Independent Florida
03-08-2004, 00:14
John Parker Hancock, the glorious and most efficient dictator of Independent Florida, and a man with remarkably supreme hair and teeth, stood at the balcony of his massive mansion in Tallahassee, the capitol of Florida. Grasped in one hand was a half-full martini glass J.P. had been sipping from the previous couple of minutes, while clenched in the other was a tennis racquet he almost never used, and most certainly didn't know how to. Always a stickler for public appearances, J.P. liked the Floridians to think he was athletic and healthy, so rare was the occasion when one wouldn’t find the right-wing extremist in a pair of tiny spandex shorts too tight for him and a neon yellow headband, a tennis racquet glued to his fingers as if it had been attached permanently. The truth of the matter was, J.P. Hancock was about as active as his mother’s rotting corpse. When he wasn’t perched on a couch with his finger up his nose, he was hiding in the Capitol Building’s bathroom in hope of avoiding the paperwork and complaints that are inherited when one takes up a leadership role.
At this point in time, our hero had something else on his mind besides his growing laziness, and the thousands of stay at home moms who lusted after his body, however. He had a problem; no, the country of Florida had a problem! And for once in his lifetime, J.P. was unsure as to how to solve this unfortunate crisis.
I suppose one could say this problem first poked its ugly head out of oblivion in 1992, when the United States of America was being ravaged by foreign countries. The U.S. had grown weak as time wore on, and eventually fell victim to foreign imperialism as New York and other key states were invaded and labeled foreign territories. J.P. Hancock, the newly appointed governor of Florida at the time, sought to escape the fate these other states had been stamped with, and seceded from the U.S. He constructed an army from scratch after proclaiming himself sole leader of Independent Florida, and for three years fought off vicious foreign militaries trying to pry the sunshine state away from him. After countless bloody battles with the French, Spanish, and even the Australians, the foreign powers gave up, and peace reigned throughout Florida.
But now the problem had returned. Not necessarily in the form of land-stealing Frenchmen, but in the form of immigrants. The influx of Cubans and South Americans had slowly over-powered southern Florida and transformed it into a largely Hispanic dominated territory. This was all fine and dandy, except crime rates had soared to unbelievable heights! Petty thieves and drug dealers could be seen selling their wares in broad daylight to police officers, while bullet-riddle corpses in the middle of the road had become more than a common sight! The crime had gotten so bad that even J.P. got involved in it occasionally, knocking out a little boy and stealing his purse, or running through the streets with his willy flapping and knocking between his pasty white legs!
Some sort of law would have to be passed thought the devilishly handsome fifty-two-year-old, as he placed his glass on the balcony railing and scratched at a bad rash he had contracted on his left manboob. Sure, the crime could be attributed to the corrupt white business tycoons that polluted his country, or the mafia families he allowed to operate in downtown Tampa and Miami. But J.P. was a raging racist. He’d blame a darkie before he blamed a convicted white rapist, that’s just the way he was. Ever since an incident when he was just a boy, one that involved his puppy dog Lucky, some African-Americans, a blender, and some sandwich bread, J.P. had been distrustful of anyone other than the color white. Though he had mostly kept his opinions of other races and cultures to himself, he was tired of it. Now was the time to bring these crime rates and these facts to the Floridians! Now was the time for a white Florida!
Sighing gently to himself, Hancock grabbed a hold of his martini glass once more and walked back into his mansion’s living room, observing it with tense blue eyes. He finally knew what had to be done. He finally knew what must be accomplished to rid Florida of these pompous, grandma-beating crack fiends. Dropping the racquet, he walked over to his phone and dialed a number. A few minutes later, he was met with the voice of his secretary.
“Ms. Quigly? Call the director of foreign affairs and inform him that I’ll meet him in my office at the Capitol Building in fifteen minutes. Yes, I know he’s in the hospital with a ruptured spleen, you dumbass! Tell him to suck it up like a real man and crawl there if he has to!”
With that, J.P. slammed the phone down on the receiver and headed for his limo, flanked by two bodyguards.
At this point in time, our hero had something else on his mind besides his growing laziness, and the thousands of stay at home moms who lusted after his body, however. He had a problem; no, the country of Florida had a problem! And for once in his lifetime, J.P. was unsure as to how to solve this unfortunate crisis.
I suppose one could say this problem first poked its ugly head out of oblivion in 1992, when the United States of America was being ravaged by foreign countries. The U.S. had grown weak as time wore on, and eventually fell victim to foreign imperialism as New York and other key states were invaded and labeled foreign territories. J.P. Hancock, the newly appointed governor of Florida at the time, sought to escape the fate these other states had been stamped with, and seceded from the U.S. He constructed an army from scratch after proclaiming himself sole leader of Independent Florida, and for three years fought off vicious foreign militaries trying to pry the sunshine state away from him. After countless bloody battles with the French, Spanish, and even the Australians, the foreign powers gave up, and peace reigned throughout Florida.
But now the problem had returned. Not necessarily in the form of land-stealing Frenchmen, but in the form of immigrants. The influx of Cubans and South Americans had slowly over-powered southern Florida and transformed it into a largely Hispanic dominated territory. This was all fine and dandy, except crime rates had soared to unbelievable heights! Petty thieves and drug dealers could be seen selling their wares in broad daylight to police officers, while bullet-riddle corpses in the middle of the road had become more than a common sight! The crime had gotten so bad that even J.P. got involved in it occasionally, knocking out a little boy and stealing his purse, or running through the streets with his willy flapping and knocking between his pasty white legs!
Some sort of law would have to be passed thought the devilishly handsome fifty-two-year-old, as he placed his glass on the balcony railing and scratched at a bad rash he had contracted on his left manboob. Sure, the crime could be attributed to the corrupt white business tycoons that polluted his country, or the mafia families he allowed to operate in downtown Tampa and Miami. But J.P. was a raging racist. He’d blame a darkie before he blamed a convicted white rapist, that’s just the way he was. Ever since an incident when he was just a boy, one that involved his puppy dog Lucky, some African-Americans, a blender, and some sandwich bread, J.P. had been distrustful of anyone other than the color white. Though he had mostly kept his opinions of other races and cultures to himself, he was tired of it. Now was the time to bring these crime rates and these facts to the Floridians! Now was the time for a white Florida!
Sighing gently to himself, Hancock grabbed a hold of his martini glass once more and walked back into his mansion’s living room, observing it with tense blue eyes. He finally knew what had to be done. He finally knew what must be accomplished to rid Florida of these pompous, grandma-beating crack fiends. Dropping the racquet, he walked over to his phone and dialed a number. A few minutes later, he was met with the voice of his secretary.
“Ms. Quigly? Call the director of foreign affairs and inform him that I’ll meet him in my office at the Capitol Building in fifteen minutes. Yes, I know he’s in the hospital with a ruptured spleen, you dumbass! Tell him to suck it up like a real man and crawl there if he has to!”
With that, J.P. slammed the phone down on the receiver and headed for his limo, flanked by two bodyguards.