It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: Printed Guns & Sold Schematics by SJ Klapecki

Episode Date: December 10, 2023

Margaret reads you a story about an engineer in a collapsed United States, just trying to make her living selling weapons to rebels.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Hey guys, I'm Kate Max. You might know me from my popular online series, The Running Interview Show, where I run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast, Post Run High, is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. Listen to Post Run High on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. You should probably keep your lights on for

Nocturnal Tales from the Shadow. Join me, Danny Trejo, and step into the flames of riot. An anthology podcast of modern-day horror stories inspired by the most terrifying legends and lore of Latin America. Listen to Nocturnal on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. search. Better Offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech brought to you by an industry veteran with nothing to lose. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple

Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts from. CoolZone Media Book Club Book Club Book Club It's the CoolZone Media Book Club Book club, book club, book club, book club. It's the Cool Zone Media Book Club,

which is a book club where I read you a story. I'm Margaret Gildroy. I'm the I in the aforementioned. I read you a story. People say that pronouns are hard, but I is an example of a pronoun. And I bet you've used it. I bet you can figure it out. You might have guessed the other thing you might have figured out is that I

don't have a guest today. It's just me. I'm going to read you a story. It's a me reading you all a story. That's today. You all are the guest. Every single one of you is welcome to cool zone media book club okay so today we got a sci-fi story for you and it is by sj klepecki who is sj klepecki i'm glad you asked because i'm going to read their bio sj klepecki is a writer from the north of Canada who focuses on queer themes and the way that power interacts with people. Starting from anarchist principles, they write science fiction and fantasy about those who do not fit within the norm. You can find them at S.J. Klupeck Writing on Twitter, which is S.J. K-L-A-P-E-C

writing on Twitter. This story is called Printed Guns and Sold Schematics. So get yourself your whatever you... It's Sunday. Don't drink whiskey

early in the morning on Sunday. Unless you really want to. Tea? Get yourself some tea, or whatever you would like. And cozy up, because you're the guest today. Printed Guns and Sold Schematics by S.J. Klapecki The weapons of the future suck. Everyone imagined great sci-fi glassings, the world being reduced to a grey nanite sludge, some viral contagion that only kills men or some shit. But it's none of that.

It's drones. Not even the proper Lockheed Martin ones. Instead, they're quadcopters, the type rich kids get when their parents feel bad for divorcing. Only some asshole strapped a bomb to them, too. The market for guns is still big, but they changed. Made of layers of printed plastic doped with as much metal as needed to keep it together, and not an iota more. I have a pepper box revolver I printed myself strapped to my chest. The hard edge of an unsanded handle digs

into my breast. The gun's a hack job, made before I left and without any of my usual care put into it. But it's six shots of 919 Parabellium that I can't go without. In my pocket, there's a USB. On that USB, there's designs that were originally made by an Afghan jihadist, iterated upon by an American Nazi, taken by a French anarchist and changed before being sent to me, another American. Darwin would be proud of how quickly things now evolve, how they iterate and fill niches. The compound I was told to go to is a small place,

at least small for compounds that radical groups hang out in. 50 acres of land in the middle of fucking nowhere. I know it's the right place, because the only way in is a break in the birch trees. There's a sign that reads, Clairfield Farm standing outside. Those were the two clues I was given. As a standard, no phone. No way to trace me if I'm not carrying anything with a signal.

Even if the state security apparatuses have collapsed, others might want my trail. Sadly, that means no GPS. There's a building in the middle of nowhere with its lights on. It doesn't look new, just retrofitted, so the roof is covered with solar panels. A red flag is illuminated from behind. The words, Montana Free Corps,

in bold gold lettering glowing from the window. I wonder, briefly, how many different compounds exist. How many radicals stake out just across the border, flitting back and forth. But it doesn't matter. This is the place. I let out a sigh of relief and walk right on up. A blinking camera shifts its attention to me, the disembodied eye of some security guard staring. I wave. An intercom lights up. A gruff, deep voice speaks, demanding my name and the passcode.

Breha Jotun's daughter, I reply, the fake name I gave them. Fuck the front, power to the people. I feel silly even saying it, but I don't control the passcodes that the clients give me. I don't control their ideologies or what they do or what stupid things they obsess over. It's not like it matters, so long as they're good on their cash. There's a moment of waiting. I tap my foot on the ground expectantly. Rain dribbles down my back, cold and uncomfortable. Wish they'd hurried up so I could at least be a

little bit dry. Don't know how good a bunch of leftists are for hospitality, but when dealing with the type of people who run out to the woods to do a bunch of training, it's always a mixed bag. Sometimes it's a bunch of unwashed men who keep thinking you're there to get with them. Sometimes it's a polite group of ideologues who try to win you over with tea, biscuits, and god-awful pamphlets. Sometimes it's just the smell of gunpowder and laconic grunts until the transaction is over. The last one is always the one I hope for. Quick, clean, done, in and out. A boy greets me. His voice is squeaky. He's young. No older than 19, if I had to guess. He's wearing a beret and a t-shirt from some punk band I don't recognize,

a beard that refuses to grow as much as he's been trying, and a revolver strapped to his waist. The smell of gunpowder and weed hits me as the warmth of the house bleeds out. Come in, he says. I step inside, the door closes behind me. A low sigh escapes involuntary from my mouth. I take off my jacket. Underneath is a thin polyester windbreaker. Under that, my revolver. I don't feel the need to strip further as I put my jacket on the coat rack.

The squeaky voice man asks me a question. You hear about the... I have the schematics. I'm curt, but not rude. Measured. Someone who seems even-tempered, mild, if direct. The man shifts uncomfortably. He must have wanted more from me. An apology for lateness, perhaps. I run my fingers through damp, short hair. Maybe he heard my name, expecting someone more ladylike than my makeupless demeanor gives off. No matter. I shake my hands dry and clasp them in front of me. Your name is, I ask? Louis, he says in the French pronunciation. I'm Louis. Probably a nom de guerre, based on some FLQ member or something. I can't remember too much about history. That's not where I bake my bread.

or something. I can't remember too much about history. That's not where I bake my bread. Well, Louis, I try to shake off the cold of the storm as I speak. Wouldn't want to come across as rude, now would I? I was told there would be a commander or something I would be meeting or something. The guy who wanted me to sell you all what I have. Louis' face changes. I can see that he's trying to figure me out, read me as best as he can, and process new information. I don't know if he was told why I was coming here. I doubt it. He didn't seem in the inner cadre, so to speak. Yeah, that would be, uh, he's raking his mind. I can see the confusion on his face, the way his eyes scrunch a little as he searches for a name. Or maybe,

as he figures out what name to use. Half these guys use a half dozen names. Not that I can judge. Right, I'll get them for you. I don't know who I expect, but it's sure as hell not who shows up. Funny how after years of dealing, you never really clear that image out of your mind. Of the rebel leader with a beard, a beret, a hopeful and youthful look. Che is burned into the neurons of my brain that I associate with rebel, but I've never seen a Che. The man I see before me is clean-shaven, dour. He looks in pain based on the limp. My eyes trail down and a medical brace is tied around his leg. Wish you had shown up sooner, he says. He sounds old, maybe in his 40s, with a gruff voice. The type someone gets from a pack a day smoking.

The cigarette isn't in his mouth right now, but it's a matter of time. I don't particularly like speeding when I'm carrying illegal stuff, doubly so when it's pissing rain outside, I say. That gets a smirk out of him, he understands. So what do you got for me, hmm? We discussed it on, ah, fuck, I can't remember. They squash these sites as soon as they pop up. No, they don't, not since the Americans started fighting in their homelands more than they did in the overseas ventures.

Five Eyes collapsed when the central government did, and anti-insurgency turned from that flawed system of panopticonic internet trawling and investigation to whack-a-moles that none of their allies could handle on their own. I remember exactly the site, I remember the username the contact used. I know this game and sidestep the implied question. I have. I look around the hall. Bookshelves are full of radical literature. Bookchin, Lenin, I don't care a lot of, a Mao or two. Well-read radicals across their own narrow spectrum of ideas. An idea strikes. A good idea of political power to hand over if you're keeping your end of the bargain. He smirks a grin. He liked the reference to the old warlord.

Play to the customer, keep them thinking I'm on their side. I won't mention that the Christian front made me an offer too. Yes, well, maybe you can tell me a little bit more about the form that power takes. He raises a hand to his face, scratches behind his ear.

If I recall, it was an anti-tank round? I nod. It isn't, but the differences are slight when it comes to blowing up technicals. It's a squash head round that can be mass printed with basic 3D metallurgic techniques. The last guy who touched it didn't trust the plastic to hold and overcompensated with the metal. That's probably the design you're using if you printed them right now. I actually know what I'm doing, so I gesture as I speak, trying to sound unrehearsed and on the fly. I modified the design to use 15% less material with only a 5% reduction in material strength. And that's irrelevant to your purposes if you're using this in rockets. You're using them in rockets, right? You heard,

I'm sure, about the people in Kansas who blew themselves up trying to stick something like this in an M79? Dropping out of that engineering course was the best damn choice of my life, all things considered. They hadn't yet beaten safety protocol into my brain, but they sure taught me a lot about material science. How plastic flexes and bends. And how it snaps, breaks on a windshield, and sends glass and tannerite into the eyes of a driver fractions of a second before the detonator goes off.

He nods approvingly and waves Louie away. Because, dear listener, who is of course our guest, this man knows a good deal when he hears one. And I think you know a good deal too. when he hears one. And I think you know a good deal too, which is why all of our ads are for good deals. And you can totally trust me because I'm saying this not coerced by a capitalist system. I just genuinely believe in everything you're about to hear. online series, The Running Interview Show, where I run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast, Post Run High,

is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. You know that rush of endorphins you feel after a great workout? Well, that's when the real magic happens. So if you love hearing real inspiring stories from the people you know, follow, and admire, join me every week for Post Run High. It's where we take the conversation beyond the run and get into the heart of it all. It's where we take the conversation beyond the run and get into the heart of it all. It's lighthearted, pretty crazy, and very fun. Listen to Post Run High on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Welcome. I'm Danny Thrill. Won't you join me as the fire and dare enter? Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows, presented by iHeart and Sonora. An anthology of modern-day horror stories inspired by the legends of Latin America. From ghastly encounters with shapeshifters to bone-chilling brushes with supernatural creatures. I know it. Take a trip and experience the horrors that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time. Listen to Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows

as part of My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple podcast or wherever you get your podcast. Hey, I'm Jack Peace Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature. I'm Jack Peace Thomas, and I'm inviting you to join me and a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture.

Together, we'll dissect classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Blacklit on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And we're back. Come on inside, he urges.

His voice is warm and cheerful now, as though he's trying to put some fatherly affect into his words. Water off a duck's back to me. Do you drink? Tea, I reply. Nothing harder. I call for someone else, someone named Isabel, to put a pot on, a half-hearted reply that she's been putting too much pot on tonight.

I stifle a laugh. Don't trouble yourself then, I insist. The older man leads me deeper into the house. We pass through the main hall. A kitchen, messy, and with a sink full of dishes. A barracks or something like it, with a dozen or so bunk beds crammed together. People sleep soundly, despite halogen quartz lights burning over them. One of the rooms has been converted into an impromptu armory, printing casings for bombs and upper receivers for rifles. Someone is working on a quad drone, trying to armor up the limbs. Don't, I point to the drone. The arms can take it. You need to focus on the rotors.

Any good great birdshot will tear those up. The armorer is a woman. Faded black dye covers up her blonde roots. Her shoulders drop and she smirks at me. If I had to guess, she'd been telling people the same, but only now did someone agree with her. She holds her gaze at me for a fraction too long before nodding and getting back to work.

If this was a different context, I'd hope to heaven she was gay too, but it's not good business to flirt on the job. Right, well, we got those designs from a person in Occupy and he tries to justify himself. His mistake. Everyone does. And they're wrong, I cut the man off. Survivorship bias probably wasn't factored in. You need those things to hit their target, nothing more. It doesn't matter if they get buckshot lodged in an arm. It matters if their rotors are shredded into foil.

He doesn't like this. I can sense his demeanor change. He's a bit icy as he gestures towards the central computer. I don't know how many hundreds he spent on the design schematics, but hey, at least he doesn't need to invest in he spent on the design schematics, but hey, at least he doesn't need to invest in new ones. Should be thanking me, really. I don't sit down. Instead, I take out the USB, plug it into the computer, and ask him to sit down. I'm sure you know your systems better than I do. I'd hate to screw anything up.

It's disingenuous, I know, but it convinces him. He sits down. I notice the outline of a pistol tucked into his pant line, between the disheveled dress shirt and the khakis. He opens the files. The actual instructions are encrypted. I have the key on a piece of paper tucked into my windbreaker. If it wasn't, then stealing my designs would be as simple as copy-paste. Instead, he gets a series of PNGs from some short videos. My own voice through the speakers explaining what is different about these squash heads. He watches them closely, glancing at my hand every so often to check if it's still on the USB. It always is. Right, he says, but the designs, i want to see them in actual printing programs first so i know you're

not selling me a pile of shit i want my money first four thousand euros cash that's what your contact promised me mr i nudge for a name he grumbles and sighs tom just tom a few moments pass i consider ripping the usb out since he's starting to get on my nerves. He shifts back in the chair an old leather piece of work with more duct tape than filling. Is he going to make a move? I put my hand over my zipper, ready to go for my own gun. Look, I don't know what my contact promised you exactly. He has this tendency to make, you know, deals that I don't

exactly agree with, Tom explains. He promised me 4,000 euros in cash. I made that pretty clear, I think. My hand plays with the zipper. Can we agree on something more reasonable? It's only designed plastic, after all. His voice takes a grating edge to it. I probably fucked up telling his armorer how to do her job. It's only design plastic that took me 22 hours of work, math, chemistry, and more to work out a prototype for, and four days of testing to make sure it worked according to my calculations, and then a month of shopping it around. And I know that there's people like me, right now, doing the same, who wouldn't be caught dead selling to someone who isn't good on the money and crypto well before they sent the design over. I unzip my windbreaker,

hoping he doesn't notice the bulge of the revolver. I'm taking a risk here, and I don't want to take any more. He glares at me. I can see the game fall apart in his head. What he wanted to do, how he wanted to haggle but I'm still in the room full of his friends who are all armed to the teeth and are out here on a moment of R&R and training probably before descending back down into Montana and helping his folks down there

some plans that I'm starting to feel less like an accomplice to and more like a hindrance to Freya, he says. You're putting me in a fucking difficult position right now. His voice raises to a growl, a hiss between tobacco stained teeth. I clench up, step back, and yank the USB from its port. My hand plunges into my windbreaker, wraps tight around that unsmooth handle. I don't draw it yet, but he knows that I have it, and that's enough. Right, he says. I'm putting you in a difficult position too, I get that. But you've seen what the front's doing down in Montana, right? The fucking burnings? Moral considerations aren't

what got me into this job. They're not going to make me budge. He has to know that. I'm not in this for some glorious revolution. What she might be in it for, dear listener slash guest, is the deals. Like, you know, that's kind of her thing. And much like you, you actually only listen to podcasts for the ads. And I respect that. Unless, of course, you listen to cooler zone media, in which case you get the ad transitions and none of the ads. But if you're just on cool zone media, just perfectly legitimate, then you get to hear the ads.

Like these ones. Hey guys, I'm Kate Max. You might know me from my popular online series, The Running Interview Show, where I run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast, Post Run High, is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. You know that rush of endorphins you feel after a great workout? Well, that's when the real magic happens. So if you love hearing real, inspiring stories from the people you know, follow, and admire? Join me every week for Post

Run High. It's where we take the conversation beyond the run and get into the heart of it all. It's lighthearted, pretty crazy, and very fun. Listen to Post Run High on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Welcome, I'm Danny Thrill. Won't you join me at the fire and dare enter Nocturnum, Tales from the Shadows, presented by iHeart and Sonora. An anthology of modern day horror stories inspired by the legends of Latin America. From ghastly encounters with shapeshifters

to bone-chilling brushes with supernatural creatures. I know you. Take a trip and experience the horrors that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time. Listen to Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows as part of my Cultura podcast network available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple podcast or wherever you get your podcast. Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Jack Peace Thomas, the host of a brand new Black Effect original series, Black Lit, the podcast for diving deep into the rich world of Black literature.

I'm Jack Peace Thomas, and I'm inviting you to join me and a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts dedicated to protecting and celebrating our stories. Black Lit is for the page turners, for those who listen to audiobooks while commuting or running errands, for those who find themselves seeking solace, wisdom, and refuge between the chapters. From thought-provoking novels to powerful poetry, we'll explore the stories that shape our culture. Together, we'll dissect classics and contemporary works while uncovering the stories of the brilliant writers behind them. Blacklit is here to amplify the voices of Black writers and to bring their words to life. Listen to Blacklit on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Yeah, I've seen them. Oh, I'm back, by the way. Yeah, I've seen them. Frontists laughed as they screamed. So fucking what? People like me sold them the weapons. Hell, I might know the guy who did.

I know what the sides are doing. I know what your fucking friends in the GDF did when they captured a bunch of the front's men. Lined them up and shot them. No trial, nothing. That's war. I sell war. You want to buy war? Don't try to clean this up. He stands. I see the pistol in his waistband. Glock 19. Polymer. Not a shadow gun, probably for long-term carry. Sweat sticks his shirt to his body you aren't gonna hurt me i say my voice is confident my soul is shaking you either pay me now or i take this and leave i threaten we had a deal set up and i won't haggle again i already did that with your contact they said four thousand no less damn fucking cheap for

that price and you know it. I don't think you fucking understand, actually. You've seen the videos, but you haven't been there. You haven't smelled the aftermath. You haven't given food to the hungry or water to the thirsty. His voice devolves into something almost rehearsed. We're doing good work out there, and you can help us. Oh, yes, the ideological crusade they think I care about. The shifting acidic weight heating at me intensified. I tried my damnedest to not show it, not to give any clue of what was happening in my head. I failed. He took his chance. You think I don't know your type? He steps towards me. You think I don't know how little info you keep about yourself? How fake your name is? Hell, I bet you don't even have a license on you, let alone someone who's worried for you. I inhale sharply. The chyme comes up. A sour taste forces

itself under my tongue. I can feel my body, my bones shaking. God, I hope I'm not showing it. I hope he's not seeing the twitch in my eye. Every tug, every involuntary pull of a stressed muscle. I feel everything. Tom knows he's got me in a bind. I think over the exits in my head, try to remember where anything is. A pang of fear strikes through me. There's only one way out, and my back would be turned to him the whole way if I ran.

Good way to get my spine ventilated. Maybe backing away would work. I step back, glancing over my shoulder to the door. So you're going to hand it over? His palm is extended outwards. Are you fucking robbing me? I try to stall for time. It's a USB and a few hits to your dignity. Hardly grand theft. We can make this far more painful if you want, but I'm not going to give you a lot of time to think it over. He notices my step backward, a flash of movement, a gun points at the ground aimed at my feet. My heart stops cold, dead. An exasperated sigh

comes from behind me. Christ above, Tommy, you're being a shithead, the lady working on the drone says. Just give her the fucking money. You think we can't take the hit? Go and fuck with Henry. He set up the deal. If he promised something, that's on us to keep and an internal matter to resolve. We're not the fucking front. We have protocol. Silence for a moment. Tom looks at me, then at the armorer. There's something between them that I can't place. Maybe they were in battle together. That connection people have in the trenches is hard to place, hard to replicate. You think you have the fucking right

to tell me what to do, Tom growls. Yes, she says. Yeah, I fucking do. Swinging your cock around isn't gonna help any of us. Her tone is measured, casual, like this is a Tuesday for her. Hell, what if she did give you the designs? Did you ever think past five minutes

from now? She'd give you the USB, run like hell, and tell every damn person in the business that we're liable to rob you blind and call it business. How would that look for us? Tom sighs. He removes the magazine from his pistol and racks the slide. A bullet clatters on the concrete ground. A bullet clatters on the concrete ground. My shoulders drop. I breathe in. Clean, fresh air. Almost purifying.

I hadn't realized how long I'd been holding my breath. I wipe the sweat off my forehead and relax the grip on my revolver. Maybe this would actually go alright. You're right, you're right, he sighs. Alex. He looks past me. The woman perks up. Go to the vault. I think we have enough. Fifties and. The woman perks up. Go to the vault.

I think we have enough. Fifties and hundreds if you can. I'd like to go with her if you don't mind, I say. Tom frowns, but Alex waves me over. I follow her down the hall. She smells like peaches under the burnt metal and sweat in WD-40. I'm so sorry about Tom, she says to me the second we're out of earshot. He's got a real fuck-you-got-mine attitude, and I've tried to whip him into shape.

It's not really working out. I'm just glad I'm not leaving here in pieces, I say. She laughs. It's sweet, gentle, reassuring. I remind myself once more that I am working. Can't think about her too much. She's a business partner, after all. She lets out a laugh, a tired laugh, someone who's had to deal with far too much nonsense. We wouldn't do that to you. Promise.

They keep all their money in a room, hidden in filing cabinets and sorted by denomination. Some foreign currency, a lot of Canadian, obviously. There's one thing the Canadians got right other than poutine, it's polymer currency. Europe has yet to catch up, and so my eyes wander to the piles of cotton bills. 4,000 euros, right? Fuck, Tom might have a point. This might wipe our reserves. Not again. I'm not playing this haggling game again. A cute girl won't change my answer. Not my problem, I hope you know, I state. She nods and starts counting. A real hard nose, I see. Her voice grates like glass shards. I must have foiled some plan.

You know, Tom's not a bad person. I don't care about his morals, I say. I just want promises kept. Right, right. She hands me stacks of currency. I count through it quickly. None of it seems fake, though I might need to inspect closer later.

The euro's always a good bet. The Canadian and US dollars both collapse and rise in turn, but across the pond, the EU's managed to keep things relatively stable. I say goodbye to Alex and start down towards the entrance. As I pass through the hall, I see a few people on a couch watching television. One of them seems real strung out. Another is intently watching the screen. The television plays footage from the Christian Front's fighting with the remains of the National Guard.

An anchor is speaking about the need for intervention from Britain or something. Something I need to pay attention to. New players in the field and all that. Tom meets me as I walk. No gun, at least it doesn't look like. I don't take the time to search him up and down. He doesn't speak. I have nothing to say to him. It's a short walk to the door, but it feels so, so long. This didn't go smoothly, and I've put these guys firmly on my blacklist, but I won't contribute to the rumor mill. Maybe one of my competitors won't be as lucky as me. That'd be nice. I stand at the threshold and a final few thoughts cross my mind about how they might not have the right materials. It did include a list in the text file.

How they might try to alter the designs themselves might fuck it up too. Though Alex seemed capable, just not listened to. They rarely listen to the engineers, at least until the survivors need to pick up the pieces. A thousand thoughts run through my head. I open the door, say goodbye to Tom, and I leave the idiots to blow themselves up.

The end. If this was an old movie, it would say Finn. Although it's French, it says fin, so who knows? Maybe you don't pronounce it. Maybe it's f. That's probably how it's pronounced, because you never pronounce all the letters. Why am I randomly making fun of French? The problem is that you all are my guests, and you've been a little bit quiet. So I've been left to make these terrible jokes. But that's this week's story. I don't know, I like this story and I thought that you all might like it too. I like this kind of simple exploration of the complications involved in revolutionary struggle and how you know often at least i read stuff that's like from

a revolutionist's point of view right and you know it talks about the complications as like oh well it's just complicated you know sometimes you gotta break a couple eggs or to make an omelet or whatever fucking bullshit you know um and i like something that's from the perspective of a sort of a neutral. So I thought you all might like it too. But there's a few things I want to plug. Well, first, I want to plug SJ Klepecki, who you should follow. You should follow on Twitter, which as I said, is S-J-K-L-A-P-E-C-W-R-I-T-I-N-G on Twitter. Also, you can follow S.J. Klapecki on Patreon, which is S-J underscore, we'll just Google it. Klapecki is K-L-A-P-E-C-K-I. And probably more than anything else, I want to plug their book, which I haven't read yet,

but was published by AK Press, who also published Cool Zone Media, Friend of the Pod, me, and also Cool Zone Media, Friend of the Pod, Robert Evans. AK Press published. AK Press is a collectively run publisher who puts out really good shit and has started to put out a lot of really good fiction.

And AK Press put out Station Six by S.J. Klapecki. And I think you all should check it out because I have it on my shelf and I'm excited to read it, especially after reading this story. That's the end of Book Club. I'll see you all next week. Maybe I'll have a different guest

maybe you'll be the guest again do you like being the guest if so i don't know well i guess you're kind of always the guest oh also there's me i have a podcast if you heard this on the it could happen here feed you can also hear me on the cool people who did cool stuff feed where every monday and wednesday i tell you a different kind of story i tell you a story of history instead of this future history i'll just shut up i'll see y'all next week it could happen here is a production of cool zone media for more podcasts from cool zone media visit our website coolzonemedia.com or check us out on the iheart radio app apple podcasts or wherever you listen to podcasts you can find sources for it could happen here updated monthly at coolzonemedia.com slash sources.

Thanks for listening. Hey guys, I'm Kate Max. You might know me from my popular online series, The Running Interview Show, where I run with celebrities, athletes, entrepreneurs, and more. After those runs, the conversations keep going. That's what my podcast, Post Run High, is all about. It's a chance to sit down with my guests and dive even deeper into their stories, their journeys, and the thoughts that arise once we've hit the pavement together. Listen to Post Run High on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

You should probably keep your lights on for Nocturnal Tales from the Shadow. Join me, Danny Trails, and step into the flames of fright. An anthology podcast of modern day horror stories inspired by the most terrifying legends and lore of Latin America. Listen to Nocturnal on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The 2025 iHeart Podcast Awards are coming. This is the chance to nominate your podcast for the industry's biggest award. Submit your podcast for nomination now at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. But hurry, submissions close on December 8th.

Hey, you've been doing all that talking. It's time to get rewarded for it. Submit your podcast today at iHeart.com slash podcast awards. That's iHeart.com slash podcast awards.