my dream to be the spy who saved the world. But I’ve got my name against me. It glitters like a nest of fake jewels: Dior Darling. You’d better call me DD. Perhaps there’s a bit more hope then.

The end of the world has been close for years now. Fino de la mondo! Look it up some time: 1 987 598 755 hits on the Web. That’s 32 500 000 more than for the term sekso.
Some people are convinced that the Antichrist will soon arise, that the End has been predicted in the calendar of the Q’anjob’al, that mad scientists are planning an insanely destructive experiment tomorrow, or that next month the earth will be aligned with the sun in such a way that the poles reverse and we’ll all tumble into space.
Doomsdays, with their silly logo of a demented laughing sun, are popping up everywhere like mushrooms. Some fanatic members even have the Doomsday logo tattooed on their bodies. They cry bloody murder about the destruction of our planet, and meanwhile order a camel steak with their floptop , which is brought to their front doors by a conco so quickly it’s only just stopped breathing.

So everything pretty much goes on as it always did. Bebos are still born every day. All kinds of bebos. Poor people’s bebos with crooked noses and wonky genes like mine, or plano-bebos with steel blue eyes and slender pianist’s hands, designed to become a business person or a great composer.

What about me? Just turned twenty-two, and yet perhaps this year I’ll already become a tenured journalist of the public Web broadcast. I’m safe here with the Publika Servo por Retkomunikado. They’ll keep hold of the news monopoly for some time – despite the protests about the way the PSR makes unwanted public awareness messages pop up on komputilos all over the world.

The flora and fauna girl – that’s my nickname here at the news office. My first konsilo was a direct hit. A beastly assignment for a beginner, the chief editor grinned, and he had me write a piece about how dangerous it is to leave cat food outside. (Tigers like it too, especially if it’s salmon flavoured.) After that, all animal and vegetable subjects were thrown my way.
Not long ago I had the honour of warning the global population about the noise pollution caused by the wildly breeding bullfrog. I was to advise the reader that he would be best off butchering the little creatures and then frying them up with an onion or two, because bullfrog legs are oh so tasty, so bongusta. Ecologically and economically sound extermination, that’s what it’s officially called.
Tigers as pets are completely out of fashion, pandas too dangerous, snakes too slippery, koalas too boring. And so I recently came across the latest pet hype: polpos. And believe me, those octopods have thoroughly changed my life.
“Never bring a polpo into your home,” that’s the title of my latest piece warning about the dangers (already 800 casualties worldwide). In-depth research always precedes my writing. Even if I’m just writing konsilos, I do take my job deadly seriously.
So seriously that I can’t possibly ignore the coincidences: my onjo Dora’s life got entangled in octopod arms as well. So seriously entangled, she disappeared off the face of the earth. But I can hardly write any of this in my konsilo. I have to stick to official guidelines, as a good civil servant should.

No, I’m not proud of my subservience. I had intended to become an independent journalist. Sadly, I was so good at convincing myself I had all the time in the world, that I even believed it. I’m young, I still have to get some experience, and what better place than the safe environment of the PSR? Adequately paid, and a decent pension ahead. In short: a position any young journalist could only dream of.
Didn’t I get to shake the hand of Monda Prezidanto Obama only last year? When I saw he wasn’t wearing any protective gloves, I quickly took off mine as well. His warm brown hand was a bit sticky with sweat. That firm grip around my fingers. That tingle afterwards. That’s what I’m doing it for. Wouldn’t you?