The Chip:  The Honky Ranch
By Sir Kinyon
edited by junior wayne
       
Part 1

 Curtis Johnson stood on the front porch of his grandfather's old dilapidated shack
and thought to himself  "Well it's all mine now."  The shack was small, faded chips of white
paint still clung to its gray weathered wood and the smell of age had permeated every fiber
it it's worn frame.  Time and the elements had done their work with proficiency.  Curtis had
just come from the reading of his grandfather's will.  Otis, Curtis's grandfather, had been
ninety-three years old when he had died a week ago of lung cancer .  Otis had been a chain
smoker since he was eighteen years old, and when he was fifty-three his doctors diagnosed
him with cancer and gave him five years to live...less than that if he didn't quit smoking
immediately.  Otis had been an old stubborn cuss and was too pigheaded to quit a life long
vice.  Otis would sit at his kitchen table, rolling his own cigarette, his lap littered with
Bull Durham and proclaim to anyone within earshot "Doctors!  What do they know!  I'm not
gonna let some know nuthin' doctor tell me what to do!"  Turns out he wouldn't even die when they told him that he should.

 He lived another forty years.  Five years ago when the Takeover happened, some men
had tried to convince Otis to leave his shack and expand his little farm into a sprawling
modern ranch.  They even offered him the land surrounding his farm.  It would have
increased, by almost ten times, the size of his farm.  Otis had flat out refused. The old
man had removed the damp nub of his cigarette from the corner of his mouth and tossed it
onto the dusty front porch.  He pointed to the men and in a deep gravely voice said "I don't
want nothin' from the white man."  And he sure as hell didn't want any honkies on his land. 
So for the last 3 years the farm had basically gone to shit, because Otis had gotten too
sick to look after it and was way too stubborn to ask for help.  Now old Otis was dead and
had left all his worldly possessions, the shack and surrounding land, to Curtis, his only
grandson.

 Curtis had spent the last five years working as a psychologist for the U.S.
Department of Transition.  His job had been to help his fellow citizens acclimate to this
new reality, to accept and be productive in this radically new and wonderful existence . 
Believe it or not, after all the white people had been taken and lost their status as Human
beings, many blacks feared the same thing would happen to them.  It was Curtis' job to
reassure them.  To help them see the benefits of the new system and to learn to trust that
it was all for everyone's own good.  Everyone's own good, including that of the honkies. 
For if the white man had been allowed to stay in charge, he would surely have destroyed
himself and everyone else as well.  Curtis had always known that the time would come when his job would become unnecessary, he just didn't expect it to be so soon.  But nothing is forever, and as Curtis kicked at the dusty old floor of the porch his mind raced.  He thought optimistically of a future here, on what was his grandfather's modest plot.  Now he had been given the opportunity to make something of this little farm.
 
 Of course, Curtis didn't feel any of the mistrust for the government that old Otis
had.  And he had absolutely no problem with the use of honkys to achieve his goals.  In
fact, he already owned three honkys, himself.  Even though he knew nothing about farming,
Curtis was confident that with his common sense and the labor of a good many honkies his
vision for a prosperous ranch could be realized. Curtis viewed it as an opportunity to make
something out of nothing.  A chance for personal growth.  As soon as the local
representative from the Department of Wealth and Resources found out that Curtis would be
taking over the farm, he paid Curtis a visit and made him the same offer that he had made to
Otis. Curtis,however, accepted the offer gladly and without hesitation.  He was eager to get
started.  Curtis was not a big man, neither was he small.  He stood at an even 6' and
weighed about 200lbs.  He had a slight paunch (a result of his fondness for beer), but the
rest of his body was surprisingly taught and muscular.

 His late wife used to call him her caramel drop, because of his light brown skin. 
Linda had died in a car accident just before the disappearances started seven years ago.
Curtis was thirty-four at the time and had a thriving psychology practice.  Linda had been
the love of his life, she had touched the part of him that no one else could reach.  His
very spirit was intertwined with hers.  She had given him two beautiful sons, twins Jeff and
Jacob, now fifteen.  Both were excelling in this new world and looking forward to running
the new family business.  Both Jeff and Jacob each owned his own slave.  Curtis had given
these gifts to his sons for their thirteenth birthday with only one restriction:  NO sex
until they were eighteen.  Curtis just felt that it was healthier this way, developmentally
for his sons if they waited, although he suspected that there were things going on that he
didn't know about.  Curtis had left the boys at his estate in the city.  They would continue
at their school until the ranch was up and running and they could move out to the country. 
They didn't really want to change schools, but it couldn't be helped.  Curtis had watched
his sons as they handled and trained their honkies, and he had no doubt they would grow up
to be perfect examples of superior Black Men, husbands, fathers, Masters.
 
 Curtis gathered up his things, walked slowly off the front porch of the tiny shack
and went out to his Jeep.  He was ready to get to work.  The farm was in complete disarray,
but Curtis knew that with the purchase and proper use of the right kind of honkies that
situation could be remedied fairly quickly.  He had driven the property earlier that week,
inspecting just about every acre,  so he had some idea of the sheer vastness of it.  And he
also had some idea of what he wanted to do with it.  It would not be just a farm.  Curtis
decided that he wanted to have a fully functional ranch.  With the ban on non-honky animal
labor, there was a huge demand for trained honkies.  Along with the crops that he would
grow, he would also train honkies for whatever purpose their owners wanted for them.  He
knew that wealthy Americans would pay top dollar for a professionally trained honky.  Curtis
was most excited about this aspect of his new endeavor, but he knew that it would not see
it's true fulfillment until the chip had been phased out completely.  He also knew that
methods were being developed to train unchipped honkies.  Curtis, with his high government
clearance, could keep a close eye on the development of these techniques.  But for now he
had a ranch to build. 

 Curtis drove to the local Honky Administration Office.  It was time to start choosing his work force.  Curtis had been to the Administration Complex many times, but he was always struck by the immense size of the place.  It was like a small city, complete with skyscrapers and an airstrip.  It sat on about two square miles of land, and Curtis had heard that honkies were kept in a huge underground compound.  He would give just about anything to see that, but since most of the honkys kept there were unchipped, civilian access was strictly forbidden.  Curtis could have purchased slaves from a private dealer for a lower price but he had need of a specialized workforce.  Plus, the government gave a small discount when you bought honkies in bulk.  That, along with his employee discount, meant that it would simply be much smarter to do it this way and buy from the 'administration.  Besides, Curtis figured that he would take advantage of the government discounts while could, because within the next few years, the trade of honkies would be completely
privatized, and the prices would go up.

 When Curtis reached the Honky Administration Office, he was met at the door by a
tall, thin, pale, blonde honky.  The honky was wearing just a heavy metallic collar around
it's neck and an inviting smile on it's lips.  The number 472 had been tattooed on it's
forehead.  Curtis guessed the slave to be perhaps nineteen or twenty years old and that, up
to this point, the cracker had only been gently used.  "Welcome Master Johnson" the slave
said, "Master Perkins is expecting you, he'll be with you in a moment.  If it pleases you to
have a seat, Master, there are some very comfortable chairs just this way."  The honky
gestured with his open hand to a small seating area.

 Curtis sat, and the slave asked if he was comfortable and if he wanted anything to
eat or drink.  "Just an ice water" Curtis said.  And with that, the lanky honky turned and
sauntered off to get the water.  Curtis watched his ass as he walked away a desire stirring
at his core.  Curtis made a mental note.  He would have to get himself a scandinavian...but
not today.  Today was about finding skilled laborers.  After what seemed like only a second
or two, the honky returned with Curtis' water and after being assured that his services were
no longer needed, he retired to his corner and knelt on the floor with his head slightly
bowed, but not so much as to keep him from seeing any indication that there was need of his services.

 After a wait of only about five minutes, the door opened and Mr Perkins, a squat
very light skinned black man stepped into the room.  He looked like he might have been about 5'5" and quite portly.  He was red-headed and he even had freckles!  Go figure.  Must be some honky in his blood somewhere, Curtis thought to himself.  The two men introduced themselves while another honky, very similar to the last, but with brown hair and the number 329 on it's forehead, walked into the room carrying a large stack of folders.  Mr Perkins explained that he had taken the liberty of doing a search and finding a number of properties that would suit Curtis' needs.

 Curtis had decided that he would require about twenty honkys to start with.  These
honkys would need to have construction experience because the first thing that needed to be done would be the construction of the necessary buildings for the daily operation of a ranch. .  The first of which to be erected, his family residence...The Ranch House.  As he looked through the dossiers of the honkies that Mr. Perkins had selected (about one hundred and fifty), Curtis realized that many of the skills these honkies possessed were identical.  So he decided that he would save time by selecting his foreman first.  Then he could just take any twenty of the others.  The choice proved to be quite simple.  The one Curtis chose had owned a large and fairly successful construction company before the Takeover.  Curtis was very satisfied with his purchase.  He was certain that with the skilled labor honkies he had just obtained today, he would be able to realize the architect's vision for his Ranch House.  Curtis left the Administration office having paid for his purchase and with the promise of delivery the next day.