For the last three hours, an evangelical preacher has been giving a sermon aboard the aircraft. We were on our sixtieth hymn by the time we reached the East Coast. The wings had been 3D printed so they appeared covered in feathers, and a jet of water spurted from the front of the plane to create a halo effect as we flew through the air. As the preacher continued, I began to disassociate, imagining the landmass ahead of me and thinking that I was a part of it.
We land at JFK airport, with many of the passengers giving a standing ovation being thrown into the air as the tyres screech on the runway. I exit the plane, no passport, no luggage, no cigarettes. As I enter passport control I pull a fire alarm, shouting “Fire, fire!” and the tourists start to stampede, filmed in hilarious slow motion to be reposted on meme accounts ran by Russian spy networks. I join the running, pushing past people, squashing hats down onto faces, clambering up against security gates and through and out into the United States of America in the year of our lord two thousand and twenty five.
ICE agents wait outside. These guys are mostly ex police officers, fired for shooting civilians, promoted to the ranks of government approved fascist kill squads. One of them has a Pepe tattoo on his face, the other is watching fetish porn on his phone at full volume, the squeaking of rubber and groaning adds a sinister atmosphere to the area as I try to look inconspicuous. I was an illegal immigrant. I was coming to take advantage of government programs, claim benefits, commit minor crime and basically undermine the very constitution of America. I felt invincible, walking up to the ICE agents and asking them for a bottle of American soda. For a moment they raise their assault rifles at me, but once they see I’m white, they relax.
“Sure, here’s a root beer you limey son of a bitch.”, throwing me a bottle of Coca Cola.
“Cheers mate!” I say, shaking it up and cracking it open as they both laugh at my accent, drooling on themselves. I found out a week later that they had both died in a skateboarding accident, but it was no great loss. I flagged down a yellow cab, got in, and away we went.
New York. The big asshole. This city is like a reverse bear trap placed over your head and the key to escape is by acting like you’re the only person who ever existed. As the cab drove down the streets, rotting trash spilled over the sidewalks and steam leaked upward from floor vents.
America.
Famous for being one of the worst countries the world had ever seen. Mr Beast is running for president against an AI. Obese children smoke sawdust whilst gambling on iPads. You can’t even drink the water. The nation had sold its soul, got nothing in return, and spread their economics across the world advertised as freedom. It was a piece of shit country and I was stuck there.
I dodged the taxi fare, ran through Central Park, stole a phone from someone’s hand, hid in a bush. I had memorised my agents number.
“Why did you send me to America?”
“You need to cover the downfall of the American Empire.”
“Look. Once upon a time, in Hollywood, I had fun. Big plates of food, big cars, everything is big, you know? I don’t need to come back here.”
“Penguin doesn’t agree. Penguin thinks you should do this.”
“Penguin can wipe my ass with a million dollar cheque, I want to get on a plane back now.”
“We booked you a plane. It’s in Los Angeles.”
“Ah. LA. That’s one hell of a city. But it’s on the other side of the country, two and a half thousand miles away. Get me back to Manchester, pronto.”
“Aren’t you interested in seeing how the States have changed? You haven’t been there in over ten years. You’re not curious?” they say. I hiss. My greatest weakness, my curiosity.
“Maybe a little.”
“Look, you’ll be fine. Just write what you feel. All the big publishers are starting a bidding war now they heard you’re involved.”
“I don’t care about money.”
“You might not. But you could give it away, think of the good you could do.”
“How much?” I ask. They tell me. I whistle.
“Okay. But first I need to see a doctor.” I say.
Two hours later I get my face redone. Lip fillers, botox, buccal fat removal, buccal fat injection. I get the surgeon to shave parts of my skull off and augment them with wax fittings, which would slowly melt and easily be absorbed into my body. Its organic. I look in a mirror.
"Do you think I’m gorgeous?" I ask, looking at my bruised, fucked up looking face. The surgeon gives me a thumbs up. I rate her five stars on the plastic surgery app.
The second part of my disguise was learning a new body language. How we hold ourselves, how we walk, the way we move our hands - all of this is easily recognised and would need readjusting. I had a lattice of muscle fibres placed across my ribcage and back, boosted with splints that gradually exerted pressure on my inner thighs and the inside of my forearms. I took a few steps, feeling as if I was moving inside somebody else’s body. The surgeon injected me with 20lbs of fat and my transformation was almost complete.
The CIA had their own version of the men from Queer Eye on Netflix. They did your hair, dressed you up, taught you how to speak, that sort of thing. I happened to know a set of makeover agents in New York as it happened, and they decked me out with the modern American look. Enormous denim jeans, a leather vest, some bangles – all the while teaching me the latest slang and trying to shape my personality to that of the average American male in his mid-20s. I practiced saying things like “That’s wicked.” and throwing up gang signs from different subreddits. I was ready.
A metal door rolled up, revealing the New York skyline around me. I was to travel across the country, learning where the United States were at in 2025. I rubbed at my face, it felt totally unfamiliar to me. Patting my pockets and finding a vape, I leant against the doorframe and looked out, shivering in the night. A great adventure lay before me. I would do a few more preparations and begin my journey.
The quest for America.
