Richard Gore was the director of the Air Circulation Systems Division of Climate Control, whose main client was the federal government.
Danton Gore asked, “Why not? What’s been going on lately? I must admit, dad, you look pretty run down.”
“Thanks a lot, son!” the elder Gore jokingly glared at his son. “Seriously though, I know it. I’ve been very frustrated recently. Most of my people have been reassigned to work in New Vegas. It seems like they don’t give a rat’s ass about what happens here in Las Vegas anymore.”
“Really?” asked Danton Gore, feigning surprise, recalling what Ella Houston had told him about the early move of the elite to New Vegas the day before. He could not say anything about it to his parents; they did not know either that he was a member of Free Vegas or a paid, male escort.
“Who knows? They must be behind on their schedule. You know that the wealthy who will be living there won’t tolerate delays. All I know is that my job is virtually impossible. I’m understaffed, under funded and I have no spare parts for routine maintenance. Only yesterday, five hundred people died of a lack of a fresh oxygen supply down on city level 129.”
“Those poor bastards,” commented Danton Gore. “How many people live down there these days, anyway?”
“At last count, I’m responsible for every aspect of the air circulation system for three million prisoners living on city levels 148, 149 and 150 and thirty-six million poor and destitute living in slum conditions between city levels 101 and 147. And I only have a staff of ten thousand to maintain and operate the system in my fifty city levels.”
“Only ten thousand? Are you serious? How many do you need?”
Richard Gore sighed and replied, “I need at least fifteen thousand, if not twenty, to avoid incidents like the one yesterday. But, our beloved President Bush, who has raised taxes on the lower and middle classes every year for the last ten years, has cut the government funding to his own company.”
“Climate Control?” asked Danton Gore.
“Yeah, Climate Control. My division of the company has taken a budget hit of a fifty percent reduction in operating capital. Everyone knows that the money has been diverted to defense contracts, which earn his companies much higher-percent profits on every government dollar spent.”
“He really is a bottom-line, profit-margin-rules-all bastard,” said Danton Gore. “Someone should throw him and his good old white boys in jail down there on city level 150. Then we’ll see how they like living on the Guantanamo Level forever, never even having had a trial.”
“Don’t say things like that, Danton,” chastised his mother. “You know what happened to my parents. Just do your job and don’t make any waves.”  Bridget Gore got nervous whenever her son spoke badly of the government. “Why don’t you settle down with a nice girl? It seems you have a different one every few months.”
Eight years earlier, Bridget’s mother and father had been arrested by the Defenders of the Light during a public protest against Negon Bush’s environmental policies – in 2093 the Bush dynasty was still refusing to acknowledge that massive air pollution and global warming were causes for concern and that the formation of the global storm system and the hundreds of localized systems that plagued the planet were simply the result of Mother Nature’s natural course of events. Bridget had not heard from her parents since that day, and unknown to her their disappearance is what had motivated her son to join Free Vegas.
“Danton is right!” exclaimed Richard Gore. “Negon Bush is a profit-driven tyrant. Every year, he and his colleagues get richer and richer and everyone else gets poorer and poorer. The middle class in America has disappeared completely. At work, it seems as if Las Vegas is considered to be a thing of the past. Bush seems to be putting all of his resources into New Vegas.”
“Well, Richard, once the six million people move to New Vegas, I’m sure things will improve for us here in Las Vegas. We’ll have more maintenance workers here in town and Bush promised that profits from the selling of the houses of emigrants to New Vegas will be given directly to the city government. Then those of us that remain here in Las Vegas will have a much better life.”
“Ah, always the optimist, my love,” said Richard Gore, leaning over and giving his wife a kiss. “But you know every time that man opens his mouth, only shit speweth forth.”
“Okay,” said Danton Gore, laughing lightly, “let’s talk about something less depressing.”
The three Gores finished their meal and retired to the living room once again.
“Ah!” exclaimed Bridget, pointing to the beam of light and glowing crystal ball on the coffee table. “Look at that sunlight. It hasn’t been so bright so often in weeks. It must be a good omen!”