The Street is bustling tonight. It's Friday. Time for letting off steam, seeing friends, or simply indulging in your vices. You know the ones. The ones catered to on Holland Street.
Where the cops don't go unless they are called by the bouncers, or to collect their weekly pay off.
It is going to be a good night. Break time nearly over. Time to be getting back inside.
Glance across the street and up three floors to the dirty, peeling windows that look blindly out, heavy curtains cutting off all bar seams of light. Fourth window along. Know very well what is behind those curtains. One room with dingy and peeling wallpaper. Furniture that a hobo would sniff at. A few meagre possesions. The one I love more than life, who makes everything bearable.
The light is on. Not started work yet then. Drop the cigarette butt, carefully grind it out underfoot. Old habits. Strange how they stick with us, when no longer needed. The street is hardly going to catch fire. Turn to re-enter the bar. A second glance up, as the light clicks off in her room. Her shift is starting.
Moody, the bouncer, sees the direction of my gaze. He pats me once, gently, on the shoulder as I pass.
"We'll keep an eye on her, man. We always do." His voice is harsh, he is not. Not to the people who live and work here on the Street. Give him a nod of thanks. He'll do it. Last time a guy tried something on with her, Moody, and Silvio from next door, tied him in a knot.
Through the doors to a blast of noise. The smell of weed and tobacco is overpowering, the smoke hanging in the air like a fine fog. Sure, it's illegal. But this is Holland Street. Laws don't apply here. Get back behind the bar. My leg is killing me. Gonna rain soon. But not tonight. Drop into the mindless routine of serving up drinks. Some for the bar sitters, more for the tables. Hands working automatically. Gives me time to think. Too much time. The girls waiting tables get the big tips. They earn them. I get the odd drink bought for me by the rummys who sit at the bar. I pocket the money, and drink ginger ale. Every penny extra is worth it.
Longing for just a single glimpse of my beloved. To remind me why we are here. That it is all worth it.
Once upon a time, there was a small farm. Nothing much really, but we made a living by working hard. Just me, my wife and our daughter. Didn't have much money, but we had love and laughter aplenty. Music too. My mothers piano was in constant use. We had 9 happy years.
Then came the drought. Our savings dropped and dropped. We have been through them before. Hard, but survivable.
There she is. She always starts her beat near the bar and gives me a wave if she can. Looking fine tonight. Tight shorts, a gossamer top, heels. Just the right amount of make-up, hair artfully disarrayed. A guy walks up to her. Talks, smiles. She nods and they walk off down the street together. I grip the edge of the bar. Doesn't matter how many times I see it, that hurts so fucking bad. Like someone ripping out my heart. Every fucking time. Love hurts. Not loving hurts worse.
Then came the accident. A coma. Oh, we put her in hospital, sharpish, but treatments cost money. Money we didn't have. Getting to the city to see her was a nightmare. We couldn't even afford fuel, insurance, nothing. Ate what we managed to raise, and damned little of it. Every penny went on her.
With heavy heart, we decided to sell the farm. Then came the fire. I woke, in hospital, with a leg burned to almost uselessness. Of my beloved, there was no sign. Just the money coming in to pay the hospital bills. There is only one way here for a woman to raise enough money for that.
Holland Street.
As soon as I was discharged, I went looking for her. It really didn't take long to find her. My love. My life for the last ten years. As I healed, I started to work. There are good people here, they helped out. Found me a job, look out for her. There is a lot of love here on Holland Street.
We still have the hospital bills, true. Every single extra penny goes to them, to keep life support going. To stop them pulling the plug. We agree on that.
2 AM. Shift end. Not cleaning up tonight, that is Reg's job. Wearily limp across the road to the transient's hotel. Room 319. It isn't much, but it's home.
Make a cup of tea, and heat some soup on the hotplate. She'll be home soon, and hungry. Rattle of the key in the lock, and she enters the room in a blaze of glory. Beauty personified. Beauty soiled, by what she has to do. She smiles at me, melting my heart once more.
"Dad, can we go see Mom tomorrow?"
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Sometimes they let us see the sun.
Prison doesn't work.
That was the decision of Congress, as crime rose, the economy collapsed yet again on the back of another resource crisis, and the populace's tolerance to paying taxes to house and feed criminals fell sharply.
Sure, many people had considered the decade long wait on Death Row for condemned criminals to be cruel and unusual punishment in it's own right, so the creation of a government department to purely investigate death sentences and a dedicated trio of Supreme Court judges to hear the evidence and decide on death was widely welcomed. The sixty day deadline for investigation was not as popular. Yet it was signed into law.
That still left over ten million people in prison, serving sentences from three months to multiple life sentences. Still too expensive, the people cried. Law abiding citizens are starving, while criminals get fed! Riots broke out, and were contained with difficulty. The prison population ballooned as hungry people broke the law simply to eat. It was time for drastic, and, in government terms, unusually swift action.
May 3rd, 2063, the National Indentured Workers Scheme was signed into existence. A partnership between the Department of Justice and several corporations was set up to run the scheme.
Almost 200 years after the Emancipation Proclamation, slavery once more became legal in the United States of North America, it's territories and it's protectorates.
It stinks in here. Been submerged too long, and the air scrubbers need recharging. Dripping water making the catwalks slippery as I hurry to my workstation to start my shift. Five minutes late is a day added to my sentence. It isn't fair, but who cares for us? No one. We are slaves. The invisible ones.
Arrive at the workstation and punch in. The ID chip embedded in my wrist stings as the time clock accepts me. Ken nods as I take over the rig. He is here forever - 5 consecutive life sentences - so he doesn't care about overtime. He'll never get out. He has no one on the outside working his case. Trying to get him a fair shake.
He knows it, we know it.
Eventually he'll go the way of all other multiple lifers. Go nuts, attack someone and be shot. It is the only way out for them. Poor bastards. Still, I'd rather take over from a lifer than a short timer. They can get aggressive. Nasty. Even attack you. That adds to both of your terms.
Again, unfair. No one cares. No one gets out of here easily.
An example.
We hot bunk down here, three to a rack. 8 hours bunk time. 12 hours work time. 4 hours for meals, hygiene and the laughably named "Personal Development." My tail bunk mate, Dan, the one who wakes me up, is not keen on the whole hygiene issue. Rarely washes at all. He fucking stinks. You can smell him two rooms away. My head bunk mate, Pete, in for 6 months for petty larceny, had words with him about it. Getting into a cot reeking of BO and rancid food is not fun. The words descended into violence, as happens a lot here. A broken tooth, a black eye. I wasn't there, I was on my shift. They both got an extra two years added to their time, for malicious damage to company property. I got an extra two months, as it is my bunk assignment. It happens to everyone. The system is there to benefit the system. We are merely company property. Biological machines. Cheap and easily replaceable when we break.
Keep eyes on the gauges. Hands on the controls. Otherwise you register as not working. You don't work, you don't eat. A simple way to ensure that the company makes it's money off you while you are in here. Delicate movements, to drive the harvester across the sea bed. Prefer driving a prospector, a good strike and you get time knocked off your sentence, but I lost that privilege. Got hit by accident in a fight in the mess hall, didn't duck fast enough when the guards opened fire.
A siren. We are surfacing. Set the harvester to standby and lock my panel. From the time the alarm sounds you have 40 seconds to do that. Longer and you get time added. Fail to put your machine into standby and you get dealt with. Those things are expensive. Those off duty have to deal with housekeeping. Strip the bunks of blanket and mattress, get them to the cleaning center to be sterilized. Send out the nets and traps to catch whatever possible as we rise to the surface.
Board locked, all telltales glowing red. Check the clock, well inside the time limit. Stand and stretch. The entire plant is groaning as it struggles to break free of the sea bed. An over-full load again. One of these days they'll get too greedy and rip the bottom right out of her. I should know, I used to be an engineer. Thankfully, surfacing time counts as work for those on shift, and we stay on shift until the plant re-submerges. I got lucky this time, missed the last two surfaces. A surfacing cycle normally takes 18 hours. 18 hours credit without having to work. And the most important thing of all.
A scream of rage from the next cubicle, followed by the dull thump of a beanbag round hitting flesh. The guards don't usually bother us when we are on shift, unless there is a fight or damage. Whoever it is must have missed lockdown time. The guards are too scared of losing their own rights and joining us again to interfere with the plant's production. Oh, yeah, they are cons too, multi lifers, mainly. It's the only way they can have a chance at getting out. Odd, that the overseers, murderers all, who mistreat us and sometimes kill us can usually get out faster than we can. Again, unfair as hell, but who watches out for us. It's the way the system works. The overhead mesh catwalk creaks as the guard stops to check my board. Lean back so he can see - all lights red, and the lockdown timer showing thirty two seconds. He grunts, lowers his weapon, and moves on.
The idea of free time is scary. Not used to it. Scratch the staph infection on my arm idly. We all have infections, despite the antibiotics in the food. Too humid down here. Too crowded. I have to stay at my station until the surface alarm sounds. May as well have a nap. Nothing will happen for hours while we are rising through the deep for management shift change and to offload the valuables.
Siren sounds. Snap awake, tap my chip against the reader, and run for the catwalk to the cargo bays. Two minutes to get there and swipe in again. A milling crowd of slaves, all animatedly talking. All of us here. They steam flush our quarters while on the surface, officially for hygiene reasons, but really to drive everyone out to the loading and unloading teams. It's just too bad if you can't get out of your rack in time. People die of that.
A creak and gush of water as the cargo hatch opens. Overhead catwalks thick with guards, beanbag rounds replaced with live rounds for the occasion. The Warden, the only non slave on the station, watches from his bulletproof cubicle near the deckhead.
The two slaves in whites, the ones who have served their time, board the supply ship, and new slaves come in and immediately log in to the system. They are put straight to work. They bitch and complain about it, as always. The poor fools don't yet realise that this is the best thing that will happen to them for a long time.
We line up, single file, and start offloading the gold, platinum and other metals too precious to be ballooned to the surface during normal shift hours. As the first guy passes through the hatch onto the deck of the supply ship, I hear a yell of pure animal delight. It is daytime! As the sunlight strikes me, I close my eyes in sheer bliss.
The system maintains itself. I was given a two year sentence back in '79. Negligence leading to the injury of a colleague. That was seven years ago. I am getting short time now. Another year, if I am careful, and I am out.
We are treated like animals in a cage. Worse, really, animals have rights. People who care about them. Yet people do serve out their time and become free men again. The company helps you find a job once you are free, it is in their contract with the DoJ. The food is OK, if you don't mind seafood.
And sometimes, just sometimes, they let us see the sun.
To John Davis,
Head of Supply,
Atlantic Sea Station Division.
This manuscript was found in the pocket of Indentured Worker #93467723; Jones, P. K, who's body washed ashore last week in Nantucket Sound.
Your crews are getting careless again, Jack. That is three floaters this week, all with still active chips. What the hell do we buy you concrete blocks for? Worse still, this one was still wearing his whites. We really can't have that getting out now, can we?
The board expects a report from you, in corpus, tomorrow noon. As one friend to another, you had better have your explanations in order and some heads to offer, or you'll be seeing a station from the inside. They are steaming mad about this.
Peter Mayhew,
Head of Personnel.
That was the decision of Congress, as crime rose, the economy collapsed yet again on the back of another resource crisis, and the populace's tolerance to paying taxes to house and feed criminals fell sharply.
Sure, many people had considered the decade long wait on Death Row for condemned criminals to be cruel and unusual punishment in it's own right, so the creation of a government department to purely investigate death sentences and a dedicated trio of Supreme Court judges to hear the evidence and decide on death was widely welcomed. The sixty day deadline for investigation was not as popular. Yet it was signed into law.
That still left over ten million people in prison, serving sentences from three months to multiple life sentences. Still too expensive, the people cried. Law abiding citizens are starving, while criminals get fed! Riots broke out, and were contained with difficulty. The prison population ballooned as hungry people broke the law simply to eat. It was time for drastic, and, in government terms, unusually swift action.
May 3rd, 2063, the National Indentured Workers Scheme was signed into existence. A partnership between the Department of Justice and several corporations was set up to run the scheme.
Almost 200 years after the Emancipation Proclamation, slavery once more became legal in the United States of North America, it's territories and it's protectorates.
* * *
It stinks in here. Been submerged too long, and the air scrubbers need recharging. Dripping water making the catwalks slippery as I hurry to my workstation to start my shift. Five minutes late is a day added to my sentence. It isn't fair, but who cares for us? No one. We are slaves. The invisible ones.
Arrive at the workstation and punch in. The ID chip embedded in my wrist stings as the time clock accepts me. Ken nods as I take over the rig. He is here forever - 5 consecutive life sentences - so he doesn't care about overtime. He'll never get out. He has no one on the outside working his case. Trying to get him a fair shake.
He knows it, we know it.
Eventually he'll go the way of all other multiple lifers. Go nuts, attack someone and be shot. It is the only way out for them. Poor bastards. Still, I'd rather take over from a lifer than a short timer. They can get aggressive. Nasty. Even attack you. That adds to both of your terms.
Again, unfair. No one cares. No one gets out of here easily.
An example.
We hot bunk down here, three to a rack. 8 hours bunk time. 12 hours work time. 4 hours for meals, hygiene and the laughably named "Personal Development." My tail bunk mate, Dan, the one who wakes me up, is not keen on the whole hygiene issue. Rarely washes at all. He fucking stinks. You can smell him two rooms away. My head bunk mate, Pete, in for 6 months for petty larceny, had words with him about it. Getting into a cot reeking of BO and rancid food is not fun. The words descended into violence, as happens a lot here. A broken tooth, a black eye. I wasn't there, I was on my shift. They both got an extra two years added to their time, for malicious damage to company property. I got an extra two months, as it is my bunk assignment. It happens to everyone. The system is there to benefit the system. We are merely company property. Biological machines. Cheap and easily replaceable when we break.
Keep eyes on the gauges. Hands on the controls. Otherwise you register as not working. You don't work, you don't eat. A simple way to ensure that the company makes it's money off you while you are in here. Delicate movements, to drive the harvester across the sea bed. Prefer driving a prospector, a good strike and you get time knocked off your sentence, but I lost that privilege. Got hit by accident in a fight in the mess hall, didn't duck fast enough when the guards opened fire.
A siren. We are surfacing. Set the harvester to standby and lock my panel. From the time the alarm sounds you have 40 seconds to do that. Longer and you get time added. Fail to put your machine into standby and you get dealt with. Those things are expensive. Those off duty have to deal with housekeeping. Strip the bunks of blanket and mattress, get them to the cleaning center to be sterilized. Send out the nets and traps to catch whatever possible as we rise to the surface.
Board locked, all telltales glowing red. Check the clock, well inside the time limit. Stand and stretch. The entire plant is groaning as it struggles to break free of the sea bed. An over-full load again. One of these days they'll get too greedy and rip the bottom right out of her. I should know, I used to be an engineer. Thankfully, surfacing time counts as work for those on shift, and we stay on shift until the plant re-submerges. I got lucky this time, missed the last two surfaces. A surfacing cycle normally takes 18 hours. 18 hours credit without having to work. And the most important thing of all.
A scream of rage from the next cubicle, followed by the dull thump of a beanbag round hitting flesh. The guards don't usually bother us when we are on shift, unless there is a fight or damage. Whoever it is must have missed lockdown time. The guards are too scared of losing their own rights and joining us again to interfere with the plant's production. Oh, yeah, they are cons too, multi lifers, mainly. It's the only way they can have a chance at getting out. Odd, that the overseers, murderers all, who mistreat us and sometimes kill us can usually get out faster than we can. Again, unfair as hell, but who watches out for us. It's the way the system works. The overhead mesh catwalk creaks as the guard stops to check my board. Lean back so he can see - all lights red, and the lockdown timer showing thirty two seconds. He grunts, lowers his weapon, and moves on.
The idea of free time is scary. Not used to it. Scratch the staph infection on my arm idly. We all have infections, despite the antibiotics in the food. Too humid down here. Too crowded. I have to stay at my station until the surface alarm sounds. May as well have a nap. Nothing will happen for hours while we are rising through the deep for management shift change and to offload the valuables.
Siren sounds. Snap awake, tap my chip against the reader, and run for the catwalk to the cargo bays. Two minutes to get there and swipe in again. A milling crowd of slaves, all animatedly talking. All of us here. They steam flush our quarters while on the surface, officially for hygiene reasons, but really to drive everyone out to the loading and unloading teams. It's just too bad if you can't get out of your rack in time. People die of that.
A creak and gush of water as the cargo hatch opens. Overhead catwalks thick with guards, beanbag rounds replaced with live rounds for the occasion. The Warden, the only non slave on the station, watches from his bulletproof cubicle near the deckhead.
The two slaves in whites, the ones who have served their time, board the supply ship, and new slaves come in and immediately log in to the system. They are put straight to work. They bitch and complain about it, as always. The poor fools don't yet realise that this is the best thing that will happen to them for a long time.
We line up, single file, and start offloading the gold, platinum and other metals too precious to be ballooned to the surface during normal shift hours. As the first guy passes through the hatch onto the deck of the supply ship, I hear a yell of pure animal delight. It is daytime! As the sunlight strikes me, I close my eyes in sheer bliss.
The system maintains itself. I was given a two year sentence back in '79. Negligence leading to the injury of a colleague. That was seven years ago. I am getting short time now. Another year, if I am careful, and I am out.
We are treated like animals in a cage. Worse, really, animals have rights. People who care about them. Yet people do serve out their time and become free men again. The company helps you find a job once you are free, it is in their contract with the DoJ. The food is OK, if you don't mind seafood.
And sometimes, just sometimes, they let us see the sun.
* * *
May 3rd, 2088To John Davis,
Head of Supply,
Atlantic Sea Station Division.
This manuscript was found in the pocket of Indentured Worker #93467723; Jones, P. K, who's body washed ashore last week in Nantucket Sound.
Your crews are getting careless again, Jack. That is three floaters this week, all with still active chips. What the hell do we buy you concrete blocks for? Worse still, this one was still wearing his whites. We really can't have that getting out now, can we?
The board expects a report from you, in corpus, tomorrow noon. As one friend to another, you had better have your explanations in order and some heads to offer, or you'll be seeing a station from the inside. They are steaming mad about this.
Peter Mayhew,
Head of Personnel.
Friday, 14 January 2011
Truckstop Tales - 3
Hey! Welcome back, friend. Sorry we had to shut so suddenly last night, but it was a mark of respect, you know? Poor old Roger, taken before his time, though I always said he was digging his grave with his fork. Set yourself. White coffee, two sugars, right?
Grunt and a nod as he settles onto the stool. Stan makes fine coffee, is why he comes here so often.
It is quiet tonight. A couple of the booths by the big, plate glass window occupied. One tired looking elderly man, one very young couple, obviously not wanting to end their Friday night date. Dolores desultorily cleaning the griddle, while another young waitress stands by the coffee pot and ponders. Stan always has fine looking waitresses, despite their, shall we say, peculiarities. Charity cases and runaways, most of them. Hitchhike as far as here, and settle for a bit. Moonville, Ohio. Strange place to wash up. The truckstop on the interstate exit, a feedlot and about 16 houses, 10 of them empty and slowly decaying with the changes of the seasons. Nowheresville USA.
The old man rises and slowly walks to the cash desk. Dolores licks her lips and moves forward, slowly and sensually, until she is turned away by a quick hand gesture from Stan.
"Drive careful, stranger, and drop in again some time." Stan says cheerily as he makes change.
"Oh, I will," The old man replies, carefully tucking his wallet back into his pocket "Your pie is amazing. Just like momma used to make."
As he leaves, a fan of light flares across the windows as a car pulls into the parking lot and coasts up to the building. High beams on all the way. Stan squints, then mutters a curse and glances around.
"Dammit, he would show up just now." Dolores fades into the storeroom, seemingly without taking a single step. The lights go off. A dull thunk through the glass as the driver slams shut the door behind him. A tall, amorphous shadow, indistinct to dazzled eyes, passes along the front of the building and throws open the door. His dramatic entrance is somewhat spoiled by the door rebounding off the wall and nearly hitting him in the face.
A preacher.
Stalks towards the two kids in the window booth. Shoulders tight, head thrust forward pugnaciously. He starts shouting while still ten strides away about immorality and iniquity. A full on hellfire sermon is developing here, on two scared kids out past curfew.
Stan coughs. "Preacher, maybe you should let them head on home and have yourself a drink? Tishi, fetch Preacher McGuire his coffee." The pretty waitress pours a cup and, grabbing a bottle from under the counter, adds two drops as the preacher turns and stalks to the bar, his face flushed red with rage. The young boy drops a tenspot on the table and they both hastily scramble out into the night. Leaving three to bear the brunt of his ire. Stan, Tishi the waitress and the man, peacefully drinking his coffee at the counter.
The preachers sweeps his eyes over the three of them. Stan takes a tiny step back from the counter as he starts haranguing Stan on the shameful immorality of the waitresses uniforms. Tishi stands, seemingly oblivious to the insults heading her way.
The man at the counter finishes his coffee and clears his throat. He hates to get involved, that is not what he is here for, but rules are rules. Quietly enough, but it stops the preacher in his tracks. He is not used to being interupted by anyone.
"I appreciate women looking like women, not covered in tents to appease your lack of control and respect for others. Maybe you should look into your own heart first, preacherman, and deal with some of that hate you got stuck in there. Give me a refill please, Stan."
The preacher goggles, his eyes bulging as he make a noise something akin to a turkey caught in a driveshaft, his face going first red, then white with rage. The floodgates open. A ranting torrent of hellfire and damnation, hatred and bile, spewing out like vomit, the preachers face less than an inch from the man's. The man leans back slightly to drink his coffee. That is the only effect. Stan is cowering by the griddle. Tishi leans on the counter, watching the show with a smile.
Rigs drone past on the interstate. No one pulls in.
Eventually the flood subsides as the preacher runs out of breath. Still only the three of them there. He drains his cold coffee with a snarl and slams the mug on the counter hard enough to break the handle off, before storming out.
Silence.
Tishi looking eager, almost vibrating, which does interesting things to her uniform. Stan, almost ghost white, licks his lips. "Tishi, take your break."
She heads out the side door so fast she is like a streak of interestingly curved light.
From his seat the man at the counter can see her in the side parking lot, fingers fumbling in haste, as she peels off her uniform. He finishes his second coffee. and gestures to Stan for a refill.
Somewhat recovered, Stan complies. With a nod to the window, the man asks, "Tishi?"
"Tisiphone. strange what parents name their kids these days."
Outside, she shivers once, convulsively, and a swarm of bees flies away. Following a scent trail.
Grunt and a nod as he settles onto the stool. Stan makes fine coffee, is why he comes here so often.
It is quiet tonight. A couple of the booths by the big, plate glass window occupied. One tired looking elderly man, one very young couple, obviously not wanting to end their Friday night date. Dolores desultorily cleaning the griddle, while another young waitress stands by the coffee pot and ponders. Stan always has fine looking waitresses, despite their, shall we say, peculiarities. Charity cases and runaways, most of them. Hitchhike as far as here, and settle for a bit. Moonville, Ohio. Strange place to wash up. The truckstop on the interstate exit, a feedlot and about 16 houses, 10 of them empty and slowly decaying with the changes of the seasons. Nowheresville USA.
The old man rises and slowly walks to the cash desk. Dolores licks her lips and moves forward, slowly and sensually, until she is turned away by a quick hand gesture from Stan.
"Drive careful, stranger, and drop in again some time." Stan says cheerily as he makes change.
"Oh, I will," The old man replies, carefully tucking his wallet back into his pocket "Your pie is amazing. Just like momma used to make."
As he leaves, a fan of light flares across the windows as a car pulls into the parking lot and coasts up to the building. High beams on all the way. Stan squints, then mutters a curse and glances around.
"Dammit, he would show up just now." Dolores fades into the storeroom, seemingly without taking a single step. The lights go off. A dull thunk through the glass as the driver slams shut the door behind him. A tall, amorphous shadow, indistinct to dazzled eyes, passes along the front of the building and throws open the door. His dramatic entrance is somewhat spoiled by the door rebounding off the wall and nearly hitting him in the face.
A preacher.
Stalks towards the two kids in the window booth. Shoulders tight, head thrust forward pugnaciously. He starts shouting while still ten strides away about immorality and iniquity. A full on hellfire sermon is developing here, on two scared kids out past curfew.
Stan coughs. "Preacher, maybe you should let them head on home and have yourself a drink? Tishi, fetch Preacher McGuire his coffee." The pretty waitress pours a cup and, grabbing a bottle from under the counter, adds two drops as the preacher turns and stalks to the bar, his face flushed red with rage. The young boy drops a tenspot on the table and they both hastily scramble out into the night. Leaving three to bear the brunt of his ire. Stan, Tishi the waitress and the man, peacefully drinking his coffee at the counter.
The preachers sweeps his eyes over the three of them. Stan takes a tiny step back from the counter as he starts haranguing Stan on the shameful immorality of the waitresses uniforms. Tishi stands, seemingly oblivious to the insults heading her way.
The man at the counter finishes his coffee and clears his throat. He hates to get involved, that is not what he is here for, but rules are rules. Quietly enough, but it stops the preacher in his tracks. He is not used to being interupted by anyone.
"I appreciate women looking like women, not covered in tents to appease your lack of control and respect for others. Maybe you should look into your own heart first, preacherman, and deal with some of that hate you got stuck in there. Give me a refill please, Stan."
The preacher goggles, his eyes bulging as he make a noise something akin to a turkey caught in a driveshaft, his face going first red, then white with rage. The floodgates open. A ranting torrent of hellfire and damnation, hatred and bile, spewing out like vomit, the preachers face less than an inch from the man's. The man leans back slightly to drink his coffee. That is the only effect. Stan is cowering by the griddle. Tishi leans on the counter, watching the show with a smile.
Rigs drone past on the interstate. No one pulls in.
Eventually the flood subsides as the preacher runs out of breath. Still only the three of them there. He drains his cold coffee with a snarl and slams the mug on the counter hard enough to break the handle off, before storming out.
Silence.
Tishi looking eager, almost vibrating, which does interesting things to her uniform. Stan, almost ghost white, licks his lips. "Tishi, take your break."
She heads out the side door so fast she is like a streak of interestingly curved light.
From his seat the man at the counter can see her in the side parking lot, fingers fumbling in haste, as she peels off her uniform. He finishes his second coffee. and gestures to Stan for a refill.
Somewhat recovered, Stan complies. With a nod to the window, the man asks, "Tishi?"
"Tisiphone. strange what parents name their kids these days."
Outside, she shivers once, convulsively, and a swarm of bees flies away. Following a scent trail.
Sunday, 2 January 2011
Love is ...
I hate people. Dumb, vacuous morons, using my oxygen, wasting my time. Getting in my way. Continuing to exist, despite my wishes.
Fuckers.
I try to avoid them. I spend 9 hours a day working with a bunch of bland, characterless meat puppets, feeding greedy, entitled fuckers and their screaming, snot nosed brats. No connection there, apart from bitching about the fryer that keeps overheating and burning the fries. I'd feel more comfortable trying to have a meaningful relationship with the ice cream machine. At least that works without much complaint. They are just faulty cogs in a machine that doesn't work well anyway. Constantly needing shouting at to do the simplest fucking thing. Organic, brainless robots.
Fuckers.
Shift end. Friday. 8 PM. They are all going out for a few drinks. All excited that it is the weekend. Turn away. Ignore them. My body language wishing they would all just fuck off and die. Who cares what they do. That they want to sociallise, despite being the lowest of the low is depressing. Proof that they are scum. Worthless. Have to shout about cleaning up, my typical Friday shouting.
Fuckers.
I go home alone. Shower for 25 minutes, scrubbing myself hard with soap and a loofah to get every bit of the day off my body. Clean up my never used kitchen, put my work clothes in the wash, and go to bed. Sleep comes. Eventually. As always.
I never dream.
Wake, just before the alarm. The coffee is ready, I set the machine last night. Drink it as I get dressed. Recite my mantra. It is total shit, but I paid for the course. Just another fucker taking advantage of people. Back when I cared. When I believed. About anything at all. The crucifix on the wall mocks me with my hollowness. Yeah right. I asked for help. It did not come. Should really get rid of that thing. Just another reminder of the dead past.
Saturday. I clean the whole apartment. It doesn't take long. There is nothing to gather dust. No pictures, no ornaments, no mementos. I threw them all out a long time ago. It is a bleak, sterile place. It suits me. The headshrinkers say if you want to know the man, look at his home. No one will know me by how I live.
No one.
Only my scrap book shows any of me. The real me. The secret me. Thinking about that reminds me. It is time to go to the library. I check all the papers there, to see if there is anything in them for me. If there is, I buy them on my way home, cut out the articles I want, and paste them in my scrap book. Sometimes there are other things to paste in too. Depending on what is in the papers.
Only one today, from the local paper. I don't travel much, so these things have to be pretty local. Within a couple of hours drive of where I live, maximum. The old, familiar feelings stir. The dull throbbing in my head.
Rage.
Force it down. Neatly fold the papers and return them to the rack. Being tidy. Being polite. Smile at the girl at the desk. She nods her thanks and smiles back. No idea who she is, they are all the same to me. Blank faced drones. Yet appearances must be maintained.
Buy the paper from the news kiosk. Cup of coffee and a danish in the coffee shop I always use. The one with free wifi. Idle over it. Just a single man, doing single man things. Browsing the net on his laptop while having a light lunch. Maintain appearances. Be just another one of the horde. Don't stand out. Don't be noticed.
Be normal.
One thing I am good with is computers. Databases. Information. I have a talent, and have trained it up to serious skill. Not that I admit to it. When the computer crashes at work, I call tech support like a good little boy. You never show your hole cards. Not to the useless fucks, not to anyone.
What I need to know doesn't take long to find. People are so fucking stupid now, especially kids. Put their entire lives out there for the world to see. Trying to validate their pathetic, ineffectual lives. Show an uncaring world that they exist. Stupid of them. But useful.
Home.
There should be another word for where you live. Home is too warm. Too friendly. Too family. Carefully cut out the article. Paste it squarely and neatly in my scrap book. Write the date above it, an address below it. I have good handwriting. Copperplate. Old fashioned, but so am I in some respects. There are still some things worth preserving in this world, even now. Outside, the afternoon is waning. Check my equipment. The knife. The gloves. The nails. The tape. The camera. Clean. Ready for action. Time to get dressed and go out to dinner, to my usual restaurant. A man with habits is invisible. Tonight, I rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.
Sunday.
I don't take my own car. Why should I bother? That would be stupid in the age of survailence cameras. Every scumbag has a car. I can borrow them when I like. It takes me 30 seconds to steal one. It is the sort of car I like. A few years old. A popular model and color. Inconspicuous. By 5 am I am at my target's house. One car in the drive. Toys in the yard, their bright colors dulled by the weather. I slip silently into the garage, disconnect the lightswitch, and settle to watch. Don't even have to pick the lock. Dumb. Rage pulsing in my head like a migrane, narrowing my vision, tinging everything red.
Wait.
Patience is the key. It is Sunday. It is the suburbs. My target will be out soon. The zombies follow routine. Follow the herd. Are stupid. I can smell them stirring.
A rattle from the door connecting the garage to the house. Merge into the shadows. Wait. Be sure. Hear a muttered curse as the lightswitch clicks ineffectually.
Male. Adult.
He makes his way through the gloom towards the main doors. Behind him the door to the house swings shut and latches. I glide forward. Vision narrowed to a pinpoint, red flashing in time to my pulse. He starts to turn, even the drones sense when there is danger around them. Too late. I slit his throat with one swift movement of my wrist, the shock of blade slicing flesh riding up my arm like a mini orgasm. He tries to scream, but all that comes out is a quietly bubbling breath. My knife blocks his vocal chords. He collapses to the floor and I follow him down, keeping the knife in his throat. He flails for a minute. He is strong, but not as strong as me. He merely fears. I am rage. His eyes both plead and question.
"Steven Hendricks. You have been convicted of drunk driving. Justice is served." I say my traditional words, as the light fades from his eyes.
Dead.
Slice off a lock of his hair, as he has no tattoos to skin off. Peel off my coveralls, pull out the camera and take several pictures. The best one will be printed and go into the scrapbook.
The scrap book with "In Memoriam" on the cover.
And a picture of the family I used to have.
Fuckers.
I try to avoid them. I spend 9 hours a day working with a bunch of bland, characterless meat puppets, feeding greedy, entitled fuckers and their screaming, snot nosed brats. No connection there, apart from bitching about the fryer that keeps overheating and burning the fries. I'd feel more comfortable trying to have a meaningful relationship with the ice cream machine. At least that works without much complaint. They are just faulty cogs in a machine that doesn't work well anyway. Constantly needing shouting at to do the simplest fucking thing. Organic, brainless robots.
Fuckers.
Shift end. Friday. 8 PM. They are all going out for a few drinks. All excited that it is the weekend. Turn away. Ignore them. My body language wishing they would all just fuck off and die. Who cares what they do. That they want to sociallise, despite being the lowest of the low is depressing. Proof that they are scum. Worthless. Have to shout about cleaning up, my typical Friday shouting.
Fuckers.
I go home alone. Shower for 25 minutes, scrubbing myself hard with soap and a loofah to get every bit of the day off my body. Clean up my never used kitchen, put my work clothes in the wash, and go to bed. Sleep comes. Eventually. As always.
I never dream.
Wake, just before the alarm. The coffee is ready, I set the machine last night. Drink it as I get dressed. Recite my mantra. It is total shit, but I paid for the course. Just another fucker taking advantage of people. Back when I cared. When I believed. About anything at all. The crucifix on the wall mocks me with my hollowness. Yeah right. I asked for help. It did not come. Should really get rid of that thing. Just another reminder of the dead past.
Saturday. I clean the whole apartment. It doesn't take long. There is nothing to gather dust. No pictures, no ornaments, no mementos. I threw them all out a long time ago. It is a bleak, sterile place. It suits me. The headshrinkers say if you want to know the man, look at his home. No one will know me by how I live.
No one.
Only my scrap book shows any of me. The real me. The secret me. Thinking about that reminds me. It is time to go to the library. I check all the papers there, to see if there is anything in them for me. If there is, I buy them on my way home, cut out the articles I want, and paste them in my scrap book. Sometimes there are other things to paste in too. Depending on what is in the papers.
Only one today, from the local paper. I don't travel much, so these things have to be pretty local. Within a couple of hours drive of where I live, maximum. The old, familiar feelings stir. The dull throbbing in my head.
Rage.
Force it down. Neatly fold the papers and return them to the rack. Being tidy. Being polite. Smile at the girl at the desk. She nods her thanks and smiles back. No idea who she is, they are all the same to me. Blank faced drones. Yet appearances must be maintained.
Buy the paper from the news kiosk. Cup of coffee and a danish in the coffee shop I always use. The one with free wifi. Idle over it. Just a single man, doing single man things. Browsing the net on his laptop while having a light lunch. Maintain appearances. Be just another one of the horde. Don't stand out. Don't be noticed.
Be normal.
One thing I am good with is computers. Databases. Information. I have a talent, and have trained it up to serious skill. Not that I admit to it. When the computer crashes at work, I call tech support like a good little boy. You never show your hole cards. Not to the useless fucks, not to anyone.
What I need to know doesn't take long to find. People are so fucking stupid now, especially kids. Put their entire lives out there for the world to see. Trying to validate their pathetic, ineffectual lives. Show an uncaring world that they exist. Stupid of them. But useful.
Home.
There should be another word for where you live. Home is too warm. Too friendly. Too family. Carefully cut out the article. Paste it squarely and neatly in my scrap book. Write the date above it, an address below it. I have good handwriting. Copperplate. Old fashioned, but so am I in some respects. There are still some things worth preserving in this world, even now. Outside, the afternoon is waning. Check my equipment. The knife. The gloves. The nails. The tape. The camera. Clean. Ready for action. Time to get dressed and go out to dinner, to my usual restaurant. A man with habits is invisible. Tonight, I rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.
Sunday.
I don't take my own car. Why should I bother? That would be stupid in the age of survailence cameras. Every scumbag has a car. I can borrow them when I like. It takes me 30 seconds to steal one. It is the sort of car I like. A few years old. A popular model and color. Inconspicuous. By 5 am I am at my target's house. One car in the drive. Toys in the yard, their bright colors dulled by the weather. I slip silently into the garage, disconnect the lightswitch, and settle to watch. Don't even have to pick the lock. Dumb. Rage pulsing in my head like a migrane, narrowing my vision, tinging everything red.
Wait.
Patience is the key. It is Sunday. It is the suburbs. My target will be out soon. The zombies follow routine. Follow the herd. Are stupid. I can smell them stirring.
A rattle from the door connecting the garage to the house. Merge into the shadows. Wait. Be sure. Hear a muttered curse as the lightswitch clicks ineffectually.
Male. Adult.
He makes his way through the gloom towards the main doors. Behind him the door to the house swings shut and latches. I glide forward. Vision narrowed to a pinpoint, red flashing in time to my pulse. He starts to turn, even the drones sense when there is danger around them. Too late. I slit his throat with one swift movement of my wrist, the shock of blade slicing flesh riding up my arm like a mini orgasm. He tries to scream, but all that comes out is a quietly bubbling breath. My knife blocks his vocal chords. He collapses to the floor and I follow him down, keeping the knife in his throat. He flails for a minute. He is strong, but not as strong as me. He merely fears. I am rage. His eyes both plead and question.
"Steven Hendricks. You have been convicted of drunk driving. Justice is served." I say my traditional words, as the light fades from his eyes.
Dead.
Slice off a lock of his hair, as he has no tattoos to skin off. Peel off my coveralls, pull out the camera and take several pictures. The best one will be printed and go into the scrapbook.
The scrap book with "In Memoriam" on the cover.
And a picture of the family I used to have.
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