Takýto výrok možno na prvé čítanie vyznie ako extrémizmus či hyperbola. Verte, že to nie je iba ideologický fanatizmus alebo dramatické vyjadrenie na upútanie pozornosti. Je to faktuálna realita, ktorá má vplyv na životy každej jednej obyčajnej osoby v republike.
Zlé narábanie so štátnymi financiami pre účel osobného luxusu a bohatstva znamená, že peniaze ktoré zaplatia ďalšiu vilu v Chorvátsku či Limbachu, neskončia tam kde by naozaj mohli pomôcť: u ľudí. Znamená to neopravená cesta na ktorej sa stáva viac nehôd, než musí. Znamená to ošarpané a plesnivé nemocnice, v ktorých sa musíme liečiť a niektorí z nás pracovať. Znamená to oneskorené vlaky, ktoré spôsobujú každodenný stres a majú negatívny vplyv na zdravie človeka. Dokonca aj vlaky, ktoré pália do seba. Celé to má ujmu na zdraví a posiela nás to do večných lovíšť skôr, než je prirodzené.
Je to neviditeľné a nepozorovateľné, ale aj tie najmenšie rozhodnutia z vrchu majú škodlivý vplyv na všetkých. Pre ego a debilitu politikov musia byť obete z nás, musíme byť vraždení práve my. Ako je normou, všetko schytávame my. To, že ich vplyv nie je vždy merateľným, neznamená, že neexistuje.
Ak by bolo po mojom, oko za oko. Vražda za vraždu. Trest smrti za korupciu. Ak títo pompézni paraziti chcú pre osobné bohatstvo a komfort bezcitne vraždiť, nech skončia tak isto.
Nanešťastie, zároveň som toho názoru, že žiaden štát by nemal mať právomoc vraždiť. Súdne rozsudky nie sú bezchybné, nevinné osoby bývajú odsúdené tiež. A keď je nevinný odsúdený na trest smrti, po poprave mu nie je možné slobodu vrátiť. Osobe vo väzbe hej. Necítim sa komfortne s tým, že by vždy bola šanca (nech je hocijako malá), že niekto nevinný skončí ako zdochlina. Žiaľ, ten risk nestojí za to, aj keď by mi trest smrti za korupciu (a iné inštitučné zločiny) priniesol veľké potešenie a úľavu.
Asi proti tej korupcii musíme bojovať inak. Možno vládnymi orgánmi. Skoro každá korupcia na vrchu je krvilačná a sebecká, my na ňu potom ale doplácame. Preto je dôležité, pre našu vlastnú ochranu, aby existovali bariéry proti korupcii. Takéto súdy sú investíciou do bezpečnosti, do spravodlivosti, do budúcnosti každého jedného z nás. Aby vedeli títo darmožráči, že im to neprejde. Nech si spomenú, komu naozaj slúžia. Nech vedia, že existujú následky za ich rozhodnutia. Aby bolo jasné, že sa len tak nedáme trtkať do riti bez pomsty. Nech sa boja vlastného tieňa, nech sa potia vždy, keď im čo i len napadne si zobrať úplatok či zvýšiť platy. Či si dať kamošov na všetky dôležité posty. Aby súdy túto spodinu zožrali, za to, ako si s nami zahrávajú.
Síce nosia saká a kravaty, nie sú nič viac ako háveď. Táto čvarga si o sebe namýšľa, kvôli nejakým elitistickým bludom, že sú na vyššej frekvencii než my. Implicitne sa povyšujú čisto tým, že za nás rozhodujú. Akoby zjedli všetku múdrosť sveta, akoby boli čo i len o štipku inteligentnejší, kompetentnejší, skúsenejší než zvyšných päť miliónov v tejto krajine. V realite sa určili vďaka nedoladenému systému ako vyššia trieda, ktorá sa zahráva so životmi. Len preto, že si môžeme vybrať, kto nás bude ojebávať, neznamená, že rozhodujeme. Rozhodujeme len o tom, ktorá klika sa bude naďalej obohacovať našimi peniazmi.
Zaslúžia si naozaj naši utláčači viac ako šesťkrát minimálnej mzdy? Kým my si nevieme dovoliť dôstojne žiť v našich vlastných domoch, ako si môžu dovoliť títo upíri cucať z našich peňaženiek tak veľa? Ak chcú vedieť ako naozaj žijú obyčajní ľudia, prečo neskúsia žiť s ich platom? Snáď mi nejdete naznačiť, že politici tu nie sú pre naše vyššie dobro, ale len preto, aby zbohatli a mohli určovať presne o koľko. Je to, čo naši vládci naozaj potrebujú, viac peňazí?
Súhlasíte so zrušením tzv. doživotnej renty, napríklad, pre Roberta Fica, ustanovenej v § 24a ods. 1 písm. b) zákona č. 120/1993 Z. z. o platových pomeroch niektorých ústavných činiteľov Slovenskej republiky v aktuálnom znení?
Súhlasíte s tým, aby boli obnovené Úrad špeciálnej prokuratúry a Národná kriminálna agentúra?
I'm not a complainer. I’m really not. Really. I just can’t with these people. Behind the glass of the observation room is a hairy, bearded middle-aged man in a white jumpsuit. It doesn’t suit him. I don’t think it ever will. It’s certainly an improvement over the loincloth and cloak adorning his person less than a year ago, but the clothing he wears within the facility is little more than a façade. He’ll never fill it up properly. I know he realizes this, too. No second goes by when it doesn’t look like he wants to rip right through it.
He’s sitting at a metal grated table in a white chamber reminiscent of an interrogation room. Sitting opposite him is Doctor Tanner. Making her look much bulkier and more imposing than her actual smaller frame is the orange hazmat suit she is wearing. She’s from linguistics and the only high-level researcher, other than me. She really doesn't like me. Sometimes it feels like she is deliberately obstructing me at every turn. The why is still a mystery to me. The approval of others repulses me anyhow.
Blocking one of the hydraulic doors out of the room and also wearing a hazmat, this one a bit snug for the husky man, is Officer Hoch. He’s one of our security guards. Surprisingly, somehow smarter than that bearded simian seated at the metal table. The only difference between the appearance of Tanner and Hoch is that the latter has a black utility belt, full of gadgets and miscellaneous weaponry. Things like zip-tie handcuffs, a can of pepper spray, brass knuckles. No gun, which I think is ridiculous. A guard always needs a gun, for the worst-case scenario. The security of this entire facility is incredibly lax and nobody will do anything about it.
What makes up for the lack of a gun is my favourite weapon. Hanging from his belt, as it is too large to fit in any pouch, is a stun-baton. The black stick is decorated with metal strips with the texture of a cheese-grater on the business-end. That thing lights up an entire room. The satisfying crackles sing in the air and bathe everything in cool blue whenever used. I’m secretly hoping he pulls it out today. I never get to use them, despite the fact I designed the variants this facility employs.
“This is a bear. Bear.” Tanner’s black glove is tapping a corresponding image of the wild animal laid out on the table. Unlike the other prior ten pictures, this one appears to make the monkey tense up. It cannot produce the vocalization, but there is clear recognition of the concept presented. At the same time, it seems capable of understanding this only as an image, and not the actual real animal. However, the subject still responded with discomfort, despite distinguishing it as a harmless depiction. It’s a bit pathetic, getting scared at a bear you know isn’t even real.
Bears are common in the mountain range where they were found. Reports came in from a hillside village in central Slovakia of odd primitive persons. They had been the subject of local legend and folklore for centuries until the younger generation. More connected with the world outside than the rest of the village, they noticed that these occurrences were in fact outside of the norm, and only happened in this village in particular.
“Doctor Derrick, are you taping this?” Tanner bugs me from the hazmat, voice muffled by the glass.
“Yes. Believe it or not.” I say after pressing the button activating my end of the intercom.
“I just noticed you’re standing there and not doing anything.”
“The camera is on a stand and it records by itself. That’s where me doing anything ends completely. What else do you want from me?” She always finds something to berate me about.
“I was just making sure.” What an idiot.
“What the hell are you even doing, talking to me? Is that hairy chimp not interesting enough for you? Don’t you have shit to do already? You’d think your attention would be on that thing completely, but I guess you’re too interested in what I’m doing!”
“Don’t use that kind of language around him. Thanks to you, their first words when we make something of them are gonna be hell, shit, fuck and the like.” The sigh she lets out afterwards fogs up her faceshield.
“Well, now you said them, too. Not only is your attention span shit, but you’re an incompetent hypocrite. Give him the fucking pictures,” I point at the ape, “Maybe he’ll do a better job at this than you. As long as we’re throwing things at the wall.”
The creature sneaks a glance at me, then looks back at the laid out pictures with its big uninterested eyes. I notice Tanner’s gone back to the images and begun to ignore me completely. And this time I know it’s not because of an intercom malfunction, that excuse won't work anymore. I wasn’t even finished. Her types always shut down whenever faced with the lightest criticism. That thing on the other side of the table is the perfect mirror to her bullshit. Its shutdown is permanent. It doesn’t even fear her.
Tanner finishes playing with the subject and Hoch opens the hydraulic door leading to the inner facility. This compound can be divided into two layers. The inner layer is the simulated playpen the savages get, surrounded by sterilized halls and corridors which they are transported through whenever necessary. They need that whole sterilized set-up for a very good reason. If they ever stepped out, they’d probably croak the very next minute. The outer layer is home to our portion of the facility, the bones and the muscles and the tendons and the other grizzly shit underneath that actually moves this project forward.
A valley shrouded by foliage, trees, all kinds of flora, camouflaged to any outside view or satellite. That valley is where they lived. We don’t have a name for them, yet. A species of human completely separate from Homo sapiens. Think Homo neanderthalensis, or the Denisovans. Except these guys survived. We’re thinking of a scientific designation right now. I wanted to name them after myself, before I discovered just how idiotic they really were. Trapped in the hunter-gatherer lifestyle, living in caves in that untouched valley. We assume their immunity is completely unadapted to modern human diseases. Direct contact would be a death sentence for them.
Tanner steps out of the airlock, now in a plain white labcoat. I turn the camera off and hand Tanner her cup of coffee, the one I made before the test. It’s cold now.
“Thanks.” she takes a step towards the whiteboard while sipping the once-hot cup. Several tests are written out on the board, mostly the cognitive kind. Each test has a few numbers assigned, corresponding to our subjects. They were loaned to the facility by the government after their discovery. Technically, they are still the property of the Slovak Republic. We do get a lot of scientific freedom over the hands-on testing, which varies from facility to facility.
“You can’t teach it language. They’ve been in there for centuries.” I protest.
“No, maybe not the older ones.” Tanner speaks like somebody who has heard this a thousand times before.
“Then why keep at something you know won’t work?”
“Because we have the money to do it.” She dismisses me like I’m just some petulant child.
“Tanner, if we want these things as productive members of society, there are other marks to consider. We need to cut our losses. Maybe you can still make something of the children, but you gotta admit the adults are a lost cause. The linguistic trials are nothing but a pit to burn money in.”
“What else do we use the funding for?”
“The other marks of civilization. I’ll introduce something that needs no intervention from the research team. Something which will have an effect on them even in their spare time.”
“Whatever.” She finishes her coffee and bins it. She’s pissed because her tests haven’t gotten us anywhere. She’s been neglecting the core of the scientific method. You can’t be afraid of pivoting.
Progress is an unstoppable steam train, though you still need to ensure the machine runs smoothly. You must burn away the slime bogging down the wheels with the cleansing flames of efficiency.
Let’s face it, these baboons will never learn how to talk. Never. And they don’t have to. Let’s not pretend you can’t get by in society without the ability to speak. The only thing that interests me about the speech thing at all is whether their throats are even evolved enough to vocalize words, or if it is simply a matter of learning. Nature and nurture, you get the idea. Perhaps only with a new-born specimen will we be able to truly tell whether language can still be taught. Until then, it’s a shame one of them hasn’t died so I can dissect their insides and know for certain.
“Some of the purest marks of civilization are tender and property. Objects are assigned a certain imaginary value through societal agreement, and property is what societies have developed around.” The group we were assigned is a family of four, two child specimens, two adult specimens. Mother, father, daughter, son. They are the perfect unit to civilize, “We divide the playpen into their own private properties, and we introduce monetary exchange for goods and services.” To finally tame those orangutans.
Tanner perks up at the suggestion. I’ve got her. Not without pushback, “As far as we know, they have no concept of numbers and how they might relate to a societally assigned value.”
“Then we’ll teach them.”
“You might not like this, but those association tests will have to continue. You can’t just throw them in that simulation and expect them to get the hang of it on their own. They’re not there yet. We’ll need to introduce the concepts ourselves first.”
“Fine. You can have a fucking abacus, too, while you’re at it. I’ll get started with the set-up. As long as we don’t lose sight-”
That’s when I notice it. The hydraulic door never closed. I look in the room through the observation window. Tanner is asking me what I’m looking at. Over in the chamber, barely louder than our conversation and slightly muffled by the layer of glass and hazmat, Hoch is giving instructions to the primate. He’s saying something while shaking it by the shoulders. It just looks down at the table. Catatonic. Lazy. I approach the glass and buzz in through the speakers.
“Hoch, do you read me?”
He doesn’t say anything for a good few seconds. Then, “Yeah. It’s not moving. It’s not responding to me at all.” It should know the procedure by now.
“Well, you are allowed to ask me for permission to use force.”
Upon hearing this, Hoch unclips the baton from his belt. He nearly swings it into the air before I can stop him.
“I repeat: You are allowed to ask me for permission to use force.”
Hoch loses his enthusiasm like a kid that has to do his chores before he can go outside and play with his friend. Brawn is upset that brain is still in control.
“Permission to use force?” the hazmat asks me through the glass. The thing at the table hasn’t moved a micrometer since the exchange began. Sulking, maybe?
“Permission granted, Officer Hoch.”
Louder than any word ever spoken in that room, shattering the muted barrier of the glass and traveling right into my ear canal is the youthful crackling of electricity. Blue flashes through every wall and vent. No crevice can escape from it. Hoch gets ready to swing the baton. The ape looks up at him. So now you wanna react?
It barely has time to cover itself before the beatdown begins.
Smash. Smash. Thud. Smash.
Interrupted by a howl or a groan every once in a while. It falls to the linoleum floor and twitches on it like a dying bug, before it stops moving entirely, save for a chest that travels up and down. Oh how I loathe him for having that stick. Despite my interruption, some enjoyment of the protocol flickers in Hoch.
He picks up a walkie-talkie and shouts into it: “Requesting security officer reinforcement at Linguistics Lab 3A immediately.”
I buzz in again, “That won’t be necessary. It’ll take a whole ten minutes for somebody to come here, suit up, go into decontamination. It’s pointless when you can just drag it back yourself.”
“He’s a heavy guy.” Whiner. That’s literally the only thing we pay you for.
“You’re strong. I’m sure you’ll manage.”
I turn back to the unamused Tanner and we begin the walk to the cafeteria. I hear today’s lunch is pizza.
***
“I hear there was an incident at the lab today.” Doctor Bocian blurts out. No tact about it. He’s one of my underlings.
“What? What did Tanner say?”
He rolls around in his chair to face me directly, “No, not Tanner. Hoch said you were being a dick about the permission thing. That you made him ask for permission after already signaling you were giving it to him.”
“Hoch hears whatever he wants to. He’s just pissed he can’t go full apeshit on the ape’s shit. Haha.” He doesn’t so much as flinch at my joke, even though my wordplay was pretty clever, “Listen. If it wasn’t for guys like you and me, all those guards would have no idea what to do and would be spending their whole day beating all our specimens into burger meat. Hoch should be thanking me that I’m there to stand between his sadism and a living organism. If that’s his problem, he can suck me, I honestly don’t even care.”
Bocian looks at me with a kind of admiration. He’s one of the good ones. However, if being ‘one of the good ones’ is all you have going for you, you’re not actually worth all that much. Grit is what really gets you places.
Bocian rolls around to look out the observation window, “I’m just worried what might happen the day one of the kids misbehaves.”
“What, why?”
“They wouldn’t like those batons.”
***
The playpen is a simulated natural environment. Filled with beautiful trees, lush bushes, wild blades of grass and even a small pond in the middle. Of course, none of it is real. It’s easier to create all that out of plastic and fabric than to actually bring it in. The excavation permits alone would be a nightmare, not to mention transportation and set-up. The decontamination would also only serve to complicate everything, so we brought in the fake stuff.
The most recent additions are wooden fences that divide the land into four quarters, for my civilizing experiment. Each quarter has been given a new coat of paint, ranging from red, to blue, to yellow to teal. A 360° view of the environment is provided thanks to a large one-way mirror that circles the entirety of the playpen. Behind the mirror is a plethora of guards and scientists, only a few of whom I know well. Sometimes it feels like they’re avoiding me on purpose. I don’t know why everybody is so interested in what I’m doing all of a sudden. Almost like the entire facility has stopped by just to see my personal failure.
“When’re they getting back?” Bocian taps a pencil on his desk impatiently.
“It’s been about a month of education, which should be plenty. Tanner says she’s taught them basic counting, and I’ve seen them grasping it. Hell, I’ve even acted out buying things in front of them. This will work.”
Bocian looks at me funny. “That’s not what I asked. When are they getting back?”
“Right.” Before I can say anything else, the four hydraulic doors open up, all corresponding to a quarter of the playpen. Several guards push the subjects inside. Some with more force, some with less. The specimens themselves appear confused and disoriented. Baffled by the place they only recently got accustomed to. They are now wearing jumpsuits, each jumpsuit colour corresponding to that of their quarter. The doors close behind them. I've spent more than a month planning this. Please, let it work.
The four scan the environment, then exchange glances with one another. It’s the young boy who braves the first steps inside. He scurries to the middle of the playpen, right up to the pond. Only he finds that it is separated by fence, encompassed by his mother’s quarter. My heart quickens in pace.
Tanner walks up behind Bocian and I. She stares at the boy just as intently as the two of us. It is at this moment I realize that everybody else behind the glass is in a trance, captivated by the scene unfolding before them with every single cell of their person. All of them asking the same thing, the same thing as I, or Bocian or Tanner, but none outloud: Will this work?
The boy begins to reach into the pocket of his jumpsuit. He pulls out a fake bill and hands it to his mother through the gaps in the fence, since the construct itself is too tall for him. She wanders over to the fence, pulls the bill out of his grip and crumples it. Then shoves it in her pocket greedily. He points at the water. I can feel my eyes tearing up. My heart is racing now.
The mother follows the trajectory of his finger with a determined gaze. She notices the lack of any container for the water, so she takes the bill over to her daughter, who has also approached the fence by now. Only the father is still by the door.
In the daughter’s quarter sit wooden objects shaped like bowls. The same ones found at the site where they lived. Please take them. Take them to mommy. Please.
The daughter takes a bowl and tries to give it to her mother. But the damned fence is too high. She’s on her tip-toes. Oh God.
The mother nearly cranes her body over the fence. She tries to reach for the bowl, but the planks dig into her chest, preventing her from fully bending down. The daughter tries throwing it over but the fence is too high. The fence is too high. I think I’m feeling sick. I feel like my stomach is being dropped from a height. A kind of rushing tingling sensation.
Crowding around that center like ants. They keep trying to push the blow through. Reach it. They lean against it but it just won’t come through. The hole won’t get bigger, you idiots. They step back one by one. They study it with disapproving looks. Like you could do any better.
Then, the daughter runs in and kicks it. Once. Its efforts are almost adorable. Like a little capuchin, it kicks at the fence a few more times. No matter what it does, it’s barely enough to shift it in the slightest. It lifts its tiny fists and drums on the planks ruggedly. It keeps doing this, even though the fence stands firm. Switching between tiny kicks and little punches. What’s the point?
The son closes the distance between the fence. He’s a bit younger. Raises its fists and begins to smash and kick as well. Sometimes taking breaks just to shake it. My jaw drops to the floor. The goddamned apes are breaking it down.
Then the woman-ape joins in and begins to kick and tear at it. The fence dangles ever more precariously. It could fall out and fall at any moment. Oh no. No. You fucking assholes. I won’t fail. All three beating and beating and beating at the fence. Each hit is another indictment.
The father is the last. Don’t you dare. Wasn’t last time enough? Slow and careful steps carry the beast while it studies the fence. Studies the rest of the family. Scars from the previous beating cover it head to toe.
I swear to God, you goddamn apes, if you break that fence down I am going to kill you. Do not break it down. Do not break it down. Don’t even touch it. Stop touching it you brainless savages.
That gorilla hobbles over closer and closer. I can see everybody else in the room tensing up. I refuse to be stagnant in the face of their mocking judgement. I get up and book it to the stairwell. The fire exit door is easily breached by a single shove from me. I begin the sprint up the stairs. Adrenaline pushes me forward. I skip and trip over step after step but I never slow down. I breach the other door, the one to the second floor of the deck. The floor with the intercom.
I stumble and tumble into every wall and desk while circling the perimeter to make it to the button. I’m certain they’re all looking at me now. I don’t care. I need to use the intercom. The father ape is now within a hair’s distance from the fence. We’ve never had the need to use the intercom before. Because they wouldn’t understand. They don’t speak. And yet, I can’t not try something.
I’m almost there. There’s Hoch sitting behind the intercom button. Mouth hanging open like some lobotomized idiot watching a kid's programme on a television. This isn’t television you feckless asshole. This is my life.
I shove him out of the way. He makes contact with the floor. I smash the button with all my strength. My hand hurts. The intercom buzzes to life when I speak into the microphone.
“This is Doctor Derrick speaking. If there is any ounce of consciousness in that primitive peanut-sized cranium of yours, then I urge you to listen and listen close: If you break down that fence, I am going to kill you.”
He stops. He looks around the entire habitat. Then at his family. He looks up and stops his eyes dead center on the central speaker. Like as if he’s staring it down. Staring me down. I think I stopped him. I think that stopped-
It begins to beat at the fence. The fence cracks. They wore it down. The final punch takes down the whole thing. The ape-man delivered the coup de grâce.
I feel sick. I gotta sit down. I slump down into the nearest chair and wipe the sweat caressing my brow. What the hell.
I notice Tanner making her way around the bend toward me.
“What the hell was that?” Oh she is relishing in this. Whatever I say next makes the difference between some kiddy kindergarten pictures and us getting some actual results.
“It’s funny you should ask,” I stand up from the chair, “Because it was you who was supposed to teach them monetary value and how to behave like normal fucking people.”
She looks at me with the rage of a rabid dog, “Are you saying this debacle was my fault?”
“Well, I don’t think it was,” I lean closer, “There’s nobody to blame but the apes.”
The look of realization setting in is way too sweet. The embarrassment would kill her. Keep your tail between your legs.
“Yes. You’re right. Fine. We’ll take a different approach.”
“I still have a few ideas to test.”
***
I almost leave the observation decks before Hoch grabs me by the shoulder.
“Hey, so, when you shoved me back there. That wasn’t okay. I want an apology.”
What? What is this guy even on about? Whiner.
“If you don’t want to get shoved then don’t stand in the way. Asshole.”
I resume my walk but the tall bulky man pushes me back.
“Is it really that hard to say sorry?”
“For what?”
He pauses for a second before continuing, “If you don’t apologize to me I’m going to talk to our superiors about what you said.”
“That I won’t apologize to you? Yeah, good luck.”
“No, about killing our subjects. It is completely unprofessional and no doubt grounds to get taken off the project.”
He’s starting to piss me off. Really. “Listen, Hoch, if you ever want to tell the suits about anything I did or didn’t say, you can take me along with you. I’ll back you up.”
Hoch furrows his brow and walks away. Chump.
***
The lecture hall is filled to the brim. Management clearly wasn’t expecting this high of a turnout. I can be sure of that because half the audience is crammed and standing and only the other half gets those flimsy plastic chairs.
The applause is deafening when my name is called. I am careful to not trip over any of the steps shrouded in the darkness of the hall. The only light shines from the projector in the middle of the room. The beam settles on the large screen on the podium. The hardwood floors make my steps sound like sticks and stones banging against one another. Echo. The applause fizzles out completely once I finally step behind the podium.
“Thank you for the introduction, director. Indeed, we will be moving the experiment in an unprecedented and revolutionary direction. It appears that all attempts at civilizing the subjects have failed spectacularly on account of the cognitive limitations of their underdeveloped sentience. While cognitive tests appear to indicate some base activity comparable to teenagers of the Homo sapiens in the adult specimens, they simply lack the ability to form any linguistic vocalizations key to expressing something like human language. Whether that is due to organs which did not evolve for this purpose or lack of cognitive capability remains to be seen. Permission for euthanasia and subsequent autopsy of a singular chosen specimen pending. Any concept of civilizational hallmarks such as monetary exchange or private property seem to be lost on the subjects, in fact, they seem to exhibit stress-behaviours resulting in irrational outbursts of aggression. This sets their only remaining value: As a workforce.”
I allow the silence to settle in before a single hand comes up.
“Yes?”
“Have you decided which subject you’ll submit for the euthanasia?” I recognize the voice as Bocian’s.
Yes. The adult male. I’ll kill the father. “No, not yet. The matter is still up for rigorous debate and consideration. This decision cannot be made lightly.”
Another hand shoots up in the darkness. I can barely see the face of Doctor Kis. He was invited to the lecture among the other applicants to work at the facility. Culture Studies. I was thinking about approving him when new spots open up.
“Yes, Doctor Kis.”
“Are there any traits of cultural development present in the subjects? Art and the like.”
I remember when we arrived in that valley for the first time. I was sent to scout for samples and information. Beyond the brown paths which were stomped out by centuries of walking, there were only the caves they led to. Inside were animal hides, primitive tools and campfires. Most curious of all was that no wall of any of the inner caves was untouched, no centimeter pristine. Every nook and cranny covered in murals and paintings. You wouldn’t be surprised at the skies, bears, deer and humanoids. More interesting were the planes, guns, tanks and villages. I wonder why they don’t paint anymore.
“There are some traits that seem to imply artistic behaviour in the gibbons…” I notice my slip-up. The room chuckles. ”My apologies. The behaviour in the subjects. The matter is not yet decided. Personally, I’d wager it to be a fluke.”
***
It’s late. Only a skeleton crew of researchers, guards and technicians rounds the perimeter during the night. The most committed few. I wish that was worth something.
I begin to drift off, eyelids getting heavier by the moment. Consciousness slipping into darkness. I still have to work out the logistics of putting them to work. Falling asleep now would be pointless. I haven’t slept much since the direction of the project changed. This has to work. I sometimes have nightmares about that day with the fences. If only they were more intelligent. If only it had worked.
I stop thinking entirely when the darkness washes over me.
…
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Loud knocking on the door. Some fucking animal chimping out on the other side. Any sleep I could’ve gotten dissipates with no mercy.
Tanner bursts into the office before I can even compose myself.
“Euthanize? You’re going to euthanize one of them?” She is fuming. No self-control. Everybody in this facility is one wrong word away from a temper tantrum.
“What of it? It could be years before one of them dies of natural causes or in some accident. That could cause untold damage if we’re not careful. It’s better we control the circumstance, rather than leaving it up to random chance.”
“We only have four of them. You’re short-sighted, like always. If you kill the father, what other pair will we get to reproduce? Those kids between one another? Or maybe the son with its mom? Think for a moment, Derrick.”
“I never said I would kill the father. It’s still up for debate, you witless moron.”
“Ha. Please. It’s clear who you’re going to pick out to be killed.”
“Well, now that you brought the father up, I guess it would make the most sense… It’s getting old, and we’re not here to nanny something with no value. Plus, unlike the mother, it can’t get pregnant, which negates all merit in the subject beyond a coroner’s report.” I almost want to not pick the father out of spite. Just to see her be wrong.
“Oh, great fucking act, Derrick. Now, now you suddenly realize the father would be the best candidate for your petty little revenge plot? Everybody can smell your shit for kilometers from here. You think it disobeyed your orders, ones it probably doesn’t even understand, and now you’re taking advantage through a little egotistical powertrip. I won’t let you sabotage this project, you goddamn narcissist.”
“What? The orders? Like with the fence experiment? I don’t give a shit about any of that. In fact, I completely forgot that whole debacle happened. Haven’t thought about it since that day. Not all of us are as obsessive and compulsive as you, Tanner,” Evil bitch. “I know exactly what this is about. When they’re a workforce, we won’t need little doc Tanner anymore. Once I whip them into shape and make them into productive and competent units, we won’t need somebody to repeat words for them over flashcards. You think I’m sidelineing you? You think you’ll be out of a job? Well, you’re right. Why the hell would we keep around somebody we don’t need?”
Tanner stands speechless. The disgust in her face is etched so deep it might become permanent, I reckon. Dammit, I can’t stand these crybabies. She tries to hide it, but we both know this is about her job. Like she gives a shit about those four primates. I can’t let her undermine me.
“That’s not what this is about. Joke’s on me for letting you shift the blame on the apes. You tricked me. We had a silent partnership. I guess that’s toilet paper to you. Be careful: You won’t get away with this. You won’t get rid of me.”
“Listen, Tanner. This is bigger than you. This project is bigger than you, bigger than me, or either of us or anybody else. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Wouldn’t you agree? Look at it this way: When the steam train of progress needs a bit more fuel, are we gonna shut the whole thing down to save a few lumps of coal? Toe the line and maybe you can stay. I don’t mind you, Tanner. In fact, I kind of like you. It would be a shame to lose somebody of your mind.”
She looks at me for another ten seconds with the expression of someone who just had their child beaten bloody right in front of them. She storms off and leaves the door unclosed on her way out.
***
Empty buckets, formerly filled with paint, are now discarded on the floor. The walls of the playpen, formerly mirrored surfaces and padded white walls, are now home to scribbles and paintings from one end to the other. If those jackanapes could climb, they’d surely have defiled the ceiling, too. I’m pretty sure I recognize the hazmats and the vehicles we arrived in a year ago among the drawings. Also numerous are the depictions of nature, flora and fauna, represented in almost equal fashion.
“Well, what else can we do? Spray it down.” I turn to Bocian.
“But how did they get the paint? It didn’t get here on its own.”
“You let me worry about that. This is an ample opportunity to get your hands dirty and get some real experience. Put on that hazmat and get the hose.”
“Should I really go in alone? Can’t Hoch or Tanner come with? Or you?”
“No, I’m afraid not. You’ll do great, champ. Make sure those chimps don’t get you like some chump.” Bocian once again ignores my clever wordplay. He makes for the locker room which leads to the decontamination chamber. He’ll manage.
Bocian might be the only person in this entire facility I trust. Everybody else is a suspect, from the janitors to those other “researchers”. Bocian has a keen deductive mind, another trait we share.
This was sabotage, plain and simple. Sabotage of my lead authority on the project. Somebody wants us to go back to pointless linguistic kiddy play.
Those murals are a bit of a sore anyway. Ugly little pictures. Who’s ever heard of an animal making art? Thank God nobody else is here to see this.
While Bocian sprays them down, I’ll head to the central security station and figure out who the hell was here to give the primates their paint.
I am nearly out of the room when I see one of the orangutans wiping their ass with the leftover fake bills after taking a mighty shit.
Fucking ape. I gotta get out of here before I throw a fit.
***
Deleted. Every single tape. I keep scrolling through the files. The entirety of last week is just gone. And the only person with the abilities and access needed to do this is Hoch.
“You alright, doc?” Hoch comes back from his lunch break. Earlier than I expected. You’d think a guy like him really savours every culinary experience, maybe gets a second helping, if you know what I mean.
“Where the hell are the tapes from yesterday?”
“Oh. I deleted them.” The words are thrown at me with such bluntness it almost appears like he doesn’t even care.
“What are you jabbering about? Primitive asshole, this is no time to joke.”
“I’m not joking.”
I have to calm myself. I take a deep breath before continuing. “Why’d you delete them you shit-for-brains?”
“To cover up the paint I brought in.”
Oh this is rich. You’re going to do this shit to me. Fucking brainless moron, if it wasn’t for your senseless brutish violence we wouldn’t even have you here. What worth do you have beyond being able to swing a big stick and listening to me? None. Genuinely zero. An orangutan can swing a fucking baton. I bet those assholes in the playpen can swing better, too. You dare disobey me? See how far that gets you. What use is a baton that doesn’t follow orders? Fucking idiot. Let’s see if you’ll care so little after this, asshole.
“That was really careless, Hoch. I think I might have to report your behaviour to management. Introducing unapproved variables into the experiment is unprofessional and unethical. You act with complete callous disregard toward our subjects, and I’m forced to have to request your removal from the project.”
“You’re gonna fire me?” The question is genuine but the tone is still unbothered.
“Your lack of rhetorical tact is extremely telling. Yes, you’re getting ‘fired’.”
“Listen, Derrick, if you ever want to tell the suits about anything I did or didn’t do, you can take me along with you. I’ll back you up.” I’m shoved into the wall. I lose my balance for a second. Ape. Fucking ape. Hoch is totally off his rocker.
“You idiotic moron, of course this is all you know. I could have you decapitated and then replace your head with a goddamn lemon, sincerely tell me if you think a single thing would change. You’re nothing, Hoch. Little beyond a little entertainment-monkey who I tell how to dance. You’re out of line. Completely and utterly. You’re a sadist and an idiot, and that’s the worst combination. You don’t have the smarts to make up for sadism, or the humanity to make up for your derangement. Now stop wasting my time and start packing your things.”
“No.”
I could kill him right now. Strangle him to death. It would be so easy if he didn’t have that baton. That fucking baton. My fucking baton. I designed that thing.
What sense does it make that some brute carries around such power and the brains of the operation have nothing to defend themselves with? It’s completely ridiculous. What kind of world do we live in, where the educated are subject to the whims of instinctual strength? You’ll get your chance to testify, fucking idiot. Be careful what you wish for. You just made my list.
***
I take the landline off the wall and dial the director’s number. It takes only a single ring before the phone is abruptly answered.
“Hello, Derrick.”
“Hey, I’m calling about the security tapes in the facility. Let’s say someone hypothetically deleted them, is there any way to retrieve them?”
“Oh. Yeah, there is. You can’t even delete those. They get uploaded to company servers. Why?”
“Hoch said he deleted them.”
“Hoch. Haha. That makes sense. From how you describe him, it doesn’t surprise me at all. You can delete those in the security station, but they’re still on the server. He sounds a bit daft.”
“Yeah. He is. You wanna know why he wanted them deleted?”
“Tell me.”
“Because just today he smuggled several buckets of paint into the Central Environmental Simulation without any approval or screening.”
“Right. That’s bad?”
“Hoch is an idiot. Imagine if he didn’t decontaminate properly and the paint now carried germs into the environment. That could mean the immediate death of the subjects and put a stop to the entire project. The success of this project is unattainable as long as he remains. You must fire him.”
“Really. Huh. Hoch.”
There is a short pause on the other end.
“Everything alright?”
“No can do, Derrick. That guy’s union. This entire project is secret, if I share just cause with the union the whole thing could get out. Just cause overrides the NDAs. Not to mention, most of the other employees are union, too. This isn’t just a Hoch problem. We fire Hoch and the entire facility would go belly-up.”
“What? What the fuck? What the fuck are you talking about? He’s jeopardizing the entire experiment you nincompoop. You have to fire him. You have to-”
“Shut the fuck up, Derrick. Just for once, shut the fuck up and listen. All I ask. I’m helping you and the best thing you can do to repay my kindness is to shut the fuck up and let me do my work. I know it’s not ideal, but there’s nothing I can do. You’ll have to tolerate him for a little longer while we manage the security firm he works for. Their contract expires this year, you can handle a few more months of him.”
I want to explode at the phone. Scream every expletive I know, and even that wouldn’t be enough to get my rage out. Fuck. Oh God. I’m trapped. Everybody is out to get me. Everybody. These people are going to ruin everything. Ruin me.
“Derrick? You there?”
“Yeah. I’m here. The steam train of progress can’t run if these assholes keep pouring concrete on the train tracks.”
“… Uh huh. Since you’re calling, there was something else I wanted to bring up with you. You remember the euthanasia proposal?”
How could I forget. “No, not really. Why?”
“Tanner submitted a counter-proposal just this morning. I read over it and-”
“That bitch. That fucking bitch. It’s her and Hoch and all these other incompetents, hypocrites and liars. Brutes and assholes, the lot of them. Half of the stress in my daily life would be gone if they just fucking died.”
There is a prolonged silence on the phone. I can hear a low hum of static on the other end. He’s still there. Just say something!
“Well, I read over it. I think it’s pretty solid,” Oh, save it dumbass, “But I’m not gonna consider it going forward. Just so you know I’m looking out for you. The euthanasia of the… Adult male specimen… It’s still a go. Gave it the greenlight.”
I could almost jump up and down with excitement. No doubt he’d hear that over the phone. Fucking yes. Hell yeah. Still got it. I can’t stop winning!
“However…” Fuck, “It would be incorrect to say Tanner’s proposal has zero merit. I’ve decided to strike a middle ground.” I guess “not considering” means accepting the thing completely. Cleanshirt asshole.
“The euthanasia you scheduled is way too soon anyway, so I’m moving the date forward for the following month. It’s possible to extend it further along if there’s a good reason. Anyway, gotta go. Talk to ya later.”
“Fuck! No, wait. Hold on. What if she extends it further along again?”
“Then you send me your counter-proposal.”
He hangs up. Fucking Tanner. Fucking Hoch. Fucking primates. Cattle. Wild cattle that refuses to be herded, to produce. Sick. They’re all sick. Looking to infect me. Sick things forget their place. Sick things must be put down.
***
The playpen is back to how it was before that idiotic revolt. No fences, no quarters, their jumpsuits are white once again. The father and the child-specimens are currently playing beneath the tree. The father is throwing the kids up into the air and catching them. Nothing cerebral, it’s the exact kind of fun any limbed animal could have. The giggling of the children is uncomfortably hoarse and guttural. Monstrous, really. No giggling from the father. Not even a smile.
On the side of the room opposite them is the structure I recently had installed. The older female sits in the metal chair of the contraption. Today is its turn. On a silver table beside her is an oblong machine with a single crank. The ape looks tired, about to give out. Its hand turns the crank in a circle. More and more ruggedly as time passes. It takes a break every once in a while to caress its hand.
The device is connected through the ground to a battery in the basement of the facility, for back-up power in emergency scenarios. Eventually, I might have them power even bigger things. Maybe even the actual facility itself. These simians are gonna pay for themselves.
Once enough power is produced to satisfy the quota I set, food is dropped through the newly-installed trapdoor in the ceiling. I doubt Tanner could do anything like this.
It’s been ten hours now. I’ve been here, watching the whole thing. Originally, the quota was two hours of labor, but I’ve been slowly increasing it while watching the ape-mother working. I’m going to make you earn that meal.
I can’t believe it's been doing this for so long now. Maybe if you didn’t take all those breaks, you’d have had the food by now. These things’ learning curves are comparable to flatlines, even with all my help.
Eventually I’ll have all four of them turning cranks, pressing levers and pushing pedals. All three members productive and important. Science is a process, however. Today, it’s just the mother, turning a single crank. Tomorrow they’ll switch her out. And, eventually, they’ll all learn the dignity of toil. This is probably the best outcome I can gift them.
I look over at the father and the kids. They’ve stopped playing. Now they’re huddling together. Hugging each other, practically glued to one another. What a pathetic sight. It really makes my stomach turn. Huddled like some cold, scared, shivering monkeys.
A sight not too dissimilar from what my ancestors may have been going through millennia ago. Going through unimaginable harsh trials just to barely make it out alive. Stooping to places so low. Places where only animals dare go. It makes me want to retch. My own blood, my ancestors, my forefathers. Starving and huddling while sharing food scraps like cockroaches. In some cold and damp cave. It’s impossible for this to not have been the case. I don’t even wanna think about it anymore. Thank God we are where we are today. If we’ve truly come so far, then why the hell are these assholes still huddling?
“Hey, this is Doctor Derrick,” I speak through the intercom, “Since you guys are taking the piss I’m just gonna disable the machine. No food today unless you wanna get serious and stop wasting my time. Peace.”
The silence settles in for a moment. The crank-monkey looks at the speaker. Then, she begins to spin faster and faster. The rest of the family watches on in silence, the huddle broken up.
How interesting.
It takes only about thirty minutes of hasty cranking before the trapdoor opens up. Finally. The mother falls to her knees on the floor and clutches her hand in agony. Could Tanner achieve anything like this? Ever? Genuinely. Could anybody?
A single pack of food tumbles out the trapdoor and lands down in the pond. All four of those baboons rush over to it. What comes next shocks me completely. In something reminiscent of a Mexican standoff, they stare each other down. Watching and waiting. Every single one. They know that the pack cannot feed all four.
Then, the son finally jumps into the water. He swims for the pack.
I did it. I finally did it.
“So now you wanna stop being animals? Good! I’m watching. Show me what you’re really worth. Convince me you’re worth my time.”
Little capuchin. He’s so quick, and seemingly a good swimmer. He grabs the pack with his teeth. Begins to swim backwards across the water. The mother and father rush over to the side where he’ll emerge. They begin to snap at him with their hands, trying to nab the pack from him. He stops swimming. Stays floating in the water. The daughter, who is opposite the parents, whistles into the air. The son turns around and throws the pack to her. Huh. I guess they teamed up?
The son beaches himself on the shore of the pond and joins the daughter. The two parents run to the two and begin to attack them. Survival of the fittest. The children growl at the two adults aggressively, before jumping on them and bringing them down to the ground. The adults get up and scurry back into the corner of the room. The children retreat into the area under the tree and share the spoils. Gray lab slop. High in nutrition. I came up with the formula myself.
I buzz in one last time, “Well, I’m happy to see we all learned something. You guys clearly have an aptitude for cooperation, when you’ve got something to fight over. A common enemy goes a long way, too. You’re individuals in the making. Look, I’d love to stay behind, but I have some colleagues to boast to. Enjoy your meal.”
I might not have to euthanize that beast after all. Whether it's a needle or starvation, the result stays the same. It will die.
***
“Bocian, have you seen Tanner?”
“No, not for the entire day. Why?”
“No matter. I’ll just tell you what I was gonna tell her,” I take a seat opposite him at his office table before continuing, “I did it, Bocian. I introduced labour to those cavemen.”
“Congrats, Derrick.” Bocian says, unenthused. Sleepless nights, probably. I know what that's like.
“Thank you. The mother specimen turned the crank for approximately ten hours, and once food was dispensed, the tribe seemed to shatter into smaller units who fought over the food scraps. They’re great at learning the value of self-interest.”
“Who got the food in the end?”
“The kids beat the adults for the nutrition pack.”
Bocian pauses for a moment and scratches his chin. Then he taps his pencil on his forehead before saying, “Well, isn’t that a bit weird?”
“How do you mean?”
“The kids overpowering the adults for the food. I mean, yeah, the dad got beaten like, once, months ago, and the mom worked for those ten hours. Still, are the kids really so much stronger than the adults? Aren’t they actual tweens?”
My heart skips a beat. He’s absolutely right. This was a ploy. A performance. The adults took the fall on purpose. So the kids wouldn’t go hungry. Those fucking apes tricked me. Why would they do this to me? After all I did for them? If they refuse to be people, there’s nothing else I can do for them.
I storm out of the room and run a marathon through the white corridors. I must get back. As soon as possible. I ignore all the stares of the other researchers who see me running through. I barge into the observation decks. The sight in the playpen sinks me to the floor.
Orange flickers dance on the walls of the pen, projected from the center of the room. Smoke dispensed from the flames floats up toward the ceiling. On the fire, simmering above the orange flames, is the carcass of a wild boar. Lab slop discarded in the corner. Around the campfire are the simians. Tearing at the boar barehanded and passing its meat to one another.
Fuck you Hoch. This is how you wanna play? You’re finished. Actually done. I’m not even mad. You just signed your own death warrant.
***
I spin the dial with aggressive urgency. The phone cycles through two rings before it is picked up.
“Hey Derrick.”
“Hey. Sorry for the call-”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Always happy to hear from you. By the way, during my last visit I found some really odd toilet graffiti. The word scribbled most often was ‘cleanshirt’. Any idea what that means?”
“Nope. Listen, you won’t believe what just happened. That buffoon Hoch just led a wild boar into the CES. He did the same thing with the paint before, remember?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I once again implore you to consider the possibility of contamination-”
“You can be honest with me, Derrick. We both know it’s not about the contamination.”
I stop for a moment to compose myself.
“He keeps going under my nose because of his pathetic vendetta. It’s because I’m the only one who will stand up to him. I can’t work with someone like that. He’s the type to sabotage the entire project just to take revenge on one person. I need him gone.”
“Look… We already talked about this. I can’t fire Hoch.”
“The contract with the security firm?”
“Breaching a contract isn’t as bad as pissing off the union. We have better lawyers. They can exploit the clauses and everything the security firm missed. We can always have a settlement or something, it’s no biggie. However, most of our science personnel, security officers, maintenance workers, technicians, they’re all union. Imagine Hoch goes to the union. They ask me why I fired him, where the just cause was. I can’t give them that because we need this whole thing to stay under wraps. Then they call a strike and we lose productivity for God knows how long. It’s just safer to wait until his contract runs out.”
“Well. There’s more than one way to get rid of somebody…”
“… What?”
“Just give me the word.”
“… It’s getting late, Derrick.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake…”
“You’re getting a bit excessive with all that cussing, y’know.”
“Fuck you. This is my life. You fucking bureaucrats sit around in your offices and the little guys like me bear the brunt. No more. You don’t wanna fire Hoch? Fine. Then I walk. I can’t stay in a toxic work environment.”
“You’re gonna walk away from the project?”
“Yes.”
An exasperated sigh escapes from the other side of the line. The phone clinks on some kind of hard surface. My guess is a table. A muffled exchange between a man and somebody else barely travels through. Some paper is shuffled. I begin to slowly wrap the cord around my finger. The phone is picked back up on the other side.
“Derrick. You’re a pain in the ass. And you’re proving to be more trouble than you’re worth.” What? If this bastard calls my bluff and embarrasses me I’m adding him to the list as well. “I’m not gonna take on the union just for you.”
“… Fine. See-”
“Wait. I wasn’t finished. Maybe if another high-level researcher like yourself complains, I might think of another way out of this for us. It’s not worth it just for you. I need to see that somebody else has a problem with Hoch before I do anything.”
Haha. Oh this is rich. You’ve made it too easy you moron.
“Alright. Stay on the line, I’ll call Bocian-”
“I said high-level.”
“… There’s only two high-level researchers in this facility. You want me to go see Tanner.”
“I thought there’d be more. Huh. Well, I guess Tanner it is.”
I grab the landline and rip the cord out of the wall. I smash the phone against the floor and up the wall. The cracks spiderweb across the dented wall and small chunks fly around the room. Fucking cleanshirt. My life is hell.
***
My life is one long humiliation ritual. Splayed out for all to see. Every second I am mocked and ridiculed. This is what they do to winners. They try to force them down. Into the gutter. But I’ve never been one to stay in the gutter too long. I always rise. Like a mighty phoenix. I can bite my tongue. Just this once. It’ll make vengeance all the more sweet.
I knock on the unassuming glass door to Tanner’s office.
“Come in.”
Tanner’s sitting at her desk. I’ve been here a few times before. The models of brains, throats and vocal chords on her shelves look like the collection in a serial killer’s backyard.
She looks up at me with what I think is surprise.
“Hey Derrick. Actually, could you grab that?” She points to a cardboard box in a pile of them in the corner of the room, “I need an extra pair of hands. Gonna pack my things, since you guys obviously don’t need me anymore.” she chirps cheerfully.
“Yeah, about that-”
“Once word got around that I might be leaving… You wouldn’t believe the outpouring of support. Letters from friends, family, colleagues. Twelve universities have asked me to come lecture and three other labs are seeking me out for projects. Can you believe that? I thought this was the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. You’ve helped me see how many people really care about little doc Tanner. Thank you, Derrick.”
She stuffs a model brain into another box, one beside her desk. She reaches for another model and begins to lower it down. Slowly. Carefully. Savouring the words I’m about to say. Psychotic egomaniacal shrew. The embarrassment never ceases.
“Yeah. Really happy for you, Tanner,” I say while fighting against the urge to vomit right then and there, “I actually need one small favour from you before you leave for good.”
She stops lowering the model into the box and lays it out on the table instead.
“Oh? Really?”
“Yes. You know Hoch?”
“Not really. He’s a security officer, right?”
“Yes. I need you to back me up with the director. Hoch’s been contaminating the playpen without consulting anybody first. I’m sure you understand the danger this poses to the project.”
“It’s not my project, so…”
“You have the chance to do an objectively good thing here, Tanner. Help me take Hoch out of the picture. Help me save the project.”
“I don’t know, Derrick. Nobody’s got as good of a swinging arm as Hoch. Plus, you don’t seem to care a whole lot about the good of the project either. With the killing and all.”
Oh. I know what you’re getting at. Manipulative psycho. Fine. I’ll think of another way out later.
“Doctor Tanner. I would be honoured to let you play a more present role in the direction of the project, in some capacity. I apologize for my unwise decision to take you off the project. I would additionally be happy to postpone the euthanasia of the subject by six months.” Which is when Hoch’s contract ends entirely, meaning he can’t come back. Meaning I can kill the baboon without having to worry about compromising in these machinations and shady deals.
“Right. But isn’t six months from now when Hoch’s contract ends? You wouldn’t happen to be delaying it just until the air is clear so you can kill the subject right then and there?” Oh my God. It would be so easy if I could submit assholes for euthanasia, too. Unfortunately, having the IQ of a kindergartener isn’t legal grounds. People like this are unworthy of the status of human.
“I didn’t realize.”
“Well, Derrick, I’m pleasantly surprised. Not many men are so humble as to come begging someone they clearly don’t respect for help. Not many are willing to apologize, either. It’s a real show of humility.”
Maybe I’ll kill her right here right now. No, I’m patient. It won’t matter once I get my way. Some groveling is fine. She’ll pay though. Make no mistake. “… Yes. I’m quite ashamed. ”
“Well, Derrick… I’d be happy to come back on. Provided the euthanasia proposal is taken off the table entirely. In fact, I’d be happy to write a proposal alongside you to bar any possibility of euthanasia in the future.”
“Fucking bitch. You’re so petty. You think this is all about you? How the hell are we gonna learn from their corpses if we don’t have any? Real subtle, Tanner. Gratuitous and unashamed. You’re killing me. You’d sink all of human progress so long as it means you get to go to a 9-5 and make a little green. I’m killing the gorilla.”
“Then no deal.”
She lets me absorb the silence. We stand there for an uncomfortable minute. I take a deep breath. None of these temporary humiliations matter. I have to keep the end goal in mind. One temporary compromise won’t matter when Tanner will be out of the picture in the end anyway. None of this will matter when I get my revenge.
“Fine. I’ll help you with your proposal. And I’ll retract my own proposal for the euthanasia. So long as you help me with Hoch.”
“Oh, and I want learning trials to start up ag-”
“Now you’re just taking the piss! Sink money back into that hole? You’ll burn through the budget so long as it means you remain ‘important’. Forget those tests, I’ll keep you on the payroll even without them, why the hell-”
“Derrick. These are my only terms. This project is bigger than you or me. This is about the good of progress, the good of the world. Throw away your ego. Or do you not care about anything else?”
I nearly deflate. I am stuck. I genuinely don’t know what to do. Hoch needs to go. Immediately. I’ll figure out the rest as I go along.
“Fine. I agree. Whatever.”
“Swell. But if you pull any kind of shit like last time, after that debacle of an experiment when you tried to shut me out, I’ll be prepared. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
***
The director seemed almost surprised when Tanner backed me up. Underestimating me will be their final mistake. I’m still in a deep pile of shit. Hoch is gone, but in his place is Tanner wasting money and my stamp of approval on a paper arguing against the killing of that pompous gibbon.
I am nothing if not resilient. Nothing if not adaptable. There is nothing I can’t bounce back from. I am an impenetrable fortress. No matter how low the supplies ever get, no matter how bad the situation looks, I always recover. I always reorganize and go back on the offensive.
The director doesn’t want a strike? Well, fuck him. I’ll make it happen. And when all the guards are gone, when only the skeleton crew is left in the facility, I’m going to do the world a favor and kill them all. I’m going to kill those fucking apes.
I catch Hoch in the parking garages, about to leave in his truck.
“Wait, Hoch!”
He jerks back in surprise. His expression scowls upon seeing who I am.
“What? I’m off.”
“I heard you’re leaving. I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“Huh? You’re sorry? Why?”
“It’s because of me. I convinced Tanner to report you with me. I never wanted you to get fired… I-”
“Tanner? Fired? What the hell are you on about? I’m getting paid leave.”
I know exactly what you’re getting, Hoch. Pretending to be some dolt who has no idea what’s going on is going to hurt me more than anything else. Fingers crossed that Hoch cares more about his ego than getting to sit around and do nothing, with pay.
“Paid leave? Huh, I guess that’s one way the director can get rid of you. I’m surprised you accepted.”
“Accepted? Get rid of me? Wait, wait wait wait. I know what this is. You guys couldn’t get me fired. So you put me on paid leave. You piece of shit! I’d expect this from you Derrick, but not Tanner. And after that paint and the boar… I thought she’d have my back! That backstabbing bitch!”
Tanner? Paint? Boar? Now that’s interesting. I’ll think about the implications of what he said later. I can’t afford an outburst right now. Gotta ignore that. Gotta focus. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Hoch. It’s just that nobody here particularly likes you. You’re a bully hiding behind a baton. You’re getting what you deserve.”
“Oh that is it! Fuck you Derrick! You want me gone? Good fucking luck. I’m not taking the paid leave. I changed my mind. I’m going to make your life hell. You think you can buy me like some sellout? Tough titty.”
Hoch storms off away from his truck and back into the facility. It’s a gamble. This must pay off. I’ll need to put more pressure on the director. Thanks to Hoch’s pride, that amygdaloid idiot won’t back down. The director will be stuck between a rock and a hard place. Hoch gets fired, the union strikes, I get some alone time with the father.
I’ve just loaded the steam train with one hundred passengers. I’m shoveling coal aggressively. Derailment is an inevitability.
It makes sense that it wasn’t Hoch working alone. Tanner stays on the list, and I’m making sure she pays. Insolent treacherous shrew. They should be thanking me for all I’m doing. Instead they go behind my back and disrespect me. Looks like it won’t be just the father I put down during the strike. I’ll have to make it look like an accident. Or an escape.
Yes. The apes escaped after the facility was sabotaged by Hoch, who was clearly obsessed with me and wanted to use the experiment to hurt me. During the escape attempt, Tanner murdered the father, and the family retaliated against her. This is gold. I should’ve been a goddamn writer instead.
***
I’m called into the conference room. Already sitting at the lengthy table is Tanner. Smug and self-satisfied. I wonder how you’ll be able to keep a modicum of that attitude when your face is beaten into a bloody pulp and your eyes are gouged out. Stupid cow.
I sit right next to her.
“Hey Derrick.”
“Tanner, Hoch knows. He knows it was us that reported him.”
“What? How?”
“I don’t know. This is what we get for underestimating that psycho.” I hold back the urge to giggle.
“What’s it matter if he’s on paid leave?”
“He doesn’t want to leave. He thinks this is an attempt to sideline him.”
“He’s right.”
“Yeah. Now he won’t leave. If you want to spend the next half a year with him constantly undermining us and making our lives hell, then be my guest. I, personally, don’t want to be obstructed at every fucking turn by an unhinged disgruntled employee. We gotta pressure the director to fire him. There’s no other option now.”
“Hoch is still an employee, he won’t do shit to us. This isn’t the wild west. If he does, there are legal channel-”
“He doesn’t care. He’s been intimidating me, picking me out and picking on me,” Nice wordplay, “Just because he doesn’t like me. He’s a wild ape with a stun baton. You think he’ll stop at paint and swine?”
Tanner takes a deep breath. “I’ll take my chances.” She begins to get up and leave before I drag her back down into the chair by the sleeve.
“Derrick! What the fuck?”
“The project’s still going in my direction. I call the shots. We made a pact. You have to honour it.”
“I don’t have to do shit. You’re sick, Derrick. Go to a fucking therapist before you hurt yourself.” Myself? You fucking idiot. No foresight, no capacity for planning. I might as well put down a wad of cash on a mouse-trap and let you exit yourself out of the gene pool.
“Fine. Don’t do shit, and I make sure the linguistic trials never happen. Enjoy your fifty fucking universities and one hundred labs you’re pulling out of your ass. Fifty universities where, on the fucking moon? And I’m shredding that proposal we were drafting up and putting down that wild orangutan.”
This strikes a chord with her. She’s clearly taken aback.
“Derri-”
“Hey, how’s my favorite science team doing?” A conference phone I didn't notice before in the middle of the table interrupts us. Out of the speaker comes the voice of the director.
“Yeah, great. I’ve got Tanner here with me.”
“Hey Clive.” Tanner greets him.
“Oh, how wonderful! I’ll tell ya, when you guys get along, you’re a real power couple! You really ought to work together more often.” I consider arranging some kind of visit on the day of the strike from the director himself, just so I can kill him, too.
I steer the conversation: “Yeah, that’s great. Listen, Hoch refused the paid leave.”
“So he did. Huh. He was fine with it until today. What changed his mind?”
“I don’t know. You need to fire him.”
“My hands are tied, Derrick. If he doesn’t wanna go on a paid vacation-”
“You said I need to get another high-level researcher. I got another high-level researcher. Now you’re shutting down again. When will you let us stop jumping through these fucking hoops and let us get back to our jobs? That’s not rhetorical, either. Genuinely tell me.”
“We’re already on thin ice with the union, Derrick. This could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.”
“I. Don’t. Care. Either you take Hoch out of the picture, or I walk. And Tanner walks with me.” After saying this, Tanner jerks back and looks at me with a combination of disgust and shock that I don’t think I’ve ever seen in a single person’s face before.
“You’re too funny. Tanner, is this true?”
Tanner opens her mouth to answer. Before she can, I pull her close and whisper: “I’m bluffing. Help me out now and you can do whatever the hell you like.”
She slowly leans back and relaxes in the chair.
“Actually, before we sort out Hoch, Derrick wanted to tell you he wants me back on as project lead.”
“What the fuck?” I can’t control my mouth.
“Project lead? You sure we’re talking about the same Derrick?” the director asks.
“Yes. I. I actually said co-lead. Tanner misspoke.”
Tanner frowns but stays quiet.
“Wonderful! Great! Awesome! But what’s it matter if neither of you works here?”
“You fire Hoch and you get both of us as co-leads. That’s the pitch.” Tanner speaks.
An extremely long silence follows. Both Tanner and I feel it. We begin to look around. I almost want to ask the director if he’s even there.
“… Fine.”
I jump out of my seat. I could almost begin dancing. If only there was nobody else in the room.
“Oh my God. Good work, Tanner. Now that fucking cleanshirt can-”
“Cleanshirt?” The director is still on the line, “I didn’t realize that ‘cleanshirt’ was an insult directed at me personally. How delightful, thank you so much! How about thanking me personally for building this company and dedicating almost 10 years of my life to it, you ungrateful ignoramus.” He hangs up.
“Let’s hope Hoch still gets fired and you didn’t just sink our whole attempt.” Tanner hurls the words at me.
“Yes. Let’s.” Because if the strike doesn’t happen, I have no idea how else I’m going to kill all of you.
***
“Doctor Derrick!” I see Kis racing down the hall towards me. I approved him earlier this week. He’s not integrated into the skeleton crew, but he’s also non-union. The perfect witness to stumble upon the tragedy the next morning. Hoch had a track record of sneaking in disallowed materials out of misplaced sympathy for the subjects. This was his revenge. Taking out the security systems entirely. Well, not yet. That’ll happen later.
“Ah, Doctor Kis. How are you liking the facility?”
“It’s really something else. But it’s nothing compared to the prestige of working with you, Doctor Derrick. I never got the chance to thank you for approving me,” Alright, this guy’s going places. He might even be a better Bocian than Bocian himself, “I mean, working with a professional such as yourself is the greatest academic honour a person can have bestowed upon them. And of course, Doctor Tanner is equally-”
“Alright alright, did you like the tour?”
“Tour?”
“Everybody gets a tour their first day.”
“No. There was nobody here to give me mine. The strike is going on.”
“Ah, I see the negotiations didn’t go well?”
“I guess. Why aren’t you out there as well?”
“It’s the weirdest thing. They hound nearly everybody else to go union. They’ve never asked me.”
“Huh.”
“Well, I’m happy to have seen you today, Kis. It is getting late, however…”
“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Goodbye.”
The skeleton crew’s shift begins.
***
Bocian and Tanner are already in the observation deck by the playpen, seated around the intercom. I wonder why they’re not taking the time to do anything else, watch any other place. Why do they feel it important to watch the playpen specifically?
“Hey guys. I’m actually gonna be doing a test here with the… Subjects.” Maybe I can shoo them away.
“During the night?” Tanner asks.
“Yes. I want to test the labour capabilities of the subjects during nighttime.”
“Well, I’m sure you won’t mind if we stick around to watch.” Tanner leans back in her chair.
I grit my teeth, “Of course not.”
The apes on the other side of the glass are passed out on the fake blades of grass, rolling around in their dreams. The lighting inside the playpen is low to simulate nighttime.
I turn up the lights inside the playpen to a blinding white. I’ll skip the sunrise phase. I buzz in through the intercom, “Hey guys. It’s me, Doctor Derrick. Just wanted to perform another test. Get to work, if you’d be so kind.”
My voice and the light shake each of them awake. The father, mother and son get up the quickest. They all take up their individual spots at their stations. The father mans the lever, the mother the crank, the son sits at the pedals. The hamster-wheel is completely empty.
It appears the daughter specimen doesn’t wanna get to work yet. She stays laying on the ground, covering her eyes from the brightness. I buzz in again.
“Hello. It’s Doctor Derrick. Again. Would you terribly mind getting up and working the dials? Work can’t wait for one person. We’d all like to sleep in, but that’s just not very productive.”
She stirs on the ground. Rolls around and covers her ears. She’s belly-down, eyes to the ground to avoid the light. Ignore me, will you?
I step away from the microphone and turn to Tanner and Bocian.
“I’m going in.”
I take a hazmat off the locker room rack. Slipping into this protective layer. Doing the subjects an undeserved courtesy if anything. Of course, with no guards around, I fear I’ll also need to put on the utility belt on my own. I clip the stun-baton on the belt. Just by swaying my hips it swings around like a pendulum, back and forth. It’s so heavy.
I unclip it just to hold it in my hand. The weight of the object adds so much importance to it. Heavy as a pistol. The end of the stick is covered by metal strips, the ones that conduct the electricity. I textured the strips similarly to a cheese-grater. For maximum instilling of obedience. Holding the stick feels like a reunion with a long-lost friend.
Between the locker room and the halls of the inner facility are the sterilization airlocks. Small pockets of hallway with all kinds of gadgets on the walls and ceilings. The door closes behind me and out of the walls I am sprayed with ethylene oxide. Its hiss continues until the entire room is filled up. The vents evacuate the chemical before the door into the inner area opens and I am allowed to roam.
I don’t get to see the inner hallways often. So white and bland. Absent of any furniture or distinguishing features, save for the fluorescent bulbs and coloured markers so the guards know where they are. Even in the outer layer you usually have lockers, shelves and couches. I only notice their presence out there once they are absent in here.
The playpen door is a giant metallic gate. If I’m correct, this should be the eastern entrance. My card unlocks the door. It opens with heavy sounds of hydraulics whirring the door.
The playpen greets me inside. It’s a strange feeling. I’ve never seen those simians so up-close. I’ve never before been in the same room as them. They all stop working for just a second, looking at me. As if they are deciphering my intentions. The girl remains on the floor.
“Don’t worry. It’s me, Derrick. You guys can get back to work.”
I enter the pen entirely. It’s so spacious. They’re very lucky they get to be here. Any lesser lab would’ve just given them the bare minimum.
The girl’s still sleeping on the floor. I unclip the baton. I poke her once with it. She tries to wave it off. Treats it like any other nuisance, distracting her from the most important thing in her life right now. The nap. Every once in a while one of the other jackanapes sneaks a glance at us.
I begin to shake her. Please don’t listen to me. Please don’t wake up.
“Hey there. I’m gonna need you to take your post. Would you mind doing that for me?”
She groans. I prod her with the baton once again. Her eyes peek out from behind the eyelids. For a moment she’s still processing what’s going on. Will you get to work now?
She closes them again and goes back to sleep. Just as I had hoped.
I raise the baton high.
My thumb digs into the red button with the lightning bolt symbol.
The electricity explodes from the top of the baton. Crawling up and down the metal strips. The entire interior of the playpen takes on a blue hue. Everybody’s attention is on me now. They’re frozen. They’ve stopped working entirely. Too scared to continue work. Too scared to help their family.
Her eyes are now wide open at the sight of the baton. It’s almost like she doesn’t understand what it is. But we all have to learn someday. Better sooner than later.
My heart begins to drum in my chest. Loud and quick.
I swing the baton down at the ape.
***
I’m wondering whether I should clean the blood off the baton or let it cake in the ridges. Keep it there, together with the blood that’ll come later. Like souvenirs.
The sound of my boots stepping on the floor is heavy. I realize I forgot to take the hazmat off. How strange.
Bocian stares at the floor. He doesn’t want to make eye contact with me.
“Oh, come on. You’re so sensitive. Now, you mind? You could’ve intervened at any other point. You had a million chances to do something and prevent this. Don’t act like you feel sorry now.”
Bocian still doesn’t look up. Moper. Tanner meanwhile is staring at me unamusedly.
“You know, Derrick.”
“Yes, Tanner?”
“You hit like an ape.”
A shiver rushes down my back. I can feel a lump forming in my throat.
“Excuse me?”
“Like a monkey. You hit like a rabid baboon that just lost control. Bearing your teeth and smashing all around you. Like a wild monkey.”
Oh, so I’m the fucking monkey? Thanks a lot, Tanner. Insolent idiot on a powertrip. I unclip the baton from the belt. The weapon comes to life. The blue projects unsettled shadows on her face. The electricity screams its battle cry at them both.
Bocian looks at me for the first time. Thank God. Oh how I wish I could live in this moment forever. Or take a picture. I’ll just have to savour this while I can.
Their fear complimented by the crackle, accompanied by blue. Tanner looks like she wants to say something. The electricity’s voice is much more powerful anyway. You’re so pathetic when you’re afraid. Shivering primitives in the face of a deadly predator. Their terror is more beautiful than any sensory experience those miscreants have ever bestowed upon anybody in their entire misbegotten lives.
However. The security is still online. And the playpen is one of the only parts of the facility with 24/7 cameras. The only other spaces are the lobby, the cafeteria and the garage. I’ve set the two bombs, one in the central security station and one in the server room, to detonate in about… I check the clock on the wall. Ten minutes. If I kill them both here, right now, everybody will know. And even if there were no cameras, there are two of them. You can’t cull in front of the entire herd. Or else the others will panic. And run off. You must pick them off one by one. Somewhere secluded.
I turn the baton off and slot it back on the belt.
“Jesus fucking Christ Derrick. You scared the living shit out of me.” Tanner sighs out, relieved. Bocian goes back to staring at the floor.
“Haha. Yes. Great prank. Anyway, gott-” Before I can finish, the facility announcement system rings to life.
“Doctor Derrick, please navigate yourself to the nearest landline.” the robotic voice drowns me out.
***
I pick up a phone in one of the hallways leading to the lobby. On the other line the directo-
“Derrick! What the fuck was that!”
“What was what?”
“You damn well know what I’m talking about.”
“With the specimens?”
“What? Who gives a shit about those. I’m talking about Hoch. The company reviewed the security footage from the garage,” Two minutes til derailment, “Why the hell did you spill? What the fuck was that for? I’m actually curious. Did you want the strike to happen?”
“No. I felt guilty. Some of us have a conscience, you know.”
“Fuck you. Fuck you. You’ve created a shitstorm for me. And I thought it was on accident. You’re a goddamn bastard. I don’t know what you were planning to do, but it’s over. You’re fired.”
Oh. Well. That doesn’t change anything anyway. One minute til detonation. Til derailment.
“I’m fired?”
“Yes, Derrick. Pack your shit, we’ll send a convoy to pick you up in the morning.”
“I mean, it’s a few hours until then. I can still do some work.”
“You’re not understanding me. It’s over. You’re finished. Use this time to pack everything. Whatever you don’t take with you gets burned.”
“The strike made you into a total megalomaniac. I shouldn’t be punished just because you’re a bad overseer.”
“Are you being serious?”
Before I answer, red light fills the halls and alarms blast in every corner of the facility. The sirens shout in short consistent bursts. Err. Err. Err. I wonder which blew up first. The server room or the security station.
The line has gone dead. Beeeeep. All communication has been cut off. Every single door has opened. All cameras and systems offline. I unclip the baton. I swing it around in the air. It feels a bit heavier now. I have a job to do. A responsibility. It’s time to begin the hunt. I’m on the prowl.
The frantic footsteps of Bocian get closer and closer in the hallway. The sound of his running carries himself toward me faster than the actual doctor. Echo. The first victim of those apes stops right in front of me and tries to catch his breath.
“Derrick! It’s all gone tits up. The doors to the playpen opened. The family is out. What do we do?” He says this between laboured breaths.
“I guess there’s not much we can do.”
“What do you mean? Can’t we call the security team?”
“They’re on strike. Where’s Tanner?”
“I don’t know. We ran off in different directions when they came out. We gotta hide.”
“Hide? I’ve got the baton.”
“There’s four of them and two of us. Baton or not, do the math.”
Oh ye of little faith. “Bocian. Do you still like me?”
“Huh? What?”
“I saw how that beating got to you. I don’t want it to put a wedge between us.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? We have to hide. Pronto.”
“Yeah, yeah I know. It’s just, you never laughed at any of my clever wordplay back before the containment breach.”
“Maybe it just wasn’t too funny. Listen to me, we really gotta go.”
I guess it doesn’t matter. “Sure. Lead me wherever.”
Bocian turns around. Eyes looking down the hall. Crackles burst through the corridor. The baton launches up into the air triumphantly. It dwarfs the two of us. Then it descends like an eagle on his neck. Bocian was the first casualty of the ape family.
He screams out in pain and falls to the floor. I can already see valleys forming in his skin. Getting filled by blood as seconds pass. His eyes are wide. Shock, confusion. Fear. You shouldn’t have mocked me. You shouldn’t have doubted me. You pick those animals over me? This is what that gets you. Karmic retribution.
The second swing is to his jaw. Crawling and screaming. Blood seeping from the mouth. Worm. Groveling little worm. Puts his hands up and I smash those too. He begins to cry. Tears well and travel down his face intermixing with the blood from the jaw and neck. Drops on the floor.
I hit him again. This time in the stomach. He clutches it. Inhuman howls escape his maw. Like some uncanny creature trying to replicate the sound of man. But you’ll never fool me.
I strike again. And again. And I continue to strike. Face bloody. Wouldn’t know it was Bocian if not for the name tag. Labcoat red. I strike again. Bocian stops moving. Stops breathing.
I wonder what got it first. The shock, the bleeding? Maybe it choked on its own blood from the jaw? Only an autopsy can tell.
***
I stalk the halls of the facility. Looking for Tanner. Or the family. Whichever I’ll see first. My answer comes with the pitter patter of naked feet on bare linoleum. Eight legs. It’s them.
The baton once more crackles to life. The music bounces off the walls. Traveling down down the corridor until it reaches them. And then they look at me. Terror dispensed at the slightest show of dominance. If I’m lucky, those expressions will be the last grimace they ever make. Engraved in their faces for eternity. I’ll taxidermy them all and have them bow to me in my office. That’s the only thing you’re good for.
“Come on! Come here you bastards! Face me!”
They begin to back away. Slowly. Except for the adolescent male. Little capuchin. It stays where it is. Firm, heels digging into the ground. Clearly afraid, but firm.
They begin to holler incomprehensible noises at it. I assume it’s to convince the thing to retreat. Listen to them. Or don’t. It won’t help you anyhow.
The boots are so heavy. The thuds they make on the floor make me sound so big. The crackle of electricity is my anthem. The choir that accompanies the hunt.
Why is it just standing there? I ready the baton. All common sense would dictate you should run. Of course, these creatures lack any of that. And what a shame. I could’ve made something of you all.
The baton floats into the air. Carrying my gripped fist with. The baton is more of an arm to me now than the appendage holding it. The boy keeps looking. It’s still afraid. It keeps standing.
I swing the baton. And it grabs hold. What?
We tussle for the baton. A fucking child isn’t going to rip the baton off me. We tug for the stick. Back and forth. I see its hands slipping further and further back. Eventually it’ll have to touch the strips. It’ll get shocked. Slip-up by attrition. I’ll win.
Then the daughter rushes in. Still got wounds from the beating. Red seeps through makeshift bandages out of the fake blades of grass. It takes hold of the baton as well. Both of them are pulling. Shit. How can two snot-faced chimps have such strength?
The mother runs in and hugs both the children by the waist. She’s pulling them off the baton? No. It’s helping them take it away. Fucking monkeys. Let go!
The father hobbles over. Watching its family struggle. The monkey doesn’t pull on the baton. Or on them. It’s hesitating. Then it directs that gaze to me. I feel the rage of a burning forest in that gaze. The gorilla gallops over and punches the hazmat’s faceshield.
Crack. Punches again. Shatter.
Punches again.
I’m launched back into the corridor. Blood pours from my nose. What the hell is going on?
The family takes the baton and passes it around. Father presses the button. Electricity illuminates their figures. Colossal silhouettes project on the wall behind. It’s so bright.
Then they turn to me. I’m quick to take the pepper spray out the belt. In my haste I don’t check where I’m pointing. The liquid launches into my face.
It burns. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t open them. No matter how hard I try.
They begin to howl. I notice what it is they’re saying. I can make it out.
“Doktor Derik!” they scream. All of them are screaming my name at me. It stings. I think I might be crying. Then comes the blow.
Pain. A sharp pain in my gut. Then the second blow. Crack. My ribcage feels like it just got torn apart. Thud. Another blow. This time to my leg. It feels like it could shatter just with that.
I can’t move. The beating continues. Can’t open my eyes. Pain. Can’t move. The lightning jolts through my entire body. My muscles cramp. Pain in every single limb. Every muscle. Every bone.
Fire in my body. Fire in my eyes. My throat swells. I’m having trouble breathing.
Strike. Smash. Thud. Cough. I begin to cough. I’m sorry.
Stop. Please stop. I’ll do anything. Just make it stop.
Bam. Smash. Thud. Pow. Strike. Crack.
I think they’re taking turns with it. They’re still screaming my name. Why are they screaming my name? Stop. Stop it. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t care. I beg you.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
You’ll never be human. You’ll never be like me. Not a single one of you. You’re savages. Fucking savages.
Smash.
***
I spent about two months in the infirmary. Tanner lives. Bocian had a funeral. The union made sure Hoch was given his job back. For the next four or so months.
Above all: The subjects escaped. The company asked the Slovak Armed Forces for assistance. A small detachment was deployed into the valley where the specimens were originally found. They waited there for weeks, but nobody came. The family was eventually discovered not too far from the lab, strangely enough. Already expired. Contact with human diseases did them in.
I wonder why they didn’t return back to their home. Instead they stuck around some random lake in the middle of a heavily wooded area. They lived for quite some time before their passing.
The lab is polarized. They’re all looking at me. Half the researchers with admiration. The other half with seething contempt. Before the breach, it would’ve probably just been the latter. Kis was the one who found me. He called me a brave bastard. I can’t believe he’d call me a bastard.
I spotted Hoch with his other guard meathead buddies. He was firing up a baton to make sure it still worked. I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sight. The sound. I felt like crying. I told him to put it away and instead he started waving it around. Fucking sadist.
Been using crutches. Leg’s in a cast and my ribs are yet to heal. Any drastic movements are still painful. I waived my right to financial compensation in exchange for my job back. Still got it.
Now I’m being called into the conference room. I can already see Tanner waiting for me by the door. Stone faced.
“Well, Doctor Derrick. Congratulations on your recovery. And your job back.”
“Thank you. Is there anything that’s happened in the lab while I was gone?”
“I think you’re caught up already.”
“Did anybody get to dissect the escapees?”
“Yeah.”
“W-Who?” Why did I stutter?
“It was me. I stepped up, since you weren’t here…”
“G-G-G-Great.” I have to keep myself from berating her. Any sudden movements and the ribs might hurt. “What d-did you find?”
“We’re still going over the nitty-gritty. Most interesting was a uniquely developed gland nestled by their heart. We’ve found it to be a natural cure for cancer. Since I’m the one who discovered it, I’ll probably name it after mysel-”
“Oh f-f-f-fuck you! C-C-C-Cure for c-cancer? Are you s-s-s-serious? F-F-F-Fucking hell. W-Wrong. T-T-This all went w-w-wrong. I just came out of the infirm-m-mary, are you trying to put me b-back in? Icons-s-siderate s-s-sociopath.” My chest stings deep into my body. The ribs still haven’t healed. I almost fall to the floor. I have to grip the wall so I don’t tip over. Why am I stuttering so much?
“You alright, Derrick?”
“Yeah. W-Whatever.” Stop fucking stuttering.
I made my own discovery. It wasn’t any of your bullshit that they said. My name was their first words. Nothing you ever taught caught on. It was me. I’d boast, but then she’d know about their linguistic potential. Can’t have that headache start back up. I’ll save that information for a vulnerable moment.
We’re called into the conference room. Finally. I’m spared the further humiliation. At the table sits the director. He tells us to get seated, and we do. Across from him.
“Happy to see you guys made it out alive. You’re real heroes, y’know.”
“I’m surprised you even came d-down here.” I spit the words out.
“Don’t worry, Derrick. It’s the last time you’ll see me. The board has decided the company needs new vision. I’ve been voted out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Clive.” Tanner says.
“No worries. The strike was a total disaster, and the escape attempt after… Don’t even get me started. It was a failure in nearly all departments. That poor Bocian boy got killed. The subjects escaped. Bummer for everybody.”
“D-D-Do we know w-who did it?” I address the elephant in the room.
“No. Not yet. I’ve been following the developments of the fact-finding commission. The most likely suspect at the moment is Officer Hoch. I trust you won’t tell him any of that, however. In fact, if anybody asks, I didn’t even tell you.”
Jackpot.
Tanner leans closer to the director, “You said it was a failure in nearly all departments. Where was that fuck-up not a total failure?”
“By drawing attention to ourselves with the escape, the Slovak Republic took notice of our very own Doctor Derrick,” He points to me, “They share his… Unorthodox vision of the new species serving as a useful labour force. His theory is considered vital to understanding the species. This is why he is now the foremost authority in the country. After pressure from the company and state authorities, Derrick will oversee the construction of a new lab. The state trusts us so much they are willing to loan us all the specimens from the species which were in the hands of the other private labs. About two-thousand live subjects. For them we’ll build a super-lab with a much larger simulated environment, better equipment, and no union workers. To make sure we don’t repeat the mistakes of the past. The security force this time will be a private armed group, one that can be trusted to keep their mouth shut.”
“So Derrick gets to call the shots on everything and that’s it?” Tanner jumps up from her chair.
“You’re in luck, Tanner. I fought for you. And I fought hard,” It’s like I’m not even in the room, “You guys just work too well together. Think of yourselves as a duo of accountability. Keeping one another in line. That’s why you’re still co-leads.”
I’d stand up and scream at this buffoon. I’m too tired. Still healing. I wouldn’t want to stutter, either.
Tanner looks over at me and reaches her hand out. I stay seated, but take her hand anyway.
“I’ll be happy to work with you on this project, Doctor Derrick. I look forward to our partnership.”
Her fake smile is so obvious. Then again, I also have the same fake smile on my very own face. Both of us shaking our hands, pretending we’re okay with this. That this isn’t a total insult.
“L-Likewise.”
I’ll still get my revenge. I don’t care how long it takes. I’m going to kill every single one of you assholes for what you did to me. I won’t rest. Not a day will go by when I’m not planning my revenge. Not a day will go by when I’m not setting it in motion. You’ll all pay. Every single one of you. An entire facility of future Bocians. All of you who ever mocked me, humiliated me, disrespected me, or just didn’t laugh at a clever joke I made. This is my promise to you: All of you will pay.
Yuri Gagarin was the first man to enter space. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone ignorant of this fact. The knowledge of his feat seems almost universal, the Soviet cosmonaut’s name inseparable from history.
Neil Armstrong was the first man to set foot on the Moon. Perhaps an even greater feat, this milestone is probably what cemented the USA as the winner of the Space Race. Like Gagarin, the Statesian astronaut is destined to be remembered forever in the collective human consciousness.
And though he raced to the patent office on the exact same day, it is not Elisha Gray who is credited with inventing the telephone. That would be Alexander Graham Bell, whose patent was approved first.
People always remember the first of everything. The first man in space, the first man on the Moon, the first who invented the telephone, such and such. All firsts cease to be men the day they fulfill their legend. They become myth. No matter what, their status can never be taken away. Never repeated. Nobody cares about the second guy who achieved something. Nobody cares about the second inventor of the telephone.
I begin putting on my undergarments. First the sweatpants and sweatshirt, then a specially made bodysuit with built-in ventilation and cooling. Already got my diaper on, though I don’t have bowel problems. Always better to have one than not. Just in case.
The suit I slip into is specifically made for environments that don’t allow traditional cooling, like space. To minimize sweat, water-filled tubes line the inside of the costume to cool the wearer’s body. Additionally, little vents are built in to exhaust moisture that may appear as a result of exhalation.
I wonder how much harder this might have been all those years ago. What were those men feeling when they put these on for the first time? How about when they put them on before their fateful accomplishments?
Was there anxiety? Excitement? Fear? Wonder? There must have been all that and more, but tied to something never before experienced by anyone. Something that can never be accurately imagined, only really felt. Something that happens for the first time ever. No person prior found themselves in the same position as you: the first. No person after will ever be able to say they were the first. It’s all you and that very moment.
Do you know who the second man that went to space was? Alan Shepard. Okay, maybe you did know that one. But what of the third? The fourth? The fifth? At some point a thing ceases to be so amazing and becomes another occurrence. At some point, you stop keeping track of the numbers. But you still remember the first. Who remembers the 825th?
What about the second man who stepped on the Moon? Buzz Aldrin, right. Back when I was a kid, I was a total geek about space. Whenever the Moon landing came up, I’d always give Aldrin his due credit. Instead of “Neil Armstrong was the first man to step on the Moon”, I’d make sure to say “Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were the first to land on the Moon”. That way, both men would get recognition.
I don’t say that anymore. Life is not a participation trophy. They may have indeed landed at the same time, but there is only one who was the first to step out. That man’s name is more than immortal. It is etched into the very fabric of human achievement. The second guy to step on the Moon’s surface is just about as important as the 825th guy to go to space.
After putting a cap around my head, I slide on the bottom half of the bulky white spacesuit. I then float through the air effortlessly, slipping into the top of the gear. I attach everything together, gloves too. The huge suit isn’t as heavy as you might imagine. There is no gravity, after all. The helmet is the final component. I slot the piece over my head, the barrier between me and my surroundings becoming palpable. I find myself contained in what is essentially a glove for the whole body.
It’s nothing I haven’t done before.
I’ve achieved more than the average man can ever dream of. Something that was inconceivable for the majority of history. Not just human history. All of history. Only a century ago this would all have been beyond the realm of imagination. You already had people theorizing what was out there, but there’s a big difference between the real deal and what people conjure up.
Even this great triumph is now a commodity. 825. What a fucking joke.
As I grew up, I figured I’d just kick the can down the road until I got to my own first. Like the pieces would fall into place on their own. I breezed through university. Hardened myself through the rigorous training. Now I’m here, and I’ve never felt emptier.
I’ve never wanted to live. That doesn’t mean I wanna die. I don’t want either. I don’t really care to be honest. Don’t wanna live, don’t wanna die. I have nothing to live for and no reason to die. It’s quite odd, and I never realized that until I went up here for the fifth time. I just don’t want it all to have been for nothing. To have done all this just to be a footnote in a history book. Just to have a Wikipedia page with a hundred or so paragraphs (I’ve counted but it tends to shift). I’m not some ant to be rolled over by the march of history. Once humanity becomes fully spacefaring, what difference will there be between the 825th and the one billionth?
The airlock closes behind me and the air flushes out. The doors open into deep outer space. Endless black void for eternity, an incomprehensible space filled with an incomprehensible amount of celestial bodies scattered around. Not my first spacewalk.
The first men to die in space were the three Soviet cosmonauts of Soyuz 11. Georgy Dobrovolsky. Viktor Patsayev. Vladislav Volkov. They fully boarded the first ever space station, Salyut 1, and spent a total of twenty two days in the craft. When they were making their journey back to Earth, a valve ended up damaged due to no fault of their own. The men died of asphyxiation in less than one minute. Their bodies were recovered upon landing.
The crew perished 68 kilometers above the Kármán line, the boundary between space and Earth. Thus, they were the first to die in space. If only the valve had failed 68 kilometers lower than it did. If only it had failed below the Kármán line. If that had been the case, the first death in space might still have been up for grabs.
It’s not the end of the world. I’m nothing if not adaptable. I crawl my way over to the panel we’ve been instructed to repair. The tether hangs onto me despite me cutting it earlier. If I really floated away, I assume it would just gently slip away with me. Right now it just hasn’t experienced enough movement.
Don’t worry, they’ll remember. Everyone who ever set foot in space thought of Gagarin. Everyone who ever set foot on the Moon thought of Armstrong. That’s the way it’ll be for all of eternity. Men larger than life. Synonymous with the future of our species. Men who it will be impossible to forget.
Using controlled bursts of nitrogen I launch myself away from the panel I pretended to fix. Launch myself at the other astronaut whose tether I also sabotaged. Whose thrusters I damaged before we went outside. Rookie mistake for him not to check his equipment more thoroughly.
For centuries to come they will talk of me. For millennia. I will be in the back of every astronaut’s mind. During every spacewalk and every psychological evaluation. My name forever known. My achievement mine and only mine. I will be here. Inseparable from humanity. No matter how far they go, they will all be aware.
There won’t be a soul who won’t remember the first murder-suicide in space.
In case you are curious about my other work concerning this violation of basic human rights, I recommend reading the section about the Beneš Decrees in ‘A Collection of Miscellaneous Polpookaposts’ and the separate posts ‘Beneš Decrees’, ‘Nespochybňuj to!’ and ‘Súvislosti’ prior to this.
The EU Parliament has voted on the matter of the Slovak Republic. They are very well aware of the confiscations taking place (among other issues plaguing the state), and a freezing of funds for the country is now in the offing as a result. Along with the Constitutional Court having the anti-free speech law under review and a very strong possibility that it will be struck down, it almost seems like the whole crisis might soon be over.
With discriminatory landgrabs at an end and public discourse fully restored without the shadow of the law cracking down on the common man, there is much to celebrate here. But remember that we are not over the finish line yet. The six month jail sentence for speaking out against the Decrees is still legally in effect and theoretically enforceable. Plus, who really knows whether the state will truly end their campaign of stealing minority land.
For the liberal institutionalist it very well looks like we have a victory for equal rights and the freedom of expression nearly in our grasp, surely inevitably. I would agree that the course of events from now on will be so, unless the coalition acts a rabid dog and decides to fight some losing battle. If there’s one thing Fico’s always been good at, it’s sucking off both sides. For all his macho talk, I doubt he’ll spar with the EU on this.
While a major relief, there are still many lessons and questions this not-yet-closed chapter leaves us with. It has been an interesting six months to say the least. I’d first found out about the ongoing confiscations on the 11th of November, and PS raised the issue up themselves only a few days later (if someone from that party is secretly reading what I post on my profiles, the least you could do is drop a follow ;) plus, maybe take more than just the Beneš Decrees to heart, I post about other things, too), the response of the ruling government ended up being what it is. Rather than stop the xenophobic practice of confiscating land, the response was to silence political detractors and the regular citizen, with the president uncritically supporting this. We must remember what they tried to get away with when push came to shove.
What is also of equal interest is what the response was from the common Slovak populace once the censorship law came into effect: by and large, little more than silence. The people I’ve spoken with over the last half a year covered a spectrum of not knowing and being outraged once finding out, to knowing and criticizing it, to not knowing and being skeptical of such a thing possibly happening under our noses, to knowing and being supportive of the Decrees.
One thing was uniform across most: public silence. Despite the condemnations in private, few were willing to stick their necks out for the Hungarians. Few still are (it’s ongoing, remember?). A society that emphasizes hyper-individualism and self-interest and shrugs at selfishness as “human nature” becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. We are taught to look out for ourselves above all and to hesitate when somebody else is on the chopping block.
I am proud that the first thing I did once the law passed was speak out (I’m speaking out even now), but I question whether doing this on obscure social media profiles with no readership is truly so brave. Maybe I am not so different from those not speaking out at all. I’m hoping that the Constitutional Court and the EU can leash these land thefts, because if not, things will have gotten much worse, and hiding in obscurity (even if not by design) will have become the shield of a coward with no good justification. I hope that if this happens, I will burn the armchair and disrupt out in the streets. Because so far, lots of bark but little bite.
Compare this to the Hungarian activists who have been getting detained for their direct resistance and protests. If the situation fails to get any better, do not let the history books say that it was just Hungarians who had to fight for their own rights. Do not let them dictate that they stood alone.
I understand that there is not a lot to gain directly. Everybody has responsibilities to get to and few want to lose six months of their life in the slammer for someone else. However, I want you to seriously consider how much worse the effects of ignoring this are. Authoritarian backslides aren’t famous for stopping after five or ten corrupt laws. It never stops. And the sooner the public mobilizes, the better. I’ve already said the same thing many times prior, but imagine what we will have avoided if we stop the dominoes before they complete the whole reaction (best metaphor I was able to come up with). Even if you don’t much care for Germans and Hungarians yourself, this is about a lot more than just them. Once you can’t speak of one thing, think of what they’ll forbid next. You care about corruption? LGBT rights? Whistleblower protections? What happens when the government realizes it is really so easy to just forbid saying something. Do you believe this is where they will so graciously draw a line? “First they came for the yadda yadda…”, you know how it goes.
I’m not asking you to stand up for what’s right only because it is right and you are no amoral monster. I am asking you because it is in your own strategic self-interest to fight for the rights of everybody.
I will reiterate something I’ve already posted before and plan to include in a new collection of Miscellaneous Polpookaposts: full, true and proper reconciliation between Slovaks and Hungarians is completely impossible as long as:
The voices of nationalists get amplified by the sensationalist and profit-driven media.
Politicians need to run electoral campaigns where they can conjure up a grievance or enemy.
Systemic injustices continue discriminating against minority populations and neoliberal economic centralization homogenizes countries.
The systemic injustices might be done away with soon, but the others remain standing. There is much to still write about, much to still do. All common people of the world have a responsibility to each other and to themselves to stand up for their rights. Show the state that neither the Germans nor the Hungarians will be alone in this fight.
To, čo jem, si ty - Slovak translation of You Are What I Eat by Loungemeat
Čerstvého ťa cítim za rohom
Vôbec nie si môj prvý
Drvím ťa kým sa topíš v krvi
A nikto ti nepovie: zbohom
To, čo jem, si ty
Masa mäsa, kým som sýty
Napádam lebky a úkryty
V ulici ležíš, rozbitý
Trhajú do teba ostré pazúre
Amputujem trup a ruky
Celý mi tu spazmuješ vo vzbure
Hnilým jazykom sajem tuky
To, čo jem, si ty
Masa mäsa, kým som sýty
Napádam lebky a úkryty
V ulici ležíš, rozbitý
Vypitvaný človek nám najviac chutí
Si švédsky stôl orgánov na stene
Nikto za tebou nesmúti
Práve sme vydlabali mozgy rodine
To, čo jem, si ty
Masa mäsa, kým som sýty
Napádam lebky a úkryty
V ulici ležíš, rozbitý
They Hunger is one of the most recognizable Half-Life mods, and for good reason. A total conversion that modifies the setting, weapons, voice lines, enemies. From top to bottom you have legendary game after game that is completely different from the original product.
I had the pleasure of playing the entire trilogy two years back, back when my Half-Life craze was in its infancy (currently experiencing a dormancy). Just like Half-Life, I like to think They Hunger holds up remarkably well, and people who tap out once a game is old or not graphically impressive are shooting themselves in the foot.
It was a gay old time, save for that Stonehenge area and the final boss-fight. Got to be too much there.
You Are What I Eat is the original credits song that came with the trilogy, translating it has been on my mind for quite some time. A departure from the usual political music I adapt or translate, though not any less valuable.
I really went all out for this one, tried to match the syllable count somewhat closely and didn't rely on any slant rhymes (no idea if acute accent counts as a slant rhyme, if it does, I'm giving it up because lyrical assembly just got 10x more difficult, plus, maybe the singer can adjust the rhymes to sound more alike when keeping with the melody of the original song). I even decided to switch the slant rhymes in the original song for perfect rhymes to make the lyrics more formally pleasing.
I tried singing the lyrics to myself in the same melody as the original song, and though it sounds a bit awkward in some places, that's also a feature of the original song. I did follow the rhyme scheme to the letter (but fuck meter!). Also, I really like some of the similar sounding-words that repeat in close proximity to each other. Probably my best work to date.
Your poetaster days are numbered, mister pookapine.
Literal English Translation:
I smell you (being) fresh around the corner
You are far from being my first
I crush you until you’re drowning in blood
And nobody will tell you: goodbye
You are what I eat
A mass of meat until I’m full
I attack skulls and shelters
You lay in the street, broken
Sharp claws dig into you
I amputate the torso and arms
You’re wholly spasming in revolt
With my rotten tongue I’m sucking fat
You are what I eat
A mass of meat until I’m full
I attack skulls and shelters
You lay in the street, broken
A disemboweled human tastes the best to us
You’re a smorgasbord of organs against the wall
Nobody will mourn after you
We just scooped out the brains of the (your, implied) family
You are what I eat
A mass of meat until I’m full
I attack skulls and shelters
You lay in the street, broken
The cold stings my face like a thousand little prickles all over. It’s late February and the snow has all but melted. The sky’s tinted blood red by the retreating sun, already halfway below the hills. The village is completely empty of even the smallest semblance of life, all that is left are the bodies. Half of the houses barely fit the definition of one, most of them are piles of brick and rubble. Others are a deep black of charred wood and ash. The ground is littered with a combination of busted drones and spent shells.
I cradle my submachine gun in a tight embrace, like I would my own newborn. Approaching the village is no easy task in itself. Every snap of each twig and branch under our boots puts me in a short burst of paranoid defenciveness. I treat every noise like a potential threat that has just revealed itself, only to settle down into a calm once I realize it is merely our own steps. That’s the state we’re in our whole trek to the heart of the village. They never should’ve given me this gun.
A worn blue sign punctured by the odd bullet hole every once in a while reads the former name of what was once Hurbišovo, name crossed out with black paint. Or, Paradicsom, though that sign is torn down and discarded on the ground.
I wasn’t sent here by my lonesome. The other guy, squeezing his own submachine gun, is Balvan. We’re both wearing a green-brown get-up, though I still wish we got real camo. Realistically, I wouldn’t feel any safer even then.
The odd thing is that I’ve never learned what his real name is. Codenames were a necessity way back and they’ve stuck since. In any case, what matters more than the name of a man are always his qualities. Balvan’s hard-nosed and down to earth. He’s the kind of guy you’d want to have your back, but personality traits are irrelevant to Lady Luck. The only difference his attitude makes is whether we die today or tomorrow. In the grand scheme, that’s not much of a difference.
“Let’s check that building out.” Balvan points to a small house just a few meters away, probably one of the only two that are largely intact.
The air inside is stale and musty, and the only light in the otherwise dark room comes in through the windows. Bullet holes and splatters of red adorn the interior walls of what might’ve once been a homey kitchen. On the floor lay what I assume are the former inhabitants of the household, the very same depicted in a shattered picture that escaped its frame on the hardwood planks.
“Was this us, or them?” I break the heavy silence, barely able to choke the words out.
“I don’t know.”
There is no smell assaulting my nostrils, meaning the bodies must be quite fresh. I don’t wanna be here for when they start to stink and flies come buzzing about, so it might be best to drag them out before we hunker down.
“Shame. Dying when the war’s almost over. It could happen to just about anyone.” Balvan feigns some sympathy.
“Yeah.”
“I mean anyone. Anyone.”
“No, I get the implication.”
“Good. Let’s drag these cats out before nightfall comes. Or else we might have to join ‘em.”
There’s three bodies, which seems to match the dropped photo. Well, almost. One family member is absent from the crimson-soaked floor. An infant.
“Wait, Balvan.”
“Yeah?”
“We could still have somebody else in the house. Wouldn’t want any surprises.”
I point at the photo with the barrel of my weapon. Balvan slowly turns his gaze to the photo and then jerks his head to face me.
“Are you serious? It’s just some baby.”
“The photo could be old. Maybe it’s a grown man now.”
“Doubt it. Even if: you’ve got a loaded magazine and your finger’s hugging that trigger like Jody’s spooning your girlfriend. What do you have to be scared of?”
“… Nothing.”
“That’s what I thought. Make sure to bend your knees when you’re lifting. And let go of that damn trigger. Don’t tell me they didn’t teach you any trigger discipline.”
“They didn’t.”
Tuck my gun in my pouch. I squat and grab a male corpse by the pits. I almost lose my balance because I overestimated how heavy it’d be. I mean, it makes sense. I doubt they’ve been getting much food in the middle of a warzone. All the food has gotta go to the soldiers.
I drag the thin man out and set him on the porch. Balvan’s not too far behind, carrying on his shoulders a former man and woman. He drops them when he’s at the door and looks at me in disbelief.
“Really? The porch? Do you want us to draw attention to ourselves that bad?”
“Sorry.”
“We should place them on the lawn at least. Or, even better, in a different house. Smell and attention both pointing in a completely different direction.”
“Yeah, fine.”
It’s as we’re dragging the bodies to the other house that a loud whooshing zooms through the air. Closer and closer until… A flash of light followed by a sound so intense it sends me flying through the air. I lose consciousness.
***
A low hum permeates the atmosphere. Moonlight illuminates the compact kitchen. Itself now clear of bodies, though the bullet holes and blood stayed behind. Stiffness numbs my body, splayed out on the uncomfortable floor. It takes me a few moments to recall exactly what happened and get my bearings. I lift myself off the floor only for my strength to flee from me. I crumple down.
A “Hush!” follows the mild thud of my body crashing to the floor. I snap my gaze over to a figure shrouded in the shadows, the moon’s glow reflected in the eyes of the silhouette. I’m quick to reach for my submachine gun in the empty pouch. The realization strips me of any resolve I might’ve still retained. I fruitlessly grip the air inside, praying the metal weapon will magically materialize in my hands.
“Christ! Vrabec, calm the fuck down!” Balvan spits at me through a tense whisper-shout. It’s just him. I’m yet to fully calm down, even though his presence is good news.
“Sorry. Where are we?” I whisper back.
“Did the airstrike lobotomize you? Hurbišovo. The kitchen of the house. Hello?”
“Yeah. Okay. I know.”
“Then why’d you ask me?”
“Sorry. I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Airstrike. Are you even listening? Who am I repeating this for?” he hisses at me like some snake.
I’m waiting for all my thoughts to return. Clearing the fog I remember my submachine gun.
“Where’s my gun?”
“Must be outside. I pulled you in pretty quick.”
“Do you still have yours?”
“Of course. I’m not some fuck-up.”
“What’s that hum? The one in the background.”
“Hum? You alright?”
“Yes.” Better not be a concussion.
“Good. Sit where you are. Better for us to wait til morning.” Balvan opens a small pouch on his pants and takes out a small bit of paper.
“Wait? For what?”
“You were there when they smoked us. Better if we wait for back-up. No more surprises tonight. Our guys will make the rounds in the morning. We’ll just have to wait this out.” Then he picks a pipe off the floor which was shrouded in darkness prior. Covered in blood. Or maybe not. I can’t really tell, it’s so dark. It probably belonged to the family.
“You’re not thinking about lighting that up, are you?”
“What? No, of course not. That thing’s got the dead guy’s saliva all over. Putting that thing in my mouth is like exchanging a kiss. And I’m not about to kiss a Magyar.” I can’t tell whether that last part was a joke to lighten the mood or his actual reasoning.
Balvan begins to pour the tobacco into the small paper he pulled out earlier. His hands are shaking. Bet half of it ended up on the ground, but I can’t see. By the end he’s stuffing his fingers in the pipe and digging out the remaining tobacco.
“Listen, I really don’t think you should be lighting one up.”
“Jesus! Why don’t you let me worry about that? I haven’t had a smoke in days, so just fuck off and keep it to yourself.” There’s that whisper-shout again.
He licks the paper and rolls the cig into a cylinder.
“You should at least hide off in some corner. What if they see the flame through the window?”
“Shut the fuck up, Vrabec. I know you’re a dimwit, but you try. Which is why I’m not hard on you. But now you’re really making me regret it. Just let me have one smoke.”
Balvan leans over to a spot that’s outside of the window’s field of view. A lighter I didn’t see him take out before illuminates his face in bright orange. Hand holding it glides over to the cigarette sticking out of his mouth.
The flame vanishes when Balvan leans back and takes the cig out after a long pull. Smoke vents out into the air and stinks it up. His silhouette deflates almost instantly. A slow blink hides the glimmer in the eyes, the one visible moments prior. Then they open back up. The cigarette’s glow dies down.
We bask in the night’s hum for what feels like quite some time. Judging by his earlier confusion, I can't be sure whether he also hears the hum or not. I'd ask, but I don't want another scolding.
“None of this would’ve happened if we’d just expelled them all with the Decrees the first time. We wasted our shot, and now we’re paying the price.” Balvan is the first to break the silence. A low flame tracking his cigarette travels to the area below his eyes. I assume he’s sticking it in his mouth, but I really can’t tell. Too dark. He takes another drag and the end of the cig flames up again, casting some light upon his face, though not as much as the lighter before. His eyes are lit with yellow, reflecting the tiny blaze.
“Yeah. Maybe. I wonder what we’ll do to them once the war’s over.”
“The war will never be over as long as they stay here. Thank God for Rybár, honestly. You can be damn sure the Decrees’ll look like baby shit compared to whatever he’s cooking up.” Balvan takes another drag from the cigarette. Orange rushes to fill the ridges at the end.
“Y’know what I heard about Rybár?”
“What?”
“I heard Rybár’s Riders are gunning for Budapest.”
“Hah. Right.” I squirm at how loud his cackle is. Like a gunshot cutting through the air. Were we anywhere else, it probably wouldn’t even seem that loud. “Been watching Hungarian news? Everybody’s always fishing for dirt on Rybár. Sounds like the exact kind of fear-mongering a propaganda department comes up with. When they’re not dehumanizing us, they’re smearing our leaders. That’s the thing about Magyars: lying is all they know.”
“Whatever you say. But I did hear it. Once the country’s liberated, every square centimeter, they’re not gonna stop. They’ll roll into Budapest with tanks. And they’ll flatten it to the ground. They’ll kill them for what they did to us.”
“Sounds like a solid plan. If he wants us to lose all our backers.”
“Rybár’s a madman.”
“Oh, no doubt. Even before the war. However, he’s not stupid. He’s not gonna throw away international support just like that.”
It’s at this point that I stop responding. It feels like we’re getting way too loud. Balvan’s still sucking the life out of that shrinking cig. Getting shorter with each pull. Little orange light. He proceeds to drop the thing on the ground before putting it out.
We sit for a bit longer before…
Cough! Cough-Cough!
Balvan is overtaken by a fit. Louder than the entire conversation prior. Wheezing and spluttering.
“Dude, shut the fuck up!”
“Give me…” Cough, “a minute…” Cough.
He collapses himself to the floor and covers his mouth. I don’t see him doing that, but I can hear it. The coughing gets only slightly quieter. He finally forces himself to stop once another sound pierces the night’s low hum.
Loud wailing, like from a small infant, reverberates from the outside and into our shelter.
Balvan’s no longer coughing.
Shit.
***
“Will that baby just shut up?” I sigh. We’ve both been keeping quiet for the past few minutes. It’s now I decide that the loud bawling outside has gotten way too bothersome for me. Something about babies crying makes me really uncomfortable.
“Baby? What baby?” Balvan asks me in a kind of infantile tone.
“Have you lost it? Don’t you hear all that crying?”
“Oh, the crying. I do.”
“Well? We gotta go get it.”
“Go and get what, exactly?” Though I can’t see it, I’m pretty sure he’s smiling. You can always tell by the way a person’s inflection changes.
“The baby. We have to bring it inside.”
“Why?” His questions feel less like genuine confusion and more like he’s toying with me.
“Because it’s cold out. The baby might die.”
I begin to pick myself up off the ground. I’m halfway up before Balvan leaps up at me and knocks me to the floor.
“Stop! Stop, right now!” he whispers in my ear while holding me down.
“Get off me! What are you doing!?” I try to wiggle him off, simultaneously careful so as I’m not louder than the wails.
“That’s not a baby.” he says through the sharp screams outside.
Balvan lets go and I slither to a corner opposite him.
“What else is it then? An old lady? Never heard a baby crying before?”
“Vrabec, I’m telling you right now, that’s not a baby.”
“Then what is it?”
He looks out of the window for a long while and then back at me.
“It’s a drone.”
“What? What are you on about?”
“It’s a drone. Think about the airstrike. They saw us here.”
“What of it?”
“God, how did you ever make it past tactical training?”
“I didn’t.”
“They know we were here. They’re just checking if we made it out alive. That sound is coming from a drone. They want us to go after the noise and put ourselves in the open. Then, they send a second airstrike. To finish the job.” he says with such confidence I no longer have any idea whether to believe him or not. I mean, he wouldn’t sound that confident if he wasn’t sure, would he? Then again, the sobs outside tell a different story.
“Why not tell me from the start?”
“I didn’t think you’d try and go out there.”
“… I still think we should look.”
“Are you mental? Are you out of your fucking mind? That’s not a baby crying out there. It’s a trap.”
“And what if it’s not? What if it’s a real baby? We have to hide it, at least. Think about the cold. The night.”
“Who cares? Why do you care? Why is this the hill you wanna die on?”
“It’s just a baby.”
“I’m telling you, that’s not a baby. It’s the sound coming off a drone.” I notice that he hasn’t blinked for a while. His gaze is glued to me.
“How can you be sure? How do you know?”
“The hum you heard, remember? Drones all have a hum.” That very hum is indeed still here.
“… What if it’s something else?”
“Oh, right. I guess it’s the washing machine in the basement. C’mon, Vrabec. Use your one brain cell to consider this for even a second. That’s how they get idiot saps like you to die out there. It’s a cruel and effective tactic.”
“Alright, let’s say there’s a drone. What if the baby’s out there at the same time?”
“Then there’s still a drone on our hands and we die anyway.” He blinks for the first time. The baby’s still wailing out there.
“I’m gonna go out.”
“Vrabec, if you step outside, I am going to shoot you. Right here.” Balvan stiffens up, clearly on-edge.
“Why?”
“You’d be killing both of us.” I spot his hand inching closer to his holster. Not there yet, but getting close.
“Okay. I won’t go outside.”
“Good. I knew you weren’t a total moron.” His hand relaxes but his posture is still tense.
There is a significant and heavy period where we don’t say anything. All that keeps us company are the shrieks outside of the distressed baby and complementary humming. The night is far from quiet.
“It makes me wonder.” I ask to keep our minds off it.
“What?”
“Do you miss home?”
“We won’t have a home if we don’t finish the job, Vrabec. You have to be strong. Not just for you or me, but for every Slovak out there.” I wish I could focus on the words he’s saying. My mind keeps coming back to the obvious. “A man’s country is all he has, and there is nothing more honourable than fighting to defend it. Slovakia is what our forefathers fought for. Don’t disrespect them.” I hear the words but I’m having trouble processing them.
“Sorry, the baby’s kind of making it-”
“Just forget the baby. It’s not even real. It’s psychological warfare and you’re putty in their hands. They got you right where they want. If guys like you called the shots, we’d all be speaking Hungarian right now.”
“We have a moral obligation to at least take a look.”
“Moral obligation? Excuse me? Fucking Christ, do you really have a death wish that strong? Where was this conscience when we were moving those bodies?”
“This is different. You know that.”
“Different? Different how? You’re just making shit up as you go along. If you’re not even consistent, why bother? If you want to kill yourself then let’s wait til backup arrives and I can get you in front a firing squad.” It’s here that I notice how loud we’ve gotten. Like the cries of the baby and our argument are in a tight competition to see who outscreams who. I don’t even care about the noise anymore. I’m not backing down.
“You’re going to kill me? You’re a psychopathic asshole. That could be an infant out there. How do you plan to live with yourself, knowing you didn’t do anything?”
“At least I’ll be alive to figure that out. Trust me, tomorrow morning our guys are gonna find a drone and you’ll look like the idiot everybody already knows you are.”
“This should concern you, too. If it’s really a baby, it's crying’s going to attract unwanted attention. If they’re not watching us already, they’ll surely hear us and come by because of the noise. You’re the idiot if you haven’t realized that!”
Balvan sits, unmoving. Processing the dilemma on his own. Every second or so he looks outside the window and back at me. I wonder if the crying slices through his thoughts as well.
“Listen to how loud we’ve been the past few minutes. If they were listening, they would’ve struck us down by now. It can’t be a drone.” I don’t know if I even believe my own words at this point. I have to sound like I do, at least.
“Just because they haven’t struck us yet doesn’t mean they won’t once we go outside. They could be waiting for a better shot.”
“If you’re wrong, that baby’s blood is on your hands. And we stood by for no reason.”
“If you’re wrong, we’re both dead for no reason.” Balvan spits out at me.
“I don’t care. I’m going outside. And I’m the one doing the pragmatic thing here. Those shrieks are gonna have the whole Hungarian Army here by now if we don’t step in.”
“No.” He stands up and unsheaths his gun. “You’re right. I’ll go outside and have a look. You stay back. If I die out there, I’m coming back to haunt you until the day you die.” The sudden change of heart takes me aback.
“Wait, why are you going outside?”
“Isn’t this what you wanted? And you’re right about the attention all that crying could draw to us. Better nip this in the bud.”
Balvan retreats into the shadows, gun drawn. Despite the heavy boots, his footsteps are soft. I can barely register them over the screams coming from outside the house.
I can hear the front door creaking from here. Now it’s just me and the darkness. Neither the cries nor the hum retreat. Balvan is somewhere in-between the two.
An eternity passes, and then an eternity more. Still, the crying continues. The hum persists. Any second now I expect to hear that whoosh again. Another explosion. This time I’ll be the one rescuing Balvan. If there’s anything left of him.
This was a stupid idea. Maybe I was wrong to send him out. This could very well kill him. What’s the likelihood of a baby surviving that long by itself out there anyway?
A single shot stops me in the middle of my doubt. A decisive shot. Louder than any I’ve ever heard before slices through the air.
The crying’s stopped.
The door creaks once more. Heavy steps make contact with the floor completely carelessly. I scramble to hide under the table. Just in case.
Balvan steps out the shadows, weapon already pouched. He sits back down where he was back when I first woke up. He picks up the pipe off the floor again and begins scraping for more tobacco.
“… Balvan?”
“I’m gonna light myself a smoke.”
“What happened?”
He takes his time rolling another cigarette. Hands steady. He lights it in his mouth, orange once again illuminates his features. Deep shadows expose the wrinkles in his worn face. Eyes yellow.
“Hungarian drone.” he says through the cigarette. Smoke puffs out of his mouth.
I swear I can make out the faintest hint of blood smearing his person. Then, I look once more. It’s gone. Then there it is again. It’s too dark for me to be sure. I might just be imagining it.
That’s not what worries me the most, though. I can’t help but notice that a faint hum still continues in my ears.
Tento skromný návrh zároveň slúži ako otvorený list vláde Slovenskej republiky.
púkapain nenávidí Benešove dekréty. Ak ste niekedy čítali hociktorú esej ohľadom otázky juhu od tohto chuligána, lumpa a úbožiaka, tak určite viete, čo si o pozemkových konfiškáciách, ktoré pokračujú dodnes, myslí. Údajne sa má jednať o kolektívny trest celých národov za zločiny vlád, ktoré dekády dozadu trvali na tom, že tieto národy ľudí reprezentujú. Presnejšie sa jedná o Maďarov a Nemcov vyštvaných z území Československa pragmatickým vodcom Prof., PhDr., JUDr. Edvardom Benešom (čím vyšší počet titulov, tým inteligentnejšia osoba, ako dokazuje aj konanie tohto národného hrdinu), nech je mu zem ľahká.
Podobne ako púkapain, aj ja som dakedy veril v tú lož, že pozemkové konfiškácie a všeobecne kolektívna vina podľa etnika je nespravodlivá a v krutom rozpore s ľudskými právami. V dobe, keď som v také bludy veril, som ignoroval jednu veľmi dôležitú vec: súvislosti. Bez toho, aby človek bral do úvahy historické, filozofické, politické a socioekonomické súvislosti, sa nič naozaj nedozvie a bude len a len obhajovať nesprávne veci. Napríklad, jedna zo súvislostí, ktorú určite musí človek brať do úvahy, je: Všeobecná deklarácia ľudských práv bola podpísaná len v 1948. Pozemky a občianstva začali zhabávať tri roky predtým, než Československo deklaráciu podpísalo. Toto znamená, že všetko pred 1948 je tzv. fair game, no take-backsies.
Zároveň títo ľudomilovia zabúdajú na dôležitú pravdu štátnej politiky, a tou je fakt, že čím je štát silnejší, tým lepšie sa vie starať o svojich občanov. Čím sa taký štát teda posilňuje? No, predsa budovaním infraštruktúry. Ako sa táto infraštruktúra buduje? Tým, že štát stavia na pozemku. Táto infraštruktúra eventuálne pomôže nespočetne veľa ľuďom. Štát, teda my (štát, národ a občan je jedno a to isté), postavíme diaľnicu, ktorá odvtedy bude slúžiť miliónom ľudí. Turisti, kamióny, ktoré prepravujú tovar, biznismeni, ktorí sa musia dostať z jedného mesta na druhé, všetci občania, ktorí majú príbuzných v iných mestách, atď. Každý z toho len benefituje, je to pre väčšie dobro. Prosím, prezraďte mi ako by mal štát dostať pozemky na budovanie tejto infraštruktúry, ak ho nemôže kradnúť menšinám? Je naozaj to, čo teraz potrebujeme, aby sme míňali viac peňazí pri každej jednej triviálnej finančnej kompenzácii? Nie je ľahšie, a nepomôže to aj tým Maďarom a Nemcom, ak im tie pozemky proste zhabeme bez zaplatenia? Veď aj oni budú z týchto vecí mať prospech, nie? Všetko to závisí na súvislostiach.
Teraz, keď už máme ujasnené, že táto politika, ktorú vedieme, je potrebná, treba sa pozrieť na ďalšiu dôležitú stránku problému: prečo práve Maďari a Nemci?
Prosím vás, veď to je snáď jasné. Počas medzivojnových rokov rozpárala Mníchovská dohoda poslednú východoeurópsku demokraciu. Československo padlo fašistickému iredentizmu. Nemecko si vzalo Sudety a Petržalku, Maďarsko celý juh Slovenska. Žiaľ, Maďari a Nemci boli, a navždy by ostali piatou kolónou v štáte, a každý jeden je vinný. Treba sa pozerať na súvislosti. Kde bolo Maďarské národné povstanie, či Nemecké národné povstanie? Z 80 milión Nemcov boli antifašistami v odboji iba malý, ignorovateľný počet. Celý národ je teda komplicitný. Veď, ak by im až tak veľmi ten fašizmus vadil, asi by väčšie číslo z nich niečo aj spravilo, nie? To isté aj s Maďarmi. Z približne 9 milión by ste antifašistov a odbojárov napočítali na jednej ruke. Kolaborantský národ. Vinný ľud. Každý, kto sa aktívne nezúčastňuje odboju proti nespravodlivosti, je komplicitný kolaborant.
Vďaka súvislostiam vieme dôvod za konfiškáciami a prečo práve tie etniká. Beneš bol génius a vizionár, práve preto, že tieto komplicitné masy vyhnal. Bez neho by Česko a Slovensko dnes nemali pozemky, a fašistické masy by zväčša ostali na našom území. Žiaľ, práca ostala nedokončená. Nie všetci stratili svoje majetky. Našťastie, túto chybu dnes Slovenská republika napravuje.
Môj skromný návrh zahŕňa rozšírenie konfiškácií majetkov a pozemkov. Keď potrebujeme peniaze a pozemky, prečo prestávame len pri Maďaroch a Nemcoch? Preto navrhujem vláde Slovenskej republiky, aby sa konfiškácie začali týkať zvyšných kolaborantských národov.
Menšina na severe Slovenska menom Gorali si sebecky privlastňujú krásnu horskú pôdu na ktorej by mohli byť, podľa mojich výpočtov, minimálne tri diaľnice. Prečo práve Gorali? Stačí si brať do úvahy historické súvislosti a pozerať sa na všetko kriticky. Neboli to práve Gorali, ktorí spolupracovali s nacistami počas 2SV vo forme Goralenvolk, ktorí aj bojovali za Nemecko? Kde bolo Goralské národné povstanie? Vinný ľud.
A čo takí Rusíni na severovýchode? Vďaka súvislostiam vieme, že Karpatská sič terorizovala Židov a pomohla Nemecku počas invázie Poľska. Kde bolo Rusínske národné povstanie? Je fér nechať len Maďarov a Nemcov v štichu, keď aj toto je kolaborantský národ? Vinný ľud.
Zároveň nesmieme zabudnúť na Židov. Človek, ktorý nepozná historické súvislosti, by bol s týmto argumentom veľmi znepokojený. Neboli Židia obeťou Holokaustu, brutálnej systematickej represie a masovej vraždy, kde 6 milión nevinných stratili životy? Na to sa vás opýtam - síce nie v genocidálnych podmienkach, nestratili aj nevinní Maďari a Nemci životy v tej istej dobe pod čepeľou štátnej represie? To bola čisto rečnícka otázka - nevinní Maďari, Nemci a Židia neexistujú. Neboli aj Židia, ktorí podporovali NSDAP a ich kampaň? Čo sionistické organizácie, ktoré s nacistami spolupracovali? 6 milión je bezpochybne veľký počet, ale povedzte mi, prečo tých 6 milión radšej nenasledovalo Kovnera? Vinný ľud. Navrhol by som zbúrať dajakú synagogu a postaviť na mieste diaľnicu, ale štát ma už predbehol.
A konečne, posledná kolaborantská spodina: slovenský národ. Veď sa len pozrite na mapu a predstavte si, koľko diaľnic by sme mohli postaviť, prakticky celá krajina diaľnic. Aj Slovensko sa podelilo na brutálnom rozpáraní Československa. Stačí si dávať pozor na súvislosti. Slovensko nielen rozbilo Československo - dokonca bojovalo na fronte proti ZSSR a napadlo Poľsko, dobrovoľne posielalo Židov Nemecku a krajine za to platilo. A čo Slovenské národné povstanie, pýtate sa? Síce sa nejaké povstanie stalo, vďaka súvislostiam si zároveň povšimneme, že povstania sa zúčastnilo len okolo 80 tisíc ľudí. Z počtu 2,6 milión to je zanedbateľná vzorka, len okolo 3% populácie. To je prd vo vetri, nič. Veď to je len odchýlka. Ďalší kolaborantský národ. Vinný ľud.
Pevne dúfam, že môj návrh Slovenská republika akceptuje čo najskôr, nech sa nové diaľnice postavia ihneď. Prvá by mala viesť od jazykov poslancov, premiéra a prezidenta po mŕtvu, nekrotickú riť hnijúceho Beneša. Sláva Slovenskej republike! Stredom Európy, Zeme, Galaxie. Nenásytná svätica.
Žiaľ, z legálnych dôvodov a kvôli pravidlám stránky musím prezradiť, že obsah textu je satirický. Kebyže vás zaujíma môj naozajstný názor na konfiškovanie pozemkov na etnickej báze a z princípu kolektívnej viny, stačí si len vypýtať postoj hocijakej ľudskoprávnej organizácie. Môj je identický, narozdiel od Slovenskej republiky.
Pejoratívum mierené voči osobám, ktoré tvoria nekvalitnú lyrickú tvorbu. Básne poeta či poetky sa môžu označovať napríklad nepravidelným metrom či rytmom alebo nedokonalým rýmom, pri tom svoje dielo povyšujú na majstrovské. Často subjektívne označenie. Synonymum slova je poetaster, -ka, po anglicky tiež poetaster.
Odvodené od slovenského slova básnik.
DEŽO: Jožo začal písať básne v jeho Notes apke. Ignoruje asi každý veršový systém a zjavne si myslí, že ak všetky jeho verše sa končia na -i, tak sa potom rýmujú.
FERO: Závisí, či o tom nevie, alebo či to je tak naschvál. Snáď si o sebe nemyslí, že je druhým Hviezdoslavom. Ak hej, je to akurát tak básniak.
bratislavism
noun, /bratɪslavɪz(ə)m/
Support for the capital city of Bratislava being detached from the rest of Slovakia, usually as an independent city state or as land annexed by the neighbouring Austria. Peddled by some residents of Bratislava, sometimes the territorial extent is up to the Tatras, but no further. Often discussed whenever locals are upset by Slovakia's political situation or living standards.
Derived from the Slovak word Bratislava.
FERO: I'm happy that Dežo's stepped up values-wise, but the most recent SMER victory has him reacting in a very unhealthy manner.
JOŽO: When I last talked with him, he was proposing Bratislava be attached to Austria, or declare independence and take the D1 highway and the Tatras. His coping has made him a staunch proponent of bratislavism.
Vyššie štádium mysle. Narozdiel od zdravého rozumu, nadzdravý rozum sa prejavuje vo forme, ktorá sa zdá vačšine ľudí šialená, síce je šialenstvu opakom. Osoba s nadzdravým rozumom sa môže zdať konvenčnej spoločnosti ako blázon, často je ale myšlienkovými pochodmi nadčasová. Môže, ale nemusí sa stať po duševnom zrútení či opakovanom morálnom zranení. Po anglicky hypersanity.
Odvodené od slovenského združeného spojenia zdravý rozum.
JOŽO: Počúvaj, od tvojho úmoženia sa mi zdáš oveľa kľudnejší, introspektívnejší a objektívnejší. Perfektne zapadáš do spoločnosti!
DEŽO: Tie kvality mi pripomínajú nadzdravý rozum, ale ak konformujem, neviem či to je správny termín na opísanie mňa.
Schrödinger's paedophile
open compound, /ˈʃʁøːdɪŋ.əz ˈpiː.də.faɪl/
A universal truth that one can never truly be certain whether someone is a nonce or not until it is doubtlessly proven that they are. You can't really prove that someone is not a paedo, since they might be a kid-diddler who just hasn't made their move yet, you can't look into their head. You can only know for sure once they have made their move, in which case the answer is yes, they are a predator.
Schrödinger himself bravely demonstrated a similar principle called Schrödinger's hebephile by being a secret sex pest with his students and other children, until the truth was revealed long after his passing, proving once and for all what fired up his atoms. As a result of the dilution of the terms hebephilia, ephebophilia and paedophilia into one within popular consciousness, Schrödinger's hebephile might become accurately known as Schrödinger's paedophile in the near future. Sometimes also known as Schroedinger's pedophile in Statesian English.
Born out of a layman's incorrect understanding of the Schrödinger's cat thought experiment.
FERO: I didn't even know that about Schroedinger. That's fucked up.
DEŽO: I don't know if I want to be involved with this. This seems extremely out of line with the other definitions.
JOŽO: And it's twice as long as any of the other ones. What's up with that?
pookapine: Yeah, well, none of that is Schrödinger's paedophile.
There is at least one thing today that, ideologically, I still very much have in common with the person I was a few years ago. That thing is not feeling represented by the Slovak Republic, which claims to be the representative of the entire Slovak people. I've talked a very small bit about this, but I used to have nationalist tendencies some time ago, and though I gripped the Slovak identity dearly, I never had any love for the state that claimed to represent the people.
One of my gripes related to that feeling was the lack of an independent flag for the Slovak nation. Yes, there was the flag of the Slovak Republic which claims to be the representative of that nation, but I certainly did not feel myself aligned with that entity. The flag of the Slovak Republic in no way represented my national pride. Thus, I toyed around with the idea of creating some kind of Slovak Flag different from the flag of the Slovak Republic to represent the Slovak nation itself. I never did end up making that flag, but one of the ideas I was sure of was a centered coat of arms.
Today, I am in no way a nationalist, or even a patriot. State politics whittled down pride bit by bit until I dropped the nationalist act entirely, not just because of those state politics but also due to a more detached, objective and unbiased perspective of the world that makes national pride impossible. You can hardly feel proud of something that was out of your control, completely arbitrary, and is giving you an advantageous position in society over others (Beneš Decrees, Roma segregation, Slovakization). I feel no pride for being Slovak, I feel no shame for being Slovak. I simply am.
Back to the one thing I share with my past self: I still feel it is important to have a flag that represents the Slovak nation, pure and unfiltered. Not a polity limited to certain borders, but a flag that transcends them entirely. One that represents all Slovaks and is not used by the bloodsucking politician class to legitimize their interests.
In the end I decided not to create a whole new flag from scratch, simply centering the coat of arms does the job. I don't want the flag to be too different, so it is not written off as some kind of sole invention of mine and dismissed due to its association with me. It's close enough to the official thing that it might even be mistaken for it. I like to think that the familiarity adds bonus points. At the same time, any Slovak will certainly know that this is not the state flag, which fulfills my aims. In the end you have something official enough that it is in no way my own creation, at the same time something clearly unofficial enough that it completes the main purpose.
Concerning the actual state flag: Legend has it that when Čisárik and Vrtel were sewing together the very first prototype, the fabric got caught in the machinery while the two were gripping it, resulting in the flag getting torn in the wrong place. The coat of arms, originally meant to be centered, was now off to the left. Rather than start over and create a proper centered flag (due to a combination of laziness and a looming visit from a state official), the duo decided to present the off-center flag as the finished and intended product (to also avoid the embarrassment of admitting the truth). Everybody else, also out of a fear of looking foolish and embarrassing themselves, went along with it and assumed this design was totally fine and intentional. From the chain of command up to every single citizen born to this very day. Thus, the Slovak Republic ended up with an off-center flag.
Advantageous to me, otherwise I would have no idea what else to do for a Slovak Nation flag.
A decentralized movement and life philosophy preaching radical accountability, social equality, unapologetic sincerity and healthy social interaction. Emulates traits associated with extraversion though it can be practiced by both introverts and ambiverts alike. Born out of metamodernism and outlined in The Extrovertist Manifesto.
Derived from the word extraversion.
JOŽO: Fero has turned into a real social butterfly lately. His isolation is almost completely gone.
DEŽO: That's because he practices extrovertism.
Kartvelia
noun, /kärtˈveˈlɪə/
A country sitting on the periphery between Europe and Asia, nestled in the Transcaucasian region of the Caucasus mountains. Currently an independent representivist republic based out of Tbilisi, historically occupied and ravaged by Russia. Host to revanchist disputes with Abkhazia and South Ossetia. Synonyms include Georgia and Gruziya.
Derived from the Kartvelian word Kartveli (ქართველი).
FERO: I really wanna treat Jožo to somewhere culturally rich and naturally beautiful. Any recommendations? What's that US state called?
DEŽO: Kartvelia, I think?
nostalgism
noun, /nəˈstaldʒɪz(ə)m/
A political strategy that runs campaigns and appeals to voters based on an idealized and pleasant image of the past, often adopting policy that emulates that very past. This happens when the party or politician has little substance of their own and hides behind nostalgia to cover up something else, like corruption or scandals. The other goal besides distraction is to remain in power for as long as possible.
Derived from the word nostalgia.
JOŽO: Many corrupt Slovak politicians who want to stay in power espouse a mix of economically left-wing and culturally right-wing beliefs.
FERO: It's because the voter demographic they are most reliant on are older folk. Those guys grew up during a socialist economy and aren't so culturally progressive.
DEŽO: That's called nostalgism.
regressivism
noun, /rəˈɡresɪvɪz(ə)m/
A political ideology aimed at rolling back societal progress, mainly where social justice and equal rights are concerned. It can be opposed to any background, class, creed, ethnicity, gender, language, nation, race, religion, sex, etc. Usually specific to the region, society and time. Often confused with conservatism. Whereas conservatism attempts to prevent new social change, regressivism aims to reverse existing change entirely. Regressivists often hide under the incorrect label of conservatism which has the effect of sanitizing their beliefs. Antonym to progressivism, synonym of reactionism.
Derived from the word regression.
JOŽO: Dežo calls himself a conservative, but I know for a fact he wants to take away already existing rights.
FERO: His ideology is not conservatism, it is regressivism.
representivism
noun, /ˌreprəˈzentɪvɪz(ə)m/
A semi-democratic political system where, unlike truer forms of democracy where the regular person votes on policy itself, citizens instead vote in surrogates to make those decisions for them. This can be in the form of congresses, councils, parliaments, presidents, senates, etc. Often uncritically undistinguished from pure democracy.
Derived from the word representative.
JOŽO: This system thrives off politicians who lie and manipulate the public to get elected. They already got to Dežo with their bullshit.
FERO: Indeed, representivism is deeply flawed and voting should not be the only strategy we rely on.
úmoženie
podstatné meno, [uːmožeňĭe], /uːmoʒeŋje/
Sebou alebo niekým iným pričinená spása, vnútorné polepšenie a náprava predchádzajúcich hanebných či zlých činov. Môže, ale nemusí existovať aj v náboženskom kontexte. Synonymum slova je náprava, vykúpenie alebo záchrana. Po anglicky redemption.
Odvodené od hornolužicko srbského slova wumóženje.
DEŽO: Nespoznávam osobu, ktorá sa na mňa pozerá v mojom zrkadle každé ráno. Neviem kto som. Odstrčil som každého od seba a každý deň je pre mňa len bolesťou. Jediné čo mi ostalo: Úmoženie alebo Smrť!
The Gömör Republic was one of the three ethnic Hungarian states declared during the Second Slovak-Hungarian War. In the wake of Germany's collapse, most European institutions dissolved and the continent was plunged into renewed hostilities and conflict.
The value in large water reservoirs becoming obvious when future shortages hang in the offing, Great Rye Island (also known as Csallóköz in Hungarian or Žitný ostrov in Slovak), abundant in the resource, became a point of contention between Hungary and Slovakia.
After intensified land confiscations by the Slovak Land Fund and discriminatory rhetoric from sitting politicians towards the Hungarian minority, Hungarian rebels declared their independence from the Slovak Republic. The rebels found military support from Hungary, and after a month of grueling and brutal battles, Slovakia fell to the invaders and the independence of the new states was secured.
The Gömör Republic is the least stable and least important of the rebel states. Unlike the Királyhelmec Republic, useful to Hungary for its military and strategic importance, or the Révkomárom Republic, which is economically diverse and basically self-sufficient, not to mention its abundance in water giving it invaluable importance in the coming world, The Gömör Republic faces large unemployment, economic collapse and zero strategic importance all at once.
Based out of Rimaszombat and spanning to Losonc, the country covers the southern parts of the former Gömör-Kishont county and then some. Among out of control organized crime, unemployment driven by a collapsed economy and total dependence on Hungary lies a zombie state with a corrupt neoliberal democratic government, one unrecognized by a majority of UN states.
The politics in the country are dominated by sentiments of unification with Hungary, though fear of sanctions and international isolation are standing in the way of full annexation. The Hungarian people are still split by borders. Balassagyarmat is still not whole.
OTL BACKGROUND:
My apologies for the repeat descriptions, but not much changes with this one. Good if you stumbled on this first, slightly irritating if you already read whatever I published before.
It was many many years ago that I was creating the skeleton for a fictional story called The Ballad of Slakonovia, one focused on the leader of a resistance movement who becomes unhinged as the pressures of leading it get to be too much. The countries were all going to be allegorical at the time, but it was basically going to be a story about Hungary invading Slovakia and the painful and brutal aftermath of how a resistance movement is built from the ground up.
I got the idea following the initial outbreak of the Russo-Ukrainian War and imagining a similar thing happening to Slovakia and Hungary. Years have passed since and the idea has transformed significantly. I've dropped the allegorical stuff and am in the process of soft worldbuilding. I've even written a short story that takes place in the world, though I'm waiting on my lazy B*TA readers to get back to me on it before publishing. It might become clearer once that story is put out there that both sides are morally grey. States usually are.
Unlike the other two states I was working on which are obviously inspired by the Lugansk and Donetsk puppet states, the springboard for Russia to launch its invasion, The Gömör Republic was inspired by South Ossetia and to an extent Transnistria. South Ossetia is in a similar sticky situation where it is disallowed from uniting with North Ossetia within Russia, similar to Gömör and Hungary. I like how Fredo Rockwell described the country, as a zombie state. That's essentially what Gömör is, a country propped up economically and militarily by another power, but forbidden from unifying with it.
Additionally, I have no doubt a real water crisis is imminent unless careless companies and states are regulated within an inch of their misbegotten lives. Also cautionary message about the Beneš Decrees baked in there, by oppressing minorities you only motivate resistance and intervention. Or, at least, that's how it ought to be. Sometimes the international community turns a blind eye, which is despicable. I like to think that this hypothetical universe serves as a cautionary tale about resource wars and ethnic discrimination.
SYMBOLISM:
Finally, a bit about the flag itself. Three horizontal stripes of black, red and white make up the 1:2 flag. The colour scheme is identical to that of Rimavská Sobota, which is the capital of the republic in this world. For this flag I was originally planning to replace the white stripe in the middle of the real Hungarian flag with a black one, but that would simply remake the flag of pan-africanism with a Hungarian coat of arms, and while identical flags happen in real life, I decided I would rather have something more unique.
In the middle is the republican coat of arms used during the short-lived Hungarian Republic of the interwar period. It is modified to include imagery from the coat of arms of Gömör (Gemer) and Kishont (Malohont), a sick ass knight's helmet wearing a crown sitting in front of the double-cross. Unlike the actual Hungarian coat of arms, this one does not feature the Crown of St. Stephen on top.
The Királyhelmec Republic was one of the three ethnic Hungarian states declared during the Second Slovak-Hungarian War. In the wake of Germany's collapse, most European institutions dissolved and the continent was plunged into renewed hostilities and conflict.
The value in large water reservoirs becoming obvious when future shortages hang in the offing, Great Rye Island (also known as Csallóköz in Hungarian or Žitný ostrov in Slovak), abundant in the resource, became a point of contention between Hungary and Slovakia.
After intensified land confiscations by the Slovak Land Fund and discriminatory rhetoric from sitting politicians towards the Hungarian minority, Hungarian rebels declared their independence from the Slovak Republic. The rebels found military support from Hungary, and after a month of grueling and brutal battles, Slovakia fell to the invaders and the independence of the new states was secured.
TheKirályhelmec Republic is the smallest of the rebel states, based out of the titular city. Spanning the southern Zemplén (Zemplín) region, the country is useful to Budapest, though not for its famous Tokaj wine, the fields devastated by war. Its strategic location between Ukraine and Hungary, as well as its connection to Чоп / Csap / Čop make the new country a useful springboard for future incursions into Ukraine, revanchism made easier because of the latter's continued invasion from Russia. Among reprisals against ethnic Slovaks, unemployment driven by a damaged economy and heavy military build-up lies a shaky neoliberal democracy, though one unrecognized by a majority of UN states. The politics in the country are dominated by sentiments of unification with Hungary, though fear of sanctions and international isolation are standing in the way of full annexation. The Hungarian people are still split by borders. Sátoraljaújhely is still not whole.
OTL BACKGROUND:
My apologies for the repeat descriptions, but not much changes with this one. Good if you stumbled on this first, slightly irritating if you already read whatever I published before.
It was many many years ago that I was creating the skeleton for a fictional story called The Ballad of Slakonovia, one focused on the leader of a resistance movement who becomes unhinged as the pressures of leading it get to be too much. The countries were all going to be allegorical at the time, but it was basically going to be a story about Hungary invading Slovakia and the painful and brutal aftermath of how a resistance movement is built from the ground up.
I got the idea following the initial outbreak of the Russo-Ukrainian War and imagining a similar thing happening to Slovakia and Hungary. Years have passed since and the idea has transformed significantly. I've dropped the allegorical stuff and am in the process of soft worldbuilding. I've even written a short story that takes place in the world, though I'm waiting on my lazy BETA readers to get back to me on it before publishing. It might become clearer once that story is put out there that both sides are morally grey. States usually are.
The Királyhelmec Republic and the other two states I am working on are obviously inspired by the Lugansk and Donetsk puppet states which were the springboard for Russia to launch its invasion. The main difference here is that those republics are majority Russian settler, these fictitious ones are majority indigenous Hungarian. Additionally, I have no doubt a real water crisis is imminent unless careless companies and states are regulated within an inch of their misbegotten lives. Also cautionary message about the Beneš Decrees baked in there, by oppressing minorities you only motivate resistance and intervention. Or, at least, that's how it ought to be. Sometimes the international community turns a blind eye, which is despicable. I like to think that this hypothetical universe serves as a cautionary tale about resource wars and ethnic discrimination.
SYMBOLISM:
Finally, a bit about the flag itself. Five horizontal stripes of red, green, white, green and red make up the 1:2 flag. This flag is the spitting image of Kráľovský Chlmec's actual flag, save for the coat of arms in the middle. The colour scheme is obviously Hungarian. I decided that copying the flag of the primary settlement would be perfectly fine, as the colours and coat of arms still illustrate the point.
In the middle is the republican coat of arms used during the short-lived Hungarian Republic of the interwar period. It is modified to include imagery from the coat of arms of Kráľovský Chlmec, the grapevine wrapped around the double-cross. Unlike the actual Hungarian coat of arms, this one does not feature the Crown of St. Stephen on top.
The Révkomárom Republic was one of the three ethnic Hungarian states declared during the Second Slovak-Hungarian War. In the wake of Germany's collapse, most European institutions dissolved and the continent was plunged into renewed hostilities and conflict.
The value in large water reservoirs becoming obvious when future shortages hang in the offing, Great Rye Island (also known as Csallóköz in Hungarian or Žitný ostrov in Slovak), abundant in the resource, became a point of contention between Hungary and Slovakia.
After intensified land confiscations by the Slovak Land Fund and discriminatory rhetoric from sitting politicians towards the Hungarian minority, Hungarian rebels declared their independence from the Slovak Republic. The rebels found military support from Hungary, and after a month of grueling and brutal battles, Slovakia fell to the invaders and the independence of the new states was secured.
The Révkomárom Republic is the largest and most populous of the rebel states, based out of the titular city. Covering practically the entirety of Great Rye Island, the country is useful to Budapest, which has begun extracting drinking water to prepare for the future water crisis. Among reprisals against ethnic Slovaks and callous environmental pollution lies a relatively stable neoliberal democracy, though one unrecognized by a majority of UN states. The politics in the country are dominated by sentiments of unification with Hungary, though fear of sanctions and international isolation are standing in the way of full annexation. Komárom is still split by the Danube.
OTL BACKGROUND:
It was many many years ago that I was creating the skeleton for a fictional story called The Ballad of Slakonovia, one focused on the leader of a resistance movement who becomes unhinged as the pressures of leading it get to be too much. The countries were all going to be allegorical at the time, but it was basically going to be a story about Hungary invading Slovakia and the painful and brutal aftermath of how a resistance movement is built from the ground up.
I got the idea following the initial outbreak of the Russo-Ukrainian War and imagining a similar thing happening to Slovakia and Hungary. Years have passed since and the idea has transformed significantly. I've dropped the allegorical stuff and am in the process of soft worldbuilding. I've even written a short story that takes place in the world, though I'm waiting on my lazy BETA readers to get back to me on it before publishing. It might become clearer once that story is put out there that both sides are morally grey. States usually are.
The Révkomárom Republic and the other two states I am working on are obviously inspired by the Lugansk and Donetsk puppet states which were the springboard for Russia to launch its invasion. The main difference here is that those republics are majority Russian settler, these fictitious ones are majority indigenous Hungarian. Additionally, I have no doubt a real water crisis is imminent unless careless companies and states are regulated within an inch of their misbegotten lives. Also cautionary message about the Beneš Decrees baked in there, by oppressing minorities you only motivate resistance and intervention. Or, at least, that's how it ought to be. Sometimes the international community turns a blind eye, which is despicable. I like to think that this hypothetical universe serves as a cautionary tale about resource wars and ethnic discrimination.
SYMBOLISM:
Finally, a bit about the flag itself. Three horizontal stripes of red, yellow and green make up the 1:2 flag. This is not only because of the parallel with the Novorossiyan states which replaced the white Russian stripe with their own colours, but also because the actual legit flags of Komárno and Komárom use this colour scheme themselves. Indeed, the middle yellow stripe would have this flag resemble the Hungarian one if changed to white.
In the middle is the republican coat of arms used during the short-lived Hungarian Republic of the interwar period. It is modified to include imagery from the Komárom coat of arms, the crown sitting near the double-cross similar to the actual Hungarian coat of arms. However, unlike the actual Hungarian coat of arms, this one does not feature the Crown of St. Stephen on top. It differs elsewhere as well, like in the two six-pointed starts taken from the Komárom coat of arms on each upper side of the double-cross, plus the Danube river is flowing near the base of the three-mountain peak.
It was a few or so months ago when I was trying out Metro 2033 (the game) for the first time. For those not in the know, the game takes place in the underground stations of Moscow after a nuclear exchange devastated the world. The specific level I was playing has you pass through a station that serves as the battleground between two rival factions, a communist faction and a Nazi faction respectively.
It was sometime around this level that another character off-handedly mentioned that the commies defeated the Nazis in a war once before, prior to the nukes falling, clearly alluding to when the USSR rolled into the rubble of what was once The Third Reich. Even back when I was playing I found this to be quite a sad piece of exposition. The people of the Moscow Metro dwindling in size, facing constant attacks from mutant beasts and radiation, yet instead of uniting in the face of these common threats, the subway tunnels are divided into political forces that feel the need to settle old historical scores. You’d think their priorities would be more sensible, maybe they’d stop trying to conquer the scraps and bones left of humanity for ideologies that popped up long before their time, and that people tried out already in what is now a nuclear wasteland. So many healthy men dying just to capture one more subway tunnel.
That’s not the only thing that stood out to me. It was how WW2 and its sides were spoken about that has stuck with me as well. They spoke of a conflict that took place in the 1940s as if it was the 2030s guys who experienced it. The dialog claimed the commies won against the Nazis back then, yet none of the people fighting on those railway tracks were the same ones who dished out or experienced that ancient defeat. This wasn’t the same people fighting each other a century later, even though the dialog implies that. It was people generations apart who identified with those past groups and saw themselves as a continuation of them. The victories of the USSR from way back are the victories of The Red Line today, even though none of the people from back then are the ones fighting in that tunnel.
I can’t help but draw parallels between how that character spoke of the two warring sides and how we speak of our own identities in real life. It’s a disturbing trend I’ve come to notice that is prevalent in seemingly every part of the world. That trend is the mistaken conflation of the self, the collective, the nation, the state and related constructs, groups and institutions. Whenever these things are spoken of, we treat them as part of us which linguistically reinforces some kind of loyalty or identification.
It happens at the deepest levels, ones that are completely subconscious and reinforce themselves simply through speech. I started noticing it in school at first. When the ancient slavs were a topic of discussion, they were always spoken about as a “we”, or an “us”. These groups of people from centuries ago that have nothing to do with us today are spoken of as if they are an inseparable part of us, the very same as us. Even though you have very little in common with those slavs from centuries ago, even though you have much more in common with the Hungarian on the opposite side of the border today, the slavs of centuries ago are “us” and the Hungarians of today are “them”. If you are a Slovak today, you are part of the same group as the slavs back then simply because you live on the same land they did. It doesn’t matter if your ancestors came from Brittany or wherever and weren’t involved in the original migrations, because today you are Slovak, which means you are the same “us” as the slavs from 600AD, no matter how little you had to do with them.
The same kind of language is used when speaking about the state, and it reinforces the unhealthy idea that the government and a people are one and the same, a monolith. It gets reinforced when in geography class you talk about what countries the republic borders, and instead of saying “The Slovak Republic borders this, this and that”, you say “We border this, this and that”. Or when speaking of Hungary bailing on Gabčíkovo and the deal that happened thirty years ago that nobody in the room had anything to do with, you still say “we made a deal with Hungary”, despite the fact the state and the people in that room are not one and the same. The same social anomaly can be observed in things such as sports teams, when you claim that “we” won a game against whoever when you had zilch to do with that match. It can also be observed whenever a war is won or lost, “we” won or lost that war, even if the front is seas or centuries away from you.
As far as the language of the nation is concerned, you are one with your ancestors, one with your government, one with your sports team and one with your military. Of course, nations themselves are on equally shaky ground as the things we attach to them.
What determines a nation’s existence is completely arbitrary and dependent on historical happenstance. The only thing keeping nations within the realm of the real is self-identification of the individual, and the language we use to talk about our nations reinforces this self-identification.
What even is a nation? Is it some kind of race or gene? Funny guy, you’re a century late to when that kind of talk was still socially acceptable.
Is it a group of people born in the state that claims to represent that nation? If so, are the Hungarians in the south Slovaks? Is somebody born to Slovak parents in Britain not Slovak now?
Is it a group of people who speak the same language? The Slovak you hear in Bratislava has much more in common with standard Czech than it does with the Slovak in Snina. Objectively, these three are all different languages, so are they all different nations? The difference between dialect and language is political anyway. One historical coinflip and today you might’ve been identifying as a Czechoslovak, or a Slovjak (deep cut).
What defines a nation is a group of people latching onto one identity that has developed from a set of historical circumstances. If it is only self-identification that keeps a nation existent, then it is a very fragile thing. Romans didn’t just blip out of existence, they stopped identifying with the label. Similarly, Slovaks didn’t spawn out of thin air. They became Slovaks once enough people said they were. They stayed Slovaks when Czechoslovakism got buried and when no new national movements took off to divide the newly formed identity.
The obvious question that now comes up is: why do we do this? Are we so starved for personal accomplishments that we take on the accomplishments of completely separate people as our own? Are we so unconfident in being able to build independent identities for ourselves we need these labels to attach ourselves to?
The answer might be a mix of all of these, but there is one good reason this behavior continues: it benefits the state.
When you and the state are indistinguishable, an attack on the state is an attack on you. This isn’t just about insecure nationalists who flock to any online post that criticizes their country. This is about the moderates as well. Those who flock to online posts about their country in general, to say how cool it is their country is being covered. Because they identify with their country, when their country is seen, they feel seen. Being seen feels nice. Similarly, you might not even be a nationalist if you go and defend your country from any legitimate criticism. However, you still identify with it, which is why when your country’s pride is bruised, so is your pride. This is how that self-identification is usually vented. Yet, there are more advantageous applications that lie dormant.
Any attack on the state is by extension an attack on you. It is why you will take up arms in pride, for the good of the country. It is why you will lie about war crimes your country is committing, or support it in attacking somebody else. The attack of the state is your attack. An attack on the state is an attack on you.
As long as you identify with your nation, you are a useful pawn in spreading the good word about it, taking up arms for it, helping it stay afloat. Once you stop identifying with your nation and begin to identify with your fellow man as a whole, the state will have no reason to exist anymore. It won’t have people who fight for it and people who do PR for it for free.
To many people I am describing something already obvious. As a side-note, there is little sadder and scarier at the same time to me than somebody who is indoctrinated, finds out they are indoctrinated, then keeps on being indoctrinated despite knowing about their own indoctrination. Since I’m exploring complicity through fiction now, this is also something I’d also like to look into.
Anyway. Any Realpolitik-assfucker might agree with the observations, but then defend the practice and argue that a “we” is necessary for the state. You must build an identity where you don’t include everybody.
I don’t have a counter-argument for this. One of the most powerful tools someone like me could use right about now is historical precedent, yet I am uncertain whether what I am arguing against has ever been meaningfully done away with.
Ethnic identities, no doubt. You have times when those were ditched in favour of religion, class, creed, race and whatnot. The constant is that an identity needs to be present. Can this identity simply be a human one?
When there is no historical precedent to look back on, I like to imagine that I can take part in shaping it for the future. That’s why I’ve been shifting to fictional prose as of late. Those polpookaposts were useful as a starting point, but now that I have defined most of what I ideologically believe, it is time to put it into practice. One of the best ways to do that is recruitment through influencing hearts and minds. Stories open us up, so that’s what I’ll be doing for the foreseeable future. The polpookaposts won’t stop, but they’ll be obscured under plotlines and characters. Think of it as sowing the seeds for convincing people into considering the same ideas. All fiction does this already, whether the author is aware of it or not. I intend to be aware, and I’m optimistic that we’ll get our historical precedent. I hope I’ll have played a small part in getting us there.
I hear you bringing up another obvious question. pookapine, do you identify as Slovak? In fact, do you identify with any labels, are they all arbitrary to you? Have you emancipated yourself of social constructs and now exist only as yourself?
Dear reader, I am delighted by your intellectual curiosity in my thought processes as well as your personal interest in me. Indeed, nothing would make me happier than being able to ditch all the things you just mentioned and simply live as another person talking to a fellow person. Unfortunately, that is impossible as of now.
When I wanted to write about this topic a few months ago, I had a different answer in mind to that question, but the Beneš Decrees have made me realize something. There is no annulling my marriage to the Slovak identity, though it was one born out of coercion and not love. One created by merging the “we” with the “I” and plastering a Slovak flag and coat of arms in each and every classroom.
Identity must be acknowledged as an objective fact due to its relationship with oppression. Lefty buzzword soup, heavy stuff, I know. Stick with me for a second.
But it is really so. As long as there is a difference in the eyes of society between a Slovak and a Hungarian, a Slovak and a Roma, a Slovak and (to a lesser extent) a Rusyn, then I must be Slovak. Simply because I benefit from that identity, because I have an advantage in society and am objectively privileged, I must acknowledge the reality that I am a Slovak man. This applies to other identities, also defined by their relationship with oppression.
I must be a man as long as women are catcalled, paid lower wages and denied abortion. I must be cis as long as trans people have to jump through hoops to have their identity recognized and respected. I must be white as long as I get less glares and better opportunities than the Roma dude my age and character. I must be a Slovak as long as Hungarians have their land taken away, their language assimilated into Slovak, framed as Slovakia’s mortal enemy throughout history simply because of a two-century long fender bender of braindead nationalism.
As long as identity matters in society, I cannot renounce it. I am Slovak out of necessity, but whenever you use that “we”, know that I’m not approaching that with a ten-foot pole. The only “we” that matters to me is the human one.
That’s not something I take conscious note of, or something I ever notice outloud. Never a deliberate observance or a materialized thought. It is the state of this place whenever I arrive. My mind does not register it anymore. Every other part of my body does.
I’ve grown more adjusted with time, yet whenever I enter the corridors first thing in the morning, my gut is taken for a ride. The thuds of the industrial presses mirror my own footsteps. Each day when I take the trek I try and sync the two up. Sometimes deliberately.
This place has grown on me. We are inseparable from one another. I am as much attached as the rust climbing the walls. The longer I walk, the less intense the smell gets. I always wonder whether I just get adjusted to it by the time I get to my office or whether it is less prominent in that place objectively.
Sometimes, the corridors I pass through are too long. A red fog sits by the door to my office. Once I arrive, I notice the fog gone completely. Now it is on the other side of the corridor, where I was minutes earlier.
The door to my office hosts some letters. They’re a bit hard to make out, owing to the poor lighting in the place, plus the age of the door itself. Nonetheless, I am able to remember the exact words the now-faded letters once read. ‘Factory Floor’.
I stamp my employee card at the clock. The shift begins.
My office is not that small. It used to be a lot bigger, but it’s gotten smaller over time. I like it better this way. I brought in a whole desk, a filing cabinet, even a swivel chair. It has wheels. Sometimes I launch myself from one side of the room to the other, like when I need to file something. I put the desk and the filing cabinet on opposite ends for that purpose. They’re both a bit worn now, and the chair creaks all the time. Even when I’m not moving at all. It’s still fun to travel via the chair.
The heavy industrial door shuts behind me when I enter. Unlike the low-lit corridors before, this room is lit by a charming yellow bulb, hanging from the ceiling, that announces itself with a constant buzz. Like the forever-present buzz, the light also never goes out. I have no idea how to turn it off or on. I wonder if they leave it on during the night.
I once broke the bulb at the end of a shift. Just to see what would happen. The answer came the next day, when the bulb came back exactly as it was before. Maybe an identical copy, or the bulb brought back and reconstructed. I don’t know. Someone must’ve done the job overnight. The yellow illuminated the disciplinary fine laid out on my desk. I’ve been careful not to tamper with the property of the company ever since.
Pipes of varying temperature, size, and purpose line the walls, front-to-back, back-to-front. You gotta make sure not to touch them, even accidentally. It’s a very easy way to get yourself burnt, and your medical won’t get covered by the suits.
One of the pipes, a large one on the ceiling, right above the bulb, started leaking recently. A puddle began settling down on the floor before I brought in a bucket the next shift. I brought another one with me to switch with the one already nigh-overflowing. I pull the heavy, filled-to-the brim bucket down on the floor. The shriek of metal dragging against concrete almost makes me jump. Another thing I’ll get used to. I switch the full bucket with the new one I brought. Guess it’s just another job I’m doing now.
Oh, my job. I haven’t said much about that yet.
Some of you might already have guessed what it is I do, yet it’s not something you’d ever find brought up in school. I glance over at the largest pipe of them all. A brown hydraulic tube, in the middle of the wall opposite the door. It used to be silver once. There is a small glass door which opens up to the inside, revealing the belt. A large lever peeks out from the side of the tube.
The belt is the official terminology. It works more like an elevator. Notches of sort hang from the belt, which travels up and down. These notches bring ‘em down. I catalogue them. For my own archives. I then press the heavy lever, and they go down again. The digital counter on the top of the tube reads how far along I am. I’ve spaced my presses out so I have something to do during the hours and don’t get bored. Fifty in and I get to go on break. A hundred and my shift is over. If the quota isn’t met, the door stays closed.
Alright, if you haven’t guessed it by now, I’ll spell it out for you: I man the corpse-press.
With all that outta the way, maybe you’d like to know exactly how I work. I can take you through it. I sit down at my table. The chair creaks. One of the countless knick-knacks I got to fill the table up is a coffee machine. I turn it on while getting ready to make the first press of the day.
The first one is always the most important. It’s how you start your day that defines the whole rest of it. I always make sure my first press starts out smoothly.
I glide over to the tube and open the small receptacle. My chair creaks. A mound of flesh of limb and bone leaks red. The skull is the only recognizable thing, separate from the meat-mass. Some hairs stick out. A single blue eye is looking at the door behind me.
“Arthur Wilson.” I say to myself. That’s the name carved on the mound. I close the door. Then I move over to the table and write the name down on today’s page in the ledger. My chair creaks. Now for the press.
I keep all my chalk on the file cabinet. It’s a way to motivate me to glide with the chair whenever the work starts. I always sit down to make the coffee, then I glide over to see the corpse, then I glide back to write the name down, then I glide over for the chalk, then back to the tube. I stand up and press the lever. That’s how it goes.
I begin to make the glide over to the file cabinet. Bang. Splash. Bam. Bam. The two buckets in the way. The first one was just too heavy, so I left it there. The other had to have been there to take care of the leak.
The whole floor has a puddle forming in the middle now. Perfect. Fucking perfect. I stand up and make my way over to the buckets, which have rolled to different parts of my office. The chair creaks as I stand up.
A droplet falls on the top of my head. Like the pipe needed to remind me it was there. That it no longer had a bucket under it.
I put one of the buckets under the pipe again. Fucking bucket. The other I begin to kick relentlessly. Stupid fucking bucket. I grab it and begin to smash it until the dents make the bucket completely unrecognizable. I’m such an idiot. And now I ruined the only other bucket I had. And I’ll have to get a new one. Fucking bucket. First press went like shit.
Whatever. Minor setback. Gotta calm my nerves. Bigger fish and all. I chalk my hands and walk over to the lever. My palm wraps around and I pull. A heavy thud joins the cacophony of the others in the factory. The belt travels down. Arthur Wilson goes with it. The digital counter reads 01.
Heavy cogs clank against each other in the wall upfront. The hum of the traveling belt is almost entirely drowned out. A second corpse has descended.
I wish I had some tissues for the spilt water. No such luck. All I have are those files in the cabinet, and I'll be damned if I use those. I take my shoes off entirely and place them on the table. The rest of this shift will be barefoot. While the floor itself is cold, the water retains the least bit of warmth. Enough to make sure my feet don’t go numb with the low temperatures.
The second corpse is mostly intact, only the bottom half is missing. Into the chest of a thin and bald man are carved the following words:
“Otto Keyes.” I say outloud. The name now occupies the space right below Arthur Wilson in the ledger. Otto Keyes is, despite the missing extremities, in an exceptionally good state. All kinds of corpses pass through here. The only common denominator is that it’s all dead people. Other than that, they’re all skinny, or fat, or husky or fit, men and women of all ages, short and tall, sometimes missing only an eye, other times only the eye is all that’s left.
You’d think that the ones where nothing’s left would have no name carved out, due to lack of space. Don’t worry, it’s always there. Whatever does that always puts the effort in. One of the things I keep on my desk is a magnifying glass. Wouldn’t wanna miss a name.
It’s the strangest thing, too. The first few years I never wrote them out. I don’t get paid for writing them down. I started doing it anyway. It felt right. Somewhere out there, there should be a record of all that goes below.
They must know I’m doing it. I like to think it shows initiative. Were I a suit and tie, that’s the kind of thing I’d look for. Somebody who does that extra bit of work they don’t have to, for no pay. Simply because they are already hard-working.
I feel a bit sorry for all the other poor saps doing this job who don’t keep a record, frankly. When they’re picking out one of us for a promotion, who do you think they’ll choose? The guys who only put in the bare minimum, or the one who took the extra step, even when it wasn’t necessary? I know the answer. Do you?
That’s another extra thing I’m doing, along with the buckets. How would this place run without me? So many things to keep busy with. So many things to put on the resume. Really, it’s a win-win.
I press the lever. The counter goes up. 02.
The belt moves down. A small hand, maybe that of a child, travels on the belt.
“Mikey Briggs.” is carved into the palm. I wonder who it was. I write the name down.
The filing cabinet is a few shelves from full now. I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of it so far. There isn't room for a second cabinet, meaning I’ll have to replace this one entirely. Or bring the files out. I don’t know how to do either, to be honest. I mean, I do know how I could do it, I just don’t know if it’s possible. You'd need a lot of extra pairs of hands. I send Mikey Briggs down and ponder the problem over coffee.
The others go by swiftly. 33 was pretty interesting.
“Sarah Briggs.” the jagged letters spelled out on the woman’s leg. The corpse inside consists of a torso and a detached leg. That’s another thing. Sometimes the corpses don’t come as wholes. They come in pieces.
I take a closer look at the torso. Yep. Sarah Briggs is written on there, too. Wouldn’t wanna lose track of who it is, so all parts always host the name.
Before sending it down, I check with my ledger. It feels like moments ago when Mikey Briggs was here. I wonder if they’re related.
The implication seems obvious. Torso and leg of an adult woman, the hand of a small child. It’s a no-brainer. This was a mother and son. I put my hand out on the lever. I glance at the corpse.
I wonder if she wanted something better for him. I wonder which one died first. I wonder if they even knew of each other’s deaths. I wonder if they would’ve taken some comfort in being reunited, postmortem.
Or maybe they’re sister and brother. Or aunt and nephew. Or a really young grandma and her grandson. Or maybe no relation at all.
33 goes the counter.
The page for the day is now half-full. 50 travels down the chute and I begin my lunch break. For today, I packed a cucumber and cheese sandwich with an avocado spread in place of butter. No ham or anything. I can’t eat meat.
I kick back in the chair (it creaks) and look at the pipes above. I did mention more than one thing travelled through them. Most of them are for water, like the one leaking right now. A small drop hangs on, not letting go of the pipe for a solid minute. Then it falls. Another one immediately rushes in to take its place. The bucket itself is filled to about a fifth. It seems crazy to me that such small drops can fill a big bucket like that. Making it so heavy. I’ve been careful the whole day not to use my chair. This is the first time I’ve sat in it after the earlier accident. I decided to put the gliding on hold while that bucket is still an issue. I’ll have to buy a new one later. The other bucket is all smashed up.
While off to a bad start, the rest of the presses go by like a breeze. Once you’ve got the muscle-memory it’s no longer something you gotta think about. The counter is up to 98.
“Joseph Muka.” is sent down. Or, his burnt and broken arm is. Almost at the end of my shift. I begin clearing the belongings I take home and get ready to exit. The counter says 99 once Muka descends.
The home stretch.
I open the tube’s hatch to find a fellow, looking slightly younger than me. Almost completely intact. What a rarity. Other than some minor scratches and bruises, he looks like he could just stand up and walk out of here. But corpses don’t do that.
Even more peculiar is that he is fully clothed. I guess someone must’ve made a mistake early in the process, but I suppose it happens. Sometimes.
The problem is that now I’ll have to take him out and take the clothes off to see what name is carved. I wonder who else in here would go the extra mile like this.
While not particularly fat, the body is still heavy. It’s an adult man I’m dragging out. I grab him under the armpits and pull toward me. The limp man is completely uncooperative, almost giving off the impression that he’d like to fall on the floor on purpose. No matter.
I gently lay him down and begin to unbutton his shirt. Then I notice it.
His chest is moving up and down.
What the fuck. Oh my God. What the fuck.
What?
I move closer to the man on the floor. I can’t believe my eyes. The rhythmic rise and fall is real. Undeniable.
I put my finger under his nose. The exhale weaves around like flowing water.
How?
How does something like this happen? Years of work at the same station and never once had a body completely clothed, so pristine, so life-like… breathing… come down.
I check again. The breath, the chest. I even put my head hairs above his body. The breath dissipates on my neck like escaped steam. The chest rises like a hydraulic pump, up and down and up and down. My ear is so close. The industrial presses all throughout the facility keep thudding. His heartbeat is a thousand times louder, somehow.
I pace around the room. He’s alive.
Did this happen in the tube? Did it bring him back?
Or was he always alive?
That’s impossible, though. Right?
I pick him up. The water on the floor has gone cold and I realized I accidentally set him down there. The soaked clothes wet my hands. I drag him to the swivel chair near my table. It creaks once I set him down.
His head lolls back. His mouth is now agape. Snore. He is snoring.
I walk back. I look at the press. Then I realize it.
The door out of here doesn’t open unless the quota is met.
I close the tube door and press the lever. Nothing happens. The elevator does not go down. I grab the smashed up bucket. I throw it against the wall. Fuck.
I’m stuck.
I mean, I can’t send a living person down there, can I? They never mentioned any of that. This is the corpse-press, not the living-person-press.
It should be impossible. It is impossible.
Something has to be sent down.
I race to the bucket and set it in on the notch. I press the lever. Nothing. The counter reads 99.
That annoying fucking buzzing. And those presses just can’t shut up. Not even for a second. I think they’re getting louder. The water drips down into the bucket. Why can’t they fix the pipe? Then I notice it. The snoring stopped.
He’s staring at me. How long has he been looking? What woke him up? Was it the constant fucking noise?
Why isn’t he saying anything? He just stares. He stares. The chair creaks. It’s drowned out by the noise. Almost.
His eyes are wide. His expression indecipherable. Mouth still agape. Chest up and down. His nostrils tighten and widen.
Do I break the silence? I mean, does he even know where he is? I hope he doesn’t think I tried to kill him or nothing.
“Aah…” I jump back at the man's groan. He coughs for a second or ten.
“Are you alright?” I finally ask. The man coughs again. His spittle lands in the already-present puddle. Words come out.
“Yes. I think so.” He grasps at and massages his throat. He looks at the counter. Then the door. Then, “Can we get out?”
A silence hangs in the air. I’ll tell him alright.
“Why are you asking me when you already know?”
He bows his head, “Please, don’t send me down.”
I don’t say anything to this. He notices.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” he shouts out.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You’re looking at me like I did. You’re going to send me down. You’ll send me down because it is the only way to get out of here.”
“That’s not true.”
“It isn’t?” His eyes light up. “Then what’s the other way?”
“There isn’t. I’m just saying I won’t send you down.” I lean on the file cabinet. I want to place my head in my hands and scream out. I’d lose sight of him if I did that. “Just… give me a second. Give me a second to think this through.”
The silence is palpable. I don’t know how much longer I can stay here like this. The room…
“Is it just me or is the room getting smaller?” I blurt out. Not smaller like before. A different small.
“It’s… not… getting smaller.”
Now I look crazy. I gotta get out, one way or the other.
“Alright, get on the belt.” I demand.
“What? No. Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. You’re not even supposed to be alive. You came down, and all that comes down has to be sent even further down. You gotta go. Let me finish my quota so I can get out.”
“You just said you wouldn’t send me down. I’m not getting in that elevator. You’re killing me. That’s what you’re doing. You’re killing me and you want me to make it easier for you. No. That won’t happen. You’re either killing me right here, right now, or I don’t go into the press. Your call.”
“Well then what do you imagine? That I’m going to climb in there? Tough titty, bucko. It’s you. I gotta go home.”
“Don’t call me bucko. And no, you’re not climbing down either. We gotta wait it out. We gotta think of something. We gotta… figure a way out. I refuse to believe that this is the only way for the door to open.”
Is he really that stupid? This kid is getting on my nerves, and I’ll tell him as much. This is the corpse-press. Where does he think he is?
“Are you really that stupid? Kid, you’re getting on my nerves, and I’m telling you as much. Where do you think you are? This is the corpse-press, bucko. I gotta go home. Where the hell will you go?”
“Definitely not into the corpse-press.” he mumbles out.
So, he’s a smart-ass. This only gets better.
“Every day of the week, of the month, of the year, the decade, a corpse comes down to be processed in the receptacle. Each time, without fail, I am there to press the lever to send it down. Why should this time be any different?”
“Because I’m alive you bastard! I’m a living, breathing human being. I don’t deserve to be ground up into anonymity because the corpse-press said so.”
“Not just the corpse-press. Its operator, too.”
“You’re condemning me to die? Look at me. Look at my face,” an animal desperate in the face of a predator,
“Into my eyes,” demanding to be spared,
“Hear my words.” trying to establish itself into the in-group, saying anything to avoid death’s inevitable grip.
I wipe my brow. From the passion he displays, you would never guess you’re talking to somebody already dead.
“You really think you’re meant to live? You came down. That’s that, and I’m not happy to say it. There’s only one way this goes. No alternatives. If you weren’t meant to have been sent down, then you wouldn’t be here right now. I won’t force you. But make no mistake: I will do everything to defend myself if you try and force me into that tube. The belt needs a corpse to move. The quota will be met. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Harder than it was any time before.
“Well, isn’t there something that can be done? Does the belt not go up? I’ll go up and get out of your hair.”
“Oh my God, up? Are you fucking stupid? Are you trying to tell me about the belt? I’ve been working the goddamn belt for over… for so long. Maybe learn what the fuck you’re talking about before you make yourself look like a total idiot. I didn’t know we had the chief-belt expert down in my office. Chief belt expert, please, show me how the belt goes up! No, really. Show me. Has it ever occurred to you to think before you speak? Now listen. There’s only one way this ends. You get on the belt. That’s it.”
He shuts up and slinks down into his chair. Not literally, but his demeanor switches to a kind of slinking.
How did this happen? The belt sends corpses. That’s the point. It is literally impossible for a living man to be sent down. How did he do this? A disruptor at the very core of the system. Did nobody else in the process notice this before me? When did he enter? Was it at the start? In the middle? Just now?
What if they do know? What if this was all on purpose?
The only explanation for a statistical impossibility is that the extraordinary circumstance was created by the very impenetrable factory. For this to have even happened, it must have been done on purpose. A test of what I would do in such a situation. A high-pressure scenario to test the commitment of… of… of… of a diligent employee. Diligent employee. The relief washes over me like a cool breeze.
He isn’t taking his sight off me. Unassuming down there, slouched, looking relaxed. Always on high-alert at the same time. Awaiting my response.
“So, you think I haven’t caught on?” I break the silence.
The man perks up at my words. I’ve got him now.
He doesn’t say anything, though. Whatever. I’ll be the one to pull the mask off, then.
“You don’t think I’d notice? I know I’m being tested.”
His expression changes. To something. Like he’s looking at the world’s biggest idiot. Complete befuddlement.
“Get on the belt then. Test’s over. Don’t tell me I gotta drag ya. I’d hate that. Just get on there so we can both move on.”
He still doesn’t say anything.
“Nobody likes a straggler. I’m sure we all have places to be. Me, out of here. You, tormenting some other poor sap with your bullshit. Not that I don’t respect your work. We’re both busy men. Just get on with it so I can get-”
“This isn’t a performance review. I’m not with the company.”
I tense up.
“It’s not funny to mess around like this. Get in the chute already.”
“I’m not messing around. And I’m not getting in the chute.”
“So you’re not with the factory?”
“I wasn’t sent down for a test. This is not a performance test. I’m a real person.”
I wanna hurl the cabinet at him. And then force him down that tube. It could’ve been so easy. This moron just keeps complicating it.
What else can I do, but send him down the belt? Am I destined to rot in this office just because of him? It’s sad that things are like this, but how am I responsible? I didn’t send him down here. If it were up to me, he’d still be in whatever hole he crawled out of, frolicking and happy and blissful. I have to think about my own survival. He was sent down here. It is unlikely for the suits to have made a mistake. If he was sent down the corpse-belt, then the logical conclusion is that I send him down again. What other option exists? He’s where he’s supposed to be. The next step is unambiguous. Down. The only way to go is down.
I take a step forward.
“Where are you going?” the words escape his mouth innocently.
I take another step.
“Wait.”
And another.
I snatch the mutilated bucket out of the tube. I charge the man in the chair. I am running purely on adrenaline.
He glides out of my path. With the swivels. Before I can turn around, he jumps out the chair. Then takes it defensively. My chair. He swings it at me. Dull hits assault my head. He’s beating me with my own chair. Ringing in my ears.
I smash the bucket on his stomach. Again. The chair meanwhile progresses to my back. That’s gonna bruise. We dance chaotically over the entire office. My pot of coffee is knocked over. Was that me? Him? It shatters and the shards launch like fireworks.
“It’s not even a real office!” is his battle cry.
The chair becomes a tool. He’s pushing me into the tube. I’m smashing the chair with the bucket. Smashing the chair with the bucket. The chair’s grip presses me into the receptacle. Tightly. I’m dead. It’s over. I tried. I’m dead meat.
I don’t stop smashing. But my strength goes. His arm is slashed up. His stomach slashed up. A piece of sharp metal is all that’s left of the bucket. Blood dripping from it. Cheap junk.
I let go. It’s pointless now. The test of strength determined the winner. The law of the jungle. Jungle of corpse-presses.
The metal bucket piece clangs down onto the floor. My breathing is shallow. I notice this only now. Am I dying?
The wheels of the chair press on my throat. It creaks. Maybe that’s why I dropped the piece. I’m losing life.
His eyes are those of an animal. A predator ready to take his prey and condemn it to certain death. The man stares daggers at me. It would be so easy.
But he loosens his grip. And he starts to retreat. Cautiously.
What?
He backs away into the corner. And he slinks down. For real this time. The wall behind him leaves a bloody streak as he slides down. Not too large. Barely noticeable. His wound won’t be fatal with care, as long as it is treated soon.
I step out of the receptacle. Glass bejewels the puddle. Pieces of the bucket lay strewn about across the floor. The second is holding the water. It’ll be about a day before it overflows. Drip drip drip.
He looks about as tired as I am.
He could’ve just sent me down and had this over with. He let me live. Who the hell spares their attempted murderer?
“I did what I had to. I just want to live.” I plead.
“Okay.”
I don’t have any tissues. I do have all those papers. Those ledgers. All the names. Been keeping enough of them to fill an entire cabinet.
I rush over to the file cabinet. I tried to kill a man. And even after, he let me go. He could’ve had this over with in a second. What have I done?
I take the ledgers out. I approach the bloody man on the floor. He jolts back at the sight of me. Then breaks the chair against the wall. It breaks at the tube. The end is sharp. He points it at me. A final stand. My favorite chair. My fucking swivel chair. That annoying bastard. Who I tried to kill.
“Let me look at the wounds. I’m not a doctor. Maybe we can plug them, or cover them. Or something.”
He puts my beloved broken chair down. Completely defenceless.
I kneel down and take his clothes off. Unremarkable physique. The wounds adorning his skin aren’t too bad. As I thought.
I apply makeshift bandages from all the files. I set the bulk of them down to my left. He picks one up.
I look to read his expression. His eyes widen.
“Are these all their names?”
I’ll forgive the stupid question.
“What else would they be?”
“You’ve been keeping track?”
“Yes. It’s a hobby of mine.”
He almost stands up before I stop him. He settles down again.
“This changes everything. We have to get these out.”
“Why?”
“Because it changes everything. Like I said. They have to know.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you think that’ll even put a dent.”
“It doesn’t matter. With this out there, the tables could turn entirely. We won’t know unless we try. We have to try. Regardless of the outcome.”
“You’re out of your mind. These things are better as toilet paper than anything.”
“Then why did you keep them?” his question does stop me. I’m puzzled. Why did I keep them if I never wanted to have anything come of them? It was for the promotion. Wasn’t it? Fuck the promotion. Where is it anyway? Might as well make an actual use of them.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Listen, once you get out of here, you have to get them out. I beg you. If the wishes of a dying man mean anything to you.”
What a dumbass.
“You’re not dying, bucko. It’s just a few cuts. Nothing skin-deep.”
“No. Take the papers off.”
He begins to peel the blood-soaked names off his wounds. He starts handing them back to me.
“I’m getting sent down either way. You must get these out. All of them. Every single one. They can’t come down with me.”
He’s so serious about it, too.
Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe there is another way out.
I begin to drape the papers back over the cuts.
“Don’t worry. They’re coming out either way. I don’t know how you’ll hurl the whole cabinet out, though.”
“You’ll hurl it out. I’m going down.” he is relentless.
“How selfless. Get up.”
I help him up. We grasp each other by the palm. He almost collapses.
“My leg fell asleep. Sorry.”
I hand him my employee card.
“Tomorrow, come with some extra pairs of hands. To help get the cabinet out. Take as much as you can this time.”
“Have you found another way to get out?”
“Yes.”
It’s now or never. I’ve spent too much of my life feeding this monstrosity. Feeding something that’ll never know who I am or appreciate all I did, and all I did was evil anyway. Only one thing can redeem me now, and it won’t be killing that young man.
I walk over to the tube. The thuds in the distance are like a tribal chant egging me on. I hop on the notch. I have to do this quickly. Before the doubt can talk me out of it.
For the first time, the bulb’s buzz begins a retreat into the background. The man walks over.
“What? No, you’re being crazy.”
“I think it’s crazy to expect my hands to get this out. It should be you. You’ll do a fine job.”
He stares at me intently. His gaze reveals he no longer sees me as a person. I am a means of escape. Or?
“That’s not right. Either we both get out or neither of us does.” Maybe I’m a bad judge of character. Either way, no matter who somebody is, I’m not letting them die for me. I refuse to be a coward. Never again.
“You don’t know shit about the belt. Shut up. I’m going down. End of discussion. That’s the only way this goes, and you can’t fight me about it.”
He approaches. Suddenly, he begins to wrestle with me. Nearly dragging me out.
“Fuck off!” I punch him in the neck. He jumps back in pain and gasps out. I quickly reach out for the broken piece of bucket and press it against my neck.
“I either kill myself right here, right now, or you send me down into the press. Whether what you send down is me or my corpse, the outcome is the same.”
He’s injured. Beaten. Most importantly, he knows I’m being serious. There is no fighting this. I can’t take his life to save mine. I can only give mine to save his. That’s the only thing one can do in such a situation. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
He takes slow careful steps toward the tube. Toward me. He hugs me. Something solid to hold on to.
Why did things have to go this way? I wish things were different. Maybe we’d be better off without the factory. Maybe if the corpse-press didn’t exist, things would have been different. Maybe we could’ve gotten to know each other differently. Maybe he wouldn’t have come off so annoying. Maybe we’d be enjoying the warm sun outside. Taking life one step at a time. The Briggs’ would not be so far behind.
There would be no office. No leak. No buckets. No ledger. No press.
He lets go. I wish the hug were longer. I wish I could be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. Maybe, if the hug were a bit longer. If it lingered, I wouldn't have to go right now.
He never takes his eyes off me. Never takes his eyes off the man he is about to murder.
Funny. During all my years I never got to see how the press looked from the other side.
He grasps the lever. And presses it. The doors close. The cogs clang out and I begin to move down. The belt hums a solemn lullaby for my descent. The last glimpses of the man escape my field of vision as the window is displaced by darkness. Hot air blows on me from below.
If things go well, this could be the final press. The last one ever. The press that killed me.
Special thanks to my friend who posed as the Hungarian man and the soldier so I could trace over it. The sign, the rifle, the two men shaking hands, and the houses are traced over stock images.
