Just a quiet country farm

Just a quiet country farm...

"So, is this everything you ever wanted? Young lady?"

The G-Man sounds derisive. He probably is. As part of a complicated compromise, we're both wearing handcuffs for which the boat's captain has the keys. It is not sexual.

What does an aging, balding, unpassable transsexual do with a weapon of mass destruction? Ask for recognition, of course.

What does she ask for when "recognition" turns out to involve three FBI agents shadowing her and scaring everyone she comes into contact with into a parody of politeness? Her own country, of course.

"Mister Anderson." The voice is intentionally nasal. The G-Man looks annoyed, it's not as if he hasn't heard that one for the last twenty years.

"Yeees?"

"I suppose this means we're not dating anymore?"

"Hah. Good riddance."

The island is one palm away from being the classic tiny island with one palm on it that they used to use for one-panel jokes when it was still politically correct to do so. It's what's left of some land reclamation attempt, but the two palms on it are too far apart to string a hammock properly.

"Oh come on, you must've had some fun doing security for me."

"Not really, no. Preemptively tazing people because they refuse to not call a spade a spade is not my idea of fun."

"I like to think of myself as a large spoon."

"Good for you. Welcome to pretty princess land, population you."

The boat alights. We get off. I show the G-Man that I had in fact broken the handcuffs about a hour before, because I was bored and needed to scratch my nose. He snorts and shows me that his were fake altogether. The boat's captain helps me unload what crates of crap one picks up in four decades of life, plus what crates of crap one picks up in order to start a country. It's a fair amount of stuff, but we get done by sundown.

"Now will you tell me where the nuclear intensifier is?"

"I have an email set to go at 11:59 pee em, as per our agreement. Which you keep skirting."

I was expecting a pantsing joke, but it doesn't come. I stretch and mix some canned tuna and canned tomatoes, unfold the solar panels, and generally get to work. The message is going to say "The nuclear intensifier was dismantled years ago. It's a dangerous thing to keep around, in case an actual bad guy gets a hold of it."

A week later, the Tongan military invades in the form of a PT boat with about twenty people on it. By that time, I don't have a proper meal to offer them. They back off after seeing the rebuilt nuclear intensifier, and I ask them to convey my disappointment to the United Nations. I'm told I'd have to apply for membership. However, they're very nice, and leave me some MREs.

A month later, some Chinese fishermen demand to use my island as a base. I offer a trade treaty, and they answer me with a few bullets. I watch them limp off as they pump water out of the hole in their boats, don't bring a rifle to a mortar fight.

A year later, I get my first tourist. He's some Australian guy circumnavigating the globe. We trade email addresses, he leaves with some pretty shells I found, I get a tub of epoxy.

Ten years later, I give up - my hair is officially white. Okay, enough trying to fiddle with natural dyes, then. A brief stretch. I'm fairly proud of having preserved the original two palms; my cabin doesn't look like much, although admittedly it's still made largely out of driftwood, container panels and bits of boat wreck, but I built it with my own two hands. The satellite antenna keeps ticking, despite the recent patching I had to do to it. I look at my calendar, and note that it's Friday. Probably past dinner time, too; today I was playing mechanic, and got distracted from getting food.

So, what does the ruler of MetaDerponia do on a Friday night?

I get out to look at the soon-to-set sun, and make my own sunset by taking a deep breath and diving into the water, then hovering so all you can see from the surface is my hair. I surface again, take another breath, and dive.

There's a beacon a few meters down the gentle sandy slope, bright red light against the purplish blue of underwater sand in the evening. I kick a bit, and touch it. It yanks me in. The elevator inside is pretty modern, although by treaty it holds to no style whatsoever -- a grey metal box. I thumbprint the pad, and it recognizes me as above all the little prank wars that take the place of real wars in the tunnel-and-bubble networks. I feel like Objectivist dinner, so let's go to floor minus forty and see what ThisIsTotallyNotRaptureButYouCantSueUs's cheap restaurants (they're using their own money, and although I am nominally their absolute monarch, I have about ten bucks to my name in their currency) have to offer. They've been having all sort of problems with ping-pong inflation lately, so if that's not enough for me to get a meal, I'm going to check out the female separatist enclave three levels down. A bit of lobbying last week made sure their anti-trolling laws included me getting a free breakfast a month, and even though it's dinner time, well, kelp cereal is pretty good if made well. Hey, the diplomatic talks with the Rayleth Sub-Hegemony were supposed to end at six AM and we almost ended up making it brunch, I can't referee on an empty stomach.

The elevator goes down past the wreck of the nuclear intensifier. Maybe I should tell someone about that... nah, too lazy. Actually, I also have to tell the Selenists that if they don't get back up above fifty members they lose their spot to the Cult of Sirius, talk to the Moroccan ambassador since they've decided to sell some land to Molossia now that they got too big and numerous for here, and... oh fudge, I really should use something better than post-its, especially given how humid it is. Blargh, lazy, AND hungry. It can be procrastinated past the weekend, surely?

I'm a computer engineer, okay? I prefer to work on the meta level. Why start a country when I can start a country farm?