Ghosts of the Revolution
Part One: Parallel Wars French 75 still called themselves revolutionaries, though the only thing they’d overthrown lately was their lower backs. Once, they had been a rumor whispered in basements and faculty lounges; a footnote with smoke and teeth. They came up through Pynchon margins and photocopied manifestos that smelled of toner and sweat. They’d tried to change the world before the world learned how to package rebellion into streaming content. Bob Ferguson had been one of the bright ones back then—sharp, furious, incandescent with purpose. Now, he looked like a man carved out of regret. His beard was a thicket of gray. His eyes were the color of road salt in February. His jacket—army surplus he had worn since the Clinton administration —hung off him like an inheritance he could neither discard nor defend. He spent his nights leaking ICE surveillance data , pixel by pixel, hoping exposure might still mean something. He spent his mornings lecturing whichever recruit was unlucky ...
