– 16 –


Hard-working journalist that she was, Mackenzie didn’t get her nails done as often as she should. So it was doubly fortunate that the Star’s editorial department had relocated. Mackenzie didn’t think anyone did nails quite as well as the day spa Fijians. As she lay back, the jacuzzi’s hot, swirling waters soothed away her stress. Ricky was setting up his TV coaching studio next to the sauna. By the time Mackenzie had to return to that newsroom, the Star might have installed soundproofing as well as germ-proofing. Or, better yet, the Star will have moved into a separate building away from the bass.

Or even better, Mackenzie might finally get her TV debut. Mr. Wein called today to discuss a few related points, like her availability in the near future. He didn’t say anything definite, but Mackenzie couldn’t help feeling encouraged. Maybe Ricky was exaggerating her need for remedial facial expressions. His type tended to overdo things, she often thought.

Meanwhile, the white guys would have to put in longer hours until they stop dying. Mackenzie still hadn’t found out why they kept doing that. But it might have something to do with their diet after all. It turned out that Stacy at the Aurora Human Rights Commission had ordered another 20% reduction in white guy nutrition.

Of course death, Mackenzie reflected, the thought of death, the presence of death, puts a lot of perspective on things. She once discussed this with Allison MacAllister, Canada’s top war correspondent. She expressed it profoundly: “It, like, changes you?”

Well it sure changed Allison. Showing the deep influence of her killing fields media tour, she hit the big time with her own line of designer fashions in the coolest pastel-coloured military camouflage patterns.

In Mackenzie’s case, she longed for the idyllic future Canada would achieve once the white guys became extinct.

At one time she and her friends considered themselves the transitional generation, the people who grew up among white guys but would outlive their evil presence. That seemed to be the case with the first shipment of 72s.

Part of a complex agreement arising from Canada’s formal apology to the Islamic State, the younger white guys, those too young to work, were shipped to various Religion of Peace countries 72 at a time. At one point a diplomatic crisis erupted when the House of Saud determined that some of their 72s weren’t virgins. Amends were made, fortunately, and the shipments continued. As a result, Canada’s historic problem seemed to be passing as white guy kids were sent away and white guy adults passed away, with convenient coincidence right at the end of their working lives. Mackenzie and her friends exalted.

Then Mr. Levine mentioned that as the older 72s were reaching adolescence, some Middle Eastern countries were breeding them with women from Ukraine or somewhere. “Once they’re old enough, the offspring will go on the world market,” he said. “We’ll probably end up buying some ourselves — that is, unless the cloning project starts making progress.”

“But why?” Mackenzie asked. “Why would anyone want white guys?”

Mr. Levine just kind of snorted. Then he seemed to say: “If white guys didn’t exist, we’d have to invent them.”

To work in the camps, he no doubt meant. Oh well, Mackenzie thought as a Filipina brought her coffee and cake. It would be ideal if they could die off and get the work done too.

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