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didn’t play the role it once did in the last century, but that blow still hurt.
    Then the Brazilians spimed their autos off, and the nation lost another forty percent of its personal transport capabilities.
    Over the next eight hours, the trade war raged, cascading across several allied countries. (Canada staunchly stood by the UWA, I was happy to report, incensed at the disruption of deliveries from the Athabasca Oil Sands to our defunct refineries. But the only weapon they could turn against the Southerners was a fleet of Zamboni machines at Latin American ice rinks.) Back and forth the sniping went, like two knights hacking each other’s limbs off in some antique Monty Python farce.
    With each blow, disruptions spread farther, wider and deeper across all the countries involved.
    The ubik was aflame with citizen complaints and challenges, as well as a wave of emergency counter-measures to meet the dismantling of the infrastructure and deactivation of consumer goods and appliances and vehicles. The poltico-wikis were convulsing, trying to depose me and the Phantom Blots. But FooDog managed to hold them at bay, as Cherry rummaged through the tiniest line items in our export list, looking for ways to strike back.
    By the time the Venezuelans took our squirm futons offline, and we shut down all their sex toys, the trade war had devolved into a dangerous farce.
    I was exhausted, physically and mentally. The weight of what Cherry, FooDog and I had done rested on my shoulders like a lead cape. Finally I had to ask myself if what I had engineered was worth it.
    I stepped out on the deck to get some fresh air and clear my head. Cherry followed. The sun was sinking with fantastically colorful effects, and gentle waves were lapping at Sandybump’s beach. You’d never know that several large economies were going down the toilet at that very moment.
    I hugged Cherry and she hugged me back. “Well, babe, I did my best. But it looks like our revenge is moot.”
    “Oh, Russ, that’s okay. I never wanted”
    The assault came in fast and low. Four armored and be-weaponed guys riding ILVs. Each Individual Lifting Vehicle resembled a skirt-wearing grasshopper. Before either Cherry or I could react, the chuffing ILVs were hovering autonomously at the edge of our deck, and the assailants had jumped off and were approaching us with weapons drawn.
    With cool menace one guy said, “Okay, don’t put up a fight and you won’t get hurt.”
    I did the only thing I could think of. I yelled for help.
    “FooDog! Save us!”
    And he did.
    SCURF mediates between your senses and the ubik. Normally the SCURF-wearer is in control of course. But when someone breaks down your security and overides your inputs, there’s no predicting what he can feed you.
    FooDog sent satellite closeups of recent solar flares to the vision of our would-be-kidnappers, and the latest sludge-metal hit, amped up to eleven, to their ears.
    All four went down screaming.
    Cherry erased any remnants of resistance with a flurry of kicks and punches, no doubt learned from her bar-brawling brother Dolphin.
    When we had finished tieing up our commando friends, and FooDog had shut off the assault on their senses, I said, “Okay, nothing’s worth risking any of us getting hurt. I’m going to surrender now.”
    Just as I was getting ready to call somebody in Venezuela, Che Guevara returned. He looked morose.
    “All right, you bastard, you win! Let’s talk.”
    I smiled as big as I could. “Tell me first, what was the final straw? It was the sex toys, wasn’t it?”
    He wouldn’t answer, but I knew I was right.
    Free to be You and Me
    So that’s the story of how I ran the country for three days. One day of political honeymoon, one day of trade war, and one day to clean up as best we could, before stepping down.
    As FooDog predicted, there were minimal personal repercussions from our teasling of the political system. Loopholes were closed, consensus values re-affirmed, and a