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Monolithic Horizon; Act 1: Heathen – Chapter 5: A Better Future

When I first met John Seifer, it was at a press conference.  This was after a failed assassination attempt on yours truly.   The speech was my glorious assurance to the people that those responsible were brought to justice and that the threat has passed, but my heart wasn’t in it.   The speech was flat, but no one seemed to notice that I didn’t even seem to believe what I was saying anymore.  This is because I realized that I had become so used to lying that it came natural to show the correct inflection and emotion at times, like a reflex.   While I didn’t summon up any feeling, there was no difference.   This made me wonder what the point in me being a figurehead was.   It was clear no one really paid attention to the government anymore, the people more that likely felt that I was totally irrelevant.  Therefore I eventually came to the realization that I was most likely going to die.  It wasn’t, as they say, a matter of how but when.   The Commission’s market research data showed that most people didn’t even realize the government was still in operation, and therefore my termination was inevitable.   That’s what Seifer told me after the conference was over.   Off the record.  It  was the first time anyone talked to me like I was anything more than a tool, so I suppose that my guard was lowered slightly.  Maybe that gave me the false pretense that he actually cared if I lived or died.   Which, I should have known was far from the case.

This was over a year ago.

We only met about a dozen times, and each time it was off the record.  From what I was led to believe about that sort of thing, with enough money you could say and do whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t be used against you.  Which, was rather stupid in retrospect, but I was desperate for someone to talk to.   Desperate to speak about the things that concerned me after ten years, almost seven of which I felt like a walking corpse, barely capable of functioning without being told what to do and where to go.   Over the last three years the headaches would get more frequent and more terrible, a cackling electric fire across my synapses, feeling like my brain had been replaced like a teeming swarm of fire ants.   The thing about the noises, is that I could hear faint sounds, almost like voices.   Yet, it wasn’t English or slang or anything human.  It kinda sounded like a phone connection.  A modem.  You see some of those in the more low tech areas of Europa.  For the like of me I don’t know how I knew that.   There’s a lot of memories in my head, unbound like that.  Little fragments of information, little factoids but they aren’t based on any experience of mine.  This, combined with my normal experiences day in and out has accumulated over the years into this growing hatred for The Commission.   Like lighting a waterproof fuse, once ignited there is only one possible outcome.   

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1, 2, 3, 4… I Declare a Hobo War!

I think I’ve mentioned that I work in the ghetto.   If I haven’t well, now I have.  I work in the ghetto.   Not even the loose definition of ghetto.   This is a full-fledged prostitute filled, mostly minority (black and Hispanic people – or as the local mechanics oh-so-cleverly call them –  ‘spooks n’ spics’) populated, drug dealer market, hobo infested, wasteland of humanity.   However, of all these nefarious elements which you find in the delicious cornucopia of human life known as downtown Orlando, there is one that I especially fear for their sheer number, smell, and lack of an education.   I refer, of course, to the hobos.   If you were thinking that I was talking about those damn ‘spooks n’ spics,’ congratulations… you’re racist!

The hobos, yes.  I hate hobos.   They are thicker than fleas in the glorious city of Orlando.   A city, it should be noted, that’s board of tourism refers to as ‘the city beautiful,’ which is such a distortion of the truth that I’m surprised that more people haven’t sued them for false advertising.   I have a fairly good reason for hating hobos, aside from the fact that they lie about being hobos.   You know what I mean if you’d ever been approached by one.   Some smelly dude with a scruffy beard and no teeth will come up to you with some convoluted story about how his family needs bus fare back to where-the-fuck-ever or that they need a few bucks to rent a cab to get to the airport.   Like anyone believes them.   Nothing worse than needing money for booze and cheep bum hookers but to always try the ‘bus fare’ story, poor form Orlando homeless, poor form.  That’s not the reason for my hate of the homeless local to this area.   I’m sure there are some nice homeless guys, full for worldly wisdom and perfectly sane, in fantasy land; however, over here you get the best inner-city bums Orlando has to offer.   The ones that will walk down lanes of traffic at red-lights banging on your car’s window and yelling insults at you if you don’t give them change, or the ones, that have made me hate the homeless in Orlando…. the ones that shit on your building.

'The City Beautiful,' my ass.

You heard me, shitting on the building.  

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