Hidden near the podium in the parked city EMT ambulance is the sophisticated conversion equipment that is capable of transforming raw fear into electrical power, a process that was developed and refined only within the last fifteen years. That power is conveyed by cables that cross the sidewalk to the town maintenance offices in which two enormous underground banks of batteries are kept. As the red-faced child shrieks and cries uncontrollably right outside, a technician within the ambulance monitors a panel of gauges and sliders, optimizing the conversion process and maximizing the yield. Lounging outside the large ambulance in lawn chairs is a platoon of fire fighters and emergency personnel, munching on hot dogs and drinking beer from thermoses marked with Gator Aid labels, providing security for the whole operation.
When a sufficient amount of power has been extracted, one of the firemen brings an ice cream cone to the youngster to calm him down. At that point the little guy is generally somewhat appeased by the treat, sniffling and licking his cone, and usually the parents of the child arrive at the announcement stand at approximately that same time and claim their child. This process is repeated at least once during the long day and sometimes even twice, topping off the city’s storage cells and usually also providing enough surplus energy to power at least one of the rock bands’ sound systems plus the deep fat fryer in the city’s fried chicken concession stand.
This clever enterprise is the primary means by which our town was first able to balance its previously out of control budget at the beginning of the last decade. The inventor of the conversion equipment of course retired a wealthy man, amply rewarded for his discovery that fear can be transformed into electrical power and stored for future use. And before that principle was established, who could ever have known the enormous quantities of power that were locked into the angst potential of just one four year old child. Just as a can of jellied cranberry sauce packs enough calories to allow a person to walk all day and all night, just two or three toddlers could power a small city like ours for almost half a year. And the city council was in agreement … no harm was done. The kid got his ice cream, the relieved parents were reunited with their future surly teenager, and the city got the power it needed to run the hospital, light the police station, and run the trash trucks that kept the city clean.
As simple and efficient as the process is, there was one minor negative. The operators soon learned that dogs somehow spoiled the process. No one is entirely sure why of course, but my own guess is that dogs radiate a kind of “anti-fear” that leaches potential from the process. If you think of a snarling, snapping canine trying to get at you through a chain link fence, you realize … this animal is NOT even one BIT afraid. Without worrying about WHY dogs spoil the process though, the councilmen dealt with this little problem by declaring that dogs could not be brought to our spring fest. I learned this the hard way in my ignorance, bringing our family fido on a leash one year, and I was quickly intercepted by an apparently highly motivated officer who easily convinced me that the dog had to be taken away. He was polite and all that, but he was pretty darn firm about it too. I start to get nervous when someone keeps calling me sir, but also gives me that “I can snap your neck with my bare hands” stare. Despite the temptation to temporarily retreat and then re-enter the festival a block away, I decided Scooby would have to settle for a stroll at the park the following weekend.
And what do our municipal thieves do the rest of the year? Well, they run their car dealerships and jewelry stores and plan their next annexation or “the trees will have to go” development project. And we have a new more sophisticated crop of commissioners and councilmen now who, though still sometimes willing to resort to the “take a tyke” angle in a pinch, have figured out that they can generate a steady and predictable level of fear using the newspapers, periodically releasing cautionary articles that keep the populace looking over their shoulders and buying homes in the gated communities that the developers keep cranking out. Business is good and the batteries stay pretty much full all the time now.