"Kit Reed - On The Penal Colony" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Kit)

impress them with your nation's heritage -- 18th-century houses and shops; oh,
wow, these things are old! Or you bring Gran because she is old.

Or something shakes loose inside you and starts rattling around. You get hungry
for your past. Not necessarily your past. A past. Any past. Some commercial
visionary resurrected all these old buildings and moved them here to supply an
early American past for all of you late Americans to enjoy even though you never
had one. At twenty bucks a pop, it's your past too.

So you pack up the kids and throw grinders and a sixpack of brewskis into the
cooler and come rolling our way as if this is some kind of Colonial mecca, God's
own solution to two problems: crime and rootlessness. Well I can't tell you
about rootlessness -- who cares whether your great-greats hit Plymouth Rock or
Ellis Island or rolled in hanging from the axle of a truck? But I can tell you a
thing or two about crime.

"... scheme for a model prison." Bullfinch Warden hocks; the sound is heard
clear to the back of the tram. "As our country's leading penologists you can see
what we have accomplished here. Forget license plates. Forget telemarketing and
Readers' Clearing House as revenueproducing activities for prisoners who turn
back the proceeds to the state. We are at the apex here. The prison of the
future. Convicts as capital."

Crime? You want to see crime? This place is a crime. Maggoty food and floggings
in the picturesque village square, torture so deep that you never hear the
screams. Murderous trusties, sadistic screws. But what do you know anyway, you
stuff home-made gingerbread into the kids and buy them the thirteen-star flag
and you lead them onto the scaled-down replica of the Bonhomme Richard and you
go, "Oh, wow, these are my people."

You trudge through the landlocked whaler, humming to the canned gabble on the
Auditron, and no matter where you came from, you're all, like, these are our
forefathers. You get to feeling all-American even if you just landed on a raft.
Correction. Early American; you ride Paul Bunyan's blue ox and you bong your
knuckles on the genuine authentic half-sized Liberty Bell and if the screws
aren't looking maybe you try to scratch in your initials, but only a little bit,
and you feel as American as hell.

And, wuoow, you think, what a cool solution to America's problems. Punishment
and restitution, all in one place! Symbiosis. Patriotism and profit. Plus
rehabilitation, us hard-timers in tricoms or aprons and mobcaps answering your
stupid questions about beef jerky and squareheaded nails. And we are so fucking
polite! You push a button and the National Anthem plays and the replicated flag
goes up over the to-scale replica of Fort McHenry. Your heart swells up like the
Barney balloon in the Macy's Day parade and you're like, America, wow!

"Note the presentation. It's based on a revolutionary new concept. It's not what
you're doing, it's what it looks like you're doing that shapes society. Hence
the ideal village. Happy villagers."