Cancellation Nation

Inspired by the Fox News article published on 22 Sept 2021 
“Johnny Depp Rails Against Cancel Culture: ‘No One is Safe’”

          They’ve gone and done it again! Evan packed up his camera and equipment for the day’s compilation of sweep’s week possibilities—determined to get in on the running slot this time. A B.S. in journalism and five years at the station weren’t getting him very far. B.S. is about all it is too.

          Management shoved him behind a camera when the last guy walked out in the middle of a shoot, and Evan hadn’t been back at the mic since. It’s not like there was much to report on anyway, at least not since “they” started taking over. The stories weren’t there anymore, and the big exclusive he hoped to get ended up being just another popular teen couple that achieved prom royalty status.

          He didn’t want anything bad to happen to anyone; it’s just that nothing was happening to anyone! “THEY” were not just preventing sweeps; they were sweeping the country clean of everything that didn’t make the cut. CANCEL CULTURE had complete control of the news, and as more people fell into the sub-par range, the more superficial popularity contests ended up being front and center at WCCN-22. The station changed its name a few months ago when the President declared Cancel Culture the licensed strong arm of the socio-political world. WCCN-22, World Cancel Culture News — year ’22. The idiocy fit.

          Evan loaded the news van and could taste the Ramen noodles waiting for him at home. He rubbed his aching shoulder and fingered the skin dent where the camera sat all afternoon, waiting for this week’s head anchor to say his lines for the twentieth time, to get a single clip without a mistake. Evan used to be in his shoes—his degree saw to that. Yet, as things progressed, he did start to appreciate his backstage role. As much as he hated it, he was safe as long as he stayed behind the camera.

     The day crap hit the fan—when this all started, Evan had been one of the few privileged journalists on the front row to get the story live. It was a long flight to the San Sebastian Film Festival, and jet lag mixed with culture shock always sits heavy. Basque Country was a world away from Denver in more ways than one, but worth the trip when he saw Mr. Depp glide up the steps to accept his award. With live feed at the ready, Evan caught the story. He captured the exact moment when the public’s eyes were open to the chaotic spiral that had been building behind the scenes for years.

          Johnny Depp announced to the world something celebrities had been hiding and politicians had been twisting—no one was safe. The Anonymous copycat group, Cancel Culture, was gearing up for a strike to change the nation. Everyone, even the everyday Joe, would be caught in the oppressive web of the extremists.

 

          Few thought much of it then and chalked up Johnny’s rant to bitterness from losing his domestic violence court case. Evan’s gut wrenched—what he had just
heard confirmed everything he had suspected for years. Mr. Depp spoke more truth than anyone realized. As Evan looked around for the realization in his peers’ eyes, he only saw heads shaking and eyes rolling at the actor’s overly dramatic announcement. The hair on the back of Evan’s neck stood up as Johnny exited the stage. He seemed resolved in his rantings, but he sadly glanced back at the crowd as if he didn’t expect to see another one in his lifetime.

 

          Evan got the story, but it wasn’t earth-shaking for anyone but him—it didn’t even get aired. Instead, Denver’s annual Bake it and Shake it Food and Music Fest. filled the slot. It didn’t matter anymore. Evan somehow knew he had just witnessed history. From then on, politicians and khaki-clad extremists started coming out of the woodwork as if a release button had been pushed and all iron gates raised. It began with celebrities, and Johnny was the first. First, he stopped appearing at red-carpet events, then more and more of Hollywood’s golden children went missing from galas as their more popular co-stars took the limelight. 

 

          Next, small businesses started closing, musicians stopped playing at their normal stages, and even working professionals were deleted from job-related search engines. No one suspected foul play at first. After all, people quickly fall out of favor with the public. After a while, things started hitting a little closer home as family members began disappearing, and the daily “Missing Person” report stopped airing altogether.

 

          Social media was the official tally counter of those who remained in good standing with society and those who were canceled. Based on some scientific metric, a new law emerged, stating that once popularity dropped below a certain degree of likes or approval, individuals and groups could be legally canceled regardless of the reasoning. At that point, they were no longer considered a benefit to the greater good. Once that happened, they had ten days to try and get their popularity back up, but none had succeeded so far.

 

          People nervously scanned their favorite social platforms daily to see if a nosey neighbor or jilted ex-lover turned their name over to the authorities. Not popular enough? Caught being politically incorrect? You’re out! Platforms ruled the roost, but the government had a trump card, even above the media. If they decided to pull your file for any reason, there was no ten-day grace period; it always meant immediate exile.

 

          Evan pulled up to his small apartment on the upper east side of Lone Tree, Colorado. It wasn’t the same as it used to be; everyone was scared, and no one cared. His parents were safe enough for now—he made sure they left the country as soon as President Bingham’s official announcement confirmed his suspicions. The zealots were immediately permitted to actively seek out those falling below the “standard” and remove them from the nation by any means necessary. It was allowed under the ruse of ridding the country of its toxic influences.

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          That was all Evan needed to get his family out of Dodge. Exile. That was the punishment for causing waves now. If you didn’t run with the pack, support the pack, or at the very least entertain the pack, you were sent to Himmel Island to live as if you never existed. If anyone made trouble there, they faced “permanent removal.” 

 

          Against his parents’ wishes, Evan stayed in the States—convinced he could fly under the radar as long as he remained behind the camera and followed
the crowd. Once Evan could send them enough money to stay in hiding for a few years, he’d join them and hopefully be able to wait out the chaos until it blew over. They just had to lay low. That was the plan, anyway. In the meantime, the rest of the world saw America as a joke and opened its doors to anyone who could escape the madness. That was plan B.

          Evan showered and prepped his gear for the next day, double-checking his name status and downing two bowls of ramen. Propping his laptop up in bed, he watched Rick McClain, this week’s head anchor, cover everything from weather to sports. They were running out of employees fast, but they better not try to put him in the public eye again. “Conform or be terminated” was the scrolling banner on every station at every news hour. He shuddered and pulled the blanket up over him. Those who opposed the “greater good” faced eventual termination. The island was the first warning. Make waves there, and you meet Davy Jones.

          Within a week of CC stepping into power, giant holding tanks were built at the edges of the newly established island, designed to be submerged at great depths into the sea. The Grade 316 steel chambers connecting to elevator cables shone like a glowing mouse trap in the sunlight. Able to hold over fifty people at a time, the chambers of mass termination were enough to force every Christian, republican, patriot, and Alabama football fan to silence any conversations beyond recipes and weather. The island was fitted with electricity and plumbing, mainly because
the zealots didn’t want the smell to hit them when they made their weekly drop-offs. As far as an island paradise goes, it was a far cry from anything comfortable.

          The sun peeked menacingly through the gap between Evan’s blackout curtains, burning his retinas before he even fluttered his eyes. Why can I never remember to close those stupid things? He only thought about them in the mornings, when he’d swear again to close them as soon as he got out of bed. Whenever his feet hit the floor, though, the thought was gone. He rolled over, glanced at the blood-red numbers blinking their excuse that the power had flickered again, and grabbed his glasses off the stand. Checking the time on his phone, he saw a list of message alerts from his dad. “Evan, they know—Get out!” He rubbed his eyes to get the sleep out and sense in as he scrolled through each message.

 

“They pulled your voting records; we got a notification.”
“Canada is safe for now—we’re OK.”
“You have to go—now!”

 

The ellipses blinked an incoming alert: “Call from Mrs. McGibbon’s house near the airport when you get there. Let us know you’re OK!”

          Evan knew better than to call his dad for more details now; if they had flagged him, they were already tapping his phone. I knew it wouldn’t last; individuals don’t exist anymore. Rushing into his closet, he grabbed his emergency bag and equipment, always at the ready. Throwing in his keys and phone, he raced out the door. There’d be no driving today; a yellow boot locked the front wheel. My van got arrested before I did!

          Evan made a B-line for the dumpsters and headed straight for the path he had pre-mapped through the woods behind them. The CC’s sirens wailed behind him as unmarked cars screeched into the complex he called home just moments ago. Racing through the wooded strip running the length of the street, he sped through the map in his mind. The first safe station was the city shuttle, three miles from stop two. This underground railroad was still technically under construction, but there wasn’t time for testing it. With so much distance between one safe house and the next, he’d have to wait until dark and slip through the forest labyrinth he had memorized. Before his flight to freedom, the last stop would be a small shed near the airport’s back lot. It was too risky of a location for anyone to be suspicious of it, never examining it enough to discover the steps inside leading to a row of filing cabinets for exiles and a sole
worker who preferred to live the cave life. Here, the canceled received their fake passports, I.D.s, and everything else an escapee would need to start their lives over in obscurity.

          Heart pounding with adrenaline, Evan thanked his Fitbit for nagging him to run every morning; his training was paying off. Just slightly out of breath, he finally reached the door of his first stop and knocked on Old Man Wilson’s door. The eighty-something retiree had a heart for freedom, with his own purple ones on the wall, inviting you into his home. He had no family to speak of and could stay off the grid completely. His time as a POW made him the perfect stop for innocents on the run. Evan didn’t have to announce his reason for being there. When Wilson saw his backpack, he nodded and quickly moved aside, leading him into the basement for the night. The room was already set up and waiting for its next temporary resident—a homey retreat for the suddenly homeless and a kind smile when no one would dare anymore. Wilson sat on the side of the cot, fitted with military folds and razor-sharp corner tucks. Evan shook the man’s hand in thanks and proceeded to share his journey.

          The sun’s rays had not yet gone through the window when Evan felt cold hands clamp hard over his mouth. Flailing and desperate, he saw a group of G.I. Joes dressed entirely in CC-khaki, with their proud signet emblazoned on their jackets. His shoulders and knees slammed into the stairs as the men dragged him outside into the street. As the hazy early morning light gripped him, he saw Old Man Wilson sitting in the hummer's backseat, wrists tied with makeshift handcuffs and eyes glued to the floorboard. Evan’s heart sank for the man who had already helped so many and wished to God he hadn’t been the one to expose him.

          One ocean ride later, Evan stood on the shore of the one place he prayed he’d never see. He was told he could keep his backpack and equipment because he was “needed” for a government project. Evan was briefed on the assignment before the commander left him on the shore.

“You are allowed to keep your camera for one reason and one reason only. Each time our heroes arrive at these shores with a fresh batch of rebels, you will report what you’ve recorded on this island. Everything is to be reported. Write it, video it, every word and savage action. Understood?”

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Heroes! Seriously?!

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“It is to be used as material in spreading the word for our cause and the evils this group has created in our civilized society. You will video the mental and behavioral downfall of the prisoners here and their last days before they inevitably face the aquabox. You are to show, Mr. Journalist, why the rest of the nation cannot allow people such as yourself to continue on. Do I make myself clear?”

 

          Evan nodded in disdain at this Hitler wanna-be and caught his bag midair from the man’s murderous claws. The extremists boarded the barge back to the mainland, leaving him staring after them, picturing a torpedo splitting the boat in two. I don’t have that kind of luck. He thought of his parents, knowing they would worry, but they also knew he could take care of himself. He glanced toward the death chambers gleaming offshore. No one had gone to the aquabox yet. Others had been “permanently removed” but without proof of how. The box, however, was a mass-extinction plan for the entire island, but it wouldn’t be a threat for another year; that’s how long they had to stay quiet. If they could live without making waves, then maybe they could exist there until they wasted away, maybe. Otherwise, if the island “experiment” failed to retrain its inhabitants, the underwater gears would rattle and crank, giving Atlantis some company.

          Evan adjusted his backpack and started the long hike to the island's center. There, prisoners received their assignments. After getting directions and picking up his “Handbook for a Quiet Existence” manual, he found his way to the cold gray building and, eventually, his bed. A concrete jail on a giant lily pad; that’s all this place was. No privacy and no point. Community toilets, community showers, and metal beds lined the walls like an old hospital ward. The sign on the end of his bed matched the number pinned to his gray uniform, #12745. He rolled his eyes—nothing ironic about that at all.

          Weeks crept by, and his jailbird assignment soon became his obsession. The filming started with people milling about, working the greenhouses, cleaning the fish, and taking turns with various chores required by their wardens. He tried to stay true to his instructions, mainly for fear of what would happen if he didn’t. He trekked the island daily and searched for things that matched the commander’s requirements for their propaganda, but as time went on, that proved an impossible task. The newbies were always miserable at first, but those who had been there a while seemed reasonably happy or at least content. He noticed it about himself as well. The living arrangements weren’t as miserable, and he started paying more attention to the state of the other prisoners—they were the main reason things weren’t that bad.

 

          This place actually seemed to be thriving. Evan’s floormates were of different races, religions, and from all walks of life, yet each seemed willing to make the best of the situation forced upon them. Prisoners encouraged each other, helped each other, and were even found taking on some of the others’ chores if they seemed to be struggling. To the attentive eye, Himmel was less Alcatraz and more Valhalla. Evan was nothing if not attentive, and he recorded everything he saw.

 

          On one return visit, as the CC pulled into port with its newest batch of criminals, the mini-Führer met Evan onshore for an update.

          “Have you done your job this time?” the officer asked, taking the latest footage into his grubby paws.

           “I record what I see.”

Evan hid a smug smile, knowing they weren’t getting any usable material from him. They’d be furious again, but it would at least be another month before he heard about it. No phones were allowed on the island except at the guard station, so he wouldn’t have to hear about this for a while.

 

“You know, if you decide to do what you’re told, you could earn your
way back to the mainland. It would be a first for the island, but maybe we’ll make an exception.”
 

          Filthy Liar. Evan watched the man board and drift away on the barge, leaving him with an empty zip drive and a strengthened resolve to go even further this time. Week after week, month after month, Evan lived, worked, and recorded as much good as
he possibly could find. He quickly earned the trust of his fellow prisoners and was brought into the inner workings of the island. A secretly delegated, small group of prisoners were known as the “real commanding officers” of the place, and Evan was now one of them. The group consisted of a small-town mayor, a pastor, a fourth-grade history teacher, a nurse, and now, a journalist. The rest of the islanders would come to them individually so as not to draw attention whenever they had a need, a problem, or a question. With proper democratic governance and mutual respect for differing beliefs and opinions, the island became a tranquil Utopia for everyone banished from everyday society.

          At every update, Evan handed over a packed drive full of evidence of harmony and cooperation. Instead of being pleased that this social experiment was working, the commander seemed more agitated with each visit. He could have just been itching to use the aquabox, but he certainly didn’t seem happy that the exile worked so well. Evan’s recordings were infuriating to the mainland officials but liberating for the prisoners working so hard to maintain a peaceful society.

 

          Footage showed prisoners working alongside one another, praying over one another—the Baptist helping the Muslim with the fieldwork, the patriot cleaning the floors alongside the former actor. All ages of all races actively sought ways to lighten the load of their neighbor. At times, Evan even tried to keep his eyes open for drama and disharmony, but none could be found.

 

          After eight months of exile, Evan met the commander, as usual, on the shoreline. This time, the man had a different expression. Instead of a cocky sneer, he was quietly steaming.

“All right, journalist. There has to be something else going on with this God-forsaken island. I’ve given Officer Phillips here strict instructions to trail you for the next month and see exactly where you’re getting your material. All it takes is a group of prisoners to put on a skit for the camera and convince everyone that things are hunky-dory. Don’t make trouble for him, and don’t try to slick past him with anything, or he will ensure you’re the first to test out our little aquarium.”

 

          Officer Phillips was a force to be reckoned with. At six foot four and a solid two hundred, he shadowed Evan at every step. Rarely speaking and only occasionally sleeping, the man seemed inhuman. Evan tried communicating with him, including him in the day’s activities—nothing.

​

          Waking up to a scorching day and expecting a slew of ill-tempered prisoners, Phillips grabbed the camera from Evan’s shoulder. He didn’t dare argue with the beast
but watched as he expertly hoisted the machine to his shoulder and adjusted the lens.

“I’m filming today, runt, and I’ll decide what gets recorded. This time, you follow me.”

​

Evan grinned and shrugged at the giant’s insistence.

“Have it your way, buddy; it doesn’t matter who holds the camera; sweeps are sweeps.”

 

          For the entire day, the officer and his caddy roamed the island. As the hours passed, Phillips grew more aggravated as Evan trailed behind and watched in amusement. Instead of prisoners being more irritable from the heat, they were more helpful than ever. They worked in shifts and carried soup cans of cool water from the island’s only spring to share with everyone working further into the core. Crudely constructed shade spots were being erected by handfuls of volunteers, so the older ones could sit without succumbing to the heat. In silence and anger, Phillips continued his attempts to grab the shots needed for a possible promotion. To his dismay, the rebels, troublemakers, and intolerant were creating the ideal world.

 

          Back on the mainland, things were not going as smoothly as the CC had hoped. While only a handful of people viewed Evan’s recordings, the word still somehow got out that the prisoners had created a paradise. The government hotline was blowing up daily with people offering names, only to find those individuals were quite popular, and none were making waves for the masses. Social media votes were off the charts for suggestions about who should go to the island, and anonymous tips poured in on groups that needed to be “banished.” It became a sign-up sheet for those wanting to go to the island instead of one for deportment.

 

          The plan wasn’t quite working. Punishment for independence had produced a society everyone wanted to join, and the mainland was losing civilians by the thousands. As the giant island became more crowded, the CC sent out petitions for people to stop submitting names for exile, but they just kept pouring in. Everyone wanted to live on the island and pledged to be more open-minded if it could mean being in paradise.

 

          It was one year to the day when a fleet of barges lined the shores of Himmel. As the mustached maniac disembarked, he walked straight to a waiting Evan.

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“Get them on board.” The officer grumbled.

 

          “I’m sorry, sir, could you repeat that?” Evan smirked knowingly, having fully expected this day to come. There was no way jealousy could lose—the mainlanders lived in permanent fear and judgment; of course, they’d rather be here! Open-minded freedom fighters would always win against a cancel culture that’s hell-bent on dominating its people.

“You heard me, cameraman; get everyone on the boat.”

 

          Evan turned to the people and, with one spin of his finger, signaled his co-leaders to wrap it up and shut it down. One by one, each of the delegates lifted their arms toward the masses as everyone grew silent. The small-town mayor started walking toward the barges as hundreds of thousands of people filed behind him. The teacher helped the elderly, the nurse helped the disabled, and the pastor lifted his hands and thanked whoever was apparently listening.

 

          As Evan watched the mass exodus, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Good job there, mate. Knew it couldn’t last for long.” Johnny smiled and walked past him, joining the throngs waiting to board.

 

          Evan shouldered his camera and tripod, smiling at the victory that no one saw coming but everyone had hoped for. Freedom—One, Zealots—Zero. A half-grin crossed his lips as he stroked his chin in careful thought. I really need a shave.

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